What was it about this woman, this human, that held him so enthralled he would forget himself so thoroughly. She was diminutive, even for a human, but also womanly and graceful. Eyes, soft and grey, met his and he had the feeling he could drown in their depths
Mine. A dark whisper in the depths of his mind sent shock in waves through his body.
His? Never. Enthralled? Surely not. He was centuries past such youthful folly, a vampire in his prime, in control of his urges, even if he had been forbidden any form of female company. Even so, the beat of her heart, distinct from that of all the other dancers around them, set up an answering pulse in his loins. His fangs longed for a taste of her blood, its unique perfume of heather and honey a terrible temptation to his vampire nature. He mentally shook his head, burying the whisper in ice and darkness.
For another vampire, none of this would have been unusual. Human blood was a tasty dish to the vampire race. The King had licensed vampire taverns throughout London. They provided a clean and safe place for members of his race to indulge their taste. The well-paid humans employed there, male and female, never missed the equivalent of a wineglass full of blood.
Unfortunately, some of his race became addicted. In the most extreme cases, vampires went on a rampage seeking to alleviate their uncontrollable cravings. It was then Anton stepped in.
Never once in his life, had he been tempted beyond more than a taste, even when he was a blood-fevered adolescent. Since he’d become the King’s Blade, he’d avoided it altogether.
Until now. The desire to taste this woman filled him with shock. His fangs fought to lengthen, his mouth watered with the urge to savour, to see if she would taste as sweet as she smelled to his heightened senses. And his erection had him on the edge of an abyss.
He should be more concerned about her ability to see him, than his sensual awareness of her blood.
Unease strolled down his spine. Vampires and humans had lived side by side since the beginning of time, but his race’s continued existence relied on their ability to shadow themselves from the human race. To hide their ability to see in the dark and their speed and their blindness in daylight. Most especially they needed to hide their need for blood, even when the majority of it came from the animals humans ate without thought. Without the ability to hide, their race would be hunted to extinction. Were there others like her? It had been centuries since vampires had lived openly among humans and other races. And even then, they had been careful. Not careful enough, if the history books were correct. The lure of human blood had always been their curse.
A curse he was now experiencing for himself.
Was there something wrong with his ability to embrace the shadows in her presence? Some fault he had developed? Or could she see them all? If the latter, clearing her memories would be pointless. Coldness clutched at his heart at the thought of ending her life. A sense of doom.
No. He could not, would not, think about himself, his needs. He was a weapon. A blade in the hand of his vampire King. Duty was all he had left.
It wasn’t possible that she saw them all or she would have revealed her sightings and raised a hue and cry. The fault must lie with him. Once he wiped her memories of him from her mind and made sure they never encountered each other again, all would be well.
Such a brutal cleansing would cause a great deal of damage to her mind. The loss of several days would leave her feeling nauseous and confused, at best. He didn’t have a choice. The King had ordered. He must obey as he had obeyed so many unpleasant orders in the past. Not from Vlad, but from his the old King, Vlad’s uncle, who had ruled with the cruel streak of a despot.
A few minutes of memories could be erased in one quick pass of his mind through hers. Days had elapsed since their meeting at Vauxhall. Days in which her memories had become part of the fabric of her mind, grown roots and offshoots. The cleansing he’d attempted in situ had met resistance and before he could go further, he’d been interrupted.
“Are you enjoying your Season?” he asked to break the spell of her gaze, his voice a frigid reflection of his inner turmoil.
“Very much,” she said stiffly.
He bowed and took her hand and they completed a half turn and changed sides. He followed suit with his partner on his other side. When he returned to her, he smiled, careful not to reveal his canines. Fortunately, over the centuries they had developed the ability to retract to almost human proportions. A physical adaptation of the species, like the ability to shadow-cloak. So far vampires hadn’t evolved sufficiently to tolerate the full light of day.
The dance took them down the set, left to stand out of the next figure. A chance to talk. “Do you reside in London, Miss Lofstrom, or are you simply here for the Season?”
“The Season only,” she said, sounding a little breathless. Nervous. She’d be terrified if she knew what he intended. Guilt pressed down on his shoulders, a comfortably familiar weight.
“And you?” she asked. Then shook her head. “I asked you before. I know you accompany King Vlad. You are his equerry?”
His Blade. His hand of death. Connected to the Shadow Guard but not of it. He nodded. “Yes. One of many.” The King’s other Shadow Guards guarded his person. The next figure of the dance began. They joined the two couples on their left in a star and began the steps that would move them back up the set. Miss Lofstrom glanced over at her charge every minute or two. Apparently, his presence wasn’t enough to distract her from her duty. Now why would he care? But he did. Irritation had his skin feeling too tight. Her nearness had him fighting the desire to pull her into his arms and bite.... It was torture to have her so close, his keen sense of smell overwhelmed by her blood’s delicious perfume—while he starved.
When the music ended, he took her hand and walked her off the dance floor. “Would you care to join me on the balcony for some air.”
She shook her head. “Thank you, my lord, but no. I must return to Lady Caroline.”
“Your sense of duty is admirable.”
