She nodded, not having really expected anything else. She looked down at the floor, thinking over what she’d seen and heard, then raised her head. “Albin spoke to the human abductors, not much, but a few words. It was Russian, wasn’t it?”
Raphael gave her another one of those long, assessing stares. “It was,” he confirmed. “Nothing of substance. He asked the status of the gate, then ordered them back to the vehicle, saying he would bring Alexandra. The humans’ response was too low to distinguish.”
“May I ask . . .” She had learned from her earlier mistake. “Why would Albin speak Russian?”
“Like many of us, Albin lived in several countries before coming to this one. Imperial Russia was one where he dwelt for some time.”
She wanted to ask if that was why Raphael also spoke Russian, but didn’t want to press her luck.
“Okay,” she said, thinking. “I’d like to see the room they were in, the one with the piano, and I’ll want to follow the route they took out of the house. And also . . .” She drew a breath, knowing Duncan, at least, would not want to give her what she was about to ask for. “I’d like a copy of all the footage from that morning. That—” She gestured at the now blank screen. “—was edited together from several cameras. I want the actual feed, including any audio, from every camera you have. The gate, the hallways here, the room Alexandra was taken from, anyplace Albin might have been before he showed up in that room.”
As predicted, Duncan’s face flashed immediate refusal. He stood from the console and gave his master a beseeching look, but Raphael again held up his hand to forestall him. “Why do you need it and why can you not simply watch it here?” he asked.
“For one thing, I’m not familiar with your equipment, and I don’t know if you even have what I need. I have specialized programs of my own that can go over the video frame by frame, letting me zoom in on details that might mean nothing to you, but which can tell me quite a bit. And I might be able to enhance some of the audio for you. The equipment is in my home office, which is more private and more secure than the office you visited, so you needn’t be concerned about confidentiality. No one will see or hear it except me. If I think a sound or image can benefit from enhancement beyond what I can do myself, I will show you the segment and ask your permission before letting anyone else work with it. As for the other, I don’t mean to offend you, my lord, but this place creeps me out a little bit.”
Raphael blinked, then laughed. It was a genuine sound, not the harsh bark from earlier.
“Duncan,” he said, still smiling. “Make a copy for Ms. Leighton.”
“Sire, please.” Duncan was in obvious distress.
“Make the copy, Duncan,” Raphael said softly. “Ms. Leighton has guaranteed its confidentiality and I’m sure she understands the negative consequences of betraying that guarantee.” He fixed her with a gaze which promised a very short future for anyone who crossed him. “Don’t you, Cyn?”
“Yes,” Cyn whispered. “Yes, of course,” she said louder. “Thank you.”
“I’ll show Ms. Leighton the rest of the house while you make the copy, Duncan. Meet us out front when you finish.”
“My lord,” Duncan agreed, bowing his head. He sounded so depressed Cynthia almost felt sorry for him.
“Come, Cyn,” Raphael said. “Let me show you the rest of Alexandra’s cottage.”
CYNTHIA FOLLOWED Raphael up the broad staircase, around the balcony and through an open set of French doors. It was the room in the video, although it was much larger than it had seemed. The Steinway concert grand was at the far end of the room, near west-facing windows overlooking the front of the house and the checkerboard courtyard. What were probably genuine Louis XVI antiques were scattered throughout the room—brocaded settees, armoires and tables with fluted legs and carved reliefs of leaves and flowers. Cynthia located the security camera, barely visible within the deeply projected crown molding. She followed the line of sight of the camera across the room to the piano and beyond, to where Raphael stood at the window gazing down at the gaudy marble below.
Cynthia watched him silently for a few minutes, then crossed the room to stand next to him, trailing her fingers lightly over the keyboard as she went by.
He glanced around. “Do you play?”
“Not anymore. I took lessons for years; my first nanny insisted on it and no one else cared enough to stop them.” She shrugged. “I don’t think I could even read a piece of sheet music now. I heard Alexandra playing, though. It was lovely.”
