The Vampire Dimitri rd-2

by Колин Глисон

  Dimitri took the slender packet, which could be no more than a hundred pages, and didn’t attempt to hide his distaste. “La Belle et la Bête? What is this—a fairy tale?”

  She smiled benevolently. “Indeed. Gabrielle-Suzanne Barbot de Villeneuve is quite an entertaining writer.”

  He frowned. “I don’t see how a fairy tale will be of assistance to me.”

  “And yet you study Faustian legend?” she said delicately. “You must see something of yourself in Doktor Faust’s character. Perhaps you will find something different to relate to in Madame de Villeneuve’s tale about the beauty and her beast.”

  Dimitri took the pamphlet and tucked it in his inside coat pocket, unwilling to offend the woman. “Very well. Bill my account for whatever it’s worth.”

  From behind her spectacles, she watched him with a considering gaze. “Is there aught else I can do for you?”

  She waited patiently.

  “There is a way,” he said at last, a hint of desperation making its way into his voice, “to break the covenant.”

  Why was he telling this colorless, quiet woman? What did he think she could do for him? Did he truly think she had some writ that would spell it out neatly and clearly; one that she’d kept from him during his previous visits?

  “You must find a way yourself, Dimitri,” she said, in an echo of his unspoken question. “Just as Voss did.”

  Dully he realized he wasn’t surprised that she knew of Voss, and what had happened to him. That was what had drawn Dimitri here. Some deep-seated reason had brought him to this librarian of sorts.

  “I don’t know how he did it,” he said, his voice thick. “He’s neither pious nor has he ever denied himself anything. How could…”

  “How could he have done it when you’ve spent so much of your life denying yourself everything in an effort to do the same?”

  “Yes,” he exploded. But his voice didn’t shake the rafters. It merely settled there, a pained affirmation that hardly stirred the dust. “I always do what is right. I always have.” He remembered those years of study, of Puritan starkness, of maintaining his honor even in the face of difficulty, when Royalists were hated during Cromwell’s reign. Of rushing into a burning house to save the man.

  Anger rushed through him. I did. Perhaps not so well now, but I did then. Before.

  “But that is why he chose you, Dimitri. Do you not understand that? To have turned such a man to him—a man who sees in black-and-white, and who lived in the light and the right—was the greatest of successes for the Fiend. It’s much easier to tempt and lure one who exists in the gray. Someone, perhaps, like Voss. Like Giordan. But you…you were different. You tried to live in the light.”

  “And the one time someone meant something to me…” His voice trailed off, for he simply couldn’t put the disconcerting thought into words. Meg.

  “Aye. The one time you allowed yourself to open and love, when you were desperate, he used that very power against you. You were very vulnerable and that was how he convinced you.” She was nodding, her eyes serene pools of fog-laced blue. “He found your soft underbelly. That is the way he works.”

  “I accepted it. And he branded me for eternity,” Dimitri said bitterly. So bitterly. He pinched the upper part of his nose, just above his eye sockets, as hard as he could. He wanted to make it go away.

  Wayren was nodding. “Because of that, he’ll not release you easily.”

  “But it’s possible?” For the first time, he felt a real glimmer of hope.

  “Anything is indeed possible. But it’s not without trial and tribulation. You, too, have to change.”

  Dimitri looked at her, frustration simmering. “Change? I don’t know what you mean. Change how? I’m honest. I give to those in need. I don’t take, I don’t feed. I’ve taken in Mirabella when she had no one. I’ve—”

  “Certainly. You’ve done that…but have you given anything of yourself, Dimitri? Any care, any affection or love or even any time? Or has your generosity been only that of material things? Those things which remain behind in this world?”

  Terror seized him. “I can’t.” His response came out in a heartfelt groan. “I cannot.”

  Wayren looked at him for a long moment, sadness lingering in her eyes. “Then you still aren’t ready, Dimitri.”

  What precisely did one do?

  “Turn, please, miss.”

