She hated being bitten, as much as missing a vampire’s heart with her stake.
He greedily sucked at the wound he opened, and Ada forced her mind away from the pain. She still held on to her stake and mallet, and with her last ounces of strength she pushed them into the nearest body part she could, hoping the motion would buy her enough time to get away.
The fangs pulled out of her neck. The vampire’s lips were still blood-stained as he sputtered and coughed from the pain. He grabbed his ribs, and Ada saw an angry black mark where her stake grazed him. It would leave a scar.
His body crumpled on itself, and for a second Ada thought she might have actually killed him. But as she watched, she saw it wasn’t actually crumpling. He shrank, the vampire’s cold skin darkening to pitch, wings sprouting from his back. A second later the bat flew out the open window.
“Oh, thank God.” She pressed her hand against her neck. Her dress was torn and her fingers came away bloodier than she expected. She was angry about losing the vampire, but he nearly killed her. That had to be the worst attack she’d ever experienced.
She had to get out of here now, before anyone saw her. There wasn’t time to clean up the mess in the corridor, or in here. Let the maids faint when they saw the remains—or whatever English maids did when they saw something vile—and the papers publish wild theories. But she knew if anyone saw her with a gaping wound in her neck, with human remains—albeit undead human remains—scattered around her, she wouldn’t have a plausible explanation for it. England still hanged murderers.
She frantically looked around the well-appointed room, her gaze landing on a black silk scarf. She wrapped it around her neck, wincing when she touched it and felt blood seeping through the cloth.
This was bad, and she didn’t have any holy water to clean the wound, nor did she know of any reliable places in London to ask for more without sounding crazy. Were the nuns here as superstitious as the nuns had been in Germany?
She left the room, noting that her vampire sense was no longer going off, but she was increasingly light-headed. She forced herself to take the stairs back to the lobby and avoided eye contact with everyone there until she got outside.
There was still a line of steam cabs waiting outside the Langham Hotel, and she found herself stumbling to the nearest one. I must have lost more blood than I thought.
“You all right, miss?” the cab driver asked.
She kept her hand over her scarf, hoping he wouldn’t notice the blood smeared around her fingers. “Just fine,” she said, but her voice was a croak. With her other hand, she reached into her skirt pocket until she found the piece of paper Max gave her earlier, peering at the address in the dim light offered by the street lamps. Her fingers left bloody smears on the paper. “Can you take me to Euston Road?”
Chapter Three
Max’s flat was immaculately clean, just as he left it the last time he was in England, and he was pleased to see that his landlady kept the place free of dust. He half-stumbled up the stairs well past supper time, hoping Mrs. Boggs didn’t notice the wound healing on his neck with remarkable speed.
If she noticed, she didn’t let on. “I was expecting you back a few weeks ago,” she said. “I was sorry to hear about your uncle.” She took his hat and coat, stashing them in a closet, without being prompted, while he surveyed his flat. It was just as he left it the last time he was here, the space tastefully decorated with Mrs. Boggs’s touch.
He tilted his head in surprise, winced at the pain, and touched the bite mark. “You heard about that?”
Now it was the landlady’s turn to look surprised. “It was all over London when it happened.”
For the first time, it shamed Max that he knew so little of his uncle’s life, let alone his death. All Silas Weston, the man’s long-serving butler, told him in his letters was that it was a “mysterious” death. Uncle James could have drowned. He didn’t know how to swim and disliked the water, so it would have been a mystery as to how he would have found himself near water. He could have…
Mrs. Boggs’s voice snapped him out of his musing, and he shook his head a little to wake himself up. Lisette had taken far too much blood from him. “It scared a lot of people, of course, but I think a lot of what they wrote about in the papers was rubbish.” She continued. “Mr. Weston actually came by here, wanting to know if I knew where in the world you could be. He was very upset.”
“Mrs. Boggs, I landed at the Thames Airfield only a few hours ago,” he said. “I haven’t sent so much as a telegram to Weston, let alone seen him. He wasn’t specific in his letters. What happened to my uncle?”
