Which gave him the opportunity to figure out his escape from this…wherever he was.
The place was pitch dark, warm, and very stuffy. An interior room, not very large—likely no more than a closet. Probably on an upper floor or the attic. No windows and only one door. Sweat trickled from everywhere on his body, mingling with blood and dust. He was on the floor, his wrists and ankles chained together, and then affixed to something on the wall. Clearly, they were taking no chances with him. He grinned darkly. He couldn’t wait to disabuse them of the notion that Max Denton could be imprisoned for long.
Once he assessed the situation, he set to work. He had cause to once again send up a mental thanks that Savina had tossed his shoes out the window last night (he assumed it was last night; he had no idea what hour or even what day it was). For it was inside the hollow, removable heels of his shoes that he had secreted a number of useful objects…including a lock pick.
It was an old magician’s trick, and one that the incomparable and patriotic Harry Houdini had shared with many American and British troops near the end of the Great War when he did some basic “escape artist” training. Max wasn’t quite as accomplished at wielding the lock pick as Houdini or that young Irish bloke named Grady, but these were simple padlocks, and he could definitely spring them open. It helped that his wrists and ankles were chained together in front, for when the arms were pulled behind the back, it was more difficult to work.
Bent double, he carefully removed one heel and extricated the pick. Then, holding it in his teeth, bent forward to work on his wrists. It was all the stretching, bending, and exertion that caused his wounds to keep bleeding, but when the first lock popped open and his hands were free, he grunted with satisfaction.
The rest would be child’s play.
Moments later, he had his ankles liberated. Max stood and stretched, stifling a groan as his cramped muscles released. Now his injuries were bleeding freely, and he sat back down to remove the other heel. Secreted in there were five finger-sized vials of salted holy water, which basically amounted to first aid for vampire bites. He dumped them freely on the fang marks, then on the bullet holes (couldn’t hurt), and ignored the searing pain when the water hissed and sizzled on contact. He replaced his heels and all of the tools therein, then searched the room for anything that could be used as a stake. Nothing. It was completely empty of everything but him and the chains. Ah well. It was time to get the hell out of here anyway.
However, that was easier said than done. The door was locked, of course—he tried the knob softly and carefully in order to keep any external guards from knowing he was free. The hinges, he discovered, were on the other side. Dammit to hell.
After a moment of consideration, he sat down and wrapped the chains loosely around his arms, and pulled his feet up close to his body. And then he began to kick at the door with all of his might. He’d either break out of here himself, or—if someone happened to hear him so far away and came to investigate—he’d get someone else to let him out.
He’d just shattered the door right around its lock, and it needed only one more blow, when he heard pounding footsteps. Max gathered the chains into his lap and waited.
When the damaged door opened, he was already lunging to his feet, whipping the heavy chains up and toward the newcomer. A split second before they connected with the figure in the doorway, he recognized her and pivoted, barely missing Savina.
“Bloody damned hell,” he gasped as he and the armful of heavy metal slammed violently into the wall, then sank to the floor.
“Oh, thank God, Max,” she cried, and dove to the ground next to him. “Thank God you’re alive.”
“I nearly killed you,” he said, beating back the terror, fury, and relief that threatened to overwhelm him. He was shaking. Good God, he would have killed her if he hadn’t stopped himself in time. He felt a cold sweat break out over his skin even as Savina was pulling wildly at the chains.
“Stop,” he told her, a little more harshly than necessary. “I’m fine.” He dumped the bindings on the floor in one big clank, and then grabbed her by the shoulders. “Don’t ever do that.”
She looked at him with wide eyes and pulled away. “My God, Max, what did they do to you? Is that a bullet wound?”
“Yes, a couple of them,” he said, then lifted a finger to hush her. He listened, and with the door still open, he was able to discern distant voices, but no one seemed to have raised an alarm or was coming running. So much for his plan. Although…it had worked.
“You’ve been shot twice? And bitten?” She was dragging the shirt away from his shoulder, and he pushed her prying hands away.
“Not now. I told you, I’m fine.” He looked at her, some of his apprehension rising again when he saw the bite marks on her neck and shoulders. Other than that, she appeared unhurt, but… “Savina, what happened last night? With Purcell. Did you—do what you intended?” He had to force the words out.
She nodded, tears and anguish filling her eyes. Dammit, no. He pulled her close, holding her against his torso, heedless of the blood that began to seep through his shirt once again.
“It wasn’t him,” she said into his neck. Max had no business right now, noticing the soft warmth of her lips moving against his skin. No business smelling her hair, that spicy floral scent…no business wanting to drag her to him and kiss her. Especially as dirty, bloody, and sweaty as he was. But she felt so damned good. And she was here, alive, safe—and he wasn’t going to let anything else happen to her.
Then her words registered and Max thrust her away. “What do you mean, it wasn’t him?”
She still wore a wide-eyed, haunted expression and she swiped angrily at a tear that escaped. “It wasn’t Alexander who took Hannever’s Chest. His arm…his arm was unmarked. I mean, except for the Tutela tattoo. I…I was wrong, Max.” She sniffled a little, and he had to close his eyes or he would have kissed her. He was so relieved she was alive…but at what price?
