by Nancy Morse
“Drenching the gravesite in holy water?”
“That might work, but huge amounts would have to be hauled to the gravesite to assure a clean kill. And please don’t ask me about garlic. I’m so tired of putting that old tale to rest.”
“What about sunlight?”
“Weaker vampires might succumb to it, but for one as strong as me, a mild burning is all that would result and would heal in a matter of minutes.”
“Was that you who called at my shop earlier today?”
“Yes. That illiterate fellow who apprentices for you told me you were not in. I didn’t believe it, of course, so I bided my time. I’m very good at that.”
“He said you had a burn on your face, yet I don’t see any.”
“My kind has a miraculous ability to heal quickly. What that crude fellow saw was the remnants of the scars left by the fire. I will admit the burns I sustained would have sent women and children screaming had they seen me. I was forced to rest for several days to heal. But as you can see, I’m quite recovered, and growing weary of this idle banter. There are more pressing matters to discuss.”
It was Edmund’s turn to question, “Such as?”
“The manner of your death, de Vere. I could do it quickly, humanely, so to speak, with a mere twist of your neck. Or, I could prolong your suffering, make you cringe in fear the way poor Prudence cringed, or cry out in horror as she cried out.”
“Allow me drink of water at least, to fortify myself against whatever manner of death you have planned for me.”
Nicolae heaved an impatient sigh. “All right, have your last glass of water. But don’t choke on it. That would deprive me of the satisfaction of killing you myself.
Edmund held out his hands that were visibly shaking. “I cannot pour it myself. Would you do it for me? It’s over there in the pitcher.”
Those green eyes rolled and an irritated breath spilled from Nicolae’s lips. “You really are the most annoying man.” He looked about the room and spotted the pitcher on a bedside table.
Edmund held his breath. When the vampire’s back was turned, he reached down, and without making a sound, opened the bag. A swift glance revealed the hawthorn stake sitting atop the other instruments of death. With as much stealth as he could muster, he drew the stake from the bag and straightened, holding it surreptitiously behind his back.
Nicolae returned with a glass half filled with water and thrust it at him. “Drink. And be quick about,” he warned in a low animal growl. “I have already wasted enough time on you.”
Edmund’s grip tightened around the stake. One blow. One solid blow to the chest was all he needed. Mentally, he prepared himself for the harrowing shriek that was sure to come, followed by copious amounts of blood. He had to get it right the first time. There would not be a second chance. He took a sip of water.
“Is there anything else?” Nicolae asked impatiently.
“Just this.”
In one swift move, he flung the glass of water at Nicolae.
Nicolae let out a howl and stumbled backwards. Holy water! Burning like acid through the sleeve of his coat down to his skin.
It was all the distraction Edmund needed. In a lightning quick move, he drew the stake from behind his back and lunged with a terrible cry. Without the use of a mallet to pound the stake home, he threw all of his weight and fury into the motion.
The sharpened point plunged towards Nicolae’s breast. With vampiric speed a cold hand flew out to capture Edmund’s wrist, stopping the stake within a hair’s breath of puncturing its beating target. With physical strength untethered to the natural world, he crushed the bones in Edmund’s wrist, wrenching from him a cry like that of a wounded animal. The splintered stake was forced loose from the mangled hand and flung across the room.
This time when the candlelight fell across the vampire, his eyes glowed like red-hot coals from a bloodless face that was gnarled with hatred. One clawed hand reached for Edmund’s neck and raised him off the floor. Higher. Higher. Until his legs dangled like a puppet’s and a gurgling sound emerged from the constricted throat. He was lowered back down with torturous slowness, his neck still locked in the death grip.
“This is for Prudence.”
A seething voice showered malignant breath on the struggling man. The mouth opened to reveal razor-sharp fangs dripping with saliva which sank into Edmund’s neck, ripping the flesh like a hungry predator rips the belly of its prey. He lifted his head and looked into the eyes of the mortal hunter. “That sound you hear is your heartbeat growing weaker and weaker. That smell is of your own death.”
Edmund tried to scream, but all that emerged from his mouth was a bubble of blood. His fading vision cleared momentarily, long enough to see those hellish eyes and the thin stream that trickled down the blood-dripping mouth. The vampire spit the blood, his blood, to the floor, as if it were poison. From some far away place he heard the vampire’s voice, taunting, cruel, and inevitable.
“I would not drink your blood if it were the only meal left for me on this earth.”
And then, something strange occurred. Edmund blinked hard. Was it a trick of his wilting vision, or one last dream to remember in a life rapidly failing? The face that looked down at him was the most beautiful he had ever seen, with eyes that sparkled like emeralds, the expression in them like that of an angel’s. The only thing amiss was the smile. It was broad and cruel, reeking with sinister satisfaction and dripping with blood.
CHAPTER 21
“Nicolae, the most dreadful thing has happened!”
He stopped playing when she burst into the garret room. Her bonnet was hanging down her back from its tie around her neck, the burnished-gold hair wind-tossed as if she had run all the way from Folgate Street. Her cheeks were ruddy and her eyes were very wide and blue.
