After the briefest hesitation, she answered, “No. I’m not married, Sire.”
He raised his black eyebrows. “Not married? How old are you? You must be at least twenty, and still not married? The men in the countryside must all be knaves and fools.”
Elizabeth couldn’t hide the smile that came to her lips. What would the king think if she told him she was over one hundred years old? “I suppose I just haven’t found the right man to marry.”
“I love the way the moonlight captures the translucence of your skin. It’s as if the moonlight, and not blood, pulses through your veins.” He moved closer, and she stepped away. “Come and live at Whitehall,” he murmured. “There are empty apartments not far from my bedchamber. You’d be most comfortable.”
Having been prepared for the proposal by Amelia and Darius, Elizabeth gave the king a mischievous look and an impertinent laugh. “I’m sure I’d be quite comfortable, but exactly what would my position be at court?”
He looked quite taken aback by her question. He stammered, “You could be a lady of my wife’s bedchamber.”
“Would that be my only duty?” She gave him a direct look.
A flush crept up King Charles’s face. “You’re very honest, aren’t you?” He cleared his throat. “There might be other duties, but only those you wished to perform.”
“What if I was perfectly honest with your Majesty, and told you that I don’t ever intend to lay with you?”
“Well, I can’t deny that would be a most unusual and unexpected answer.”
“Which is unexpected? That I’m being honest with you, Your Majesty, or that I don’t intend to lay with you?”
This time the king gave a roaring boom of laughter. “Both incidents are quite peculiar for me. At my court, no one is ever honest, and no woman has ever refused me sexual favors for very long. People generally tell me what they think I want to hear, and I have to admit I’m generally happy they do.” He stroked the side of her face. “It might be refreshing to have someone around who would speak to me honestly. I’d love to be able to gaze upon your lovely face every day, even if it was just as friends.”
The woman who resembled Elizabeth came rushing over. Her beauty appeared elemental as fire and ice. Her auburn hair fell in rippling waves around her shoulders and down her back, while her complexion, nearly pale as Elizabeth’s, had a glint of apricot in her cheeks, and her lavender eyes glimmered in the candlelight.
“Your Majesty, you haven’t danced with me once this evening and it grows late.” The woman’s lower lip pushed out into a sulk, even as her eyes glowed with passion.
The king’s jaw clenched and he frowned at the woman whose eyes were almost level with his. “Let me introduce you to Elizabeth Curran, Countess of Kingston-Upon-Hull. And this, Your Ladyship, is Barbara Palmer, Countess of Castlemaine.
The two women made cool curtsies, barely acknowledging one another with the slightest of nods.
After the awkward introduction, Barbara said, “Sire, have you forgotten you promised me this dance?”
With a barely suppressed sigh, King Charles bowed to Elizabeth before he said to Castlemaine, “Whatever you wish, Barbara.” Then he turned to Elizabeth once again. “Please consider the matter I’ve suggested. If you agree, you’ll be contacted by a member of my staff to make suitable arrangements.” He took her hand and kissed it before bowing and walking away with Barbara Palmer, who glanced over her shoulder, and gave Elizabeth a triumphant wave.
Unconcerned with Barbara Palmer’s perceived triumph, Elizabeth wandered around the party, feeling out-of-place and forsaken among the crowd of strangers. When she went in search of Amelia, anxious to discover if she’d heard anything from Darius, all the guests were gathering up their cloaks and belongings and ushered to their carriages. Elizabeth idly watched the servants cleaning up, feeling as relieved as they must feel that the evening had ended.
Amelia walked over, took her by the hand, and gave it a squeeze. “How did you like Charles? What did you and he talk about all that time on the terrace? Do you think he liked you?”
The two women stood in the middle of the parlor, while the servants skirted around them, carrying stacks of plates and wine goblets back to the kitchen. One maid industriously swept up nutshells and fruit peelings from the floor.
Elizabeth waved her question away. “Never mind about Charles, have you heard from Darius?”
Amelia’s expression drooped. “No word yet, but don’t give up hope. John’s out searching again.” She turned to the servants. “Oh, do stop bothering with all that cleaning tonight. You can finish the rest tomorrow.”
