by Sharon Page
He glimpsed the madam’s thoughts. Visions hit him. A thousand personal, useless visions—of gowns, jewels, the location of the keys to her locked drawers, the bare chest of a footman she slept with. Then one image came forth and pushed all the others away. A man’s face—with auburn hair, laughing green eyes, a spray of freckles across his cheeks. Raine. And then he saw himself, with his brother.
Raine had followed him here once. A year ago, while his young brother had still been mortal and had no idea what he’d been walking into.
In her thoughts, the madam would naturally conjure up the last time she had seen Raine. Which meant what she had told him was the truth.
He saw images of several blond women in her head. Her thoughts flowed easily to him. He wants a blonde. Sally? She has blue eyes. If he wants a specific girl … how can I tempt him to choose one of mine instead?
Heath drew back from the madam’s thoughts, the shutters in his mind falling back into place like iron doors. Clang. Clang. Clang.
“Come.” She moved to his side, a bright smile on her crimson lips. “Let us find the woman you are searching for tonight.”
He knew the game. She wanted to give him a reason to stay, to peruse her voluptuous, half-naked tarts in the hope he would find one he couldn’t resist.
“No, thank you. I’m not looking for a woman to fuck, but for one to question.”
“How … odd. My lord, I sense great agony in you. I know you do not wish to feed, but I fear it is becoming painful for you to deny yourself any longer. How long has it been since you took blood?” she asked sympathetically, but he knew her concern was feigned.
“A week.”
“That is far too long. Dangerously so. Surely you know that, my lord.”
“I have gone longer.” Three months. That had been the longest. And he’d been left so weak, he’d thought he was going to die. Then a servant had wakened him, had told him Raine was dying. That had forced him to leave his bedchamber, drink enough blood to regain strength, and then race to his brother’s side to give him eternal life instead of lose him forever.
It had been months since he had come to a place like this—a brothel where the negotiations for blood were as common as those for pleasure. He had sworn he never would again. Not after the last time, when he had lost control.
The longer he tried to go without blood, the more violent the hunger became. It was irresponsible of him to walk amongst the human world without slaking his thirst for blood in the … kindest way he could. He should accept the offer here, where he could ensure the safety of the woman who let him take her blood. But he turned away and strode for the door.
Julian, come out from wherever you are. We are done here.
And he cursed the vampire council for sending Julian Tremaine with him. Tremaine was supposed to be his overseer, but Heath spent most of his time looking after the lad.
The madam chuckled behind him. His preternatural hearing easily picked out the sound, even as he heard Julian Tremaine’s footsteps racing down a hallway. “You will be back,” she murmured to herself.
No, he’d drive a stake into his own heart before he weakened.
The last time he had fed at this brothel, he had escorted a voluptuous lass to the bedchamber. The girl had flopped on the bed, swept back her hair to bare her throat, and waited for him with dead and resigned eyes.
He’d never lost an appetite so quickly in his life. This became an addiction for the women, like gin or opium. They needed to be bitten, to know the pain, to feel the earth-shattering pleasure of climaxing while being fed upon. The prostitute had told him, with whimpers, that her last client had been brutal and rough. She had clutched his arm, despair in her eyes. She was terrified, but she needed him to take her blood.
He had done it, despite his revulsion—with this world, mainly with himself. The girl had cried while he did it, and her emotions flowed to him, making her blood taste sharp as vinegar, foul as rotting fruit. He had paid her extra, a few gold sovereigns he had tucked in her closed fist, and placed against her heart. Since then he had fed from animal blood. It left him weak, unsatisfied. But it meant he did not have to touch a woman who truly did not want to be touched.
Heath shook off the maudlin thoughts and strode to the bottom of the stair. He was here only in his search for Raine and for the woman he had seen in the pool. He grasped the banister and barked up the stair. “Julian, get your arse down here. I’m gone.”
A servant hastily opened the door to him. Heath jumped down the front steps and strode away from the house. Three brothels along this street catered to the “nocturnal brother-hood”—the male vampires of London who chose to slake their thirst with the willing and leave their meals alive.