“It’s Edmund,” she said, a shaky break in her voice. “He’s dead. His apprentice found him in his room. His neck had been broken.”
Nicolae’s dark hair spilled over his brow as he bent his head and drew the bow across the strings, coaxing a long, protracted note.
“Nicolae, did you hear what I said?”
“Yes, Prudence, I heard you.”
She pulled off her gloves and approached him. “I didn’t expect you to weep at the news, but…why do you look like that?”
“Like what, Prudence?”
“Like…My God,” she said with a sharp intake of breath, “You knew.”
His eyes caught the lingering light of day that murmured through the garret room windows. “One evil deed deserves another,” he said flatly.
Pru closed her eyes in anguish at the realization that Edmund died at Nicolae’s hand. “When you told me to say nothing to anyone about Edmund’s role in the distillery fire and the lives lost, that you would take care of it yourself, I assumed that meant you would inform the authorities, not that you would kill him.”
He stood up and spun his instrument on its endpin. “Don’t tell me you have feelings for him.”
“What I feel for him is pity,” she asserted.
“Pity? After what he tried to do to us? After the lives lost in that fire? I am what I am, Prudence, but I am not a killer of innocents. And Edmund de Vere was no innocent. I did it for you. To avenge you, Prudence.”
She drew in a breath at the disquieting truth. “When I think of that night, the fire, the fear…Oh, Nicolae, I thought I was going to die.” She began to tremble as the memories of that terrifying experience converged on her, as they had every night since, turning what should have been peaceful dreams into nightmares. The rats scurrying in the darkness. The feral dog, or whatever it was, that scared them away. The choking smoke that constricted her throat and made the mere act of breathing impossible. The burning flames that grabbed at her arms, her legs, and her dress. The unspeakable fear that had threatened to drive her insane.
“Poor Papa,” she said, looking down at her hands. “If I had perished that night, he would never have known what became of me.”
“He was happy to see you, no doubt.”
“Oh yes. He wept uncontrollably.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That I was out all night with Aunt Vivienne. I hated lying to him and begged his forgiveness, but he believed me.”
“He didn’t question your appearance?”
She rolled her eyes at him. “I had the good sense to discard my burned clothes and bathe before I went in to see him.”
“And your aunt?”
“I told her I was with a man. She seemed pleased by the news and was quite happy to let herself be used as my so-called excuse for having stayed out all night.”
“And your father’s health has improved?” he ventured.
“No. It grows worse. There is only one thing that can save him now. I know I said I didn’t want it, but I cannot bear to see him suffer so.”
Nicolae swallowed hard. “What you ask is…difficult. I must feed from him and then open my vein for him to drink from me.”
She made a small sound of dismay. “But surely you have done it before.”
He hesitated, admitting, “On occasion. The last fellow drank so much it nearly killed me. It took me days to recuperate.”
She looked at him through the growing darkness. His strange immortal beauty had drawn her from the start, compelling her to act beyond her nature, and in doing so, to discover herself capable of things she had not thought possible. She did not know whether to thank him for it or revile him.
Her feelings for him were conflicted. He had saved her from certain death at terrible peril to himself, having used his body to shield her from the flames, sustaining injuries meant for her. Through the haze of terror that had enveloped her, she had gotten a glimpse of him when he deposited her safely back at her home that night. He had looked scorched, his beautiful, translucent skin red and raw, his glowing green eyes dulled with pain. She had tried to say something to him, to express with words that would not come the gratitude she felt deep in her heart for his heroic deed. But he had thrown his arm up before his face, turning away from her so that she could not see the awful damage done by the fire. To see now that perfectly beautiful face through the slanted light, no one would have guessed how badly disfigured he had been.
“Your face,” she said, coming closer for a better look, “It’s all healed. Thank God.”
“God,” he said in a dull voice as he turned away, “had nothing to do with it.”
She watched him closely as he ran his hand over the violoncello. “You never did tell me how you knew where I was.”
“The alchemist was right,” he said. “He told me to be on the alert for fire.”
Surprised, Pru questioned, “You went to see Simon Cavendish?”
“Yes. I made a bargain with him. If he told me where Edmund had taken you, I would help him unlock the secret to eternal life. He mentioned something about experimenting on me, if you can imagine such a thing. In any case, he claimed he didn’t know where Edmund had taken you, and I believed him. I went out looking for you and returned to find a note tacked to my door. What you seek can be found at the distillery.” The words dripped like poison from his tongue. “Edmund planned the whole thing. Right down to the fire. Damn his soul to hell.”
He had killed for her, and though a part of her was aghast at the thought of it, another, deeper part of her was secretly pleased. She owed him an unfathomable debt of gratitude and could think of only one way to repay it.
“Nicolae.” Her voice was soft and seductive. “You asked me once if I would join you in eternity.”
His brows knit in a questioning expression.
“I want to give you what you want,” she whispered.
He looked askance at her. “Are you toying with me?”
She shook her head and came toward him, close enough to place a palm on his chest and feel his heart thump hard under her touch.
“Why would you do that?” he asked.
“Because I care for you,” she answered.
“But you do not love me. That much we have determined.”
