but he couldn’t move his head to see the gory mess that was once his body.
The mist congealed in front of him. Swirling, it formed the shape of legs, arms, the thick torso of a man. And then it became a form as black as night. That form bent beside him, as though dropping to one knee. He couldn’t turn to see it—he couldn’t move his neck.
Long-fingered hands caressed his face. One fingertip traced an old scar, the one right under his eye. Drake saw only shadow above him, shadow hidden by fog. The finger stroked his cheekbone, ran feather-light across his lips. The way he’d traced Sommersby’s mouth with the stake. Why had he done that? He knew—to irritate Sommersby, to show superiority.
The fingers lifted his chin. “You have lost much of your blood. You will die. It would be a pleasure to finish you.”
Drake fought the dizziness. The effort seemed to suck the life from him. Why couldn’t he move his bloody limbs?
“But it will be a greater pleasure to keep you.”
Blearily, Drake saw fingers move to his lips. His eyes crossed; the pain almost drove him to pass out. Gently, lovingly, the fingers traced his lips. A bolt of sensual excitement sizzled through him, leaving him aroused, erect, and burning with fury. Something wet touched his cheek. Christ Jesus, a tongue.
But he couldn’t wrench his head away.
“There are some who deserve to live forever,” the demon continued.
Lukos. This had to be Lukos. Drake’s heart pounded, and his constrained, rigid cock pulsed with each beat. He seemed to drift on a line between death and life, his senses fading, then becoming sharp and clear. But he couldn’t speak. His tongue was frozen, and cold began to stiffen his fingertips, his toes. It spread, crackling like ice on a pond, claiming his arms and legs. He could feel his heartbeat slowing.
And the voice droned on, low, hoarse, against his ear. “It was amusing to give eternal life to discarded children left to die. It entertained me to give ultimate powers to the damned.”
Drake’s heart labored. He tried to keep breathing, tried to will his heart to pump. But it only sent blood pouring out his wound, soaking into the wet mud.
The tongue licked his ear. Drake almost vomited—his guts lurched and he couldn’t sit up to fight it. He coughed, spluttered—would he choke to death first?
Lukos’s pale hand settled on his chest—instantly the sensation of drowning in vomit passed. “I see your thoughts. You are damned too. You belong with me.”
“N—n—” Drake couldn’t shake his head in refusal. His limbs were numb, his chest cold, his body racked by shudders.
“What would you do if you could never die? Never be killed? If you had the strength of an army and senses more acute than any predator? What would you do with such power?”
The demon’s mouth touched his jawline. Cold lips slid along his neck, leaving a trail of pain and wet warmth. Lukos must be splitting his neck open with his fangs. Some vampires did—some almost bathed themselves in blood, to absorb its life-giving, youth-giving powers through the skin.
What would he do with ultimate power?
What could he not do?
Blinking, Drake wanted to scream. He couldn’t see—there was a deep crimson ring around his field of vision, and everything within was shadowed and blurred. This was death, then. He thrashed, grunted, struggled, flung his body wildly, but didn’t move an inch.
Something cold and hard, almost like iron, scraped his neck. Sudden sharp pain flooded his body. The pain of teeth plunging into him, and he couldn’t even fight.
He was giving up his bloody life without so much as a whimper.
Oddly, he felt fury, shame, but not fear.
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As his life ebbed away, as the beast drank, contentment stole over him. Acceptance. Peace.
What was beyond? Eternal darkness or eternal light?
In place of the will to survive, the drive to fight, a deep joy flooded through him.
Then desire began drumming hard through his arteries. The familiar tension of orgasm built in him. So this was death—one last shooting climax?
Drake couldn’t feel his body at all, though he was aware of the intense, burning pleasure that seemed a part of his soul. But even this amazing pleasure was not as good as sex with Serena—
nothing could compare to that exquisite night…
“Now my blood to you.”
Instinctively, Drake opened his mouth as something brushed his lips. A drop of blood hit his tongue. One precious drop. His throat swallowed. God—
The orgasm roared through him, his balls seemed to explode, his cock bolted straight upright, and his seed launched out. A searing light filled his brain—
God, yes. Hell, no.
The hunt was over.