Mrs. Boggs swallowed and briefly looked away. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I apologize, Mr. Sterling. I should have waited until you spoke with Mr. Weston.” Her gray eyes searched his face. “You are going to speak to Mr. Weston? He said you were the older Mr. Sterling’s only living relative.”
“I’ll see him in the morning,” Max promised her. “It’s been a difficult evening thus far.”
“You’ve been in trouble?”
He nodded. “I was attacked near the Langham Hotel,” he said. At her shocked expression, he added, “I’m fine, nothing was taken from me, and the culprit escaped. But that’s not important. What happened to my uncle?”
Mrs. Boggs paled, and she pushed a strand of graying hair behind her ear. “His body was found in an alley in Wapping,” she said. She shook her head. “This isn’t my place to tell you. Shall I bring you some supper?”
Wapping? Uneasiness settled over Max.
Food was the farthest thing from his mind, but Max knew he should probably eat something. “Please,” he said, then added, “to supper, and to telling me what happened to Uncle James.”
“It’s horrible,” she whispered. “I don’t believe the stories printed in the papers, but Mr. Weston was quite insistent they were true. Mr. Sterling, your uncle was murdered.”
Max deduced as much, as James’s body was found in a Wapping alley. There was no reason for the man to be either near an alley or in Wapping. “What happened?” he asked again.
The landlady looked away again, a hand over her mouth. Finally, she said, “Mr. Weston and the papers said he was … exsanguinated. Drained.” She gulped. “His blood was gone. Mr. Weston had to identify the body himself, and said he was white as a sheet.”
Drained. Max took an involuntary step backward, then touched his neck. “Dear God.” It was all he could manage.
He should have brought Ada back to his flat, or stayed with her at the Langham Hotel. Uncle James’s death could have been the work of a madman—well, obviously it was the work of a madman—but after his experience tonight, there had to be a supernatural element to it. Lisette Babineaux taught him as much, as had that flying vampire bat at the hotel. In an uncharacteristic show of spirituality, Max uttered a quick, silent prayer for his late uncle and for Adaline Burgess’s safety.
“Sir?”
The landlady’s voice quickly had him offering a mental “amen.” “Weston wasn’t specific in his letters about my uncle’s death,” he said. “This is quite a shock. I wish I was informed of it before.”
“He said you were traveling and it’s so hard to track down travellers,” she said. “I’m certain he wouldn’t hold that against you.”
He might, although the quiet, dignified butler would never say as much. Weston knew the cities Max passed through most often, and Max received three letters over five weeks, in Constantinople, Zurich, and Munich, all dated the past January, and he ignored them. He and James hadn’t been close; they hadn’t seen each other in over four years. Max could have sent a letter or telegram, or come straight home, and he hadn’t.
“He might,” Max finally said. “Thank you for telling me, Mrs. Boggs, and I think I would like some supper now.”
“I’ll heat it up straight away.”
“Don’t fuss with that,” he said. “Cold is fine.”
Mrs. Boggs gave him a strange look, but
left his flat to put together a tray for him. Whether it was his request for cold food or that he still had an appetite after hearing that his uncle’s body was found exsanguinated in a Wapping alleyway, he couldn’t tell. Possibly both.
She left him a tray with a generous meal on it for him, and despite the stress of the last few hours, he found he was famished. It must be the blood loss. He shoved a piece of roast beef in his mouth, savoring Mrs. Boggs’s cooking, even if it was cold. It was one of the very few things he missed while abroad.
He unpacked the few belongings he traveled with, taking care to set aside the sheaf of handwritten pages that would later make up his latest adventure novel, to be serialized in whatever magazine might offer him the most money. It was a silly thing, like they all were, loosely based on his own travels, and the hero a highly intelligent dirigible pilot. The fact that the pilot resembled Max was mere coincidence, or so he said when asked.
He finished off the cold beef and considered asking Mrs. Boggs for more, when a knock sounded from the door. “Mr. Sterling?” The landlady’s voice was high and frightened.
