10
Wolf
The tall, thin, hawkish innkeeper’s gaze swept haughtily over her. Miranda knew he saw disheveled hair messily drawn back in a bun, a pelisse that was only half-fastened, and splatters of mud all over her skirts. She took a deep breath, then launched into her story.
Mounting disbelief came to the man’s eyes, and his brows rose as quickly as her hopes plummeted.
“You were attacked on the road by vampires?” he snapped.
“Vampires who have taken control of Lord Blackthorne’s castle and have sucked the blood from a young boy.” He shook his head. “You’re either mad or drunk, lass, and I’ve no use for either in my fine establishment. Be off with ye.”
“It’s the truth,” Miranda stated hotly. “If you’d send men to the castle, you would soon find that out.” Her stomach was twisting in knots. She couldn’t just desert the servants of the castle. She had to find some way to get them help.
But she saw the innkeeper edging along his desk, toward an opening that would lead him to her. What would he do if he thought her mad? Throw her out? Or lock her up?
It was hard enough to betray the vampires, without having to fight the people she was trying to protect to do it.
She’d taken an unsteady step back, when a woman appeared behind the man. She’d come out of room behind the desk and hurried forward. The woman had a plump, red-cheeked face and tightly curled, iron-gray hair. “Hush, Harry,” she admonished. “Now, who might you be, lass. Have you had a bad fright, then?”
A fright? The woman bustled around the counter, a kindly smile on her lips. “What’s all this talk of vampires? There’s no such thing, my love. Oh, there were foolish tales around here dozens of years ago, but no truth in them. Rumors and stories invented by wicked people to persecute others. Why don’t you sit quietly, love, and have a cup of tea.”
Miranda understood. The woman thought she was mad, too, and hoped to calm her to find out where she belonged. She nodded her head and dutifully followed the woman to a private parlor. But what she hadn’t counted on was the woman locking the door as she left for the tea, imprisoning her inside.
Blast. And even as she thought the word, the lock glowed with an unearthly red glow. A fierce creaking sound came.
With a crack, the lock broke and the door swung wide.
For a few heartbeats, Miranda didn’t move. She stared at the twisted metal of the lock. Had she—?
Two maids passed by the opening and Miranda ducked behind a faded wing chair.
“The gentleman in room six,” one maid said softly to the other, “it’s his lordship. I caught a glimpse as he opened his door, and I know it was Blackthorne.”
The servants stopped in front of the door, then stepped into the doorway to speak, assuming the room was empty. The second girl shook her head. “He wouldn’t stay here—”
“He might if he’s tupping one of the barmaids.”
“The man in room six is named Casselman—”
“Aye, the man of the castle. He’s not using his proper name.
I think he’s doing dark things in his room. Things he has to keep a secret. There’s rumors he does witchcraft, you know.”
“I heard a tale that he drinks the blood of young maidens.”
“Oh, aye, I expect he makes them bleed. But from breaking their maidenheads, I’m certain.”
With that, the two girls scurried away.
Miranda stood. Her hands trembled. Was Blackthorne, the man she had thought she loved, the mysterious inhabitant of room six?
After what she had seen in the castle dungeons, she could not just let him hurt innocent women in his room.
Something had to be done.
A naked man stood at the window, running his fingers through his collar-length coal-black hair. Beside him, a lamp threw light on the tight curve of his derriere, the hollows at his haunches, and the small of his back. He was chuckling to himself, and with his other hand, he tapped a riding crop against his solid thigh.
He was a beautiful man, almost as gorgeous as Zayan and Lukos. But was he Blackthorne? From her view of his naked rump, Miranda had no idea.
A soft sigh fluttered to her. Her heart made a sudden lump into her throat and Miranda looked to the bed. Two women slept on it. The covers had been drawn back, but one woman clutched the edge of a white sheet. She lay on her back with her large breasts half-exposed. She snored lightly. The other was curled up in a ball, and long, dirty-blond hair streamed out around her.