  Maia turned obediently, feeling the tug of her skirt as the seamstress’s assistant folded it just-so and pinned it. Behind her, another assistant adjusted her bodice, carefully inserting another pin along the seam in the back.

  What did one do when one’s fiancé’s kiss had lost its attraction?

  When one would rather be removing a splinter than meeting his lips?

  Maia opened her eyes and found herself staring at the image of a lovely bride. Golden-coppery-brown hair shone in a shaft of light from the window, and the beam filtered over the pale pink silk of her gown. Over it lay an icy-lemon layer of lace, which gave the frock a shiny, pearlescent appearance.

  “You look beautiful, miss. He will be unable to take his eyes off you,” said the seamstress. Satisfaction colored her voice, and she stepped forward to adjust the short puff of a sleeve. It was made from twisted swatches of pale pink, lemon and blue silk, loosely braided and sewn stuffed with padding to hold their shapes.

  Maia scanned herself. She did indeed look beautiful—mostly due to the dress, she conceded. Though the bodice was low, and in a new neckline called a sweetheart shape, the little scratch on the top of her breast was no longer visible. It had healed weeks ago.

  Since Angelica’s escape from Cezar Moldavi and her return from Paris, both Chas and Corvindale had agreed that the danger from Moldavi had eased. The villain was now aware of Corvindale’s far-reaching protection of the Woodmore sisters, and in light of his recent failure to use Angelica to bring her brother to heel, it was deemed unlikely that Moldavi would make another attempt so soon after.

  Thus, the earl had eased his restrictions on the Woodmore sisters, although Chas assured Maia that they were still being protected, even if they weren’t aware of it. Maia had, of course, noticed the extra footmen that always accompanied or followed their carriage, and the unusual number of shadows hulking about on the street from sundown to sunrise. She assumed that most of them were what Corvindale would term “good vampires,” since they were obviously in his employ.

  Meanwhile, Chas, to Maia’s immense frustration and concern, had disappeared shortly after Angelica’s return, leaving them once again in Corvindale’s care.

  Yet…since she’d fled Corvindale’s study the morning after the incident in the carriage, his mocking words ringing in her ears—you were never enthralled—she hadn’t seen more than the flutter of his coat hem around a corner. It had been more than a month and they’d managed to avoid each other.

  Or at least, she’d avoided him. Whether he was doing the same, Maia wasn’t certain. And since Angelica had returned with nary a scratch, and had announced her intention to wed Viscount Dewhurst, Corvindale hadn’t been seen at all.

  She’d heard the deep rumble of his voice, and noticed the closed door to his study. And, fortunately, she’d had no reason to disturb the earl.

  But Alexander had been to Blackmont Hall often.

  And he always seemed to want to walk in the garden, and to stop in that shady pergola.

  But kissing him had become as interesting as kissing her own hand. Maia knew—for she’d tried it.

  And what had once been a tingling anticipation for his arrival was now a heavy leaden ball in her middle.

  She didn’t love him.

  One doesn’t marry for love. One marries for money or prestige or position. Or even for good family, as long as it is a good match.

  She’d often given such a lecture to Angelica, who, for a time, had thought herself in love with the very untenable Mr. Ferring-Dulles. Love doesn’t factor into it. It might come later if one is compatible with
one’s husband. Or if one is very lucky, it might also be there from the beginning.

  But one doesn’t expect or seek love in marriage.

  Maia knew better, for there was a time when she thought she’d loved Mr. Virgil. She’d thought they were eloping to marry on that night when she dressed in men’s breeches and sneaked out of the house.

  But instead, the night had turned out to be a horror, the details of which she’d long forgotten. Or otherwise suppressed. She shivered now, as a wisp of memory flitted through her mind. Corvindale. In the carriage. She in her breeches, hair tucked beneath a sagging cap.

  Why could she not remember?

  She sighed. No, love definitely could not and should not factor into one’s choice of husband.

  And that was why, in three days, Maia would be marrying Alexander Bradington. In the very lovely dress she was now wearing.

