The Demon Count

by Anne Stuart

  "The . . . the vampiro?" I echoed nervously.

  Maddelena's laugh was not pleasant. "That's what they are saying, signorina. Best to lock your door tonight."

  That was my second warning, one that I did not need. "I have every intention of doing so," I replied with dignity, "though I don't see how a locked door would keep a vam­pire out if he truly wanted to enter."

  "True enough," she nodded seriously. "You must rub the door and windows with garlic. They can even sneak in through the keyhole. They have been known, signorina," she leaned closer, "to take the shape of bats in order to gain access to their victims. I should beware of night-flying creatures if I were you."

  Her heavy breath left me no doubt that she'd be safe from the garlic-hating fiends of the night. "I could tell you many things," she added in a deep growl. "Many ways to protect yourself. A cross made of rose thorns, wolfbane, a mirror. But I think you are wise beyond your years. If the vampiro truly wants you, nothing will stop him." She moved away, leaving me quaking in cowardly terror.

  "Of whom do you speak?" I demanded in a frightened croak. Quickly I cleared my throat. "Are you talking about Luc?"

  An amazed expression crossed her evil, suetlike face. "The count?" she echoed, astounded. "But no, signorina. I speak of the ghoul, the vampiro, not of my noble master." And without another word she left.

  It was well into the next day when I awoke, and for a moment I lay in the strange bed, wondering where I was. A noisy purring reminded me that I was not alone, Patrick having deserted his master for one more in need of consola­tion. I was blessed with forgetfulness for only a few mo­ments. All too soon it came back to me.

  Mentally I reviewed my position. I was a golden English virgin of almost twenty years, possessed of a large fortune and an evil guardian who was most likely a murderer, a vampire, an embezzler, and a spy. I was also quite stupidly attracted to the man. Or should I say creature?

  I had further complicated my life by severing my ties with England and placing myself in this monster's hands, then turning around and promising to spy on him for the sake of my country and a young man's lovely blue eyes and broad shoulders. Two people I had known were dead, brutally murdered. Hidden in my room was perhaps in­criminating evidence, evidence that could free me from the torturous hold Lucifero Alessandro del Zaglia had over me. Hastily I put aside any doubts, any feelings of guilt I might have. After all, I could trust Mark to do the right thing, couldn't I? Hadn't I, without more than a few meaningful glances, to be sure, been ready to promise my lifelong faith and trust to him?

  Before my better self could rise up in protest, I jumped from the bed. By instinct rather than thought I dressed quickly in the cleaner of Rosetta's two dresses and sur­veyed myself in the mirror, only the second I had seen in this mirrorless house. The clothes were big on me, to be sure, and nothing could disguise the disgusting "Englishness" of my appearance, but unless anyone looked closely I could pass. The Austrians had occupied Venice for years before I was born; there was no reason why I couldn't be the offspring of those fair-haired invaders and a local woman. After perusing the empty hallway I started out the door. I could only hope no one had bothered to rummage through my bedclothes. If the incriminating papers were gone so was my last hope.

  The third floor was deserted. Since I had been moved it was now completely untenanted, and the brief glimpse I had had of the new girl brought in to take Rosetta's place assured me that she would rather face the fires of hell than venture onto the haunted third floor. I knew I could trust the vague and fluttery Mildred and her cohorts to feel the same way.

  My room was just as I had left it, with the fortunate exception of Rosetta's body. I couldn't keep my nervous eyes from darting to the spot where she had fallen, search­ing for bloodstains. But of course there would be none. Holger had only verified what I had known instinctively. When the poor dead beauty had been placed in my closet she had been practically drained of her rich red blood.

  Quickly I averted my eyes. For one horrid moment as I scrambled around my bed I thought the papers were gone. A moment later I was dizzy with relief. During my nightly tossses and turns I had merely dislodged them. They were bow down around the foot of the bed, happily disguised by the rumpled bed linens. Of the sapphire pendant there was no sign, and I could only surmise that Thornton or Mildred had taken advantage of the confusion and repossessed it.

