Dark Embrace

by Eve Silver

  He smiled at her then. “I can move about in the light, if I am careful and my skin covered, but I am centuries older than he.”

  Centuries. Her breath locked in her throat. She was not accustomed to that yet. Hundreds of years, alone. She could not imagine it, could not imagine how he had borne it.

  “What happens if you are exposed to the light?”

  “Much the same as what happens if you are exposed for too long. My skin pinkens, then reddens. Blisters form. There is discomfort, then pain. It is not deadly, merely unpleasant. But if I stay in the light for a length of time and do nothing to protect myself, unpleasant turns to deadly. If I stand unprotected in the full light of the sun, I will burn to ash.”

  “Burn to ash? How long?” She was horrified by the thought of Killina dying in the sunlight.

  “How long can I bear the sun? I have experimented over the years and the duration increases exponentially. At present, the longest I have dared is an hour. And then it cost me a month of recovery. But the newly born will burn more quickly.” He paused and Sarah sensed that he was about to share something of import. “My maker cast himself into the sunlight and crumbled to ash with moments.”

  Sarah didn’t know what story lay behind those words, but she sensed that it was one that yet caused Killian sadness. She crawled across the bed and wrapped her arms around him, resting her cheek against his back.

  “So sunlight can kill him,” she said. “What else? A pistol? A knife?”

  For a moment, she thought he would not answer, would hold fast the secrets she longed now to know. Then he made a huffing exhalation and said, “There is very little now that can kill him.” After a pause, he finished softly, “Another vampire could do the deed.”

  She shivered, reading his meaning in the things he did not say. “You will kill him, this newly made creature, if he does not agree to cease murdering people.”

  “Yes and no. He must cease murdering in such a public manner. In truth, I have no argument with his choice of victim.”

  “I dislike that word,” Sarah said with a shiver.

  He made a soft sound. “I understand. But I will not lie to you or pretend my kind is other than what we are. Predators.”

  Sarah nodded. “I know.” She paused. “The public manner of the killings…do they concern you because they could reveal the existence of vampires?”

  “Even small children suspect that monsters exist. But suspicion is far different than certainty,” Killian said. “I cannot leave him free to dart about and kill indiscriminately, leaving proof that monsters exist. Therein lies a path to horror, for vampires and humans alike. There are not so many of my kind. I have gone for centuries without encountering another. But stir the terror that lurks inside the human heart and they will begin to see monsters where none exist. They will turn on their neighbors, accuse the innocent, breed fear and mistrust and kill each other. That I cannot allow.”

  “So you will find him.”

  “Had he chosen to remove the bodies, or hide the cause of their deaths, that would be a different matter.”

  “Will you kill him?” Something about that thought disturbed her, though she could not say why.

  “You dislike the idea,” Killian said, head tipped to one side.

  “I don’t know why, but I do,” Sarah replied. “He frightened me, but never harmed me, and…”

  “And?”

  “I…” How to explain? “I once thought there was something familiar about him…”

  “I have no desire to kill him. And I would like some answers. Who he is. Who made him. Why he claims King’s College as his hunting ground.” He took her hand and kissed her palm. “Why he follows you.”

  “Is there danger, Killian? To you?”

  “No.” She heard the smile in his voice as he replied. “He is newly made, and I... well, I am not.”

  “I can help,” she said, and rushed on as he started to speak, intending, she was certain, to argue. “He will not know that I no longer work at King’s College. He will expect me to walk home this evening to Coptic Street, and that is exactly what I will do.”

  Her heart thudded as she waited for his reply, waited to see if he would see the value of her plan.

  A slow smile curved his lips, and he curled his fingers around her nape and drew her close for a hard kiss.

  “A brilliant plan. You will walk to Coptic Street—” he cast her a sidelong look through his lashes “—and I will follow in your shadow.”

  In that moment, she was both pleased that he valued her proposition, that he saw the importance of her participation, and faintly uneasy by the menace she sensed lurking just beneath the surface.

  He shifted so his lips moved against her ear as he whispered, “I am what I am, Sarah. No matter how civilized, how controlled the veneer, beneath it all, I am the hunter, the monster, the fiend.”

