"Yes, my lord."
Rhianna looked up from the book she was reading, smiling expectantly, but it wasn't Rayven in the doorway. It was Bevins.
"What is it?" she asked, alarmed by the grim expression on Tom's face. "What's wrong?"
Bevins held out a sheet of paper. "This is for you, milady."
"A letter?" She stood up, the book in her lap tumbling to the floor, forgotten, as she took the missive from Bevins's hand. A letter at night could only be bad news.
She stared at it as if she had never seen a letter before, then slowly turned it over, her heart plummeting into her stomach when she saw Rayven's seal pressed into the wax.
With a bow, Bevins left the room.
Crossing the floor, Rhianna sat down on the edge of the bed, the bed she had shared with Rayven, and stared at the envelope, at the stark white paper, at the raven's head imprinted in the blood-red sealing wax.
Finally, with hands that trembled, she broke the seal.
Rhianna,
I cannot pretend any more. These past six months spent with you have been the happiest of my existence. You will never know the joy you have brought me, but I cannot stay with you longer. Your nearness soothes my soul even as it stirs the demon hunger within me, a hunger I fear I can no longer restrain.
The castle is yours. Do with it as you will. Bevins will stay with you as long as you need him. It is my wish that you forget me and find another. Montroy would make you a fine husband, one who can give you the kind of life you deserve.
Forgive me for telling you this in a letter, but, coward that I am, I could not tell you to your face for fear that you would convince me to stay. To do so might put your life, your very soul, in danger, and that is something I would never do.
Know that I shall cherish your memory and love you until my last breath.
Your obedient servant, Rayven
She stared at the words, words blurred by her tears, unable to believe that he had left her, that she would never see him again.
She didn't know how long she sat there, silent tears tracking her cheeks, staining the paper in her hands. He was gone.
"Milady?"
It was an effort to lift her head. Bevins stood in the doorway, his expression somber, his eyes filled with sympathy.
"Lord Montroy is downstairs, milady."
"I can't see him now."
"I'm afraid he's insisting."
"Send him away."
"He will not go." Bevins took a deep breath. "He says my lord Rayven bid him come."
Rayven! Perhaps Montroy would know where he had gone. "Very well."
She stood up, the letter clutched in one hand. She followed Bevins down the stairs, not caring that her eyes were red and swollen from her tears. She was beyond feeling, past caring what anyone else thought.
Montroy was in the front parlor, his back to the hearth. He swore under his breath when Rhianna entered the room, then swiftly crossed the floor and gathered her into his arms.
She didn't resist, simply stood there, forlorn as a lost child.
"Rhianna." Taking her by the hand, he led her toward the big overstuffed chair near the hearth. Knowing it was against propriety, he nevertheless sat down and drew her into his lap, holding her as if she were a babe in need of solace.
She snuggled against him, her face buried in the hollow of his shoulder.
Muffled sobs shook her slender frame; her tears soaked his coat. Murmuring to her softly, he stroked her back, quietly cursing Rayven for his cruel abandonment.
He had seen Rayven at Cotyer's earlier that evening.
"I am leaving Millbrae," Rayven had said without preamble. "I want you to look after Rhianna."
It had taken the viscount a moment to find his voice. "Where are you going?"
"It doesn't matter."
"When are you coming back?"
"I don't know. Perhaps never."
"I don't understand."
A trace of wry amusement had flickered in Rayven's eyes. "I cannot explain it to you, Montroy, but I want your word that you will look after her."
Dallon had stared into Rayven's eyes, those compelling black eyes that had, over the years, often made him uneasy. There was no hint of danger lurking in those eyes now, no arrogance, only a pain so deep it could not be concealed. "You know I will."
Rayven had nodded. "Be good to her," he had said, and then, his cape billowing behind him, he had left the room.
Disappeared, Dallon would have thought, if such a thing was possible.
"He's left me."
Rhianna's voice brought Montroy back to the present. "I know."