“Heath, wait—” Julian came running out of the brothel, retying his cravat, though the placket of his trousers still flapped where one button was undone.
Heath rubbed his temple. “Your trousers.”
“Oh, right. I was in the middle of something. Could you have given me a few more minutes?”
“You were in the middle of someone. And no, I could not give you more time.”
Julian licked his lips, flicking away a trace of blood. “She tasted good, but I hadn’t got to the best part, where I got to be deep in her while I was drinking and she was coming around me.”
“Another time.”
Julian scowled. He was a youth. Only two-and-twenty. A pup within the nocturnal brotherhood, he had not even spent a full year as a vampire. “You promised me I could. And in return I agreed to look the other way about your activities tonight. This is not one of our five crime scenes.”
This had to be the vampire council’s sadistic idea of a joke. Julian had been assigned to ensure he completed his mission: find a succubus who had killed five English peers. But Julian was young, rebellious, and obsessed with sex. Julian was so like Raine, Heath had been forced to spend every moment of those nights reliving the mistakes he’d made with his brother.
They were supposed to be examining the places where the men had died, questioning other men who knew the victims for a description of mistresses and lovers. Track the succubus down, in other words. But he had to find Raine.
The vampire council would have him destroyed if he did not unearth the demon before the next full moon. But the council had also issued a death warrant on his rogue brother. And his brother’s existence came first.
Julian’s lower lip protruded in a pout. He did up his trousers and drew out a cheroot from a pocket. “What exactly are you looking for?”
“A woman.”
“They had those back there.”
“Not the one I wanted.”
“How can you be so certain?” Julian protested. Holding a match to the cheroot stuck between his lips, Julian looked longingly back toward the brothel. “We should have stayed there longer, to ensure we explored all the women and made sure none of them were the succubus we’re supposed to find.”
“I was able to determine that without wasting time, Julian. And for the love of Hades, don’t make that pouting expression again.”
He couldn’t let Julian know the truth. Tonight he wasn’t searching for the succubus. He was looking for the woman he had seen in the pool. And he had to ensure the council did not find out what he was doing. He couldn’t reveal any clue that might lead them to Raine first.
Most vampires feared the vampire slayers who worked for the Royal Society for the investigation of Mysterious Phenomena. But Heath feared the vampire council more. The slayers knew it existed but since it destroyed vampires they left it alone. But it had grown more dangerous.
“What is a succubus exactly?” Julian puffed his cheroot. “The old vampires on the council never told me.”
“A woman who can drain your soul while she’s fucking you.”
The lad stared, still holding the lit match. “Blast!” He waved out the flame as it burned his finger.
Heath shook his head at the naive shock on Julian’s youthful, good-loo
king face. “You should be careful whom you drop your trousers for.”
“What would a succubus want with us, Blackmoor? We’ve got no souls to drain.”
It was a good point. He had no idea what happened when a succubus made love to a vampire. The council would know. They filled themselves on rules and legend and lore. “Let’s make our way to another brothel. This one is a scene of one of the crimes—” He stopped. A soft sound floated to his preternatural hearing.
A second gasp of fear rippled from the shadows of an alley. A street flare threw light upon a sign. Derwent Lane was the name bestowed upon the narrow space that could barely let two people pass by each other. The light annoyed Heath; it prevented him from seeing as well as he could into the dark length of the alley.
The sound had come from a woman. A subdued, frightened cry of pain.
He doubted it would be the woman he was looking for; he’d scoured London for a week searching for her. He would hardly stumble upon her so fortuitously. But becoming the undead did not mean a man left his honor behind.
Heath stepped into the opening of the alley.
“Come ‘ere, love.” The harsh, raspy male voice broke in on Vivienne Dare’s tumbling thoughts as she hurried down stinking Derwent Lane, rushing further into the depths of Whitechapel.
