by Sharon Page
Strong arms juggled her, and then a cold flat surface pressed against her back, her bottom, her legs. She had been laid on what felt like a table.
“Get the doctor in. Let’s be done with this.” The speaker was the second man.
Doctor? Was the table for operating—?
“Wait,” cried the first man. His voice was higher-pitched now. “How is the surgeon going to cut her up without touching her? I never asked. Will it not kill him?”
“It can be done with a minimum amount of contact.” That was the low-timbered tones of the second man. “He will be gloved—”
“That isn’t enough with her,” broke in the first man.
They wanted to dissect her, just as Ravenhunt had warned her. Nausea cramped in her belly. Everything Ravenhunt had told her was true. He was in truth the only person she could trust, even though he was a vampire.
But she knew it too late, far too late, for he had probably been destroyed for her.
Ravenhunt had suffered in his past. Even though he’d refused to speak of it, she seen the hint of his pain raw in his eyes, and she’d watched his body stiffen. He’d retreated from her, and she knew he was deeply troubled. She did not know how he had become a vampire, but whatever had happened to him pained him greatly.
She’d been a fool to run away from him.
The second man gave a mocking chuckle. An awful sound, filled with evil delight, and it crawled over her like rats on her skin. “She will be strapped down.”
God, no.
There was a sound, like a snap of metal. Strips of cold, hard iron pressed against her—she knew that pressure must come from the straps the man had spoken about. The flat surface of them compressed her skin, pushing down across her shoulders and her thighs.
She couldn’t pretend she was unconscious. She must fight before she was helpless.
Caught in the blanket, she thrashed and threw her body from side to side, trying to roll free.
“The monster’s awake.”
“Stop her.”
“Don’t touch her—”
But that warning came too late. Strong hands gripped her and shoved her onto her back. The man gave a howl of panic and jerked his hands away. Ophelia tried to move but the straps came across her again and were immediately cinched tight, sucking her down against the hard surface. She was bound to the table.
“The doctor will be here soon.”
Footsteps moved away from her. The door shut with a mournful creak, then she heard another sound. The clink of a key turning in a lock.
He couldn’t heal with a crossbow bolt sticking into his chest, damn it.
Raven gripped the bolt. He was weakening. It was strange—normally a crossbow bolt would bring him down, but it would not kill him. The shot had to go right through his heart to do that. This arrow had driven into his chest just below his heart, and the tip was protruding out of his side. But his hand was feeble. He could barely keep it wrapped around the shaft.
There was no way he would be destroyed before he could save Ophelia.
Growling like a wounded dog, Raven hauled on the shaft with all his waning strength. The arrow’s points tore through his flesh. Blood ran down his stomach, his crotch, his legs. All the blood from his feeding was pouring out of him. His skin was turning white. He held the arrow in his hand, but his body was not yet healing.
What in Hades was wrong?
Raven gripped the brick wall behind him, dragged himself off the blood-slicked cobbles. Now he saw the precious red fluid no longer flowed out of him like a river. The wound began to heal, more slowly than ever.
Was it something about the crossbow bolt?
Then he understood. Taking Ophelia’s power was supposed to destroy him. He’d assumed it would happen quickly, maybe in a blinding flash of flame, or a big agonizing poof where he turned into dust.
He’d never thought to ask what exactly would happen. Not that he would have trusted the vampire queen Jade to give him the truth.
Dredging up the rest of his strength, he shifted shape. How was he going to find Ophelia?
He tried to glimpse into her thoughts. Vampires could do it with their prey. Get into the thoughts of the mortal they wanted. But he couldn’t with Ophelia.
She was not prey, after all.
He tried to connect with her thoughts, speak to her that way. He knew of vampires who could do that with a lover.
Ophelia, he shouted, through his thoughts. Where are you? It’s Ravenhunt. Speak to me through your thoughts. Lead me to you.
“Ravenhunt?” Ophelia whispered.
She was rubbing her head against the table, twisting it, and trying to move up and down. The surface was wood, and the blindfold had snagged on splinters. She could work it free. “Ravenhunt, are you here?” she whispered.
Love, I’m speaking in your thoughts.
He’d said that before. It hadn’t made any sense. “You cannot do that,” she whispered.
Vampires can. All you have to do is think but do so as if you are talking to me, and I will hear your thoughts, too.
Could she? She shut her eyes, with the blindfold still covering them, but looser, and she thought very hard. Ravenhunt, can you hear me? I’m trying to send my thoughts.
In her head, she heard a gentle deep laugh. You don’t have to work so hard. Let your thoughts flow naturally, but think of me, as well, and we can speak this way. Now tell me where you are.
I don’t know. Even in her thoughts, it came out as a desperate and frustrated wail. Then she realized the true miracle in all this. You are alive? I saw the bolt hit you and the awful way you collapsed. I thought you were dead.
For some reason I was weakened and it was harder for me to pull out the arrow and heal. Love, I have to get to you. Can you see anything?
They blindfolded me, the wretches. They wrapped me in a blanket. To protect themselves from touching me, I guess. Then they put me on a table, which is really just a slab of wood, and they clamped metal straps over me so I can barely move. But I’ve almost got the blindfold off, which is no easy task, let me tell you, when I cannot move my hands—
You’ve almost got it off. Ophelia, how?
