by J. R. Ward
As he came up to John, he just nodded and opened the way into the vestibule. Together, they stepped through and penetrated the cool night.
The air smelled like clean, unfrozen earth.
The perfume of spring. The very scent of hope and rebirth.
Walking over to the Bentley, John drew the fragrance into his lungs and held it there as he told himself that Xhex was doing the very same thing on this very same night.
And not because she was buried underground.
Tears pricked his eyes as gratitude washed through every vein he had, pumped around by a singing heart.
He couldn’t believe he was going to get to see her . . . God, to see her once again. To look into her gunmetal eyes. To . . .
Shit, it was going to be hard not to throw his arms around her and hold her until tomorrow morning. Or maybe next week.
When they got into the car, Rehv started the engine, but didn’t put it in drive. He just stared out through the windshield at the cobblestone drive ahead.
In a quiet voice, he said, “How long’s this been going on for you? With her.”
John took out a small pad he’d brought with him and wrote: Since the moment I first met her.
After Rehv read the scribble, he frowned. “She feel the same way?”
John did not drop his eyes as he shook his head. No sense hiding shit. Not with a symphath.
Rehv nodded once. “That’s so like her. Goddamn it . . . okay, let’s do this.”
With a roar, they were off into the night.
TWENTY
Hope was a treacherous emotion.
It was two evenings hence when Darius finally walked into the home of the abducted female’s family, and as the grand door opened to both himself and Tohrment, they were met by a doggen whose eyes were filled with the tragedy of hope. Verily, the butler’s expression was of such high regard, it was clear he felt he was ushering into his master’s house saviors, rather than mortals.
Only time and the vagaries of fortune would bear out whether his faith was well- or misplaced.
With alacrity, Darius and Tohrment were led into a formal study and the gentlemale who rose from a silk-covered sitting chair had to steady his weight.
“Welcome, sires, thank you for coming,” Sampsone said as he reached out with both palms to shake Darius’s hands. “I’m sorry that I have not been receiving these last two evenings. My beloved shellan . . .”
The male’s voice cracked and in the silence, Darius stepped aside. “May I present my colleague, Tohrment, son of Hharm.”
As Tohrment bowed low with his hand over his heart, it was clear that the son had all the manners his sire did not.
The master of the house returned the deference. “Would you care for libations or gastronomic provision?”
Darius shook his head and took a seat. As Tohrment came to stand behind him, he said, “ Thank you. But mayhap we could speak of what has happened within this manse.”
“Yes, yes, of course. What may I tell you?”
“All things. Tell us . . . all things.”
“My daughter . . . my light in the darkness . . .” The male took out a handkerchief. “She was of worth and virtue. A more caring female you should never come across. . . .”
Darius, aware that they’d already lost two evenings, allowed the father a certain time of remembrance before refocusing him. “And that night, sir, that terrible night,” he cut in when there was a pause. “What happened here within this house?”
The male nodded and dabbed at his eyes. “She awoke from her slumbers feeling a certain disquiet and was advised to attend to her private quarters for her health. She was brought a meal at midnight and then another well before the dawn’s arrival. That was the last she was seen. Her evening quarters are upstairs, but she also has, along with the rest of the family, rooms underground. She often elected not to move down below with us for the day, however, and as we have access to her through inner hallways, we assumed she would be safe enough—”
The male choked up at this point. “How I wish I had insisted.”
Darius could very much understand the regret. “We shall find your daughter. One way or the other, we shall find her. Would you permit us to go now unto her bedroom?”
“Please do.” As the male nodded at his doggen, the butler came forward. “Silas will be pleased to escort you. I shall . . . prefer to wait here.”
“But of course.”
When Darius stood up, the father reached forward and snagged his hand. “A word, if I may? Between you and me.”
Darius acquiesced, and after Tohrment and the doggen left, the master of the house collapsed back into his formal chair.
“Verily . . . my daughter was of worth. Of virtue. Untouched by . . .”
In the pause that stretched out, Darius knew what the male was concerned with: If they didn’t get her back in that virginal condition, her honor, as well as the family’s, was in jeopardy.
“I cannot say this in front of my beloved shellan,” the male continued. “But our daughter . . . If she has been defiled . . . perhaps it would be better to leave . . .”
Darius’s eyes narrowed. “You would prefer her not be found.”
Tears sprang up in those pale eyes. “I . . .” Abruptly, the male shook his head. “No . . . no. I want her back. No matter the outcome, no matter her condition . . . of course I want my daughter.”
Darius was not inclined to offer support—that such a denial of his blooded child had even crossed the male’s mind was grotesque. “I should like to go to her room now.”
The master of the house snapped his fingers and the doggen stepped back into the archway of the study.
“This way, sire,” the butler said.
As he and his protégé were taken through the house, Darius scanned the reinforced windows and doors. There was steel everywhere, either separating the panes of glass or fortifying the stout oak panels. To get in without welcome would not be easy . . . and he was willing to bet that every room on the second and third floors was similarly well-appointed—as were the servants’ quarters.