She looked up just as a brute of a man stepped out of a doorway and blocked her path. He was huge, large enough to fill the narrow lane. A leather apron splattered with dark stains covered him. He crossed his arms over a massive barrel chest and leered as his piglike eyes swept over her. “Ye smell pretty, lass. How much for a quick swive against the alley wall here?”
The stench of blood and butchered meat hung around him. It turned her stomach. But what frightened her most was his size. Vivienne knew what a man that big could do.
She felt for the pistol in her pocket and wrapped her hand around the smooth handle. She wore a long cloak with the hood pulled low. A tangled gray wig hid her blond hair. She had drawn wrinkles on her face with kohl. She should look like a wizened crone.
But the butcher seemed to know otherwise, despite the shadows, her makeup, and her stooped walk.
This kept happening to her, no matter how she disguised herself. Five times already, on her journeys to the apothecary, five different, large, dangerous strangers had pursued her. Each time she’d had to fight for her life. But she’d never faced a man this big.
He licked his lips, moving toward her. His apelike arms swung at his sides. “Come on, dearie.” Smirking, he ran his hands over the front of his apron, mimicking the shape of an erection. “I’ve got a long pole and it’s all for you. Now be a good girl. I don’t want to have to hurt ye.”
But he did. Want to. She knew it. She could see it in his lecherous, mocking grin. In the wild excitement lighting up his small, ugly eyes.
Just stay calm, girl, and think.
She had escaped this world. Had pulled her way out of the slums and into Mayfair’s glittering ballrooms with her wits, not simply her tits. She had become London’s most exclusive—and expensive—courtesan. Then she had walked away from that world. For her daughter’s sake. For Sarah’s sake.
She had vowed she would never let a brute touch her—or hurt her—again.
And she did not have time to waste. She pulled out the pistol, extended her arm, and took a bead on the stained apron. “Step aside and let me pass.”
His eyes took on a wild, hungry, fanatical gleam. “Put that toy away and let me ‘ave at ye.”
Toy. Was he mad? Dear God, she had thought this would make him retreat. She did not want to shoot him. But she couldn’t lose time, precious time Sarah might not have—
The ape of a man lunged for her in her moment of distraction. Her finger was nowhere near the trigger, so the pistol was pulled from her hand with more ease than taking off a glove. All because she couldn’t kill him. Now he would rape and kill her. And Sarah would never get the medicine and she wouldn’t live through the night—
No.
Vivienne slammed her fists against his wall of a chest. They bounced off, but it gave her momentum to hit him again. Her gun flew from his grasp and clattered across the cobbles. She kicked at him, driving her sturdy boots into his shin.
“Shit! Whore!” he shouted. And his fist came at her like a brick and snapped her head back so sharply, she fell against the wall. Tears sprang to her eyes. She’d never known pain like this.
And his fist was coming again—
She slithered down the wall and his hand smashed into solid brick. He howled in sheer fury. He was going to kill her and he might not pause long enough to swive her.
Vivienne darted to the side, but he caught her stupid cape and hauled her back. Her wig plopped to the ground, and he leered at her.
“Ye’re a pretty one. My, my, this is going to be fun—” Silver flashed. He’d whipped a knife out of a pocket on his apron. The tip of it pressed against her cheek. And bit in.
She lifted her knee and drove it into him. Drove it into his male parts and the knife cut into her as he jerked downward with pain. His other hand dropped to cradle his wounded balls. And his eyes went wild with fury.
The blade slid down her face, opening a slash that leaked hot, wet blood. Stinging pain rushed from her cheek. Her legs wobbled, but she hit at his arm to push the knife away.
Suddenly her attacker took flight.
He soared through the air, down Derwent Lane, and landed with a thud in the unfathomable dark. His knife had gone with him.
And she was staring at the bricks across from her, frozen in place, even as she knew another man was now standing beside her. A man who had just picked up her attacker, who must have weighed fifteen stone, and threw him down the alley. And the man who had rescued her was not even breathing heavily.