The fabric of the blindfold snagged on the rough table, and I’ve been wiggling around as much as I can to work it free.
You are amazing.
Even in her thoughts, he sounded awed. It will only take me a few seconds more, I think. Wincing, she pushed her head hard against the table and forced her body to move a little, up and down, by forcing out all her breath in her lungs so she was slim enough to wriggle under the strap.
The blindfold pulled up, along with her hair. Her teeth sank into her lip to smother a cry of pain. The fabric knot wasn’t pressing into her head anymore—the blindfold was loose. She shook her head back and forth. The blindfold fell down, lying over her nose. She could see!
Euphoria lasted seconds.
She could see and now she knew what sort of room she was in and what surrounded her. Sickening. Horrible. She lay on a table in the center of a dark room. Faint light came in high, small windows. She was in a basement and those windows let in the glow cast by street flares outside.
Her eyes grew accustomed to the faint light. It was still hard to understand everything she was looking at. Some things were too shrouded in shadow. Rows of wooden shelves lined the walls, and the light reflected on dozens of glass jars. It looked like a basement filled with preserves—
A hand floated in a jar.
Ophelia jerked her head to the side, fighting the urge to vomit. Gathering courage, she looked again. Was that an eye? It was round and white and could have been a pickled egg, except for the round blue spot that must be an iris. She gagged and forced herself not to look away.
The body parts must be in alcohol. That explained the strong odor.
Was she supposed to end up that way? In pieces in jars?
Ophelia, can you see yet? It was Ravenhunt’s silky, reassuring baritone, speaking softly in her head.
Where are you?
It was as if he was with her. Her panic eased. All she had to do was bring him to her and she would be safe. She believed in him.
In her thoughts, she told him about the body parts. Even in her mind, she could hear how she fought not to cry. She quickly described the rest of the basement room: the damp stone walls and the table that stood along the wall; stacks of dusty books, measuring rulers, paintbrushes, quills, and bottles of ink. But nothing she could see helped to reveal where she was.
Can you see anything outside? he asked.
She peered at the windows. They were above her and to her left, since she was flat on her back. She could see the sky, and the tops of buildings.
Off-key singing came from outside. A couple stumbled past the window. She could see the torn hem at the bottom of the woman’s skirts and her black buttoned boots and the man’s shiny boots, his breeches, the bottom of his tailcoat. Both staggered.
There had to be a public house here.
But really, there was a public house at every corner.
In her thoughts, Ravenhunt coaxed her. Could she see buildings. People? Signs?
She twisted her head to look out the window that was behind her. It was the direction the drunken couple had come from.
There is a sign for an inn, she told Ravenhunt. It’s the Eight Bells. I’m in the basement of the building that is opposite it and up one, I think.
Good. That’s all I need, Ophelia.
Footsteps sounded outside her door, and there was a rattle at the lock. Someone was opening her door.
They are coming back, she thought desperately. It’s too late. A doctor is going to cut me open. You’ll never get here in time—
I will be there in seconds, angel. I promise you.
Ravenhunt?
There was no answer. Ophelia couldn’t explain it, but she had a cold, empty sensation in her mind for seconds. It went away, but she was sure it was because their connection had broken.
The door opened.
A short, plump man leaned over her. His white shirtsleeves were rolled up. He wore thick, round spectacles and a waistcoat of gray with dark spatters on it. Ophelia saw red stains on his rolled-up sleeves and realized it was blood.
He threw a bundle down on the table and unrolled it. It was a sheath of leather and as it opened, the light gleamed on blades.
This was the doctor and with those things he would cut her open.
“No,” she cried. “You cannot do this. This is inhuman—”
A gag was pulled between her lips, and it jerked painfully at the corners of the mouth. “Take care not to touch her.”
She recognized the voice as that of the second man. He was tall and muscular, and wore a gentleman’s clothes. His hair was jet-black, slicked back, and receding at the corners. It gave him a devilish look, along with his dark eyes. They looked as pure black as Ravenhunt’s.
But much more cruel.
Another man watched, at the edge of the shelves, his fingers stroking his chin. Clear blue eyes peered at her. His features were perfect, like a Greek statue. His hair was gold. At his side stood the man who had attacked her the first time she escaped. The grey-haired man called Cartwell.
“This blanket has to be removed,” the doctor barked. “How can I get to her to begin with a wool blanket wrapped around her?”
“We had to ensure she did not touch us.” Now she knew, from his voice, the blond man was the first man.
He stepped forward with scissors from the bench and hacked at the blanket. She flinched and tried to pull away as much as she could. When he had it cut to pieces, he ripped some of it back, but not enough to let her hands free.
She fought to break the rest of the blanket, lifting her arms. The straps bound her across the upper arms. Her hands were now free.
“Damnation,” yelled the blond. He came at her—he carried a dagger. He plunged it at her wrist and she screamed more shrilly than she ever had.
The tip went through the sleeve of her dress, securing it to the table.