  18

  That night, Sarah walked slowly past the graveyard, searching for some hint of the man who stalked her. The place was silent and still. No shadow, no sound, no movement. He was not there. She was a little surprised, for she had been so certain he would come. But there was still time. He might yet show himself at any point along the route.

  He did not. Not that night or the next or the one after that.

  Each night, Sarah slept in Killian’s bed while he went to King’s College and worked with the patients. Her days were spent in his laboratory, a wonderful space that spanned the entire top floor of his home. He had taken her there when she woke the first morning.

  “I will not allow your talents to go to waste,” he had said. “If there is aught you need that is not here, you have merely to tell me so.”

  And Sarah had immersed herself in work, free to indulge her interests and aptitude.

  On the fourth night, Sarah waited by the doors of King’s College until Elinor emerged. “Sarah,” her friend cried and rushed to her side to throw her arms around her. “Are you well?” Elinor grasped her by the shoulders and drew back to examine her face. Before Sarah could speak, Elinor gave a muffled laugh. “Oh, you look well. More than well. Dare I say, happy?”

  Sarah smiled. “I am well and happy.”

  Elinor’s dimples appeared as she grinned. “Mr. Thayne told me you were well and safe. But I’m glad to see it for myself.”

  A ball of warmth spread through Sarah’s heart. She had not asked Killian to reassure Elinor, yet he had done so. Such a Killian thing to do.

  The two women stood talking for a few moments, and with Sarah’s assurance that she would call on Elinor one day soon, they separated, Elinor going in one direction, Sarah in the other.

  Sarah walked past the graveyard. A thick, damp blanket of fog clung to the tombstones and the surrounding buildings. She braved a glance over her shoulder toward the slaughterhouses. The fog veiled them from sight though she knew they were behind her for the air was stained with the scent of blood and butchered meat.

  Beneath her cloak, she carried her cudgel, and her fingers curled tighter about it now. Killian had grinned when he saw it.

  “What will you do with that?” he had asked with a low chuckle.

  “I shall cosh him on the head if need be.”

  “Yes, I believe you will.” He had caught her to him and kissed her, and held her against his chest, his laughter rumbling through them both.

  The sound had poured through her like chocolate, luscious and warm. She made him laugh. She brought him joy. There was such pleasure for her in that.

  Now, she walked on, quickening her pace, the chill of the night, or perhaps unease, making her teeth chatter. She resisted the urge to peer about, to search for some sign of Killian. She knew she would see no hint of his presence. He blended seamlessly with the night.

  The hunter. She shivered as she recalled his words, uncertain how she felt about that. He would do what he must to keep humans safe from one of his kind, but what did that make him? And what did it make her that she loved him nonetheless?

 
She turned onto Queen Street and continued toward St. Giles. They had determined that she would take the quickest way to Coptic Street this night, through alleys and courtyards, for that was the darkest route, the most isolated, and their best hope to draw out the man they sought.

  Summoning the memory of her previous encounter with him, she recalled that he was tall, draped in a flowing black cloak, his hands gloved, his face shadowed by a low crowned hat. There was little enough to hint at his identity, but for some reason, she felt certain he was familiar. Not Mr. Watts. She had already crossed him off her list. Mr. Simon, perhaps? He was of a height, and there was the fact that, while he attempted to lay suspicion on Killian, he, too, had been present on the ward on the day of each murder.

  But that was the conundrum. The day of each murder. Even if the deaths occurred during the night, Mr. Simon had been there during the day after the discovery of each body. If he was a newly turned vampire, how then did he manage to stand in the light?

  A sound distracted her, and she whirled to see a group of dark, furry bodies nosing at the gutter. Rats. Twitching her skirt aside, she made a soft exhalation then walked on.

  Keeping a wary watch on her surroundings, she passed the darkened chandler’s shop, and the black windows of the stores that dealt in all manner of birds and small animals. Between the buildings, the alleys and courts darted in all directions, made chilling and menacing by the impenetrable fog.