What made Miranda stare was the pictures drawn on their bodies in . . . in some kind of paint. Pentagrams and strange symbols and exquisitely rendered letters that looked like the sort found on old manuscripts.
“Put the tray on the sideboard, lass,” said the man at the window.
Miranda froze with her hand on the doorknob. She’d stealthily opened the door when she’d found it unlocked. Not sneakily enough, it appeared.
The blonde who had been curled up stretched and uttered a groan. “Aren’t ye coming back to bed, milord? Won’t ye untie my hands?”
Shocked, Miranda realized the woman’s hands and ankles were bound with white rope.
Then she saw it. The long scar that snaked down his right side, the puckered lines illuminated by the light. It was deep and ugly. The skin had not knit well, and it made a trough along this perfect, strong body.
This must be Blackthorne. He had described himself once in a letter to her. Hair that looked like he’d been dragged through a sooty chimney, he’d written—dark as coal, but it tended to stick up in odd places. Eyes that had been likened to the color of a mud puddle.
She had fallen in love with him over that teasing description.
And it hadn’t really been true—he was breathtakingly handsome.
But he had also shared his bed with two tavern wenches the night before. The night when he had not been at home and his servants would not divulge where he’d went.
He turned to face her, obviously surprised she had not come in. His smile widened to a leer. “Interested in joining the fun, pet?” He reached down to his privy part and her gaze streaked down with his hand. He fondled his shaft without a sign of embarrassment.
Stunned, Miranda stumbled back. She’d seen the accoutrements of his dungeon, had overheard the maids, and she didn’t know why she was so startled.
She gathered her skirts and ran down the hallway. She reached the stair, her momentum almost carried her headfirst down it, but she grasped the banister and raced down. Why was she running like she was being pursued by the devil?
At the bottom of the stair, she stopped. It didn’t matter what he had been doing with those women. His castle had been taken over by vampires, and he had the right to know. She was the one who had led Lukos and Zayan to his home. She was obligated to face him and tell him.
But cowardice struck. She couldn’t go up now. Not when he was naked, after he’d leered at her. Not so soon after she’d realized all the tender thoughts he’d penned in his letters to her had to be so much twaddle.
“The first coach arrived, Mr. Lorimer,” a woman’s voice announced. Miranda recognized the strong, hearty voice of the plump woman who had approached her kindly. But now the voice sounded strained and filled with fear. “And it seems that this odd, wretched fog is only here, around our village. The day is fine and clear everywhere else. Even in Haring-on-the-Marsh, which is only a mile to the north.”
The innkeeper grunted. They were both in a parlor that led off from the stair. Miranda could see them, so she retreated in case they could also see her.
“We’re in a valley, Mrs. Lorimer,” he answered. “All the inclement weather pools here, as well you know.”
“Then explain why three wee mites have died last night— since this foul fog settled upon us. It’s witchcraft, mark my words. It’s something evil and demonic.”
“How is this fog responsible for three children’s deaths?”
Lorimer barked. “Unless they were lost in it.”
“They weren’t. They just . . . died.”
Miranda took the risk of peeking in the room. Muttering something about gothic novels and not enough work, Mr. Lorimer left the room through a door in the back.
The vampires had brought this fog to the village—Miranda was certain of that. What if it was some evil form of their magic that stole children’s lives or their souls? She had seen a red mist around the boy she had saved. And Aunt Eugenia had told her that some members of the Royal Society believed vampires actually fed on souls not blood. Blood was the way to release the soul.
It was still morning, not even eleven. Miranda hurried into the room and the innkeeper’s plump wife stared up in surprise.
“Now where did you go, dear? I was looking for you.”
No convincing lie popped into Miranda’s head, so she blurted the truth, “I sought Lord Blackthorne to warn him of the danger in his home, but—”
“You went to his room?” Red suffused Mrs. Lorimer’s face.
Her eyes narrowed and the kindly smile vanished. “Dear heaven, what did you say to him?”
