Heath pushed past Julian. “It might be more than a dream.” He bit into his wrist and drew blood as Vivienne raced over to the side of the bed. Sarah slapped wildly at him.
“Sarah, I’m here. It’s Mama. I’m here for you.”
But Sarah didn’t stop fighting. Heath cupped Sarah’s head and held her to his wrist.
“Don’t do that!” Vivienne cried. “You’re hurting her.”
But he held her daughter firmly and pressed his bleeding wrist to her mouth. Sarah whimpered, but as she tasted Heath’s blood, she quieted.
What had happened? And what use was she? Her daughter hadn’t been soothed by her voice. Vivienne stood, feeling utterly helpless, with her hands fisted at her sides.
In the past, when Sarah woke from a bad dream, Vivienne would put her arms around her daughter. And all would be well.
She touched Heath’s shoulder. “What did you mean ‘more than a dream’?” Terror trembled in her words.
“I saw into her thoughts for a moment, then they were shuttered to me. Just as yours always are, Vivi. I saw a vampire. And he was imploring Sarah to open her heart to him. To join him.”
She glared toward Julian.
“Not Julian,” Heath said.
“Then who?”
“At this point, I don’t know. I saw him from the back.”
“Can you see more?” Something wet touched Vivienne’s cheek. A tear. “How can I keep her safe if these damn vampires can get into her mind?”
“We can stop them from doing it. Don’t worry.” He eased
his wrist from Sarah’s mouth. He bent to her, murmured some words in a gentle voice, then lowered Sarah back into her bed, and drew up the covers.
“What was that? Magic?”
“No.” He looked to her, and she saw pain in his eyes. “A lullabye.”
Vivienne heard her sharp breath of astonishment. And felt a deep tug in her heart, as deep as the one she had felt when she had given birth to Sarah and held her for the first time.
11
H
eath carried Vivienne to her bed. Dropping to one knee, he laid her on the crisp sheets. “Don’t worry. Sarah will be safe until tomorrow. She’ll sleep soundly, now that she’s taken my blood. That will keep her mind calm and relaxed. She won’t have another nightmare.”
The truth was, it wasn’t frightening dreams he worried about. And his blood would hopefully protect Sarah’s thoughts so another vampire couldn’t enter them.
“All right,” Vivi whispered.
He watched her stretch out her long, bare legs, with her shapely calves and creamy, silk-smooth thighs. He undid her robe, helped her pull her borrowed nightdress over her head. At every moment, he was growling to himself,
control, control, control
.
He drew up her covers, but he didn’t kiss her good night, as much as he yearned to. There was no point in pretending he could have more intimacy with her. Then he snuffed the candles with his fingers and closed the door.
It was close to dawn. The windows were covered with thick,
black drapes, but Heath’s body could sense approaching daylight. A clock struck the half hour. Half past four.
He prowled to Dimitri’s rooms.
The elder vampire’s private apartments were massive, gobbling up the east wing of the mansion. Heath lifted his fist to knock, but Dimitri called out, “Blackmoor. Come in.”
Dimitri was naked, sprawled in a leather club chair, drinking brandy—blood-laced brandy. His host motioned to the decanter, flashing a grin. “Have a drink. This stuff is exquisite. The blood of young female virgins makes it delectable.”
He searched Dimitri’s expression for a sign he was joking. And Heath knew he had no choice. Sexual frustration over Vivi had brought his other appetite to ravenous life. If he didn’t slake it, he knew what would happen. His base vampiric instincts would take control. Control would shatter, and he would go out and feed on a mortal’s blood.
He poured. The red-amber liquid sloshed into a tumbler. He threw the contents down, the virgin’s blood wasted on his tongue. It didn’t sit there long enough for him to taste anything.
“I came to find out if you knew why my sire, Nikolai, is in London.”
Dimitri drained his drink, lazily scratched his balls. “Nikolai is here? The last I’d heard, he had been destroyed in the Carpathians by a determined vampire slayer.”
That surprised Heath. “You have evidence of his destruction?”
All he had as proof that Nikolai was in London was the seal. It might not even belong to his sire. Or if it did, it could have been stolen from his sire’s Carpathian castle.