They didn’t wait to be told twice. “Yes, Your Grace,” one servant said, and they all quickly disappeared.
When Elizabeth and Amelia were alone again, Amelia leaned forward. “Tell me what the king said.”
“He’s handsome and charming, and he asked me to move into an apartment at Whitehall.”
“Are you serious?” Amelia squealed like a young girl. “If he asked you so soon, he must be totally infatuated with you. What did you say? How did you answer him?”
Tired and discouraged, she frowned. “What are we to do about Darius?”
“Don’t worry. John will find him. What did you say to King Charles?”
“I didn’t have the opportunity to answer him. We were interrupted by the Countess of Castlemaine. She didn’t seem pleased with our friendship.”
Amelia wrinkled up her nose. “I wouldn’t give a fig for what she thinks. Barbara Palmer is as jealous as a barren wife, even though being barren isn’t a big problem for her. I think she’s already given the king at least four illegitimate children. She’s rather like a brood mare. It’s only the king’s wife, Catherine of Braganza, who’s barren, poor thing.”
Refusing to be distracted by idle gossip, Elizabeth repeated, “Is John still searching for Darius?”
“Yes, I told you. He’ll search until just before daybreak. But tell me, what else did the king say? Was he as charming to you as he is to everyone?”
“Charles offered me an appointment as a lady of his wife’s bedchamber. I don’t know how much charm was involved. I suspect it was more self-interest. I wonder what the queen would think if she found out he wanted to sleep with me.”
“Oh Elizabeth, don’t you suppose she must be used to his mistresses by now? She has to know about them unless she’s been locked in the wine cellar all this time. The court of Charles II is a scandal throughout England, and believe me, it wouldn’t be affected one way or another if you did choose to become his mistress.”
She fisted her hands and placed them on her hips. “I have no intention of becoming the king’s mistress. What do you take me for? Thank you for everything, but I had better go now.”
“I’m sorry.” Amelia placed a hand on her arm. “I didn’t mean to offend you. Besides, I know you’re in love with Darius. You don’t kiss a man the way you did in St. Paul’s unless you’re mad about him.”
Even though Elizabeth realized her friend was teasing, she still felt a flare of guilty anger. Her chin jutted forward. “How I feel about Darius isn’t the issue right now. Where, in the name of God, is he? That’s the question. The king’s an amiable, charming man, but I never plan on sleeping with him.”
Amelia slipped an arm around her. “I wasn’t trying to be heartless, but I wanted to get your mind off Darius. It’s already well-past midnight. Why don’t you stay here tonight with me? John will bring us word if he finds out anything.”
“No. I want to be at the inn in case there’s word of him there. Some of the vampires in the community might have heard something, and I want to be near in case they have news. Could you please send for my coach?”
“Yes, yes, darling, I’ll do that straight away.” She rang the bell for the coachman.
On the way home, a raw thirst and hunger ripped through her gut, she’d forgotten to feed. Elizabeth rapped sharply on the window and motioned for the coachman to stop. He st
epped down from his perch, and opened the door of the carriage. Ignoring his owleyed look, she climbed down the iron steps without waiting for assistance. Unwilling to speak, she motioned for him to drive away, disappearing down the street before he had a chance to leave.
Pulling the hood of her cloak over her head, she put on her mask before crossing the bridge over Fleet Street, moving with the rapidity only vampires achieved. On the other side of the river, she blended in with night shadows while following a cat down a winding alleyway.
She’d barely finished feeding on the cat, and only had time to wipe the blood from her lips, when she ran into a group of men leaving a tavern, laughing and shoving one another.
“Hey there, love,” one of the men called out. “Where are you going in such a rush?” He grabbed hold of her, pulling her close. She lashed out and pounded on his chest.
“Let me go, you varlet!” She felt the four men closing in on her, and her breath constricted in her lungs. Panic built up in her chest when she noticed by their bone-white faces that these were other vampires preparing to feed on her.