  I did not even pause for a cup of the rich, strong coffee Mrs. Wattles made so well. I was out of the house before anyone could stop me, marching briskly down the nar­row streets. The sun was beating down on my head, gilding the oriental domes of the city, turning the dark green canal waters a silvery color. And suddenly it felt very good to be alive, very good indeed. Not dead and blood­less and in some pine coffin like poor, unhappy Rosetta. My feet gave a little skip over the cobblestones, and I met the smiling faces of the Venetians I passed with equal cheer only slightly dampened by my guilt. I had no right to feel happy with the horrible things that had been happening around me. But youth, ever resilient, had reasserted itself in my tormented breast, and as I strode onward my feet in their thin sandals took wing.

  In my present costume I didn't dare stop at Florian's for a desperately needed breakfast. Looking as I did, I doubted they would serve me. Indeed, it was a little too close to the Quadri, the cafe frequented by the hated Austrians, for comfort. Holger von Wolfram was the last person I cared to run into on my current mission.

  Instead I had a delicious breakfast of coffee, sweet rolls and rich, creamy butter at the small cafe in the same campo as Giacomo's tailor shop. Once I had eaten, my spirits soared even higher, and I contemplated never re­turning to the dark and decaying palazzo on the Grand Canal.

  "Why do you ask for the Inglesi?" the small, dark little tailor demanded, perhaps fooled by my excellent Italian into thinking just what I wanted people to think.

  "Why should I know him?" he added, shrugging hunched little shoulders. "I have done work for many Inglesi, many Austrians also. I cannot remember every one."

  "But he told me," I insisted somewhat tearfully, my ear­lier good mood vanishing at this sudden setback. "He said I could get in touch with him here. His name is Ferland, Mark Ferland."

  There was no softening in the black, unreadable eyes of the tailor. After a moment he shrugged again. "Perhaps I can help you, signorina, perhaps I can't. I would suggest you return home and if I run across this Mr. Ferland I will have him get in touch with you."

  "But I daren't!" The thought of trying to hide the papers that now seemed to burn against my skin terrified me. I knew that if I didn't place them in Mark's strong, capable hands soon I would weaken, my resolve would crumble, and Luc would once more win.

  "Then you will have to wait," he said resignedly. "Per­haps he will show up today, perhaps not. If you refuse to return home you may stay in the back room. If he is going to come he will be here by three."

  "Three!" I could feel fresh tears starting. "That is hours away!"

  "Four hours, signorina," he grumbled. "I do not want you here any more than you wish to be here. It could cause me great trouble with the Tedeschi. Already I have been indiscreet. Either retire to the back room or leave my shop."

  I had no choice. As I slipped behind the heavy curtain into the dark, airless little cubicle Giacomo had optimisti­cally referred to as a room, all my fears and doubts came crowding back. I sank down into a corner of the stuffy, garlic-laden closet and leaned back against the wall. At least, I thought with the last glimmering of humor I would muster for the next three hours, I would be safe from vampiros in this atmosphere.

  During the next four hours I alternated between hope and despair, anger and a cheerful courage, determination and a treacherous weakening whenever I envisioned the tall, sinuously graceful form of the demon-count. Surely I was doing the right thing, giving my cares and worries over to Mark Ferland. There could be no doubt, could there? And if Luc was not doing anything wrong, it could do no harm. If he was as
evil as people imagined, then he de­served whatever punishment fate meted out. Fate, or me, I wondered guiltily.

  The bell in the small campo outside the tailor's shop tolled three o'clock, slowly, sonorously, and I climbed stiffly to my feet. I should have been furious, saddened, exhausted. But, truth to tell, I had slept through a good part of those four hours, and now I was free from having to make any more choices. I had tried to tell Mark, truly I had. That he hadn't shown up was no fault of mine. I could in all good conscience return to the palazzo, destroy those papers, and meet Luc's golden, all-seeing eyes with bland innocence. He would come to no ' trm through me, much as he doubtless deserved to. A great weight lifted off me.

  "Charlotte?" A soft, British voice whispered, and the weight descended full force. Mark had arrived after all.

  The walk back through the narrow, twisting alleyways was filled with mental torment. Even having my limp hand held in Mark's strong, capable one did little to allay my fears and doubts, and most of all my guilt.