Her knees threatened to dissolve like sugar in water.
“So I save your life, and you won’t even look at me? Not even to reward me with a pretty smile?” His voice was soft, deep, cultured, gentle—the sort of voice a rich peer used when he wanted to coax a woman into his bed. Far different than the harsh, clipped, cold tones they used when they wanted to shove her out.
It was a tone of voice Vivienne knew too well. And right now, it made her shake. She kept her face away from him in the shadows, her gloved hand at the gash in her cheek. She had to play sweet and demure and rescued, but she had to get away. “Th—thank you. Thank you for saving me. I apologize there will be no smile. And no payment. But I must go—”
“I don’t expect payment, little one.” His hand braced against the wall near her head. “Rescue is a service I perform free of charge. Or obligation.”
Suddenly she felt a spurt of dizziness, and her vision blurred. It vanished almost instantly, leaving her blinking, trying to get control of her thoughts.
The man stared at her as though she had two heads. He reached for her chin but she jerked her head away. “Who are you?” he growled. “What are you?”
He was blocking her way out. She looked down the alley to the butcher, who was still sprawled on the ground. Not moving.
“Struck his head rather hard,” her savior remarked. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a tall, glossy beaver hat. Crisp cravat cinching a stark white collar. Many-tiered great coat. He exuded wealth and the casual arrogance that went along with it. “If he’s fortunate, he’ll wake up in a few hours with a bad headache. If he’s not fortunate, he won’t wake up at all.”
She swallowed hard.
“Now, tell me what you are—”
She twisted away and ran down the narrow lane toward the inert body, guessing he wouldn’t expect this. Not for her to run toward the man who had tried to attack her. She tried to jump over the fallen body, but couldn’t. Her boot landed on his arm and she lost her balance and fell forward.
A strong hand wrapped around her wrist and she was pulled hard against his male body. Sandalwood. Leather. Horse. Man. She smelled all those things in the dizzying moment she was clamped ag
ainst her rescuer’s chest, her face buried against him. “How?” she gasped.
“I’m a vampire, little one. I can move with great speed when I want to. And when it is necessary, I can fly. But you must know that. You’ve blocked your thoughts to me.”
“I what? Y—you’re mad,” she cried, her voice muffled. Dazed, shocked, she reared back and looked up at the elegant beaver hat, the snow-white collar points.
He was smiling at her, smiling as though she was a tasty morsel he intended to devour. Suddenly the smile vanished. His gloved hands closed roughly around her arms. “What did you do to my brother?” he barked at her. “And where the hell is he now?”
“W—who?” she gasped.
Silver eyes. His eyes were a strange, reflective silver, and they dilated as he took in the sight of her face. She could taste the blood from the cut, tracking slowly along her lips. His lips were beautiful, she noticed madly. Perfectly shaped. His lower lip was very full, and his face was exotic and sensuous and filled with fury and suspicion.
“My brother,” he growled. “I know you were his lover. And I know you aren’t mortal.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” She shoved at him.
He blinked down at her. His hat hadn’t even wobbled.
He moved her, pressed her back to the brick wall, and leaned in as though preparing to push his mouth onto hers in a kiss. “No!” she jerked her head to the side, turning her stinging, bleeding, cheek to him. She was not going to let him have her mouth.
His tongue came out as his face neared hers. Gently, the tip of it touched the top of her wound. A strange flow of heat began there, flooded her skin, and seemed to flood her brain. He traced the entire length of her cut, setting her skin ablaze in his path. She didn’t understand why. She didn’t want his touch.
He stopped where the wound did. On her throat. And he suckled there. Vivienne had to let her head drop back against the wall. Sensation roared up. She felt something she hadn’t felt for years and years. Need. Desire. Hunger.
No. Sarah needed her. And the thought of Sarah, at home and sick, speared Vivienne like a blade. She fought him and he let her go. And smiled softly as he settled his hands against the wall on either side of her shoulders, trapping her. “There. All better. You are far too beautiful to be marked up like that.”
