Prologue
Magic
London
April 1807
Lord Sebastien de Wynter was bound to the bed, his arms and legs spread wide. A white sheet lay over the ridge of his erection. Four dark-haired courtesans smothered him with kisses—one hungrily mashed her lips to his, one licked circles around the root of his cock, a third leaned over his chest and suckled his nipples. The last flicked her tongue around the toes of Sebastien’s right foot.
Zayan smiled at his friend’s long, fierce moans. He saw Sebastien thrash in pleasure against the ropes binding him. Good.
It was what Zayan needed tonight. It let him forget . . .
“Master?” The woman’s soft questioning voice floated to Zayan. She was tied up as Sebastien was, but her ropes held her up against a wall. Weights of beaten gold dangled from clamps at her nipples. He had hung small globes of black iron from hooks he threaded through piercings in her labia. She waited, submissively, for him to take her on the next step.
“I wish to learn, Master. I wish to be trained to serve ye.”
Soft, throaty, hers was an exquisite voice marred only by her country accent.
She expected to be whipped, but he did not want to do that.
He had waited two thousand years for this night.
Slowly, everything in the brothel’s large salon—every being, living and undead—took on a red glow. The red shadow crept around them all, perfectly matching each form in the act of writhing, jiggling, and driving toward sexual ecstasy. No one else saw the caressing mantel of red. He did. Brilliant crimson, it was the exotic, vivid color of blood.
It began faintly at first, a light outline. On his courtesan, the glow traced the full curve of her bare breasts, the flare of her wide hips. It burned brighter at the points of her nipples, partly hidden by the metal clamps. It glowed fiercely at the junction of her thighs where the weights dragged at her nether lips.
Zayan dropped his head back and let his hands rest on his thighs, palms up. He lay on a mound of silk cushions, surrounded by courtesans waiting to attend him.
The spoils of war . . .
This had once been his life, two thousand years ago, when he had been a mortal man. To return from battle and be treated like a god. To feast on the most delectable treats—plump grapes, luscious figs, roast meats. And the orgies. Women to feed him succulent food, pour his wine, and pleasure him with their tongues and their scented bodies.
He closed his eyes.
Blood. In his mind, sightless eyes stared at him from pale faces surrounded by a halo of blood. He had seen thousands of blank, lifeless eyes. He had joined in the games his men played with skulls, artfully kicking them back and forth.
He had never thought he would see blind, unseeing eyes on the people he loved.
Do you remember their faces?
A woman’s voice. It came from the haze of red that now filled the room, and gave him the peace and serenity that other men sought from opiates.
This had been the voice that had sung to him as he had surveyed his battlefield and saw his army mowed down as though smote by the gods. Lush and alluring, it had called to him. It had promised him everything he needed to be victorious, and its price had not seemed like a price at the time. . . .
His soul. Immortality. To become undead.
Do you remember the sound of their laughter? Do you even remember their smells as you held them close?
No. He fought every day to remember, but the faces of his children drifted farther away.
Embrace me and I can return them to you. Embrace me and I can give you what you truly need.
A woman waggled her bare bottom in his face. She had a thick ivory wand pushed up inside, and long, luxurious peacock feathers flowed from its base like an exotic tail. Another approached and presented her derriere to his view. She had two candles in her bottom, tied with a white satin ribbon. Another series of ribbons were wound around that one and affixed her candles to her thighs and her waist. The wicks were lit and the molten wax dripped. Some droplets hit her stockings and she squealed. The last courtesan whispered, “I have nothing inside, Master. Won’t you fill me?”
The woman with the peacock’s tail was toying with her own swollen clit, lazily teasing and playing, obviously highly aroused.
But her strokes quickly became more deliberate.
“Patience,” he barked. “No climax yet.”
“I wish to be stuffed with your magnificent cock,” simpered the courtesan who had begged to be filled.
“No, slave. Candles for you.”
He grabbed one thick one and slathered it with molten oil.
At his command, the other girls gently eased it into the moaning tart’s quim.
“Light her candle from yours, my sweet.”
And they amused him by trying to transfer the light from one of the two wicks to the long one on the thick white candle, without using their hands. They cheered their success, their faces flushed and strained from prolonging their arousal.
But he would not free them.
He needed them like this.