"Why?" She looked up at him, the pain in her eyes reminding him of the anguish he had seen in Rayven's.
"I don't know," Montroy replied softly. Taking a linen handkerchief from his coat pocket, he wiped the tears from her eyes, her cheeks.
"I thought he loved me." She looked at the letter still clutched in her hand. "He said he loved me."
"He does," Montroy said. "I'm sure of it."
She looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. "Why are you here?"
"Rayven asked me to come. He didn't want you to be alone."
"He sent you to me? You saw him?" Hope flared in her eyes. "When? Where? Where is he now?"
"He's gone, Rhianna. He wouldn't tell me where or why, only that he was going."
It hurt to watch the hope die in her eyes, to see the hopelessness settle over her once more. It hurt to know that she loved another.
"Rhianna, what can I do?"
"Do?" She stared at him blankly.
She shuddered in his arms as a fresh wave of tears filled her eyes. Helpless, he watched her cry, watched the silent tears flood her eyes and cascade down her cheeks.
After a while, she collapsed against him, and he held her tight, his hand stroking her hair, her back, wondering if she would ever smile again.
Standing outside in the shadows, Rayven peered in the window, watching. A pain as sharp as a stake pierced his heart as he listened to her tears and knew he was the cause.
"I love you, my sweet Rhianna," he murmured.
And it was that love that made him turn away, that sent him running through the night, away from the only woman he had ever loved.
Days passed, but Rhianna was hardly aware of them. She spent her mornings wandering through the gardens, remembering the nights she had spent walking in the moonlight with Rayven. She ate at Bevins's insistence, though she had no appetite for food. She took long naps and retired early to her bed because it was only there, in her dreams, that her husband came to her.
Montroy came to visit her each day, his concern evident in the look in his eyes, in his voice, the gentle touch of his hand. He didn't intrude on her grief, didn't tell her not to cry, not to grieve. He bowed to her wishes when she wanted to be alone, held her when she asked for comfort, dried her tears when she wept. And hoped that, one day, she would accept his love, prayed that one day she would grow to love him as deeply as she loved the dark lord of Castle Rayven.
And sometimes when she cried, when the pain in her eyes made his heart ache, he knew he would gladly see her reunited with Rayven if it would make her smile again.
Chapter Twenty-four
He hunted in the shadows of the night, venting his rage and his grief in the mindless shedding of blood. He stalked his prey relentlessly, feeding on their fear, letting his quarry see what he was, letting them see the bloodlust in his eyes, smiling as he bared his fangs. He was hurting, hurting as he had not hurt in four centuries, and he wanted to strike out in retaliation, hoping that by inflicting pain on others, he might ease his own.
He hunted prey as he had not hunted since he was first made Vampyre, hunted until the scent of blood and fear clung to his skin, his clothing, infiltrated every pore.
He had forgotten how intoxicating it was, to drink and drink and drink, until he was filled with the blood of life, until his heart beat in time with that of the unfortunate soul in hi
s embrace, until his body swelled with the vitality of another's life force. Ah, to drink his fill, to drink in someone's life, their hopes and dreams and memories, their very essence.
He refused to consider the morality of it. What need had he of morals? He was not human, but Vampyre, a race apart. The laws of men meant nothing to him. Men preyed on helpless beasts for nourishment. Vampyres preyed on men. No one preyed on the Vampyre.
For too long he had denied what he was, denied the need that burned within him, denied the exquisite pleasure that could only be found in taking the blood of mortals. How close he felt to those he preyed upon as he cradled them in his dark embrace. How grateful he was for the swift surge of energy that flowed from their veins, filling him with vitality, making him feel like a young vampyre again, newly made.
And yet, for all that he drank his fill, he never drained his victims to the point of death. Strong as the desire was, he could not do it. Rhianna was to blame for that. She might understand his need for blood; she would never condone the taking of a life. And though he would never see her again, he could not be less than she thought him to be.