  Dimitri looked down at the note, glad for the distraction.

  The house was filled with energy and activity. Miss Woodmore was to wed Bradington in three days, and for some reason unbeknownst to him, everyone related to the nuptials seemed to be coming and going from Blackmont Hall today. It was as if the walls were swollen to bursting.

  Angelica Woodmore’s wedding plans were also progressing, if one were to judge by the number of appointments with flower-keepers and seamstresses and other entities, not to mention the swatches of material, scraps of notes and drawings, that had littered the parlor table yesterday. Couldn’t the blasted chits wait until their brother was back to attend to these things?

  Naturally that could take weeks. Or months. Or longer. He knew that Woodmore meant to find a way to kill Cezar Moldavi, for until he did so, Narcise would never be safe. But his continued absence was making things even more inconvenient for Dimitri. And the sisters seemed to have confidence that their brother would be in attendance for their weddings, regardless of whatever else he was attending to.

  Dimitri hadn’t had a good day’s sleep in weeks, so there was no sense in attempting it today. Perhaps he would respond to the message.

  Lord Corvindale,

  I should like to invite you to examine a new collection of works that I have recently procured. I am hopeful that one of them might contain the information you seek. Please advise soonest, for I have other interested clients.

  G. Reginald.

  Gellis Reginald was another antiquarian bookseller that Dimitri had patronized, although not for months since he’d found Wayren’s shop. Perhaps the man had heard that his most influential customer had gone elsewhere and wished to lure him back, or perhaps he truly did have something of interest.

  Regardless, it was an opportunity to leave the house.

  Dimitri put aside his other papers—contracts and balance sheets, bank drafts and bills that he’d taken a moment to peruse and sign merely in order to get Beckett, his man of business, to stop nagging him—and rang for the carriage.

  The day was a normal gloomy one, with thick rolling fog and gray everywhere. Nevertheless, Dimitri needed his cloak. An abnormal wave of bitterness flooded him as he scooped it up and stalked out, leaving a house filled with squeals and giggles behind him.

  When they arrived at Reginald’s dingy shop front, Dimitri climbed out and bade Tren to return for him at the public house on the end of the block.

  “I don’t expect to be long,” he said. “Two hours at the outside.”

  “Miss Woodmore asked that I—”

  Dimitri flapped an impatient hand and walked into the shop, letting the door slam behind him. Immediately he was accosted by the smells of age and mold, as well as dust and even mouse dung.

  He didn’t want to hear a thing about Miss Woodmore.

  Likely she’d asked Mrs. Hunburgh to have one of the servants pick up some package or other for her, and Tren had been given the task. He didn’t care. Soon she would be out of his house, and out of his thoughts.

  And, pray God, out of his dreams.

  “Reginald,” he called in his peremptory voice when he saw that the shop was empty. “It’s Corvindale.”

  Blast it. Why wasn’t the man waiting for him? He’d sent the message, after all.

  Dimitri had no interest in examining the old watches and ratty-cornered Bibles and poetry books that the shopkeeper attempted to foist off as valuable antiquities. That was part of the reason he had ceased patronizing the man after a while—his offerings were nigh worthless when one sought words from the ancients, and in their own languages. Too many things were lost in the translation of others, so Dimitri had learned to do his own.

  “Reginald!” he called again in a voice that made the glass cases shudder. He sniffed the air, suddenly realizing the faint strain of blood that he’d just noticed was too strong to be something as innocent as a nosebleed.

  Dimitri was behind the counter in a moment, pushing through the sagging door that led to the back room of the shop. Once through there, the smell of blood was stronger and richer, causing him to hesitate for a moment to determine the direction of its origin. The room was cluttered in what could have been its normal state, or the scene of an altercation. A single door in the back wall presumably led to the alley behind, and the one window was, thankfully, covered in grime, making the chamber dim and shadowy. On the floor was a half-dried pool of blood.

  As he turned, another smell reached his nose. A familiar one that made him frown in shock and confusion.

