He moved to stand between her and her view of Drake Swift, who was dealing with the fallen vampires.
Gritting his teeth, he snapped, “Forget the books, Miss Lark. I intend to get you to safety.” But he couldn’t stop himself from lifting Miss Lark’s bare hand. He touched his mouth to the red mark on her wrist, to the bruising there. A trace of rose scent from her silken skin fought with the smell of vampires’ drugs.
He released her hand. The taste of her skin made him yearn to taste more—her lips, her throat, and lower…to the sweet curves of her breasts, belly, and her hot, honey-drenched quim.
Hell, Jonathon knew exactly why he desired her so much. Why his need for her bordered on madness. He wanted her because Serena Lark was a vampire’s child, destined to transform into a vampiress on her twenty-fifth birthday—on All Hallow’s Eve. She already possessed a succubus’
magic allure that drew men to her—and she had no idea what she was.
Damn Ashcroft for assigning him to this mission.
Her beseechingly innocent eyes widened with desperation. “I can’t forget the books. I need to see them.
You
should understand, my lord. I need to know who—what—killed my parents.”
You should understand.
The familiar coldness touched his heart. The hell of it was that he couldn’t summon a memory of Lilianne’s face. He wanted vengeance for her death because it had become a mission to him, but his anger, his hatred, the pain of lost love had long since died. All he had left was cold guilt.
“I do know what it feels like,” he said. “And that’s the very reason, my dear, I can’t let you wander around a vampires’ brothel.”
“How can you walk away from a treasure trove of vampires’ books?” Miss Lark asked. “I know you’ve spent a lifetime studying the creatures, my lord. The entire history of vampires will be in those books. You are a man of science—how can you resist finding the truth?”
Jonathon held back an ironic laugh. Serena Lark thought she could appeal to the noble scientist in him. She had no idea, the poor sweet.
He took a deep breath, inhaled more of the drugs the demons had used—they had been burned earlier in another room and allowed to seep in through holes made in the wall. They must have left Serena alone with it. Solange and another drug—one he hadn’t recognized, though he could guess at its purpose. It must be an aphrodisiac. How much Miss Lark had inhaled, or how long it would affect her, he couldn’t speculate.
Having finished the job of decapitating the destroyed vampires, stuffing the mouths with garlic, and stowing the remains out of sight, Drake Swift stepped behind her. Jonathon saw her become immediately aware of Swift. He gritted his teeth as he saw her stiffen in tension—in appreciative tension, not fear. Her pretty tongue licked her lower lip, her fingers played against the silk of the robe. Miss Lark kept flicking glances at Swift beneath demurely lowered lashes. Lashes that tempted Jonathon to touch with his lips—to catch her by surprise with a kiss.
Of course Drake Swift was definitely aware of her. Swift let his fingers lightly graze her tumbled hair. Jonathon noted Swift’s breathing was quicker, his trousers tenting in an obvious display of his notorious sexual appetite.
“We should hunt down the vampires—find out from them about this master.” Swift glanced up Blood Rose ©Sharon Page 2007 Email: [email protected] 18
at him. “And let Miss Lark find her books.”
The one advantage of large hands is they would fit easily around Swift’s bloody neck.
“Surely you want to see that library, Lord Sommersby,” Miss Lark insisted. “Every answer you’ve ever sought could be in those books.”
Jonathon grimaced. She was holding out the juicy apple of knowledge—begging him to take a bite.
Swift nodded, encouraging her. “It’s easy enough to infiltrate the place. Grab a couple of masks and pose as clients to our lovely Miss Lark. The tunnels likely lead two ways—next door and to safety.”
“We have to go through the brothel,” Miss Lark added. “We can only get to the tunnel that leads to the library through it.” She crossed her arms over her chest, which made the silk gape and gave a view of shadowed cleavage.
“Then you, Miss Lark, are going to have to pose as a jade.” Swift gave a wink. “You must convincingly convey that you intend to share your bed with both of us.”
“Shut it, Swift,” he warned. “It’s utter bloody madness to waltz through a vampires’ brothel.”
He scrubbed a hand over his chin. “How do you know about these tunnels, Miss Lark?” he asked sharply. “Have you been in them?”
Spots of color came to her cheeks. “Not yet—I merely did research! These tunnels connect to the underground rivers. The ones covered over by the city—the Fleet and the Tyburn.”