He reveled in the darkness that covered him, all his senses alert, hearing sounds in the night that mortals never heard—the soft splash of a single drop of rain falling on dew-damp grass, the sound of a mouse tiptoeing through the shadows. He saw the beauty hidden within the darkness of the night—the changing shapes and shadows of a world at sleep.
For weeks, he prowled the shadows of the night, a silent phantom preying on those foolish enough to cross his path.
He was hunting now. Dark clouds covered the moon and stars, promising rain before dawn. There were but a few people on the streets—an elderly couple heading for home, a father and son huddled in a doorway, a young couple who walked hand in hand, staring into each other's eyes, blissfully unaware of the coming storm.
And then he saw her, a young girl running down a dark street, her hair blowing in the wind, the heels of her shoes clicking on the cobblestones.
He rode the wings of the night, silent as an owl stalking its prey, until he was beside her, his hand silencing her scream.
The scent of her fear mingled with the scent of her perfume. He could hear the frantic beat of her heart, hear the very blood that flowed through her veins.
He bent over her, his cloak enfolding them like the wings of a great black bird. And then he saw her eyes. Dark blue eyes filled with unspeakable terror. Eyes as blue as a summer sky, as blue as Rhianna's eyes…
With an oath, he reared back, shaken to the core of his being. He saw himself as Rhianna would see him, no better than a monster masquerading in human form, a wild beast unable to control the awful craving within him.
Filled with shame and self-loathing, he wiped his memory from the girl's mind, then vanished from her sight in a blur of swirling black velvet.
He hunted no more humans after that night. He took refuge in a crypt that held the lingering odor of moldering flesh and flowers long dead. Huddled in a corner, his cloak wrapped tightly around him, he stared into the darkness.
He was Vampyre. Undead. This was where he belonged.
The days passed in mindless sleep, the nights seemed longer than any he remembered. Nights when the hunger burned through his veins, when it clawed at his vitals, when, seeking relief, he gashed his own flesh looking for nourishment.
In the way of the world, time passed. Outside, the seasons were changing. Mortals were born. Mortals died. Yet he stayed ever the same.
Pain became his constant companion, striking deep, taunting him, urging him to go out and hunt. Phantoms took up residence in the tomb beside him—their cries of pain like knives cutting into his soul, their faces distorted with fear as they looked into his eyes and saw death there. So many ghosts come to haunt him, empty eyes filled with accusation. Had he truly killed so many in those days long past?
Individual faces had long ago been forgotten, all but the face of the first mortal he had killed. He had been a young vampyre then, ruled by the fierce hunger that refused to be satiated, ignorant in the ways of his kind. He had found the woman hurrying down a dark street. She had sensed his presence long before his hand closed around her arm. He would never forget the horror he saw in her eyes, or the sound of her voice, desperate with fear as she begged for her life. He had not wanted to hurt her, had not wanted to kill her, but the hunger had held him tight in its grasp, the pain more than he could bear. Clumsy in his haste, his fangs had ripped into the tender flesh of her throat. Her blood had gushed into his mouth, hot with life. And with that blood, he had tasted one of her tears. Horrified and ashamed, he had lowered her body to the ground. The look in her eyes had haunted him for more than a century.
He huddled deeper into the folds of his cloak, seeking escape, seeking solace. He cursed the hunger that licked at his vitals like the flames of Hell, cursed himself for what he was, cursed Rhianna for bewitching him, for giving him a taste of what he could never have. And, above all, he cursed Lysandra…
Lysandra!
All these years, she had kept a house but a league away. He had often sensed her presence but, like all vampyres, she was distrustful of others of her kind. She had never sought him out, nor had he gone looking for her, though, in the first days after he had been made, he had thought often of finding her, of destroying her for what she had done to him. Lysandra… She had made him what he was; if there was a cure, she would know it. If not, he would seek his destruction in the arms of the one who had made him.
Muttering an oath, he closed his eyes and sent his thoughts into the night.