“Nothing. He was not alone.” Miranda drew herself up. “He had two women in his bed. Women who work here, I assume—”
“No, he has them brought to him.” The woman’s gaze averted downward.
“I left him—and overhead you, Mrs. Lorimer. I want to know which children died last night. I believe I can help them.”
Tears glistened. “You can’t. They are all dead.”
“Where are they? I must get to them as quickly as I can.
There might still be time.”
“I am not going to tell you. Their mothers are grieving, and I’m not going to unleash a mad woman on them. In fact—”
Mrs. Lorimer yanked the bellpull hard three times. “You should be taken to the magistrate. He’ll find out where you belong.”
Heavy footsteps approached. Some burly servant was no doubt on his way to answer his mistress’s summons. Jerking up her hems, Miranda raced out the door at the back of the room, the one Mr. Lorimer had used. She was plunged into the servants’ part of the house, near the kitchens. She ran through there, jostling the kitchen maids, darting around the tables. The door to the back gardens was open, the faint reddish light like a beacon.
Someone grabbed at her, but the sleeve of her pelisse tore and she pulled away. She rushed out of the house.
The fog had settled so heavily she could see only a few feet in front of her. She could barely make out the bulk of the white-painted inn beside her. But enough so she could follow it to the front street. Once there, she ran for the next building.
Without stopping to see if she was being pursued, Miranda darted inside. A bell tinkled above her head. The cheery aroma of baking bread greeted her, and she retreated to the corner near the counter.
The proprietess came out, wiping her hands on a linen cloth.
“May I help you, madam?”
Such sweet, normal smells surrounded her that Miranda wanted to sink to the floor and close her eyes. But she stuttered an order for sticky buns. As the woman carried out her request, she sidled to the end of the counter. If someone burst in looking for her, she could escape around the counter and through the back of the shop.
“This fog is growing heavy,” she began conversationally.
She’d learned it did not work to blurt out the truth. “And I heard that it is responsible for the tragic deaths of some children. . . .”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” the woman broke in. “There’s some that think the fogs that roll in here portend tragedy. And there were three wee children who passed on last night. One of the boys had been poorly since his birth. The smithy’s son. And there was another girl and a wee one who had just taken his first steps.”
Miranda felt sick with grief. She questioned the woman until she found out the names of the families the children belonged to. The smallest of the mites had passed away at dawn. While she’d never tried to save anyone who had not died right in front of her—except the boy this morning, and she had heard his dying scream—she didn’t know how her power worked. She might still be able to save the children. Time might have nothing to do with whether her magic worked.
After one night with Zayan and Lukos, she felt, oddly, more comfortable with her power. She did not feel so freakish or as frightened of it.
Armed with a basic direction of the cottage in which the smithy’s son lived, Miranda hurried out, her buns ignored on the counter. The woman shouted, but she plunged into the fog and vanished.
Or rather, everything seemed to vanish around her. After walking only a few feet from the bakery, she could see nothing but the swirling red mist. Where it touched her skin, the fog was clammy and cold. She rushed on with resolute steps for another yard, then stopped.
Damnation, she really could not see a thing. She felt almost nauseous because she couldn’t tell which way was up or down.
Sometimes the reddish mist would swirl, leaving a small opening she could see through, and she’d take a step. But it would thicken almost at once, leaving her blind. Then she did a foolish thing. She turned in a circle. She was sure it was a complete circle—well, she thought so. It was enough to completely disorient her.
She was not going to let this wretched fog cheat three children out of their lives.
But what was she going to do? Could she will her power to lead her to the children?
Miranda shut her eyes. She focused on a vision of a cottage, one with simple walls and a thatch roof and dirt floor, from the description the baker had given. She could imagine the family, their grief for their son, and their fear. It was so real to her, but being able to envision it was not telling her which way to go.
“I must save him,” she shouted aloud at the blasted fog.
“Where is he? Lead me to him and I will save him.”