Someone shook him, abrupt but not rough. The motion sloshed Jonathon’s brain inside his skull, but pain meant he was still alive to feel it.
Was he a vampire? He snapped open his eyes at the same moment he ran his tongue over his teeth. Normal, no fangs. A face hovered over him and he tried to swing at it.
“Sommersby!” Stern but filled with concern, a well-recognized voice sliced through his shock and snapped him back to reality. “It is I, Denby. What in the hell happened to you, sir?”
Jonathon tried to push up on aching arms, tried to struggle to sit. His stomach lurched, and he had to sink back to keep from vomiting. “Swift? Did you find Swift?”
“He was hunting with you? There’s no sign of him.”
Around him, the world tilted, and Denby’s concerned face slipped out of focus. Jonathon turned his face to the side, expecting to vomit, but burning-hot bile sat low in his throat. He coughed, felt his shoulder sink into vile muck.
Jonathon shut his eyes. If Swift had died, there would be a body. No body meant Swift had become a vampire.
Pushing with his weakened right arm, he levered up onto his side.
“Sommersby, what in the blazes are you doing?” Denby demanded.
“Getting up on my damned feet.”
Jonathon went to Serena—unwashed, covered in the stinking filth of the alley, and hovering between rage, despair, and exhaustion.
Lady Brookshire found him first—he’d collapsed on a settee in the drawing room, ruining the delicate ivory silk brocade. Then he heard Serena Lark’s voice—rich, deep, a touch sleepy.
Blearily, as though through a mist, he saw her, clutching a robe of apricot silk around her, rubbing her eyes.
“Is it truly Lord Sommersby, Althea? What has happened—?” Her voice rose to a strangled cry. Althea left him to catch Serena as she stumbled toward him.
“Swift. Did he come to you?” He tried to sit up—
Everything went black.
Jonathon cracked one eyelid open. The carved wooden arm of the settee no longer dug into the back of his neck, and heavenly softness supported his weak legs. Soft light played across a dark Blood Rose ©Sharon Page 2007 Email: [email protected] 92
blue stretch over his head. A canopy with swaying tassels and painted frolicking nymphs on it—he was on a bed.
Soft fingertips grazed his chest, opening his shirt. Serena.
He craned his neck to see her, but lancing pain blurred his vision. He fought to stay conscious.
Her fingers worked again to ease the buttons of his waistcoat open, then set to work on his bloodstained shirt. Her touch sizzled through him, an electric charge against his skin.
“I suppose this is improper, but I don’t care.” She smoothly opened the falls of his trousers.
“You need a bath, my lord.”
“Jonathon,” he groaned. “I want you to call me Jonathon. I had to see you, Serena. I had to tell you what happened.”
“Was it D—Mr. Swift? Was he killed?”
He could barely focus on her face. He saw a blur of long black lashes, shining eyes, full lips.
He heard the anguish behind the calm in her voice. She dropped the placket of his trousers and stood up suddenly.
“Serena—” He couldn’t move more than lifting his arm to her. How could he still feel so drained, so dead? She needed warm arms around her; she needed a chest to cry against. “Did he come to you?”
“Come to me? How?”
Jonathon’s heart tightened in pain. Serena Lark had loved Drake Swift. “He wasn’t killed, Serena, he was turned.”
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Serena fought to stop tears. She’d soaked Lord Sommersby’s—Jonathon’s—chest, and her cheek slid in the warm, salty pool. Jonathon needed care and tending. That was her duty, and she must check her emotions.
“Did you love Swift so very much?” His chest rumbled with his deep voice. His hands gave warmth to her entire back—splayed wide, they almost covered her completely.
Love him?
Confused, Serena lifted her head. Pale as marble, Jonathon’s face was etched with pain. His dark eyes were completely black.
What did he know of what had happened between her and Drake Swift? Would Swift have told him? What should she say?
His hands released from her back, and she lurched up as soon as he freed her. With the back of her bare hands, Serena wiped her eyes. “Are you going to hunt him? Stake him?”
Jonathon’s eyes, black as night, held on hers.
She thought of Drake Swift’s dimpled smile, his wonderful lovemaking, his desire—for her—
and her hands shook. Drake was a vampire now. He’d called himself an animal and a killer; now he’d become one.