He also measured every painting and rug and precious object as they ascended. This family was high up within the glymera, with coffers choked with coin and an enviable bloodline. Thus, the fact of their unmated daughter going missing affected more than just their heartstrings: She was a marketable asset. With this sort of background, a female of mate-able age was a thing of beauty . . . and social and financial implication.
And that was not the full extent of it. As with all such valuations, the converse was true as well: To have such a daughter ruined, either in fact or by rumor, was a taint that would take generations to even dim. The master of this mansion no doubt loved his daughter honestly, but the weight of all this distorted the relationship.
Darius quite believed that in the male’s eyes it was better that she come home in a pine box as opposed to breathing, but defiled. The latter was a curse, the former a tragedy that would garner much sympathy.
Darius hated the glymera. He truly did.
“Here are her private quarters,” the doggen said, swinging open a door.
As Tohrment stepped inside the candlelit room, Darius asked, “Have these been cleaned? Have they been tidied since she was herein?”
“Of course.”
“Leave us, please?”
The doggen bowed deeply and disappeared.
Tohrment wandered around, looking at the silk draperies and the beautifully appointed sitting area. A lute was in one corner and a fine piece of needlework that was partially completed in another. Books by human authors were stacked neatly on shelves along with scrolls in the Old Language.
The first thing one noticed was that nothing was out of place. But whether that was a case of the staff or the circumstance of the disappearance, it was hard to know.
“Touch nothing, yes?” Darius said to the boy.
“But of course.”
Darius went into the lush bedroom. The
draperies were made of thick, heavy tapestry such that the sunlight couldn’t hope to penetrate and the bed was ringed with more of the same, great panels of cloth hanging from the canopy.
Over at the wardrobe, he pulled open the carved doors. Gorgeous gowns in sapphire and ruby and citrine and emerald hung together, full of beautiful potential. And a single empty hanger rested on a hook on the inside of the panels, as if she had taken the night’s choice from its padded shoulders.
The dressing table had a hairbrush on it and various pots of unguents and scented oils and tinting powders. All of which were arranged in neat rows.
Darius pulled open a drawer . . . and let out a soft curse. Jewelry cases. Flat leather jewelry cases. He picked one up, popped the golden clasp, and lifted the lid.
Diamonds gleamed in the candlelight.
As Darius returned the box to its comrades, Tohrment stopped in the doorway, his eyes focusing on the fine woven rug that was done in peaches, yellows, and reds.
The faint blush on the male’s face made Darius sad for some reason. “You’ve never been in a female’s boudoir then?”
Tohrment got even redder. “Ah . . . no, sire.”
Darius motioned with his hand. “Well, this is business. Best to put aside any shyness.”
Tohrment cleared his throat. “Yes. Of course.”
Darius went over to the two sets of French doors. Both opened onto a terrace and he went out with Tohrment right on his heels.
“You can see through the distant trees,” the boy murmured, walking to the balcony.
Indeed one could. Through the spindly arms of the leafless branches, the mansion on another property was visible. The great house was of comparable size and distinction, with fine metalwork on its turrets, and gracious grounds . . . but as far as Darius was aware, it was not inhabited by vampires.
He turned away and walked the length of the terrace, inspecting all the windows and all the doors and all of the handles, hinges, and locks.
There had been no kind of break-in, and given how cold it was, she wouldn’t have tallied with anything wide open to the elements.
Which meant she had either left of her own volition . . . or let whoever had taken her in. Assuming the entrance had been gained up here.
He looked through the glass into her rooms, trying to imagine what had transpired.
To hell with the ingress, the exit was more the point, wasn’t it. Highly unlikely the abductor would have dragged her out through the house: She must have been spirited away during darkness or else she would have been burned to ash and there were always people out and about during the night hours.
No, he thought. They had to have left from this suite of rooms.
Tohrment spoke up. “Nothing is disturbed, inside or out. No scratches on the floors or marks on the wall, which means . . .”
“She may well have let them in and not struggled o’er much.”
Darius went back inside and picked up the hairbrush. Fine strands of pale hair were caught in the stiff bristles. Not a surprise, as both of the parents were fair.
The question was, what caused a female of worth to bolt out of her family’s house right before dawn, leaving nothing in her wake . . . and taking nothing with her?
One answer came to mind: a male.
Fathers didn’t necessarily know all of their daughters’ lives, did they.
Darius stared out into the night, tracing the grounds and the trees . . . and the mansion next door. Threads . . . there were threads to the mystery herein.
The answer he was searching for was here somewhere. He just had to stitch it all together.
“Where to?” Tohrment asked.
“We shall confer with the servants. Privately.”
For the most part, in houses such as this one, the doggen would never dream of speaking anything out of turn. But these were not normal circumstances and it was entirely possible that pity and compassion for the poor female would override the staff ’s reticence.
And sometimes the back of the house knew things the front did not.
Darius turned away and strode for the door. “We shall become lost now.”
“Lost?”