To the right of her, the fog swirled wildly, then rolled back, as though making a path for her.
Impossible? No, nothing was impossible anymore.
Miranda ran through the path in the fog. Ahead of her, the mist kept cleaving apart, until she reached a tiny garden. Dew clung to the wilting flowers and green leaves, and rolled down the front of the door. She rapped and waited.
Just as she lifted her fist again, the door swung open. A woman with red eyes and unkempt hair peered at her.
“Please let me in. I want to try to save your child.”
Aching pain showed in the tired, faded eyes. “He’s dead.”
But Miranda stuck her foot in the door to stop the woman from closing it. Then she pushed inside.
He was so small and fragile. Pale with death. His eyes were closed, and his body now felt cool to Miranda’s touch. He was laid on a rough-hewn table in a small room that served as a parlor. Behind was a room off the kitchen, where the rest of the children had gathered to be by the fire—at least the warmth came from there, as did sniffles and arguments.
Could she save him?
Miranda bent to the boy. She touched his chest and prayed she could help him. She also prayed that God had been the one to give her this gift, and that He would listen.
The rush of heat took her by surprise. She splayed her fingers on the boy’s chest, tensed, and endured the fiery agony that shot through her arm.
There was no pleasure this time in the use of her power. Just pain. Pain that started in her arm as an ache, then grew to a piercing intensity. She cried out with it. It shocked her. She wanted to snatch her arm away, and she couldn’t.
She drove her teeth into her lower lip to bear the agony. She whimpered with it. And it grew so strong, she thought it would kill her.
But then it stopped. The pain ceased, and the heat in her body faded. The little boy’s chest rose beneath her and his eyes flickered open.
The mother, who had been standing behind her, gave a sob.
She rushed forward and took up her small son, cradling him to her chest. But that moment of amazement and joy, the awed look of a woman who had seen a most precious miracle, vanished. She backed away from Miranda, hugging her child tight.
“Get out. What are ye? A witch?”
Another woman came forward—she must have been in the other room with the other children. “A gypsy!” she cried. “She might have cursed him at first and now she’s come and lifted it.
We won’t give you a thing!”
This other woman held a kitchen knife like a weapon.
Miranda stared at both women in shock. She had saved the boy’s life, but there was no gratitude in their eyes, only stark fear.
Now was the time to leave. And to run.
Once again, Miranda found herself charging outside, but this time the fog was fainter. And once again, it parted in front of her, creating a path to the next dead child.
The path led to a cottage at the end of the road. Miranda had almost reached it when a black shape jumped out at her. A large hand clamped over her mouth, another closed around her throat, and a man dragged her off the road to a copse of bushes.
She was slammed against a tree and her breath fled her chest as her back hit the trunk. The man who had grabbed her wore a cloak, with a hood pulled low enough to shadow his face. But she could see a hard mouth and a strong jaw—a jaw rimmed by stubble. He had his hand clamped over her mouth and his other arm kept her pinned against the tree.
The smell of smoke clung to his face and his cloak, and the stink of liquor rose from his breath.
He smelled of sweat. Lukos and Zayan had not smelled of stale male perspiration—this had to be a mortal man. He must be the one mortal man who wanted her dead.
Mr. Ryder.
His hand came up, and something cold and hard jabbed her throat. “Stay still,” he warned, “or I’ll shoot you, Miss Bond.
And keep your mouth shut.”
The hand lifted from her mouth. The hood dropped back.
She stared into Mr. Ryder’s beautiful, brilliant blue eyes—eyes that would make any unsuspecting young woman swoon with passion, but made her gag on fear. The pistol pushed harder against her neck.
“She ran away? How could you let her go alone?” Althea knew she had no place to snap the questions at Miss Miranda Bond’s aunt, but she had hoped and prayed this would be the end of her journey. But it wasn’t, and she had to find Miss Bond to have a hope of saving her baby’s life.