“Where is he now? Did he escape dawn?”
“I don’t know. I searched, Serena, searched even though I didn’t know what the hell I was going to do if I found him. Lukos created him. When my fiancée was turned, her maker transformed her into a monster. If Drake is evil, I have to destroy him.”
His admission, the aching pain in it, snapped Serena back to her senses. His hand reached out and caught hers. Her palm tingled at the gentle touch, as, large and strong, his fingers slid between hers. Her hand appeared miniature compared to his. Dried blood had crusted his palm.
“Not all vampires behave as soulless ghouls,” he said. “Some are like humans—they possess mercy and the capacity to love.”
He knew what she was. He was telling her that even though she was a vampire, she was not destined to be an evil predator.
“That’s something I have never understood,” she murmured. “Lord Ashcroft, the other hunters—all of them told me that no vampire can be trusted. That all immortals should ultimately be destroyed.”
“I used to believe that, Serena. Now I understand that it isn’t true.”
She knew nothing about her parents, nothing about the vampire who had sired her. Was she destined to be evil?
“You could have been killed or turned too.” She spoke the way she would as a governess, kind but repressive. “You need to get into the bath. You need to rest and heal.”
Getting to her feet, she took firm hold of his trousers. “These need to come off.” Then she flushed, realizing what he must think.
“You can’t strip me naked.” He struggled until he was sitting upright. “I can handle a bath alone.”
“We shall see.” But her voice shook at the sight of him. Broad, hewn of solid muscle, his chest dwarfed her. Even on the enormous bed, he still seemed massive. Thick, dark brown, caked Blood Rose ©Sharon Page 2007 Email: [email protected] 94
with mud and blood, his hair dangled over his eyes.
Shakily, he slid off the bed and gripped the bedpost for support. But he waved back her attempt to help him as he peeled his trousers down, revealing powerful legs. Black hairs dusted them, leading up to his thighs…to his underclothes.
He paused with his trousers bunched at the tops of his boots and stared down at his long legs with a frustrated frown. “The boots,” he said finally. “I’ll need help with the boots.”
“Of course,” she said. She knew how boots were normally removed, but she was strong and had no need to turn her back and wriggle one off. She pulled hard. The boot resisted, then came off into her hands.
“How in blazes did you do that so easily?”
She removed the other before shrugging. “I’m strong.”
Serena caught her breath as he casually kicked his trousers away, then moved forward to help him. She slid his arm over her shoulders and saw the marks on the proud line of his throat. Blood clung to his neck, a trail from the two puncture wounds, ragged and ripped.
“Serena, love, you can’t help me to the bath. I weigh more than a dozen stone.”
“I can,” she assured.
He took an unsteady step and she followed, ready to grasp his arm.
The tub awaiting him was enormous and filled to the brim with hot water. The empty buckets stood at the side, and a fire roared in the grate.
The humid heat wrapped around her. Serena felt a flush spring to her cheeks. Her hair dampened at once, and her clothes began to cling. She touched her forehead and felt drops of water, like dew on leaves. It was dawn now and, in the country, there would be dew on leaves and sparkling in spiders’ webs.
And Drake Swift would not see sunlight ever again.
He was a vampire, as she was.
Jonathon paused at the edge of the tub. Firelight glanced off his ridged abdomen, his solid thighs. “I know you were in my laboratory, Serena. What did you find there?”
The question rocked her. She hadn’t expected that! “N—nothing,” she stuttered.
“You found Drake Swift.”
She turned away, straightening the towels piled on a chair. “Yes—but nothing else.”
Behind her, Jonathon spoke softly. “My father called Swift a ‘sewer rat’. He brought Swift to his home, brought him in as an apprentice because it enraged him that I...I hated to kill. My father thought it madness that I could be so big yet be so soft hearted. He believed Swift was nothing but brutal and bloodthirsty—but he was wrong. He never saw Drake Swift as a human being.”
She half-turned. Steam made his chest hair slick against his chiseled muscles. And steam, she realized, made his underclothes almost transparent. Through the fine, white, damp fabric, she could see the abundant black nest of hair, the way his cock curled down to fit inside—