“Rumors only.” Dimitri reached for the decanter and refilled his glass. “But you appear to confidently believe he is in London—”
“No. I’m not confident. I haven’t seen him. But I believe he
is involved with an apothecary, an establishment off Newark Street, behind the London Hospital. It is where Vivienne was getting the medicine for her daughter, the stuff she had to pay for with seduction.”
“So you believe Nikolai wanted Vivienne to take the souls of those men.” Keen dark eyes flashed as Dimitri mulled it over. “For what purpose?”
“I have no bloody idea.” Which was the truth. He couldn’t understand why his sire, who had been a vampire since the fourteenth century, would want to murder English peers with the help of a succubus. Quickly he explained how he had accompanied Vivi there. “The mysterious Mrs. Holt told Vivienne I was the man she was supposed to seduce next.”
“And Mrs. Holt knew you were not a mortal earl?”
“Yes.” Heath paced. “I wonder if Nikolai brought Vivienne and me together.” It sounded like madness, but he knew Nikolai was capable of the most impossible magic. Had Nikolai used Vivienne’s desperate quest to get her medicine that night to bring her into contact with him? Had Nikolai captured—or destroyed—Raine to send Heath on his search?
“If Vivienne had seduced me into her bed twice,” he said slowly, “she could have unleashed my curse.”
“You think he wants you to transform into a demon?”
“Yes, because as a demon, I would be a weapon for him. I escaped him in the Carpathians, and I had believed, when I did, that he couldn’t follow me. He carried his own curse. He couldn’t go more than one hundred yards from his castle without exploding into dust.”
“So how can he be in London?”
“I don’t know. He was trying to defeat that curse when I first met him. He’s had ten more years to work on it. I wonder if he now wants me to transform, so he can release me onto the world. If I transform into the demon he’s cursed me to be, I could destroy all mankind. The curse that kept him ‘chained’ to
his castle for five hundred years was placed by a mortal woman who knew witchcraft.”
“And you think he wants revenge.” Dimitri swirled his brandy. Crimson tendrils of blood floated in it. “I’ve never understood the fascination with destroying the world. These ancient vampires should learn to appreciate a good orgy.” Dimitri drank, but his glittering eyes were watchful over the rim of his glass. “And what of your brother? Madams from the vampire brothels have told me you are searching for him. But when he is found, the council intends to destroy him. I assume you aren’t hunting him to hand him over to Adder and the rest of the council.”
“Hell, no.”
“You know, you never should have agreed to work for them.”
Agreed
. Heath laughed bitterly. “I never agreed. It wasn’t a choice, Dimitri. Ever since I escaped Nikolai and returned to England, the council has kept me in line by threatening to kill my brother. First when he was an innocent mortal, and now that he is a vampire.”
Dimitri observed him in irritating silence. Finally he said, “You are a man with no way out. I do know someone who could help you, Heath. A gentleman who returned to England a fortnight ago from the Carpathians.”
“Who, Dimitri?”
“Guidon, the historian of vampires. If there is anyone who will know what happened to your sire, it will be Guidon.”
Heath had to accept that was true. He had not seen Guidon since he had been locked up in Nikolai’s dungeon. Every night, the historian would shuffle down the narrow, steep stone staircase, his book in his hands, his ink and quill balanced on top. Guidon would sit on a stool outside Heath’s cell and ask question upon question.
Where were you born? Who was your mother? Why did you come to the Carpathians? What are the
names of the women you have bedded? Have you fathered children?
At first, Heath had doggedly refused to answer. Then the torture began. He had been whipped, burned, bitten. Throughout all the excruciating things Nikolai’s lackeys had done to Heath, Guidon’s questions had droned on and on.
“Dimitri, I want the truth. Have you seen my brother?”
“No. But I assume you haven’t looked in every whorehouse in England.”
He needed answers. He needed to find out if Nikolai was manipulating Vivienne.
“All right, Dimitri. Where is Guidon? And what is your price for the answer?”
He had an hour, or possibly less, before dawn.
Heath jumped out of the carriage on Charing Cross Road. As soon as his bootsoles struck the cobbles, the cloaked driver flicked his whip. The carriage creaked on its wheels as it made a tight turn in the middle of the deserted street. Then it rattled back the way it had come. Dimitri’s coachman was also a vampire. Heath was taking a mad risk by coming out close to daylight; he wasn’t going to inflict the same risk on the coachman.