She struggled to get away, and the mask she held by her teeth, dropped from her face.
A whiney, familiar voice came from one of the men. “I know this woman. She’s one of us, only she thinks she’s better. Let’s show her different.”
“Godfrey,” she blurted out. “Would you dare break Darius’s peace?”
“He said we weren’t to feed on humans, but he never said that we couldn’t feed on each other, now did he?”
She struggled against their mindless violence, kicking out at Godfrey. “You know Darius has plans for me to help save the king from the psychic vampire demons.”
He jerked out of her reach. “What good is that to us? Why should we care if you become the king’s whore? It’s not like he doesn’t already have a plenty. What’s one more to us?”
A tall, thin vampire with hair whiter than his skin spoke up. “It would be of more use to us if you’d turn King Charles into an immortal vampire. That way we might rule the entire world, and have all the humans as our slaves.”
“Now there’s an idea, Your Ladyship,” Godfrey said with a nervous twitch of his mouth. “Whyn’t you turn Old Rowley into one of us?”
“Who’s Old Rowley?” Elizabeth asked.
Godfrey laughed. “It’s the name of one of Charles’s racehorses and that’s what some call the king.”
She looked around in desperation. Nobody appeared to be stirring in this part of town.
The others drew closer, leaving her unable to breathe, while her heart pounded against her ribcage. She watched Godfrey’s colorless lips part, as he bent her neck back to get a better angle at her throat.
Elizabeth wasn’t going to let the little brute feed on her, but the more she struggled, the tighter he held her in his grip. A fury built inside her, and she focused on that rage. She managed to raise her leg, and in spite of billowing petticoats, she kneed him in the groin with all her strength, then giving him a swift kick with her high heel. She shoved another vampire so hard with the square toe of her shoe he tumbled to the ground.
Not wasting another second, she lowered her head and streaked away from them, moving so fast her feet barely touched the ground. At last, she saw the lights and heard music playing in full force at the Boar’s Head Inn. Her dress torn, face streaked with tears and dirt, she must have looked like a crazy person when she burst through the door. The men sitting around the fire looked in stupefied amazement, their mouths dropping open at sight of her.
The mistress of the inn came into the great room. “Is Your Ladyship, all right?” Taking in Elizabeth’s bedraggled appearance at one glance, she led her into another room where she kept her records of the inn.
Choking back a sob, Elizabeth said, “I’ll be fine, Beth. Have you heard from Darius yet?”
A dark look flitted over Beth’s olive, round face. “Not yet, but we’ll hear from him soon, I promise you. Are you all right, Your Ladyship?”
“I’m fine, Beth, it’s just that—” Elizabeth collapsed to her knees.
The older woman pulled her to her feet and led her to her rooms, gently stripping the ragged clothes from her body, washing the dirt from her face, putting ointment on the scrapes and cuts, and then helping her pull a white linen nightgown over her head. “You get a good rest, Your Ladyship. Things always look brighter in the morning.”
Elizabeth sunk her head down on the pillow. “I hope so. I certainly hope so.” But her heart cried out for Darius, even while she tossed and turned. What would happen if the demons killed him? It was too horrible to imagine trying to go on forever without him. She knew she’d have to wait for nightfall if she were to be of any help to him. If only she hadn’t had to waste time on feeding.
“Darius,” she whispered, and a soft burst of warm air brushed across her lips. At last, she could sleep.
Chapter 6
Darius lay on a cold block of stone, trying to slow his heartbeat while waiting for his tormentor to return. The scent of mold and dampness, pervaded by an even darker, more sinister smell, perhaps the scent of dead corpses, surrounded him and crept into his lungs, threatening to suffocate him. He stared up, seeing nothing except the rough undersurface of a stone lid, probably one of the empty sarcophagi in the crypt at St. Paul’s.
He struggled to push the stone away, but it barely moved an inch. He tried to recollect what had happened between him and the demons, but the only memory he had was of John pushing the women out of St. Paul’s, while he’d been engulfed by Julian’s giant jaws.