  In the distance, a dog began to howl, a solitary, mournful cry. Shivering, Sarah hesitated and looked about, the hair at her nape prickling and rising. She could hear the sound of her own breathing, harsh and loud.

  Drawing her cloak tight about her, she walked on, daring a glance over her shoulder that revealed nothing save darkness and mist. But she sensed him, the man who stalked her. He had come.

  And with him came her fear.

  The sound of footsteps rang hollowly on the cobbles close behind her.

  She froze, attuned to the faintest noise.

  The footsteps stopped as she stopped, and when she began her trek once more, the echo of booted heels hitting the stones resumed.

  A sharp trill of fear cut her, and she prayed Killian was behind her for she had no wish to confront the man—the vampire—on her own. No sooner did the thought coalesce, than the rising tide of her fear dissipated somewhat. Killian was watching, blanketed by the night. She had no doubt of that.

  Faint sounds carried from the surrounding streets and buildings, raucous laughter, a woman’s sobs, a baby’s frantic cries. But all she could focus on was the ringing steps of the vampire that followed her, his steps matched to hers, neither falling back nor drawing near.

  Just as she and Killian had planned, she turned down the same alley where the man who stalked her had cornered her before. Up ahead, the wooden cart was angled to block the way exactly as it had been the last time she walked this route. The thick vapor swirled around the wheels in ghostly embrace.

  She kept her steps even until she reached the wagon, then she spun to face the length of the alley, her back pressed against the rough wood, her pulse hammering a frantic rhythm. She felt isolated here, the fog building a boundary between her and the rest of the world.

  Before her, tendrils of mist stirred and parted, and she gasped as a dark shape emerged. Her heart slammed about in her chest like a bird desperate to fly free.

  She saw him then, the vampire, there before her, a handful of steps away. His cloak hung about his tall frame and the low crowned hat was pulled down on his brow as it had been when last he hunted her. Panic clawed at her, though she knew Killian was near, knew he would let no harm befall her.

  Her breath rushed in and out in short, panting gasps. Her arms trembled as she raised her cudgel, her full attention focused on the man who moved toward her, one step, another, bringing him closer and closer still.

  Slowly, he raised his hand toward her. Her heart leapt to her throat.

  The sound of cloth flapping in the wind carried to her, and a dark shape plummeted down from above, black cape rising like wings. She gasped and jerked back as Killian landed neatly on the balls of his feet, directly behind her pursuer.

  With a hiss of surprise, the man began to turn, but Killian was on him, his lips peeled back in a feral snarl, his arm coming tight around the stranger’s throat, holding him fast.

  With his hands clasped around Killian’s forearm, the man struggled to break his hold. His efforts were in vain. Regardless of how he twisted and clawed, Killian held him.

  In the tussle, the stranger’s hat knocked free. Shaggy, dark hair tumbled across his brow and his gaze jerked up to lock with Sarah’s. Her vision narrowed to a tight black tunnel and she swayed where she stood, overwhelmed.

  Shock and disbelief slapped her, and she sagged against the wooden cart as Killian slammed the man against the wall of the alley.

  Her cudgel slipped from her hands to clatter against the stones, and she pushed herself upright, stumbled forward.

  “Killian, no,” she cried. “He is...dear God...he is my father.”

  His forearm still pressed across the other man’s throat, Killian turned his head to look at her. His lips were peeled back in a feral snarl, his expression terrifying. But she was not afraid. Not of Killian.

  “He is my father,” she said again, joy and confusion, anger and shock all mixing together in a bubbling brew.

  She almost ran to him, almost threw herself upon him, but Killian shifted so he stood between them and said, “Not yet, Sarah.”

  She froze in her tracks. Her father bared his teeth as he snarled and clawed at Killian’s arm. It was clear that he was not merely trying to free himself, but to cause Killian harm. She recalled then what Killian had told her, how two of his kind could not inhabit the same territory. Her father was newly made. His instincts would surely overpower his logic.

  “Killian, he is my father. Please, you cannot…” Cannot kill him.

  He cut her a sidelong glance. “I am well aware.”