"Rayven." Lysandra smiled warily, heartily surprised to find him waiting in her parlor when she arose that night. "Whatever brings you here?"
He felt a ripple in the air as she gathered her power close. "I mean you no harm."
Crossing the room, he took her hands in his. She was the oldest vampyre he had ever known, yet she looked exactly the same as she had when he had seen her last, her luxurious black hair arranged in thick curls atop her head, her eyes as black as pools of ebony beneath thick lashes, her alabaster skin aglow with a pearly translucence.
"Still beautiful," he murmured.
"As are you," she replied. She lifted one pale hand to his hair, smoothing it back from his brow. "But then, we never change, do we?"
"No," he said bitterly. "Never."
"And yet… You are thin, mon petit. What has happened to you?"
"Nothing." He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers. "I want to know if there's a cure for what we are."
"A cure?" She lifted one delicate brow. "You make it sound like some dreadful illness."
"It is the devil's own curse, and I wish to be free of it."
Lysandra frowned. "Whatever for? You look prosperous enough, though a trifle undernourished." Her eyes narrowed. "You've not fed recently, have you?"
"That's none of your concern," he said sharply. He took a deep breath. "Tell me," he said. "Is there a way to end it?"
"A walk in the sunlight, perhaps?" she suggested, the shadow of a smile teasing at her lips.
"Do not play games with me, Lysandra. I want an answer."
"I know of no cure."
His hands curled into tight fists as she spoke the words. "Then I want you to destroy me."
She trailed her finger over his cheek. "Has living become so unpleasant?"
"I can no longer abide what I am. It has cost me too much."
She regarded him through all-knowing eyes, and then smiled. "You've fallen in love with a mortal."
It was not a question, but a statement of fact, neither approving or condemning.
He did not bother to deny it. "Yes."
"There's no need to end your existence, Rayven. Simply bring her over."
"No."
"You would give up immortality for this woman?"
"Do not mock me, Lysandra. Have you never been in love?"
"You surprise me, Rayven. I did not think our ki
nd was capable of such a human emotion."
"I wish that were true." He ran a hand through his hair. "I cannot bear it anymore. I want you to end it. Now."
"Why not stay here, with me instead?" she suggested. "We could hunt together." She placed her hands on his chest and looked up at him, her dark eyes alight. Her hands slid seductively down his chest, over his belly. "And play together."
Slowly, deliberately, he removed her hands from his body. "I did not come here looking for a hunting partner, nor a bed partner, only a way to end what I am."
He stared at her, watched the emotions chase across her face—disappointment that he would not hunt the night with her, anger because he had scorned her affection, a flicker of confusion because she could not understand his desire to end his existence.
And then he saw the blood lust rise in her eyes, quelling all other emotions. Her lips drew back in a feral smile, exposing her fangs.
He knew a moment of fear, a wave of gut-wrenching regret that he would never see Rhianna again, and then he bared his throat, wondering what it would be like to feel Lysandra's teeth tearing at his flesh again after so many years.
"No!" Rhianna woke, a scream on her lips. "Rayven, don't!"
Moments later, Bevins burst into the room, the candle in his hand sending a wash of yellow light over Rhianna's face. She had lost weight in the weeks since Rayven had left her. There were dark shadows beneath her eyes, eyes that were haunted with sadness. He feared for her health, yet nothing he did, nothing Montroy did, had been able to assuage her grief.
"What's wrong?" he asked, searching the shadows for the source of her distress.
"Rayven…" She stared at him through eyes wide with terror. "He's in danger."
Bevins set the candlestick on the table beside the bed. " 'Tis just a dream, milady."
"No." She shook her head. "No, it was real."
"There, there, milady. I'm sure he's fine."
"No." She shook her head again. "Can you not feel it?"
"Feel what?"
"He wants to die." She screamed Rayven's name aloud. "I will not live without him." She stared, unseeing, into the night, her hands clenched into tight fists. "Do you hear me, Rayven, I will not live without you!"
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