He curled his fingers into his palms and redirected his thoughts. “I’m so sorry. But that’s not what I meant when I asked… Savina. Did you—what happened with Purcell? Between the two of you.”
“Oh.” She seemed surprised at his insistence, and then grateful. “I…well, we were interrupted before…er much happened. Fortunately. And then this morning, the holy water I’d drunk last night sort of…deterred him.”
Thank God. Relief blasted through him, making his head go light and his knees weak. And she was smart enough to drink holy water? And…Oh, thank God. He didn’t want her to have to deal with that as well.
He didn’t want to have to deal with that.
“Max, I was so worried about you.”
She was so close. And the light spilling from the hallway into the tiny broom closet was enough for him to see the depth of emotion in her eyes.
That was all he needed. Without another thought, he pulled her close and covered her mouth with his. Oh God. All of his relief and fear and apprehension poured into the kiss, and he lost himself in a moment of pleasure and comfort.
A long, long moment.
She had her arms around his neck and was kissing him back with a passion that shocked and surprised him—considering the fact that he was sweaty and filthy, and probably didn’t smell very good—when he heard something.
He broke away, but kept his arms around her as he listened. Savina clearly understood, for she stilled and cocked her head toward the door as well. Then, lifting a finger to his lips, he rose to his feet and helped her up as well, still listening.
Footsteps on a stairway. The back stairs, the servants’ way. Half a corridor away. They could be coming to investigate the noises; they could be bringing up a pile of towels.
Let’s go, he mouthed, and pulled her out into the hall. He closed the closet door behind them.
They moved in tandem, quickly and silently, until they came to the door farthest from the back stairs. When Max investigated yesterday, the chamber had been empty, and he hoped li
ke hell that was still the case.
He opened the door silently, glanced inside at the room shrouded by thick drapes, then yanked Savina in with him. No one was present, but two lamps had been left burning. The moment he closed the door, Max saw that he’d chosen wrong.
Trunks and clothing indicated someone had taken over the chamber in the last day. Expensive frocks, feathers, lace, and jewels. And the very strong smell of lilies.
Rastingard.
Maybe not such a mistake after all.
He started to say something to Savina, but she had bent over and was digging beneath the hem of her dress. When she straightened up, she slipped something into his hand.
His stake. Max took it gratefully, then grinned when he saw she had a second one up her skirt—so to speak. Nice.
“How many?” She moved in close as she asked. Her hand was on his chest, and he could see their reflection in a mirror across the way.
Good Lord, he looked like he’d just walked off the battlefield. His white shirt was stained with blood, sweat, dirt, and dust. His hair was wild and sticking out straight in places, and blood and dirt striped his skin. His beard and mustache just made him look even more disreputable. And Savina…just as beautiful as always. What the hell was she doing practically climbing into his lap?
He returned his attention to her question. “Five or six. I figure Purcell, his valet Briggs, Rastingard…probably one of the footmen, and then Rastingard must have brought two of her own too.”
“Just five then,” Savina told him. “I took care of Alexander.”
He grinned again, suddenly amazingly light of heart. “I’ll bet that was more satisfying than seducing the bastard.”
She smiled up at him. “You have no idea.”
Oh, God, he wanted to kiss her again. Instead, he put some distance between him and Savina and prowled around Rastingard’s chamber. This would be the last place the vampires would look for him—if they even discovered him missing—and now they had the opportunity to search for the safe. He twitched one of the long, pooling curtains aside and saw that it was bright and sunny out; probably early afternoon to judge by the sun’s position.
Savina didn’t have to be told what to do; she began digging through the trunks of clothing while he searched the rest of the chamber, all the while listening for footsteps and monitoring the chill at the back of his neck.
“I don’t see anything that could be the safe,” she murmured once as they crossed paths. She looked up at him, her eyes worried and her expression daunted.
He set his jaw grimly. All this for naught if they didn’t find the letter.
The chilly portent of approaching vampires suddenly became colder and more insistent. He snapped his fingers softly to get Savina’s attention and jerked his head toward the door. Someone was coming. Several someones.
She understood and to his delight, pulled out a large silver cross from behind the neckline of her dress. With the stake in hand and the cross on her breast, she looked ready to defend or attack.
Max positioned himself behind the door, and gestured for her to duck behind a chair nearby. He wanted her nearby for obvious reasons, but not too close. Also for obvious reasons.
The chill at his neck became terribly ugly and prickly, and the door to the chamber opened. Three people walked in: all of them undead.
The valet Briggs, a man he didn’t recognize, and a tall, voluptuous woman who had the build and presence of an opera prima donna. She had masses of thick, honey-blond hair streaked with brown that made it appear almost a caramel color. Her clothing was expensive and flowing, and she wore jewels in her hair. Her fingernails were long and had been painted pink, and she wore rouge and lip color, as well as makeup around her eyes. She had an attractive, round face and full, pouting lips. And there, on her wrist, hung a gold link bracelet with several keys dangling from it.
He set his jaw and stepped out from behind the door. “Rastingard, I presume.”