  Her father chose that moment to surge at him. Sarah cried out, but Killian had the situation well under control. He was stronger than her father and he had been vampire for far longer.

  He shifted his hold, keeping her father pinned with one hand, bringing his other to his lips. He tore open his wrist with his teeth and pressed the wound to her father’s lips.

  “Drink,” he ordered.

  Her father struggled for an instant, then with a moan he latched onto Killian’s wrist.

  “Enough,” Killian said after a moment, and her father clutched at him in protest, but Killian was the stronger. He drew his wrist away and after another moment or two, he let go his restraint of her father. “Better?” Killian asked.

  Her father made no answer, but he did not surge toward Killian in an attempt to attack, so she supposed it was better.

  “It is enough to dampen the blood rage, yes?” Killian asked.

  Her father offered a curt nod, then his gaze slid to Sarah, his expression shifting to shock then dismay.

  “You are together—” He broke off and stumbled back, looking between Sarah and Killian, shaking his head from side to side as though trying to clear a noise from his ears. “You are with my daughter, yet you are like me? A vampire?” His tone was edged with horror.

  “I am vampire,” Killian confirmed.

  For a moment, the three of them stood in an awkward, motionless tableau then her father turned to her and held his hand out in supplication. “Sarah—”

  She was dizzy under the onslaught of emotion that buffeted her. A thousand words tumbled to her lips, but she could manage only one.

  “Why?” she cried, her gaze locked on her father, her nerves frayed and twisted in a Gordian knot. “Why follow me? Frighten me? Never reveal yourself to me?

  “Sarah,” he said, his voice rough, the single word imbued with pain and distress and love. Then he pressed his lips tight and said nothing more.

  She advanced on him, her shock and joy at
finding him alive melding with feeling of both anger and betrayal. “Why?” she demanded. “Why did you let me believe you were dead? Drowned? I mourned you. I cried a river of tears. My heart was broken.”

  “No, I—” He brought his hands up before him, a gesture of despair.

  “How could you—” She broke off and simply shook her head, too confused, too overcome by hurt and betrayal to formulate the slurry of her thoughts into any semblance of coherent speech.

  Again, she advanced, but Killian stopped her with a gesture. “He is vampire,” he said, and his meaning struck her. Her father was a vampire. She was human. Her blood was human, a siren’s song to one such as he.

  Horror clawed at her and she fell back a step.

  “No!” her father said. “I would never—”

  “You cannot know that,” Killian said, his voice cold. He withdrew something from his cloak, and as he held it out, an offering to her father, Sarah saw that it was a flask. “Drink,” he ordered.

  Her father looked back and forth between the two, then he accepted the flask from Killian and took a tentative sip. His eyes widened and he drank the whole of it down in greedy gulps.

  Killian strode to Sarah’s side as he offered a command, his tone ice and steel. “Do not move from that spot, Mr. Lowell. Certainly, do not force me to stop you.” He pulled Sarah against him, wrapping her in the haven of his embrace.

  She could not say how long they stood thus. Perhaps only seconds, perhaps far longer. At length, she felt her control return. Drawing a shaky breath, she stepped free of the shelter of Killian’s wonderfully safe embrace, her gaze lifting to meet her father’s tormented stare.

  “I thought you were an opium addict. I thought that under the influence of that foul drug you fell in the Thames and drowned.” She paused. “You let me think that.”

  “I did. And I am sorry.” Her father held his hand out to her, tears glittering on his lashes. Even in the paltry light, she could see his pallor and the deep black circles beneath his eyes. He had suffered, and it hurt her to know it. “I was never an opium addict, Sarah. I wanted you to think it because it was the only way to shield you. The symptoms you saw were...it was the hunger. I cannot explain it. It is like nothing I have ever experienced. It only grew stronger, a gnawing pain that ripped me to bits until I dared not be near you, dared not trust myself. My God, you have no idea what I have become. I did want to die. I tried. Flung myself in the Thames. Only...I came to understand that this thing I have become will not die.” He drew a great shuddering breath. “My God, I have missed you so.”