The other man did the same to her other arm, and she was pinned, like an insect secured to a board.
“Now I begin.” The doctor nodded with satisfaction.
A blade cut through her shirt, and the doctor tore it open. He looked up and met her eyes. She couldn’t speak; she could only make fierce sounds around the gag.
“One day,” he said, “I will determine how magic resides in the bodies of demons like you.”
“We need to know,” said the second man, “so we can destroy her power.”
“Or take it,” said the first man.
“That you may not be able to do.” The doctor sliced through her shift. He was going to start cutting into her abdomen. To do that would kill her.
“There are stories that such powers like hers can be taken by magic, but that only works for other demons,” the first man said. “Mortals cannot take it.”
“The damned vampires who have infiltrated the society refuse to try,” the second man snarled.
“No, they cannot do it,” interjected Cartwell. “If they do, it is said it will destroy them. It would destroy a vampire to do it just as easily as it would destroy a human being.”
Ophelia jerked, forgetting for one moment the doctor, who had returned to his row of instruments. It would destroy a vampire to take her power?
That meant it would destroy Ravenhunt. He was going to free her from her power—but he would die to do it.
The doctor returned holding a thin instrument with a long, evil-looking blade. Standing over her, he lowered it to her stomach.
12
Touch Me
No! Ophelia struggled under the straps that clamped her to the table. She couldn’t break free. She shut her eyes and gritted her teeth as the blade touched her belly.
A loud scream filled her ears, and she opened her eyes wide. A dark shadow stood between her and the doctor. Before she could see what it was, the doctor rose off his feet still screaming. The knife fell from his hand. He was thrown across the room. His short, portly body crashed against the wall of shelves. Jars flew out from the impact and smashed to the floor. His high-pitched shriek overwhelmed the shattering of glass, and he landed, sprawled on his stomach, amidst the wreckage.
She could see what the shadow was. A huge winged creature. It swooped at the other men, who scrambled to retreat, almost tripping over each other. Like terrified rabbits, they scampered toward the door and Ravenhunt chased them. At least, she thought it was Ravenhunt. Who else could it be?
She fought the straps holding her down, straining to see what was happening. But it was impossible. She couldn’t lift off the table far enough.
Seconds later a naked Ravenhunt stood in the doorway.
Ophelia was no longer shocked to see him that way.
“I’m bound by the straps—” she began, but he ripped the ones off her legs with his bare hands. The metal creaked, twisted, snapped.
This display of strength and power didn’t frighten her. But seeing Ravenhunt safe made her long to touch him.
“You are alive.” Her voice was a choked whisper. “I feared they had killed you.”
“I’m the undead. I don’t die.”
“But you can be destroyed,” she gasped. How could he sound so unconcerned about it? She was so relieved, so grateful to him. She yearned to hug him to show it, to wrap her arms around him and press her head against his strong chest. Then she hungered to kiss him. Kiss him all over with joy because he was alive and he had come for her.
She wanted to kiss every single inch of him. Even naughty places.
She couldn’t do any of those things. Even if she were free she couldn’t.
As the band clamping over the top of her chest came off, Ophelia drew in a deep, grateful breath. She almost choked—the stench of blood and alcohol was thick in the air. Ravenhunt came to her, bending over her, concern stark in his eyes. Once she stopped sputtering, she managed to whisper, “I’m all right. It’s
just the awful smell.” She met his intense black gaze, and the anger there made her lose her breath.
“Are you hurt, Ophelia? If you are, I will rip them all apart. Tear them limb from limb.”
She laid her hand on his arm. “No, don’t. I am all right.” Then she remembered and pulled her hand away. Startled by his dark rage, she’d forgotten. “You came in time—just before the doctor was going to cut into me. You saved me.” It seemed so inadequate, but she could only express all the emotion roiling in her—the relief, the happiness, the shock, the fear—in words. “Thank you.”
Never had she believed she would thank a vampire. Yet he was kinder to her than anyone had ever been. She supposed it was because he was like she was—a killer who was feared by the world.
His lips kicked up in a smile, and she caught a glimpse of the sharp points of his fangs. He turned from her abruptly, watching the door and the high windows. “Wait until we are sure we are safe before you thank me, love. I believe they’ve run. But they might have only retreated to get sufficient weapons and they intend to come back.”
His strong arms went around her and he lifted her, his large hands supporting her bottom and her back, but she struggled in his cradling arms. “Don’t do this,” she begged. “It will hurt you.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do,” she said.
Making a growling sound of frustration, he set her on her feet. He left her and prowled over to the fallen doctor. Three cavalier words, thrown out with a devil-may-care confidence, and with a certain amount of bitterness, ate in her heart.
Did he really not care? After all, he was willing to be destroyed to take her power. Of course, it would make sense that he didn’t care if she hurt him now. He knew he was going to die. Why was he doing all this for her?
It gave her the strangest feeling, as if her heart was swollen and no longer fit in her chest. But she didn’t want to win her freedom at the cost of his . . . well, his life. She couldn’t live with taking that away from him. Didn’t he understand that?
She stalked toward him, where he was crouched on his haunches at the side of the unconscious doctor.