Max opened the door and a new wave of fear crashed through him at the sight of her pale face. “What’s wrong?”
“There’s a young lady downstairs asking for you,” she said. “She looks unwell, sir.” Her voice dropped to a stage whisper. “I think she’s American.”
Max relaxed, both at her pronouncement and the knowledge that Ada found her way to his flat. “Americans aren’t unwell, that’s just how they are.” He closed the door behind him and followed Mrs. Boggs downstairs.
“She’s outside, sir,” she said quietly.
Irritation overtook Max as he flung open the front door. Mrs. Boggs had never been hospitable to foreigners. His irritation immediately gave way to concern when he saw a bedraggled dress and Ada’s pale, drawn face in the light thrown off by the streetlamps. She held a dark scarf against her neck, but Max could still see the blood drying on her hand.
She tried to smile. “Surprise.”
“Oh my God.” Max gathered her in his arms and pulled her inside. She swayed on her feet in the foyer, never letting go of the scarf. “Mrs. Boggs, can you get some water and bandages?” He motioned to pick up Ada, but she shook her head.
“I just need to sit down,” she said, her voice hoarse and scratchy. “I can walk just fine.” Still, she let him lead her upstairs to his flat and draped herself across his settee.
“What the hell happened?”
Instead of answering his question, she asked, “You wouldn’t happen to have any holy water around, would you? I used up mine back at the hotel.”
“I don’t. I’m not a religious man, I’m afraid.”
She winced. “God damn it. Is there a church near here? They’re pretty generous with the holy water in New York.”
“I’ll ask Mrs. Boggs, or I can fetch some. St. Pancras isn’t too far from here.”
“I haven’t lost too much blood, I think, but it hurts like a son of a bitch and it’ll keep hurting until I can clean the bite with holy water. I can go if you give me directions.” She shifted her head against the settee cushions and cringed.
Max sidestepped her comment about going back out into the night. “You were bitten?”
“Yes, but you should see the other guys.” She tried to smile and failed. “Well, one of them. He’s a pile of ash back at the hotel. I just need to keep pressure on this until I can get to some holy water.” She sat up and winced again. “Just tell me where this church is and I’ll go. Are there any nuns there? They’re usually very nice.”
“St. Pancras isn’t Catholic, and you will do nothing of the sort,” Max said firmly. He pulled on his coat and hat, then paused. “Does it have to be a Catholic church?”
“They’re usually the ones with holy water.”
“The Church of England still observes Communion.” He slid on his gloves. “All Henry the Eighth wanted was a divorce, after all.”
“As long as it’s blessed, it should work.”
Mrs. Boggs appeared in the doorway, bearing a pitcher of warm water and some bandages. “Where are you going?” she said to Max.
“I have to fetch some medicine our guest needs,” he said briskly. “I won’t be gone long.” Remembering his manners, he added, “Mrs. Boggs, this is my friend, Adaline Burgess of America. Ada, this is Mrs. Boggs, my landlady.” He turned to leave the flat, then remembered one more thing. “Ada, does this medicine cost anything?”
Ada sighed, but there was a slight smile on her face, despite what had to be incredible pain coursing through her. “It’s polite to offer a donation.”
****
All Ada could do was hope Max didn’t come across any vampires while he was out, and that English vicars were as generous with holy water as American nuns. She wasn’t completely incapacitated and she wasn’t dying; the bite hurt and the pain was spreading. That son of a bitch hadn’t intended to drain her, only rip open something important and let her bleed to death instead. His message had been clear: “You aren’t fit to eat.” The wound throbbed under her hand.
“May I clean that for you?” The hatchet-faced landlady eyed her suspiciously and gestured to Ada’s neck.
“No, thank you.” Ada forced herself to sit up. “It’s just a scratch.” At Mrs. Boggs’s look of disbelief, she added, “Wounds around the head and neck often look worse than they are.” Which could be true, when the cause of the bite wasn’t a vampire. “I’ll need what Max is picking up for me to really clean this out.”
“What happened, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Attack,” she said. “Outside the Langham Hotel.”