He could have flown faster than travel by carriage, but he had no way to carry clothes or weapons when he shape shifted.
He was likely in trouble.
Small bookshops lined Charing Cross Road, but at this time they were shuttered. He reached the one he wanted, its name on the sign swinging above the door.
He expected the door would be locked but it swung open to reveal a dark room lined with shelves and filled with books. No one stood behind the door. But he sensed a presence in the building. A vampire.
Paper rustled. In the back of the shop, someone turned a page. “I am back here,” a voice croaked. Something loud slammed. “Come forth, so I can see you.”
Heath complied. At the rear right-hand corner of the store, an old man bent over a desk. There was no doubt it was Guidon. No other vampire was tiny and deformed, with a curved spine and tufts of yellowish-gray hair. Heath had spent months staring blearily at the little gnomelike body through the bars of his dungeon cell. The historian peered upward as Heath approached, revealing clear blue-silver eyes. “You,” he spat. “One of the vampire lords. What have you come about? Your lot let my library be destroyed. All the books—all those treasured
words
—are gone.”
“I am not one of the vampire lords. And I believe it was vampire slayers from the Royal Society who found the library hidden in tunnels under London.”
Filled with red-faced fury, the little gnome stood on his chair. “And that was due to the arrogance and stupidity of the vampire lords. So obsessed with their power, so fixated with proving their superiority to the vampire queens. Such blasted idiots.” He sat again, muttering. “Women are always stronger than men. They bear the children. The human race could survive with only one man, but it needs many more women.”
Heath sighed. He didn’t want to discuss vampire society. “Guidon, I’ve come to you, cap in hand, for information.” He knew to play to the little man’s vanity. “I—”
“I know who you are,” Guidon interrupted. “I know every immortal creature in this blasted city. You are Blackmoor. I used to question you while you were rotting in that prison of Nikolai, the great warrior lord.” The last words came out with sarcasm. “You were a highly resistant subject. Why should I help you now?”
Of course his past was rearing up to bite him in the arse. “There are two beautiful women in desperate need, and your information could save them.”
The blue eyes blinked, apparently unmoved.
“All right,” Heath said. “How did you open the door? I had no idea you could do magic.”
Thin, parched-white lips split into a grin. “Good trick, isn’t it? Looks like magic, but it’s simple mechanics.” Guidon held up the end of a black cord. “This and a few pulleys. Then it appears to dim-witted mortals and some less than brilliant vampires that I can open the door with the power of my thoughts.” He cackled. “And I suppose I have.”
“You fooled me. I never thought to search for a practical explanation.”
“So what do these women want? I haven’t got many kinds of books that would interest you, Blackmoor. Not too many picture books of erotica in here.” The old man cackled again, then he looked disheartened. “I don’t have many books left at all.”
“I don’t need a book, I need information. And I’m willing to pay well for it.”
“And what could I do with your money? I’m going to spend eternity rewriting all those stolen books from memory. You may ask me one question.”
There were so many things he needed to know. About his sire. About Vivienne, the medicine, and what someone wanted from her. And Raine. “I need more than that.”
“Make it worth my while.”
“You said you didn’t want money. What else can I give you?”
“How about your firstborn child.”
Heath reeled back. “She—she’s dead.”
Guidon opened his book again. “That is a pity. You have my sympathies; there is no greater pain than losing a child. Perhaps your next child, then.”
But there was no danger of that happening. “There will not be a next child.”
“Never be too certain of that.”
Heath slammed his fist on the table. “Give me some kind of realistic price, and I will pay it.”
But Guidon pushed his chair back and leaped off it. The tiny man scuttled out from around the desk, muttering, “Heathcliff George Stephen Winthrope, Seventh Earl of Blackmoor. First son of Amelia and Harold Winthrope. Followed by a second son, Raine William Harold. I keep geneologies. Two sets. One from each vampire’s mortal life, and the other tracing the vampire lineage.”
Heath waved it aside in impatience. “I don’t care about geneol—” He broke off. Was this intended as a hint? Guidon’s questions had always been direct. His conversations were not. “What of a succubus named Vivienne Dare? Do you have her geneology?”