“Research? How is it no other hunters have unearthed this knowledge?” His hair prickled at the back of his neck. Was Ashcroft wrong—did Serena Lark know of her destiny? Was she leading them into a trap?
“Because no other hunters are assigned to dust library shelves, my lord,” she snapped. “And no, the information is not obvious—I had to piece it together from dozens of volumes.”
“And you really believe vampires have a library beneath London?”
“There are underground rivers, my lord. The tunnels carry the sewage to the Thames. Is it so impossible to believe that there would be more catacombs? That vampires would use them?”
Jonathon had to concede that point. It was, in fact, very likely.
If she was right, it would be the most amazing discovery made on vampires in centuries.
He looked into her hopeful eyes and wanted to agree to this mad scheme. “Is there any other way to get in there?”
Swift groaned. He was sliding a stake back up the sleeve of his coat. “Christ, Sommersby, we don’t have time for blasted dithering. We have vampires to hunt.”
Miss Lark frowned again. “We can only get into those tunnels from the brothel. Unless you wish to travel up the Fleet River to do it—and the only way of getting in there is at its end, at the Thames, and that’s below water.”
“The brothel, then.” Jonathon nodded to Swift. “Swift, bring the disguises in.” They’d left their capes and masks in the hallway—hindrances during battle.
“I don’t fetch,” Swift snarled, but he turned on his heel and stalked out to the empty hallway.
Miss Lark touched Jonathon’s arm. Her silvery-gray eyes flashed. “But aren’t all the gentlemen here vampires? Won’t it be obvious that you aren’t?”
“How long will it take us to access the tunnels?”
She smiled, obviously pleased to be the one holding the information. “We have to pass through the brothel, but it shouldn’t take more than minutes.”
“Then we should be able to remain unnoticed for a few minutes.”
Swift strolled back in wearing his mask and domino—a voluminous black silk cloak, the traditional masquerade of Venice. Silver moons and stars glittered on the ornate purple mask that covered Swift’s face from hairline to lip. True to his word, his partner had brought only his own Blood Rose ©Sharon Page 2007 Email: [email protected] 19
disguise in from the corridor, where they’d discarded cloaks and masks to attack. Jonathon would have to retrieve his own.
He took one last look into Serena Lark’s eyes before leaving her side. She met his gaze with an open expression that spoke of hope. She didn’t look afraid.
Unease rode Jonathon as he left the room, and found his own mask and cloak. Had Miss Lark really pieced together information in plain sight in the Society’s books and discovered a secret no one else knew? Or was she leading them into a trap?
He tied on his mask, knotting the cords. Swift was right—they needed to hunt down information on this master. Jonathon knew how valuable Serena Lark was. She was the first known vampire child. If this vampire Lukos knew…
Hell.
Jonathon swung his cloak around his shoulders, pausing on the threshold of the room. Drake Swift held Serena Lark’s hand, and she was smiling up into his partner’s eyes.
Jonathon’s heart felt like ice. Since he’d first set eyes on her—on her glossy black hair, seductive gray eyes, sweet heart-shaped face—he’d been obsessed with Serena Lark. Even before Ashcroft told him to watch her. He was obsessed with her in his dreams. When he bathed. When he rode. When he toiled in his bloody laboratory. Damn, even when he hunted. Especially when he hunted. While he stalked the fog-laden London streets, he dreamed of being in Miss Lark’s bed, making love to her, and hearing her cry his name—
Ashcroft wanted to let her change, wanted Jonathon to study the transformation of mortal to vampire. She was to change on her twenty-fifth birthday—All Hallow’s Eve. It was her destiny, Ashcroft insisted, and they would learn how to save vampires if they studied Serena Lark. Jonathon had to admit that was true. He hated letting her change, but he didn’t know how to stop it.
He knew exactly what service the Society would require of him when they decided Miss Lark was no longer of value. Once she transformed and gained her power, she would be too dangerous.
He would have to stake her.
Blood Rose ©Sharon Page 2007 Email: [email protected] 20
Serena reached the bottom of the stone steps and held her candle up to illuminate the dark tunnel. It stank. There would be rats. A cold drop splattered on her neck, and she gave a smothered cry.
In front of her, Mr. Swift turned. His mask hid most of his face, shadows hid his eyes, but his lush lips cranked down in a grimace. “Smells like piss.”