“My word! Something similar happened to Mr. Sterling tonight, too! We should inform the constables!”
Ada shook her head, wincing at the pain. “No. No police, Mrs. Boggs.”
“You were assaulted! Between Mr. Sterling’s uncle being drained of blood and those other murders around London, I—”
Ada cut her off. “Drained? What the hell are you talking about?”
Mrs. Boggs faltered. “You should speak to Mr. Sterling about that.”
“You’re telling me Max’s uncle was drained?” Despite her pain, Ada needed to know as much as she could about a possible vampire infestation in London. Forget that—there was a vampire infestation in London. There were vampire infestations in every major city, it seemed, but the question was how bad it was.
The woman’s lips remained pinched shut, but there was a worried look in her pale eyes, so Ada tried another tack. “Please, Mrs. Boggs, I’m not trying to be nosy. I just … there were similar attacks in New York City recently.”
The landlady sniffed at that.
Are people here born with sticks up their asses, or do they get them in finishing school? Did landladies go to finishing school? Ada had never been especially interested in the English class system.
“Fine, don’t tell me anything. But could you get me another bandage? This one’s full.” Even through her pain, Ada couldn’t help but feel a small smile tug at her mouth at the look of disgust on Mrs. Boggs’s face. But the landlady obliged.
“You wouldn’t happen to have some whiskey around here?” It wouldn’t get rid of the pain, but it would make it more bearable.
That warranted another sniff from the landlady. “I do not keep spirits in my house,” she said stiffly. “You will have to ask Mr. Sterling when he returns. He may have a bottle somewhere.”
If Ada wasn’t so weak, she would have poked around the flat herself, but she was, so she stayed put on the couch. How far away was that church, anyway? She hoped Max was okay.
She hadn’t lost enough blood that she was in danger of passing out, but she was tired and her body confused about the time since she arrived in Europe. Now it was catching up with her, and she had to fight to keep her eyes open. Do not fall asleep. It will be very bad if you fall asleep before Max gets back with the holy water. She might not wake up for a couple of days if
she slept now.
She bunched the scarf against her neck and forced herself to stand up. Her head protested, but she soon felt steadier, a little more awake. There was an overstuffed bookcase against the opposite wall, a worn wicker basket carelessly shoved against it. The basket overflowed with magazines and the books were well-read, their spines cracked. The sight was unusual in the otherwise immaculately-kept room.
Reading would keep her awake until Max returned with the holy water.
She spied copies of Murray’s Magazine and The Union Jack in the basket. “Do you think Max will mind if I read these?” she asked, not caring what Mrs. Boggs’s answer might be.
The landlady regarded her coolly. “I wouldn’t know.”
Ada’s dislike of the woman ratcheted up another notch. “Just trying to be polite.” Now that it was clear Ada wasn’t dying, Mrs. Boggs didn’t care about her guest. “I guess it could go either way.” Though she was pretty sure Max wouldn’t care if she read one of his magazines. She’d saved his life tonight, after all.
Crossing the room, she pawed through the pile of newsprint, cringing at the bloody smear she left across one. “Max doesn’t strike me as the periodical sort,” she mused aloud.
Mrs. Boggs let out a barely perceptible sigh, but the noise still set Ada’s teeth on edge. Why was she so determined to be unpleasant? “Mr. Sterling writes for some of them,” she said dismissively. “Adventure stories or some such nonsense. I don’t have the time to read them, myself.”
Ada picked up Murray’s Magazine, a publication she could only occasionally get her hands on in New York, and thumbed through the newsprint until she stopped at a dog-eared page. “‘The Same Old Sea Over the Ocean,’” she read aloud. “By Maximilian Sterling.” She noted the illustration of the elaborate dirigible, and remembered where she heard Max’s name before. “I’ve read his stories!” she said excitedly. “That’s who he is!”
Another sigh came from Mrs. Boggs. “You’re surprised I can read?” she said over her shoulder. She pulled out another magazine and brought both of them back to the couch with her.
Blood Ties Page 3