  "This is magnificent, Charlotte!" he had crowed, sweep­ing me into his arms in surprising exuberance when he'd perused the papers. "I couldn't have asked for anything better. The code should be simple enough to decipher—just a few days, more or less."

  "What . . . what will it say?" I asked faintly, staring at my treachery with a jaundiced eye.

  Mark shrugged those broad, sturdy shoulders. "Who knows? That Del Zaglia is a traitor, perhaps. But a traitor to whom, that is the question. In the meantime, your work is done. You have only to wait until I send word for you. We can leave Venice before the week is out."

  "Leave?" I echoed vaguely. "We?"

  A crestfallen look came over his tanned face. "You'll come with me? I know it's been far too short a time, but I thought, considering the circumstances . . ."

  "You thought what?" I demanded, a little more in con­trol.

  "That you might be willing to come stay with us for a while. I've told my mother all about you. I know she'll love you at first sight. Perhaps I've been a bit too precipitate, but I thought you might reciprocate my feelings . . ."

  I could feel an unaccustomed blush rising in my fair cheeks. "I am not . . . indifferent to you, Mister Ferland. I would be charmed to meet your mother," I said with stilted formality. "It's just . . . so sudden."

  A light blazed in his warm blue eyes. "I wouldn't have dared to bring it up so soon, Miss Morrow, but I doubt that Venice is a very safe place for either of us much longer. There's so damned little time."

  "So little time?"

  "Von Wolfram grows more and more suspicious of the interfering English, as he calls us. He's a lot more powerful than he appears to be, and not a good enemy to have."

  "I've become aware of that," I noted drily.

  "There is a ship leaving within the next two days. I've reserved a cabin . . ." Here, ridiculously, he blushed. "You can, of course, have the cabin to yourself. I'm sure there will be room to stow a single man."

  "I think, Mister Ferland, that you should stop calling me Miss Morrow if we are to travel together," I said shyly, and found myself swept into a crushing embrace that was eminently satisfying. If it lacked the breathless, drowning quality of Luc's intermittent caresses, neither did it contain any fear, of my suitor or of the deep black depths of the unknown. And it was no one's fault but mine if I emerged just a trifle disappointed.

  Fortunately, Mark was too caught up in making plans for our future to notice my abstraction. Being a serious and sober Englishman, he never openly proposed, but I was well aware that he had no intention of letting me escape the parson's mousetrap, once, of course, his mother ap­proved.

  He didn't want me to return to Edentide, but we could think of no way to avoid it. The ship was not ready to take on passengers, and I could hardly stay in Mark's rooms. Legally, I was still the property of Luc del Zaglia, and Mark could be prosecuted for making off with me.

  Against my better judgment he left me beneath the bal­cony. The tall, brooding windows of the old palazzo looked lifeless in the late afternoon sun, and yet a strange prickling on the back of my neck told me someone was watching.

  "You should go now," I whispered, ducking into the shadows under the marble ledge. "If anyone should see you . . ."

  "If anyone should see me they'll think twice about inter­fering with you," he said with reckless confidence. "You're not alone any more, Charlotte."

  The disloyal thought came to me—how much pleasanter, more sensuous was the name Carlotta than plain, stuffy Charlotte. I summoned up my best smile, forbearing to tell him that I was indeed alone, and would be until I was safely aboard that ship. In answer to my smile Mark pulled me into his arms, kissing me with a healthy ardor that left me dangerously unmoved.

  "Only a few more days, my dear, and we'll be safe," he said in a damnably loud voice. I tried to look misty-eyed, but my nervousness was quickly overpowering me. I pushed him away as gently but firmly as I could, returning his quick, impassioned kisses and wondering if I had made a very grave mistake.

  But no, I thought, watching him hurry down the street until he was out of sight. The mistake I was making was in having any doubts at all about the suitability of the match. He loved me; he was kind, handsome, comfortably well off. And I loved him. Didn't I? I simply had to!

  Tired and frightened, I leaned against the cool marble wall and watched the sun sink below the roofline of the ancient city. A real man, I told myself angrily, would not have let me return to this den of demons. A real man would have taken me back to his room and hidden me there, and damn propriety and people and everything.