  And then all at once, the back door burst open and three figures vaulted through, into the room.

  Dimitri reacted automatically as they lunged toward him, grabbing one by the arm and slinging him into the wall, then turning to meet the others. He ducked and easily sent a second one flying, then swung around to slam a fist into the gut of another. The dull flare of fire in their eyes identified them as makes, relatively weak ones by his estimation.

  He reached for a wooden stool, breaking off one of the legs into a jagged stake as he heard a noise behind him. The scent came with it, the familiar one, and it had him whirling just in time to see her stepping from the door at the front of the shop.

  Impossible. She was dead.

  Something red glittered on her hand and as Dimitri stumbled, his chest tightening and slowing, he saw that she wore ropes of them. Rubies. Dangling from her ears and around her throat and two robin’s-egg-size gems on her fingers. Tiny ones glittered in her dark hair. So many… His body lumbered, limbs clumsy and heavy.

  His attackers came behind him, pushing him forward when he would have spun away, shoving him toward her, and just before something black and heavy wafted down over his face and shoulders, he managed to gasp, “Lerina. How?”

  Her laughter curled around his ears and into his consciousness as he fought to breathe. He saw the flash of red in her eyes and the gleam of fangs. Weakness deadened his limbs and the heavy cloth tightened around him. The rubies came closer; he could feel them through the fabric. Binding, burning.

  And then everything went dark.

  12

  Hell Hath No Fury

  “I’m sorry, I am, my lady,” said the groom as he opened the door for Maia.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked, pausing when she noticed the stricken look on his face. He was more than thirty minutes late picking her up from her fitting at the seamstress’s shop, and Tren had always been on time in the past.

  “I wouldn’a been so late but my lordship…well, I but waited for him and he ain’t never come.”

  “Well, I am certain he’ll find his own way back to Blackmont Hall,” Maia replied, settling in her seat. After all, as he was fond of reminding her, he was Corvindale. “Or perhaps we should make one more stop at where you were to meet him, in the event he was detained?”

  “Oh, my lady, if you would permit the delay, I would do that.”

  “Of course,” she replied, thinking mostly of the tongue-lashing poor Tren would get from his master if he weren’t there when Corvindale expected him to be. Even if the earl was late, the fault would
lie with his servant.

  Maia frowned as Tren closed the door and retracted the unpleasant thought. Despite his impatience with her, Maia had never witnessed the earl being unaccountably rude to his servants. Firm and directive, certainly, but never overbearingly rude.

  And then her thoughts wandered to the next logical step: that if they did succeed in meeting up with Corvindale, she would be forced to ride alone in the carriage with him again. Aunt Iliana and Angelica had gone on home earlier, for the latter had had an appointment with a flower-seller and Maia’s fitting had gone on too long, for one of the seams had to be redone.

  Maia’s heart stuttered as she imagined him sitting across from her on the seat, filling the space and making it smaller.

  Perhaps she ought to have Tren take her back to Blackmont Hall first.

  No. Maia wasn’t a coward. She’d face him if she had to.

  Nevertheless, her throat was dry as a bone and her belly swirled with nerves as Tren drove them along Picadilly and past Bond. The calls of flower-sellers and metal-workers clashed with the constant rattle of wagons and open carriages over the cobblestones. Dogs barked, children shouted, messengers dashed nimbly along the edge of the streets, weaving in and around shoppers and shopkeepers alike. Nothing ever seemed to slow or to quiet in London, she reflected, trying to keep her mind on something other than the possibility of riding home with the earl. Even the storefronts and houses seemed loud and overbearing, packed together as they were, built up against each other like uneven, brick teeth.

  At last, the carriage came to a halt. Maia waited as Tren climbed down and went into a little pub called the Fiery Grate. As she sat there, she noticed the sign for G. Reginald, Antiquarian Books and Curiosities.

  It was only a block from the public house, and she wondered…would Corvindale have gone in there? It seemed a place that would interest him.