Before she could agree, he caught hold of her waist and lifted her. “The floor is mud, Miss Lark.” He juggled her with ease so he was carrying her in his arms, one solid arm beneath the crooks of her knees, the other around her waist. His gloved hand splayed over her bottom.
He grinned, revealing a dimple in his right cheek—she could see the shadow of it, half-hidden by the exotic mask.
“Are you truly so concerned about saving my slippers, Mr. Swift?” she asked.
“Of course, Miss Lark. Don’t ask me to put you down—I won’t. I’m enjoying this too much.”
She had to laugh at that. Just a small giggle that only he could hear before the blackness swallowed it up. She held out a candle, but it did little to fight the dark. Lord Sommersby strode ahead—she could see his light a few feet ahead of them, hear the reassuring slap of his boots in the mud. The walls of the tunnel were too dirty, too covered in sludge to reflect much light. They were curved and gave the strangest sense of enveloping, like demonic arms.
The light played on the arched stone ceiling above them. At once Serena saw her research had been correct—the tunnel ended a few yards to the left, narrowing and closing to a wall of dirt and stone. It stretched into blackness in the other direction, and there was no sound but their breathing and the splatter of drips on mud.
Mr. Swift gave her bottom a squeeze, but he lifted her also, as though he’d only intended to improve his grip. She should protest, but she liked the pressure of his hand there. She hooked one hand around his neck. Even carrying her, Mr. Swift strode confidently into the dark.
Daringly, she let her bare fingertips brush his hair. So soft. So remarkably pale blond. He caught her gaze, his green eyes glittered in the faint light, and she saw wicked desire there.
Lord Sommersby stopped abruptly, his candle held in front. “Ahead,” he whispered. “I see the outline of the door.” His light twinkled on the gold painted stars on his rich midnight-blue mask.
Serena glanced from his masked face to Mr. Swift’s. Both the Venetian masks sported strange long noses—noses with a downward curve at the end, like vicious beaks. They looked like creatures of fantasy, masked and swathed in black silk capes.
Twisting in Mr. Swift’s arms, Serena saw nothing but shadow, until the glow of Lord Sommersby’s candle touched a padlock, open and hanging off the hasp.
Serena’s heart leapt—there was nothing to stop them getting into the brothel.
“Remember, little lark—” The nose of Drake Swift’s mask bumped her lips. His voice held dangerous promise, as he set her on her feet. “You are our courtesan—our lover. You must play the part to keep us alive.”
Around her, dozens of people—vampires, courtesans, gentlemen—were having sex. Serena Blood Rose ©Sharon Page 2007 Email: [email protected] 21
tried not to stare. She truly did. But the groans made her legs ache, and each time a woman cried out, it was as though a bolt of lightning struck her quim.
She remembered her confident answer to Mr. Swift.
Yes, I can play the part
.
Now, she wasn’t so certain.
Her hand on Lord Sommersby’s arm, Serena gaped at one vampire, his trousers down around his ankles, his tight, muscular derriere exposed. A woman’s bare white legs were hooked around the vampire’s waist and he held her up against a wall. He was thrusting into her so hard he shook the wall.
“I die!” the woman cried.
Goodness, they had to save the poor creature! But the woman screamed in pleasure and ripped at the vampire’s clothed back with fingers curved like claws.
The woman was enjoying herself. Her life wasn’t in danger—yet.
“Hell and perdition.”
She heard Sommersby mutter the curse. “My dear, you really don’t belong here.”
It was true. She’d steeled herself to expect audacious sex acts and lewd couplings—she’d seen many such illustrations in the Society’s hidden texts—but she knew he was right. She was not a virgin, and she truly liked sex, as illicit and unladylike as that was, but she was shocked by this. By women who willingly gave themselves to demons, who exposed their breasts to catch male attention, and who were willing to sink to their knees and kiss a man’s privy member at his command.
Many jades cast glances at Lord Sommersby and Mr. Swift—below the bizarre masks, both men’s beautiful lips and strong jaws were visible. She guessed the women knew the masks covered handsome faces, that the cloaks shrouded muscular, beautiful bodies.
The three of them kept to the shadows—though in this crowded corridor it was almost impossible. Serena noticed the care Lord Sommersby and Mr. Swift took to disguise the fact they had no fangs.