Although the situation appeared desperate, he’d been in far worse conditions when going into battle in the name of Charlemagne, and he’d always managed to escape. He recalled being human and battling the Saracens, imagining the blare of trumpets, the screaming agony of men and horses dying, and the metal clashing of sword upon sword, armor upon armor, with the taste of dirt and grit upon his lips.
His mind hurtled back to a further time on a wintry day when Charlemagne came to the monastery to personally deliver an endowment to the Benedictine monks. Darius had been industriously sweeping the courtyard outside the chapel when Charlemagne rode up on his mighty black stallion. Darius had paused in his sweeping when that mountain of a man climbed down from his stallion. He wore a white tunic of wool with a sleeveless purple surcoat, and in his scabbard, he carried a jewel-encrusted sword. Darius had been struck speechless at the king’s grand size and his royal presence.
“Here you are my boy, see to my horse,” the king had said.
Darius led the proud black stallion to the stable and fed him oats and hay. But the trouble had started in the kitchen where Darius helped prepare the meal for the monks and Charlemagne, who sat humbly at the rough wooden table with the monks in the refectory. When Darius handed the king a goblet of wine, his hands shook so badly he dropped the brass goblet.
It clanked to the floor. The monks glared at him. Darius went numb with humiliation.
“Prostrate yourself before your king for your foolish clumsiness, boy,” one monk ordered.
“I’m sorry, my liege, for my mistake, but I’ll not prostrate myself.”
“And why is that, my son?” Charlemagne asked.
Even though his cheeks flamed with his humiliation, Darius had been surprised by his king’s high-pitched voice, but he refused to let that distract him. “I will prostrate myself before you in order to show my obedience to you, my lord, but I’ll not prostrate myself for a simple mistake anyone might have made.”
All the monks drew in a collective breath at the young boy’s impertinence.
Silence rang through the kitchen until Charlemagne spoke. “You are correct, my son, it was nothing more than a petty mistake. I need men of honor such as you. Will you come swear fealty to me and train to be one of my warriors?”
“I will with all my heart, my liege.” Then Darius dropped to the floor and prostrated himself before Charlemagne. He left with the mighty king
the very next day, never seeing or thinking about those monks again until this day.
So he’d become one of Charlemagne’s warriors and had never regretted it a day in his life. But now, back here in the present, a taste of salt reached his lips. He lifted his hand to his face, and touching the wetness, surprised to find it was the taste of his own tears—he who hadn’t cried in eight hundred years. What might this mean? Feelings had been rushing at him ever since he’d drunk of Elizabeth’s blood. By drinking her blood, he’d let down barriers he’d never intended, and with the sense of vulnerability came a greater capacity for emotion.
He forgot about his past memories when he heard the grating sound of hacking away at chains. The stone lid scraped slowly open and Darius sprang up, heart rate accelerated, fists clenched, prepared to defend himself. He found he was within the gloomy ruins of St. Paul’s.
He blinked once, and then he blinked twice. Towering above him, stood Charlemagne with his hands fisted on his hips, his burning eyes locked in a battle of wills with Darius.
Darius suspected his memories of the past had conjured his former king. “Are you a ghost, my lord?”
“Spirit or flesh, it is of no importance. We have always conquered by the sword and the cross, do you remember?”
“I’m not likely to forget, Sire. Unfortunately, now I fight only to survive another millennium as the undead.”
“Foolishness,” Charlemagne roared, his strong teeth gleaming through the thickness of his beard. “You were once much more than a son to me. I’ll not abide a coward for a son.”
“What must I do for you, my liege?” Shame caused Darius’s voice to descend into less than a whisper.
“These psychic vampire demons are attacking the son of my namesake.” He strode over to the moss-covered broken stones that led down into an endless chasm. He leaned over and drew in a deep breath. “They’ve either left the abyss or descended into the bowels of hell. Their stench is no longer present. They’re probably out looking for more souls to claim for the devil’s own. Since the Great Plague, the Great Fire, and the wars with the Dutch, there are too many weakened souls for the demons to steal. And now, they dare seek out the son of my namesake, while he grows weaker and more desperate.”
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