“Max Denton,” said the caramel-haired woman. She controlled her surprise immediately. “What a pleasure to meet you at last.”
He heard a startled gasp from behind him and turned to see Savina rising slowly from behind the chair. Her face was dead white, and she looked as if she’d just been punched in the stomach. Her hand was clapped to her chest as if to cover her heart, unconsciously hiding the silver cross from sight.
“Carmella?” she whispered.
CHAPTER 17
~ Confrontation ~
Savina was aware of a great roaring sound that filled her ears as she stared at the woman. She couldn’t breathe. She felt as if she were drowning.
Rastingard was Carmella? Her father’s love? The woman who’d helped him out of the grief after he lost his wife?
No. Impossible. NO.
But everything began to make terrible, horrible, terrifying sense. No.
She was shouting something, stumbling out from behind the chair, lunging toward the woman. Her cross pendant bounced wildly around her shoulders, and she brandished her stake like a Fury. Max moved like lightning, snatching her up before she got very far, holding her with a powerful arm around her waist as she began to sob, her stake swinging ineffectively.
“Why, Savina. It’s been years.” Carmella—Rastingard—stepped further into the chamber. She didn’t seem the least bit concerned by Savina’s fury or Max Denton’s presence. “You’ve certainly grown up into a lovely young woman—but your unladylike language leaves much to be desired.”
“You…what did you do to my father?” Savina managed to say. “What did you do to him?” Max’s arm was like iron, so tight around her waist she was losing her breath. She fumbled for her cross, but it was no longer hanging over her chest.
“My darling girl, you know precisely what I did to him. Just exactly what you attempted to do to the charming Alexander Purcell: used my feminine wiles to get what I wanted.” She glanced at Briggs meaningfully, then added, “Only I had the benefit of my membership in the Tutela at the time. And the temptation of power and immortality.”
“You made him betray us,” Savina cried. She couldn’t take a breath, she couldn’t even think. All she wanted was to scream and sob and tear into that smug, doughy face. “You made him walk away from everything he ever was and betray all of us.”
Briggs moved and Savina saw a flash of metal in his hand. A gun. She glanced up at Max, whose face was expressionless and whose attention was fixed on the three vampires. All he had was a stake, and Savina somehow, in the midst of all the turmoil, somehow had the presence of mind to keep hers hidden behind her.
“Not really,” Carmella told her, walking heavily across the floor away from the door. Her peacock blue dress fluttered around her as she moved and her bracelet—which was decorated with keys—jingled. “It didn’t take much persuasion at all. Nellito wanted love—don’t we all?—and he wanted power and immortality. We both did,” she added with great irony. “And, don’t get me wrong, Savina darling—I truly enjoyed his company. Nellito was a wonderful, caring, and amusing man. We planned for me to turn him undead, you know—once I had been turned. He didn’t want to die. He was enthralled” —she laughed at her pun— “with me and with the life. All those years of thanklessly serving the Venators, then watching his wife die, and being lonely…well, I gave him everything he wanted. And then he returned the favor by obtaining the chest for me—which in turn gave me what I’d always wanted: the gift of immortality.”
Being lonely? What about me? I was there. I was always there for him.
Savina felt as if she were going to be sick. The room spun, and lights flashed before her eyes. Her father hadn’t been a hero. He had been a traitor.
All for a woman. For power.
She stood there, panting, tears streaming down her face, glaring at the female vampire with loathing. “I’m going to kill you,” Savina promised.
“You’re going to have to get in line behind me,” Max said smoothly. His arm had loosened around her waist, and she felt
his hand easing up over her chest—and then the weight of the cross over her shoulder. It had flipped around when she leapt toward Carmella, and now he was stealthily reminding her of it.
Rastingard laughed and walked over to the bureau. “You won’t be the first to try.” She flapped her pudgy, beringed hand at them. “Briggs.”
Everything happened so quickly, Savina could hardly comprehend it. All she knew was, one moment Max had her in his grip, and the next, she was tumbling to the ground halfway across the room, a gunshot echoing loudly in the chamber. The valet was frozen in place, a stake protruding from his heart. By the time Savina took this in, Briggs combusted into a great puff of dust and Max’s silver-cored stake clattered to the ground.
Rastingard hissed and bared her fangs, lunging for Max, who was diving for his stake. The vampiress slammed into him, shoving him out of the way just before he touched it, and the two fell to the ground, punching, kicking, and wrestling in a writhing mass of fury. Carmella was a large woman, heavy and inhumanly strong, and clearly her fury added to her power. They crashed into the wall and then he reared up and shoved her into the door. The force of her powerful body splintered the wood, and she had hold of Max by his shirt, whipping him around before she slammed him against the wall.
Savina lunged for Max’s stake, but she was caught in mid-air when the third vampire grabbed a handful of her hair. She cried out in surprise and pain as he flung her toward the ground. She tumbled into a chest of drawers and he followed, fangs bared, lunging toward her.
Through the pain and shock, she remembered her cross and managed to drag it out from behind her just as the undead reached for her.
Dark and Damaged: Eight Tortured Heroes of Paranormal Romance: Paranormal Romance Boxed Set Page 110