She sank on the edge of a chaise, and she had to put her hand to her mouth to stop the scream of fear and frustration that wanted to come out. Baby Serry slept in Bastien’s arms, and as Althea saw him plant a kiss on the tiny forehead of the swaddled bundle, she almost burst into tears. Serry now barely moved her limbs and rarely opened her eyes. Her daughter was dying before her eyes, and her one hope—Miranda Bond—had vanished.
Eugenia paced in front of the crackling fire in the home of her nephew, Simon Bond, a baron. Despite her silver hair, she was slender and obviously strong and spry. “I did not let her go. She is a headstrong girl and she simply left.” Eugenia waved a book in front of them all. “My dear niece kept a journal and in it, she writes of Lord Blackthorne—her grand passion. I suspect my niece had gone to him. My nephew has—well, he has thrown most of his money away in gaming halls. Miranda saw marriage as a way to save him.”
Jonathon stepped forward. “Do you know, Miss Bond, of a vampire slayer named James Ryder?”
Out of the corner of her eye, Althea saw Yannick take Serry and hold her tight to his chest.
“Was he not thrown out of the Royal Society four years ago?” Eugenia asked, frowning.
“Yes, but it is believed that he visited your niece here, and he was seen approaching her in Hyde Park, the day before she left.”
“Good heavens, why?”
Drake Swift spoke, “I would suspect the Royal Society is behind it. They like to have loose cannons under their employ, but secretly.”
Eugenia swallowed hard. “The Society?”
“Lord Denby says the Society has been protecting your niece,” Althea said.
Eugenia whirled to face her. “The Royal Society does not know about her. I’ve never told them. I have kept her power a secret—”
She broke off. Pure horror touched her face. Althea remembered what had almost happened to Serena because of rogue members of the Royal Society.
“Good heavens,” Eugenia rasped. “We must find her. And we haven’t much time. It has been two nights since she left London.
I was going to go in pursuit, but Denby had called me to an emergency, and I believed she was safe—” Eugenia slammed her fist on the fireplace mantel. “The emergency was a lie, I see now. To keep me from going after Miranda.”
“The Society usually reacts in fear to anyone they do not understand,” Serena added solemnly. “And if we cannot trust the Society, we should turn to the vampire queens.”
“No!” Eugenia cried.
“You know, don’t you, that we are all vampires?”
Eugenia nodded. “I have never understood how you can be vampires and belong to the Royal Society.”
“Perhaps because we realize that ‘vampire’ and ‘evil’ do not necessarily go hand in hand,” Althea answered. “We have proved that vampires can exist without using mortals as simply their prey.” Nods of agreement came swiftly from Yannick, Bastien, Serena, Drake, and Jonathon.
“The vampire queens will see her value and will be afraid of her. They will be as frightened as the Society,” Bastien said.
“They might want her destroyed.”
“I would not trust the queens to protect my niece,” Eugenia exclaimed. “I shall go after her alone before I would go to them.”
“You won’t be going alone,” Althea declared. She did not know if more travel would hurt Serry, but she could not leave Miranda Bond unprotected. And not just for her child, for Miranda herself. “We will all be with you.”
“Lord Blackthorne has a black reputation,” Yannick said.
Eugenia shivered. “I had no idea my niece even knew of him.
My weapons are prepared and I am ready to go.” She clucked her tongue. “I thought Miranda had more sense than to expect a man to save her.”
“Christ, this fog is so thick it’s as dark as bloody night,”
Mr. Ryder grumbled, as he sliced open the front of her pelisse.
Miranda felt the push of the blade and the pops as the buttons gave. He’d tucked his pistol in his waistband, but the blade of his dagger was as frightening. The fog had dropped and had changed to white, curling in around them to plunge them into an impenetrable haze. She couldn’t see beyond Mr. Ryder’s glittering, hungry eyes and a few branches that hung around his head.
“They wanted me to kill you as soon as I caught you, thinking that I’d blindly follow the order and not realize that if they want you dead so much, you must have a bloody great value.”
“D-do you mean to ransom me?” Ransom bought her time.