The red power fed on this heightened sexual need, and it gave him blissful freedom from the agony that now racked his body, the shrieking pain that ripped through his head. Opium hadn’t worked for him, but feeding this mystical power did.
“Pleasure me,” he commanded the bevy of women. Panting, they kneeled before him. The red mist swirled around him. But before the first prostitute could touch him, her irises turned red. Red fluid poured from her eye and she screamed in horror.
She clawed at her face. The others tried to pull her arms away. Zayan jolted up, grasped her wrists, and dragged her to him. He sent a rush of healing magic through her, but she still screamed and thrashed.
She slumped in his arms. Spittle bubbled at the corner of her mouth.
The red fluid no longer poured from her eyes, and it slowly vanished as though it had never existed.
By the gods, what had happened? He was supposed to take the power into him tonight. It had been promised. For two thousand years he had waited to take the full magnitude of the power the red mist could bestow.
Thank you, a voice mocked him from somewhere inside his mind, and blissfully, the pounding, searing pain lightened in his head.
He felt a sigh rush through his body. When the mist came, it seemed to possess him. It spoke inside him in the way he was able to do with mortals. Her soul is too scarred to satisfy me long.
The power had never taken a soul before, but it did not surprise him. He took the blood, and through him the red power consumed the victim’s life and soul.
But he felt an odd tightening of his heart as he laid the limp girl gently to the floor. The other courtesans were whimpering, and a crowd was beginning to surround them—other patrons and whores must have heard or sensed the disturbance and were coming to see.
“She just collapsed.”
A woman sobbed.
“Was she sick?”
Sebastien, obviously now freed from his bonds, pushed his way through the crowd, his face stricken. He was wild, sensual, but softhearted; he had almost torn one abusive customer limb from limb. Pain touched his silvery green reflective eyes—eyes that fiercely snapped up. “What in blazes happened to her? Did you kill her?”
“He didn’t touch her!” one of the courtesans cried.
“She just collapsed.”
She had been a favorite of Sebastien’s and he lifted her in his arms.
No one spoke of the red fluid.
“Take her to one of the bedchambers,” he demanded. Servants rushed to do his bidding, but Sebastien was the one to carry her away.
Zayan straightened. Why this ache around his heart?
Remorse, Zayan, whispered the voice. If you help me, I can give you what you desire most. You cannot have my power—I cannot give that to you. You did not understand. But I will give you your children and your soul. I will return them both to you as though two thousand years never passed. I can give you heaven on earth. I can give you both peace and love, and you remember, I know, how sweet they were. But you must serve me. The price is your service—for a few more years, until you find the ultimate prize.
Of course she could not give him the power—he’d been betrayed again by a woman. I have served you, damn it, when I vowed to serve no one, he roared in his head. For that, return my children to me.
He had been the most feared Roman general. He had carved a brutal swath through the Gauls. He had been legendary—struck a hundred times by killing blows, only to rise again. Then his emperor, his closest friend, and his wife had all betrayed him. He had vowed never to serve again—but for the chance at immortality he had broken that vow.
In answer, pain sliced through his skull. Excruciating. He sank to his knees, pain slashing at his body. By the gods, he would drive a stake in his own heart to be free of this.
But he never would be.
He knew it meant the answer was no. The red power would not give him his children back unless he continued to serve. To see his children again, to give them another chance at life, he would have to be a slave.
Mayfair, London
May 1807
She was quite certain she was dying.
To take on the vampire Zayan had been foolish. The impetuous choice of a woman determined to prove she was as tough, resourceful, and fearless as any man. And she had been, Eugenia Bond thought. The vampire had just been stronger.
Zayan had not even been the one to wound her. She had been completely foolhardly. When Zayan had retreated from her, she’d triumphantly believed she could destroy him. She’d surged forward with her stake and another vampire, one named Guillaime, had come out of the shadows of Hyde Park, had wrenched her sharpened bit of wood from her hand, and had attacked her with it.
Just remembering the pain made her weak.
Eugenia stumbled along the streets of Mayfair, keeping to the shadows, seeking one house alone for refuge. Her brother would understand what had happened to her. He would be angry, but he would accept her into his home. She did not know how she could keep moving forward, given her wounds. But she had to. To stop would be to die.