“This is her first season. It is so easy to make a mistake. I would not be the cause of her making a misstep for lack of my attention.”
“It is not your first season, surely?”
A sweet regretful smile touched her pretty lips. “In a way it is, but I do not make a come out.” She dipped a curtsey. “If you will excuse me, sir, I must re-join my charge.” She hurried away.
She was certainly nothing like a bold vampire female, or indeed many of the human females he had met. Her shyness was almost painful. He had the feeling that if she had known how to embrace shadows, she would have been happy to remain unseen and unnoticed for the duration of the ball.
He couldn’t stop watching her as she joined her lively companion. She was not sparkling or flamboyant like her charge. She was like a cool calm brook meandering through shady woods. Not pretty in the accepted sense, her forehead too high, her mouth too generous, but lovely all the same. Something tightened in his chest. Longing.
No. The only feeling he ever allowed himself was one of regret. Sorrow for what he had done to himself and his family, though he would change nothing, even if it were possible to go back. And regret at the knowledge she might not survive their next encounter. Pain sliced through him, when normally he felt only a cold sense of purpose. He retreated into the safety of the cold dark of his existence. His punishment. He did not do what he did for pleasure, only to protect his people, and this woman was dangerous.
There was nothing he could do to save Miss Lofstrom. Sybil. The sound of her name echoed dully in the depths of a soul he no longer acknowledged. The weight of adding one more death to his toll almost brought him to his knees.
“Who is that you were dancing with?” Caroline asked, mischief in her eyes, when Sybil joined her and her clutch of friends. All the girls turned curious eyes on her, then darted looks at the Count who was talking to a gentleman near the refreshment table.
“Count Grazki,” she said. “A member of King Vlad’s court.”
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“King Vlad?” Caroline’s eyes grew round. “Where on earth did you meet him?” She giggled. “He is very handsome if a little stern in his expression.”
Stern? Or haunted? Was it not the terrible loneliness she sensed that made him appear so distant? Sybil stifled a sigh. What on earth was the matter with her? Never before had she sighed over a gentleman. “He was at the Prince Regent’s banquet.” She certainly wasn’t going to mention his presence at Vauxhall. Caroline might assume she’d engaged in some sort of clandestine behaviour. Caroline didn’t mean any harm, but she chattered incessantly and was bound to say something that would drop Sybil into hot water.
Caroline, staring at Count Grazki, frowned. “Are you sure that is where you saw him? I mean I noticed the King. He’s extremely good looking. But I never saw him.”
“He stood right behind the King during dinner.”
“Really?” Caroline looked at her. “And he sought you out here? Without any sort of introduction? How romantic.” She turned her gaze back to the Count, her lips pursed.
Count Grazki must had felt her staring, because he turned his head and gave a small bow of acknowledgement. After another word to the man beside him, he strolled away.
Sybil’s pulse fluttered unevenly.
A most unnerving sensation that occurred all evening, whenever she caught sight of a dark-haired gentleman. Thankfully, she did not encounter the Count in person again. Lord Orrick was a reasonable man about most things, but he cared deeply about his daughter and would not tolerate anything that might besmirch her reputation, if only by association.
Even so, she could not stop scanning the company to catch a glimpse of him when she should have put him right out of her mind.
Lord Orrick emerged from the card room in time to take them to supper. They joined Mrs Davenport and her daughter at one of the large round tables set up in yet another grand room and had finished eating when a fair-haired young gentleman strolled over.
“Bertie,” Mrs Davenport exclaimed. “You said you would not come tonight. Lord Orrick, my oldest son, Ladbrooke. Bertie this is Lord Orrick’s daughter Lady Caroline and her companion Miss Lofstrom.” The young man bowed politely to all of them, but he had eyes only for Caroline.
Sybil resolved to watch this young man closely.
“I thought you were going to the theatre,” his sister said.
“I did. It was beyond reason dull. Shakespeare or some such fellow. I left after the farce.”
“You have missed the dancing,” she announced with a sniff.
The young man glanced at Caroline and coloured. “Now, I wish I had not gone at all.”
There was no mistaking his meaning and Caroline blushed.
Mrs Davenport smiled and looked very pleased. As she should. Caroline was a good catch for any man. Pretty and rich and her smile said she was not averse to the young scion. Now Sybil must be doubly on her guard.
It seemed Lord Orrick felt the same way. He rose to his feet. “Ladies, it is past midnight and time for me to escort you home.”
“I agree,” Mrs Davenport said. “We cannot have the girls looking pulled from too much racketing. What a pleasant evening we have had, to be sure. I will call on you tomorrow, my dear Lady Caroline.”
Miss Davenport smiled at Caroline with genuine pleasure. “You will be home will you not?”
“Of course,” Caroline said.
Lord Orrick bowed. “We shall look forward to it, madam. Come child.”
Caroline made a face and young Mr Davenport winked at her.
The Count was nowhere to be seen.
The evening was fine and warm. Cloaked from all human eyes except, apparently, one pair of pretty grey ones, Anton hid in the bushes outside the Orrick town house in Grosvenor Street, having already reconnoitred inside the premises. Her scent was everywhere in the house, but most strong in a room on the third floor. Her quarters were clean and pleasant, though clearly more functional than luxurious, her status clearly delineated. Not quite a servant, but definitely not family.