They stepped out together and Darius looked up and down the hallway. “Indeed. Come this way.”
He chose the left because, in the opposite direction, there was a set of double doors that led out onto another second-story terrace—so it was obvious the staff stairwell wasn’t down there. As they walked along, passing many well-appointed rooms, his heart ached such that his breath became tight. After two decades, his losses registered still, his fall from his station echoing as yet along the bones of his body. His mother he missed the most, ’twas true. And behind that pain was the demise of the civilized life he had once lived.
He did what he was trained and born to do for the race, and he fed certain . . . indulgences, and he had earned a respect from his comrades at war. But there was no joy for him in this existence of his. No wonder. No captivation.
Had it all just been about pretty things to him? Was he that shallow? If he someday had a big, lovely house with countless rooms filled with fine things, would he be light of heart?
No, he thought. Not if there was no one under the lofty ceilings.
He missed people of like minds living together, a community held within stout walls, a group that was family both by blood and choice. Indeed, the Brotherhood did not live together, as it was viewed by Wrath the Fair as a risk to the race—if their position was compromised to the enemy in some way, all of them would be exposed.
Darius could understand the thinking, but he wasn’t sure he agreed with it. If humans could live in fortified castles among their own battlefields, vampires could do the same.
Although the Lessening Society was a far more dangerous foe, to be accurate.
After going along the corridor for some time, they finally encountered what he had hoped to find: a flap panel to a back stairwell that was utterly unadorned.
Following the pine steps downward, they went into a small kitchen and their emergence stopped the meal that was in progress at the long oak table across the way. The assembled doggen dropped their mugs of ale and chunks of bread and shot to their feet.
“Verily, resume your imbibing,” Darius said, urging them with his hands to sit back down. “We should wish to speak to the second-floor steward and the daughter’s personal maid.”
All resumed their places along the benches save for two, a female with white hair, and a young male with a kind face.
“If you could suggest a place of some privacy?” Darius said to the steward.
“We have a sitting room through there.” He nodded toward a door by the hearth. “You shall have what you seek therein.”
Darius nodded and addressed the maid, who was pale and shaky, as if she were in trouble. “You have done naught wrong, dear one. Come, this shall be quick and painless, I assure you.”
Better to start with her. He wasn’t sure whether she would make it through waiting for them to finish with the steward.
Tohrment opened the way and in the three of them went, to a parlor with as much character as a blank sheaf of parchment.
As was always true in big estates, the family’s rooms were done up to luxurious effect. And the staff’s were nothing but utility.
TWENTY-ONE
As Rehv’s Bentley pulled off Route 149 North and eased onto a narrow dirt road, John leaned forward toward the windshield. The headlights hit bare tree trunks as the sedan snaked closer and closer to the river, the landscape overgrown and unwelcoming.
The small hunting cabin that was revealed was absolutely, positively nothing worth noticing. Small, dark, and unassuming, with a detached garage, it was rustic, but in perfect condition.
He had the car door open before the Bentley was in park and he was walking for the front entrance before Rehv was out from behind the wheel. The overriding sense of dread he got was actually a good sign. He’d felt the same thing up at the symph
ath camp and it made sense that she would protect her private quarters with a similar force field.
The sound of his boots was loud in his ears as he crossed the packed earth of the drive and then all went quiet as he hit the scruffy brown grass of the shallow lawn. He didn’t knock, but reached for the knob and willed the lock free.
Except . . . it didn’t budge.
“You’re not going to be able to get in there with your head.” Rehv came up with a copper key, put the thing to use, and opened the way.
As the stout, solid door was pushed aside, John frowned into the darkness and cocked his head, expecting an alarm to go off.
“She doesn’t believe in them,” Rehv said quietly—before catching John as he went to rush in. On a louder note, the male called out, “Xhex? Xhex? Put the gun down—it’s me and John.”
His voice didn’t sound right somehow, John thought.
And there was no reply.
Rehv hit the lights and released John’s arm as they both went inside. The kitchen was nothing but a stretch of galley with the bare essentials: gas oven, older refrigerator, stainless-steel sink that was functional, not chic. But everything was spotless and there was no clutter at all. No mail, no magazines. No weapons left out.
Musty. The air was still and musty.
Across the way, there was a single large room with a bank of windows that faced the water. Furniture was minimal: nothing but two wicker chairs, a rattan couch, and a short table.
Rehv walked right through, heading for a single closed door to the right. “Xhex?”
Again with that voice. And then the male put his palm on the jamb and leaned in to the panels, closing his eyes.
On a shudder, Rehv’s huge shoulders lowered.
She wasn’t there.
John strode forward, and went for the handle, pushing his way into her bedroom. Empty. And so was the bathroom beyond.
“Goddamn it.” Rehv turned on his heel and strode off. When a door slammed on the river side of the cabin, John figured the guy had gone out onto the porch and was staring at the water.
John cursed in his head as he looked around. Everything was neat and tidy. Nothing out of place. No windows cracked for fresh air or doors that had been recently opened.