It bought her hope.
“What I want is your power.”
She stared up at him. She couldn’t give him her power. “You want to force me to use it for you?”
“There is a way for a mortal to take a demon’s power.”
“I’m not a—” But was she a demon? She had no idea what it felt like to be a demon. What she possessed was an ability to do magic—an impossible ability. But her magic saved lives.
Mr. Ryder’s breath came in heavy, alcohol-laced pants. “Are you a virgin?” he snarled. “Did you give yourself to those vampires?”
Before she could say a word, he rasped, “I want you. But I would be more gentle if I knew for certain you were untouched.”
She had no intention of telling him what she had done or not done. She had to think of a way to get free.
But his gloved hands wrapped around the sides of her cut pelisse and he tore it open. His hands—the knife still held in his right one—clamped to her breasts and he squeezed them through her gown.
It was horrid. She’d never been mauled like this; it was nothing like the way Lukos or Zayan had touched her, even on their first trip in the carriage.
As he pawed her, the tip of his knife twitched around. She couldn’t breathe, not with his hands crushing her flesh. He wanted to hurt her, to scare her. She could see mocking pleasure burning in his eyes.
He slayed vampires. He should have been a hero, but he was enjoying her terror. He was a bully, and her best hope was to conquer her fear and deflate his triumph.
“Let me go. There are children I could save, and you are keeping me from them. If you want my power, let me use it. Let me save innocent lives.”
His lip curled in disdain. “You are raising the dead. Don’t you understand what you are doing? Creating vampires.”
“It’s not true.” Aunt Eugenia had not become a vampire.
“And if you think I’m a demon, why do you want my power?”
He pinched her nipples through her gown with harsh force and she screamed in shock and pain. The back of his hand cracked across her face. She snapped back with the force of his slap.
He shoved her back against the tree again and jerked her skirts halfway up her thighs.
She clawed at his hands.
But she couldn’t stop him. He pushed against her, his shoulder drove hard into her collarbone, and his hips surged forward. He rammed his legs between hers, forcing her legs apart, and the fog swirled around her bare upper thighs, dampening them with mist.
“Stop,” she cried, but he gripped her thigh, driving his fingers into her flesh. She felt his other hand push between their bodies, working down to the front of his trousers.
“No!” she shouted.
A vicious growl echoed through the fog. It seemed to come from everywhere, as though wolves had crept up under the cover of the mist and surrounded them.
Mr. Ryder jerked back. “What in Hades was that?” He leaned forward to keep her trapped while he glanced fearfully around them.
She felt his quick heartbeat pounding against her. “Wolves,” she gasped, feeding his fear. “It sounded like a pack.” She might be trying to stoke his terror, but she was also heightening hers.
What if it was a pack? Even if she could escape Ryder, she couldn’t outrun wolves.
The growls grew louder. Ryder swung around to search the thick white fog. He had let her go to hold his knife and his pistol.
A dark shadow loomed behind Ryder. “There!” she shouted.
He jerked around, but the black shape had vanished. He spun back, his eyes wild, and he held the knife to her throat.
“No tricks, witch.”
She gulped. “It’s not a trick. I saw it. A shape or a shadow.”
Another growl. A low, rumbling roar, and a black animal streaked out of the white. The huge mass of it launched at Mr. Ryder.
Bang! His pistol exploded with a deafening roar, sending his arm flying back. She flung her body to the side to avoid his elbow. She tumbled to the damp ground. Dazed, she saw four legs and a huge, black furry body. It was a giant of a wolf.
Jaws snapped and flashed at Ryder, then the beast leapt on top of him. The dagger’s blade sliced and slashed at the wolf.
Ryder shouted, screamed. The wolf snatched him up by the shoulder and threw him. Ryder’s body sailed into the trees.
The wolf bounded to her and she held her breath. Her chest thundered. She scrambled back but bumped the tree. “N-no.”
Sniffing the air, the wolf moved in closer.