It didn’t quite ring true. Everything about her indicated she was gently bred. If not of the nobility, then closely related. Unlike the females of his own race, who were bold and often wanton, there was something ethereal about her, and an underlying sweetness. A sweet gentle creature whose mind he must destroy.
She had warmed him tonight, when she’d danced with him. He couldn’t remember the last time he had danced. And never before had he felt such pleasure in his partner. If there was only some way to avoid her death.
He reached for numbness. Killed all emotion.
Allowing himself to feel the pain of all he’d done in the name of duty these past many years might finish him off at a time when Vlad needed him more than ever. He must deal with Miss Lofstrom and get back to tracking the vampire killer. Three more deaths this week, one a nobleman, had sent the Court into an uproar.
Gods, was there something wrong with his ability to cloak? If not, he prayed it was only her with this power, for if it was widespread, Vlad had no hope of keeping their people safe.
Horses approaching. Slowing down. A carriage pulled up outside the town house’s front door and he moved deeper into the shadows. It felt strange not to trust his own ability to cloak, but instead be forced to rely on the shadows cast by buildings and the odd tree or bush.
For long minutes, he waited for the occupants of the house to settle for the night. Doors were locked. One by one the lower rooms gave way to darkness. The window of her room glowed a welcome. Her silhouette passed across the curtains several times, until its light finally winked out.
The time of darkness. His time.
One easy leap took him to the balcony of the first floor dining room which looked out over the garden, the second to the roof, to land beside the chimney nearest her chamber. With the silence of a creature of the night, he climbed down the wall and entered by way of the window he had unlatched in the sitting room beside her bedchamber.
The gentle inhale and exhale of her breathing filled his ears, along with the steady beat of her heart. A calm quiet pulse that held him entranced as he pictured the blue tracery of veins running beneath her milky skin. The memory of how it had leaped and faltered beneath his touch drove him wild with longing to feel it again. He pulled in a deep intoxicating breath of the light floral scent of this creature of light that so teased his senses and fired his buried desires. Along with the perfume came the underlying fragrance of her blood. Spicy-sweet. Heady and addictive. His tongue tingled with the need to taste, her skin, her blood, her passion.
His fangs elongated.
He reached for calmness, for coldness. His canines retracted. His duty was clear. His loyalty belonged to the kings whom he had served without second thought for centuries. No matter the personal cost.
On silent feet, he moved towards the door to her bedchamber.
Her heartbeat picked up speed.
“Who is there?” A light breathy voice cut through the silence. Anxious, but not panicked.
Hell and damnation, how on earth had she heard him? He’d thought her deeply asleep. He held still, hoping she would decide she’d been mistaken.
A rustle of fabric. She appeared in the doorway between the two chambers. He could see her as clear as day in a cotton nightgown that skimmed her curves, touching the swells and leaving intriguing shadows at the dips. He inhaled deeply of her lovely scent.
“Count Grazki?” she whispered, her pupils wide as she peered into the darkened room. “It is you, isn’t it?”
He knew she couldn’t possibly see him. Not because he was shadowed, he hadn’t bothered, given her ability, but because she wasn’t vampire. Humans had weak night vision. Apparently other, more primal senses, told her who had invaded her space. He stepped closer. “Yes. It is I,” he murmured quietly, hoping to deter her from screaming or calling for help, though he would end her cry for help before more than a hint of it left her lips. Permanently.
A hand went to h
er rapidly beating heart as if to still its pounding. “What are you doing here?”
A question he could not answer truthfully. A rogue vampire would not need to ask his purpose, would be too busy begging forgiveness, making promises. They would know he was justice not mercy, but this creature, this human, she was innocent of any crime. And still he must do his duty.
He bit back a curse.
“I’m sorry,” he said. Gods, he was so damnably sorry.
She turned back towards the bedroom. He followed swiftly, coming up behind her in the second it took her to reach the bed. She caught up her robe and turned, gasping when she found him so close on her heels. Close enough to put his hands around her neck and stop her breath. His hands clenched into fists. He could not do it. Not with her looking at him with the eyes of a trusting fawn. Sleep. First he would make her sleep. She would not know his violence
He reached out with his mind, a fine tendril that could send a victim into a trance or slice away a memory with the surgical precision of a blade. And met resistance. Again. A bright yet fragile shield that turned the tendril back on him. Startled, he blocked the lashing blow and fell back a step. “What the devil?”
She hung her head. “You no doubt think I’m dreadfully wicked, not screaming in defence of my virtue.”
Fainting would be better. “I think you are lovely.” Damn, where had that come from?
“Why are you here?”
His throat dried at the thought of the truth. He couldn’t help himself, he reached out and cradled her cheek with his fingertips and brought her face up to meet his gaze. She looked so soft, so vulnerable with the glow of the fire playing over her delicate features. “I came for you,” he murmured.
A Most Peculiar Season Series Boxed Set: Five Full-length Connected Novels by Award-winning and Bestselling Authors Page 87