  But no, Mark Ferland would never so dishonor me, I thought bitterly, scrambling up over the iron railing and landing lightly on my thin-soled sandals. He must be a per­fect gentleman, he must respect me enough to put my life in danger. If I made it safely back to my room I would lock my door and stay in there until Mark came to get me, I thought mutinously.

  "Did you have a pleasant walk, Carlotta?" Luc's soft, menacing voice came from directly behind me. I whirled around, wondering whether I should leap off the balcony and risk a few broken bones rather than meet those hypno­tizing golden eyes and the graceful, delicate, murderous hands of my guardian, adorned so prophetically with the gleaming bloodstone ring.

  I put my hands back on the railing, about to leap. "Don't be any more of a fool than you've already been," he said sharply. "Your stalwart young lover isn't around to catch you. It's a great deal safer climbing up than jumping down."

  I hesitated for a moment longer, but in the rapidly grow­ing darkness the cobblestones below looked far away in­deed. Squaring my shoulders, I turned and walked into the room. After all, what could he possibly do to me?

  By the time I got close enough to see his face I nearly broke and ran. Beneath the cool, icy composure was an expression of such dark, bitter rage that I quaked at the sight of it. I felt smaller and weaker than I ever had, but some last vestige of bravery forced me to come directly up to him, my tousled blond hair reaching only to his shoul­der.

  He was dressed all in black, as usual, with the obligatory trace of white in his linen shirt that was open to the waist. He must have just risen, I thought stupidly, and found I was lost.

  I looked up into those brooding, haunted eyes in his pale, sensual face, and a feeling of inevitability came over me, so that I stood there, motionless, mesmerized, trapped by his inexorable will. After a time that could have lasted seconds or hours, he spoke.

  "Where are the papers, Carlotta?"

  I didn't bother to deny it. "I gave them to Mark."

  No expression crossed his face. "I should have known. I underestimated you, little one. A fatal mistake, it seems." His hand reached out and gently stroked my neck above the low-cut peasant blouse. His skin on mine seemed to burn with an icy fire. "You look quite fetching in Rosetta's clothing. Have you some unconscious wish to be with her throughout eternity?"

  I knew then that I had very little time left on this earth. This sm
all, pretty, decaying little room would be my last sight on earth—that, and the handsome, decadent face of my murderer, who was looking down at me with such a closed, angry expression. He was all everyone suspected, a vampire, the ghoul of Venice, and I would be his final vic­tim before Mark deciphered those damning papers and had him arrested. But by then it would be too late for me.

  "No," I said, and my voice came out in a croak. I couldn't move; I was frozen in place with his hand on my neck, his golden eyes capturing my helpless ones.

  "It is only what you deserve, little one," he murmured, and his mouth moved down and brushed my lips, very lightly. He kissed my eyes, my cheeks, my chin, soft hur­ried little kisses that made me feel dizzy and dreaming. This must be death, I thought, not minding one bit.

  "Look at me, Carlotta," he commanded sharply, and, startled out of my reverie, I looked up. It seemed to me I had never seen a face so evil or so sad, so beautiful or so deathlike. Without further warning his head moved down and I felt his teeth on my neck, sharp and painful, felt the blood come just before the blackness closed in.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  There was something very wet and icy cold on my neck, interfering with my pleasant and decidedly erotic dreams, I batted away at the hands that were pressing the compress on me, and felt them imprisoned in a strong grasp. Stubbornly I clung to my state of sleep. I was dead, I had no intention of giving up this pleasant nightmare any sooner than I wished to.

  My tormentor thought differently. My hands were loos­ened, and I snuggled back amid the soft covers, prepared to drift off once more, when I was spattered with myriad drops of cold water. My eyes flew open in rage.

  "God damn it!" I began, and then faded out. I was in Luc's bedroom . . . the warm candlelight was strong enough to tell me that. Sitting on the bed beside me and holding a cold compress to my neck was my murderer, an amused, rueful expression on his handsome face. He reached into a golden basin and splashed me with more water for good measure. I was too astounded to say a word, just continued to stare at him in mute amazement.