Blood had soaked her gown and was dripping down her arms and legs. She was pulling herself along, clinging to wrought-iron gates and lampposts when she needed support.
Her brother’s house was so close. Only another block.
But there must be footpads in the shadows waiting for drunken gentlemen to rob. Would they come out for her?
Coaches clattered by, and several were stopped outside other mansions to unload passengers. Voices milled everywhere. Horses whinnied and shied. Coachlamps and lights at gateposts threw a brilliant flickering glow onto the street. It was a public, crowded place for a vampire to pursue her.
It was not Zayan who was following her, but some younger, lesser vampire who might be stupid enough to let himself be seen.
There. She heard them—stealthy footsteps behind her. She didn’t have the strength to turn. All she could do was throw her fear into a headlong plunge forward. The steps sped up behind her into a run.
Thank heaven for the crowd. Even though the dimwitted members of the ton merely gasped in shock at her and stepped back to give her room, it meant her vampire attacker would not spring in front of so many witnesses.
Number 16. Just the sight of the front door and its lion’s head knocker made her want to cry in relief. She stumbled up the steps.
“Madam!” cried a young footman in shock as he opened the door, and she promptly fell against him.
“Footpads,” she gasped, for his benefit, and that of the servants hurrying forth. Her pompous brother Edward would not want it to be made public that his sister was a vampire hunter.
Edward thought her mad. It was only because he knew that vampires were not myth but reality that he had not already locked her into Bedlam.
Boots thundered across the tile floor. She had sagged on her back against the wall, clutching her side. Icy cold swept over her, and her fingers were numb. Dimly, she saw Edward’s face.
Instead of being livid with fury, he was anguished with fear.
“Eugenia. Dear God, what have you done?”
Engineered my own death. She thought the words but couldn’t say them. Her strength evaporated then, and the cold claimed her.
She slithered to the ground.
A brilliant light shone upon her, welcoming her, embracing her. In her mind, Eugenia reached out to it. It promised refuge from the cold. It was beautiful to behold, flooding out fear and uncertainty.
“Aunt Eugenia?”
She heard a child’s voice from far away.
“Don’t die, Aunt!” the girl cried.
Eugenia felt a pressure on her chest. The weight of a young girl’s head. I have no choice, she wanted to say. It is my time to go. This battle, I’ve lost.
But warmth flooded through her, a heat that took on a greater strength and made the bright, beckoning light fade away. Eugenia was pulled backward, pulled down to the bed on which her body lay, and she slammed back into herself with a jolt.
She forced her eyelids up and saw a girl standing at her bedside.
Miranda. The child was twelve, her golden hair still caught up in braids that did not tame the tempestuous curl. Her skirts skimmed below her knee. The child blinked rapidly, her blue eyes glistening, and tears streaked her cheeks. “Are you . . . all right, Aunt Eugenia? I felt the heat. You aren’t going to die now, are you?”
Good heavens, the girl had brought her back to life. She was weak still and could not sit up, but Eugenia felt the beat of her heart grow stronger and faster.
Her niece had pulled her back from the afterlife, and had, well, resurrected her.
She had encountered such strong magic only once before—in the vampire Zayan.
Exhausted by the ordeal of saving her aunt’s life, Miranda collapsed at Eugenia’s side. Weakly, Eugenia embraced the slim, shaking girl, and she whispered soothing words until Miranda stopped trembling.
“I don’t know what I did,” Miranda whispered against Eugenia’s bosom.
“You saved my life,” Eugenia answered softly. “You were a brave and wonderful girl. You are very special, my dear.”
She tried to make it sound simple and matter-of-fact for the child, but Eugenia knew it was anything but. Her niece possessed magic that made demons and vampires look like fumbling amateur mesmerists.
Now she knew what her mission must be. What would happen to Miranda as her dear niece grew up with this astonishing magical power? She might belong to the Royal Society for the Investigation of Mysterious Phenomena, but Eugenia knew exactly what the men of the Royal Society would want to do—either destroy Miranda or hold her captive to study her. The girl needed to be protected from that. Miranda would need a great deal of help. She must learn to fit into society while keeping this power a secret. And Eugenia knew how great and dangerous a task that was.
“Dear sweet girl,” Eugenia whispered, stroking her niece’s slender back, “I will take care of you. Always.”