“I am offering to give myself to you for all time. Isn’t that enough?”
His green eyes narrowed upon her face. “You would sacrifice yourself to be with me?”
“It’s the least I can do for the way you were willing to sacrifice yourself for me.”
Sudden understanding flared in his eyes and he pulled away from her. “Gratitude?” he exclaimed. “You would give yourself to me for all eternity out of gratitude? Forget it, Prudence. There is no need to thank me. I was trapped in the fire too, remember? It was to my advantage to get us out of there.”
“But your bargain with Simon Cavendish,” she reminded him.
He laughed sharply. “It was never my intention to allow him to experiment on me. I’m not a laboratory rat, for God’s sake. I told him I would give him what he wanted. I never suggested it would be me.”
“Then what—?”
“Let’s just say the streets of London are a little less safe these nights.”
Pru could not contain her shock. “You turned him into—”
“The undead, as you would so inelegantly call it.”
“Nicolae, how could you?”
“The man said he wanted to know the secret to eternal life. How else was I to do it? I’m not a magician, you know.”
“If you would do it to him, then do it to me.”
“No.”
“But—”
“No buts, Prudence. You say you are grateful for what I did, but you cannot know what you are asking. No, that is something I will not do.”
“You have suddenly become so noble that I hardly recognize you,” she said, sarcasm dripping from her tone.
“Not noble,” he corrected. “Just selfish. If I turned you into something like myself, you would only hate me for it. Ask anything else of me. Would you like me to make love to you, right here and right now? That I can do. Just lift your skirts and spread your pretty legs and I will devour you in a different way.”
The thought of those pale, beautiful hands touching her, of him entering her and carrying her to unimaginable heights, sent a warm rush of excitement through her. But Pru wanted more than that. She wanted to feel the rapture that only his music could bring.
“There is something,” she said in a breathless whisper. “Play for me. Play only for me. I want to feel the power of your music. Fill me with it, Nicolae. Fill me up with it until it spills from every nerve.”
“As you wish.” He gestured to a chair. When she was seated, he took his place behind his instrument, took bow in hand and drew it across the strings.
She recognized instantly the Prelude from Bach’s Suite No. 5. In Nicolae’s hands it was a transcendent balance between romance and rapture, pure sweet love and unbridled lust. She swayed in time to the music with her eyes closed. The heat of the fire was slight compared to that which coursed through her now. It spread through her body, setting every nerve on end, evolving from something deeply emotional to something desperately physical. The heat coursed from her mouth that ached to taste him, to her breasts that yearned to be cupped in his pale, cold hands, to her belly that was filled with a mad fluttering of butterfly wings, to that place between her thighs that was already moist and hot and ready for him.
Pru continued to sway, unaware that the music had stopped and that the only sound in the room now was that of the rapid rise and fall of her breath.
He came forward in a silent movement, reached down and pulled her up into his arms and hard against his chest, fingers closing with intentional force in her hair.
Pru’s eyes snapped open at the grip that tilted her face upwards towards his. The eyes that looked down at her were fiery bright, almost scornful it seemed. She opened her mouth for a breath of air to gird herself against the onslaught she knew was coming, and craved, but his mouth came down over hers, depriving her of the fortification, leaving her weakened against his powerful lust. She closed her eyes,
ashamed of the weakness but unable to stop herself from wanting him.
She could taste the anger in his kiss, but she did not fight it. Her breasts were pressed against his chest, their shape crushed against the pressure. It made no difference what he was, only that when she was in his arms like this nothing else mattered except the bruising pleasure he and he alone could bring.
She splayed her hands across his shoulders, pulling him closer, her fingers moving upwards to his neck and twining in the dark hair that spilled like silk over his collar. She heard him groan deep in his throat when her tongue slid past his lips to explore his wine-flavored mouth.
His muscles were powerful, whether because of his inhuman strength or otherwise made no difference. What mattered was only that when captured in their potency she felt herself weak and incapable of resisting. Those muscles flexed as he forced her to the floor and covered her body with his.
With his mouth still pressed to hers, he pulled her skirts up, forced the stiff hoop aside and tore at the linen shift with rough, frantic hands. She felt the cool air slide across her naked belly and hips and then her thighs that fell open of their own accord. A soft whimper trickled from her lips when his mouth moved to her throat to spread feverish kisses over her heated flesh. Lowering his head, he sought the tip of one breast through the Indian cotton of her dress and drew it against his teeth as she arched her back with a gasping moan. She heard the snap of her whalebone stays and the rending of the laces. Her head fell back against the hardwood floor when he pulled her stays away to expose her breasts and drew one swollen nipple into his mouth, then the other, tugging at each one in turn, sucking with his lips and nipping with his teeth, pleasure and pain all at once.
He cupped the downy mound below her belly and slipped two fingers into her, pushing in and out of her sweet wetness, deeper, faster, until she was writhing beneath him. Her hips curved upwards, wanting more of the maddening caresses.
Lifting his head from her breast, he gazed down into her desire-narrowed eyes, a dangerously teasing smile on his lips. “Is this what you want, my little strumpet?”