“Yes. One of her many acquired talents. Born in the dirt, she worked very hard at being a lady.” He gestured around them.
“But you love her.”
“Yes,” he whispered, closing his eyes briefly, before opening them to stare out at the brightly lit night beyond the window. “Sixteen,” he said, without looking back.
Cynthia frowned. “Sixteen what?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “You asked how old Alexandra was when she was turned. She was sixteen. I found her much later, in Paris during the Revolution.” He shrugged and turned back to the window. “I killed her Sire and made her mine.”
“I see,” Cyn said, not knowing what else to say.
“It was a long time, ago, Cyn. A different time, a different culture. You would do well to remember that if you’re going to spend time around vampires.”
“I know. I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did.” He turned completely, giving her a wistful smile. “But I forgive you.”
Cynthia bristled automatically and Raphael chuckled. “Delightful,” he said. He touched her cheek with one cool finger, sliding it over her jaw and down to her neck, where he stroked it twice over the gentle swell of her jugular. “Delightful.”
Cynthia swallowed, torn between wanting those cool fingers to touch her some more and wanting to get as far away as possible. She looked up at him, meeting his eyes. “Are you going to wipe my memory of tonight?”
Raphael pulled his hand back, clearly unhappy. “You do know a lot about us, don’t you?” He looked thoughtful, then tilted his head, as though listening. “Duncan is waiting for you downstairs. He has assembled Alexandra’s security team and will stay with you while you talk to them.”
“I’ll need some privacy; they have to be interviewed individually.”
“Whatever you need. Duncan will see to it.” He pulled a thick white business card from an inside pocket and handed it to her. “Should you want to get in touch with me . . . for any reason . . . you may call that number. I expect to receive regular updates on your investigation, and I don’t have to tell you that time is of the essence. We will proceed with our own inquiries from this end, and should we discover anything pertinent to your own efforts, I will get a message to you.”
Cynthia understood a dismissal when she heard one. “I should have something for you by tomorrow night, a place to start looking. I, uh . . . thank you, my lord.” He seemed preoccupied, having turned again to stare out the window, and Cynthia took a step toward the door.
“The answer is no, Cyn.”
She looked back at him. “My lord?”
He stood perfectly still, not even looking at her. “Your memories of this evening will not be erased. You will remember me.”
“Oh,” she said, flustered. “Thank you . . .” But he was lost in his silent study of the night.
RAPHAEL LISTENED to Cynthia’s footsteps as she walked around the balcony and down the stairs. Her scent lingered in the room; not perfume, but something lighter. Shampoo perhaps. Something fresh and clean that barely registered, even to his extraordinary sense of smell. His eyes shifted when he heard the side door open and close, looking to the right where the driveway curled around the house. He could barely make out the two figures, Cyn and Duncan, as they made their way down the dr
ive. It was more their shadows he watched, not them. An engine started up and he smiled to himself. Duncan had ordered a car brought around so she wouldn’t have to walk back through the trees. As the sound of the engine faded away, he turned back to the room that was so much Alexandra’s. The entire house had been built and decorated with her in mind, but it was this room more than any other where she felt comfortable. She’d personally picked out every piece of furniture, selected every delicate fancy of porcelain crowding the tabletops. The piano had been the crowning glory; he could still hear her delighted laughter when she’d woken to find it installed, already tuned and waiting for her elegant hands. One of the few times, she’d exhibited a genuine affection for him.
He sat down at the piano and sighed, running his long fingers lightly over the keys. Unlike Cyn, he’d never had a single lesson. There had been no time for such things where he grew up, no money to pay for it if there had been. He pulled the cover down over the keys, resting his hands on the shining black lacquer. Hands that were soft and well-cared for, nails manicured and buffed. A gentleman’s hands, not the hands of a peasant. Not anymore.
Muscovite Russia, 1472
VADIM NESTOR closed the door of the ancient barn, dropping the heavy bar down to secure it for the night. They’d had a problem with wolves lately, damn clever things that seemed to find their way in through every hole or crack in the worn siding. He’d spent a goodly amount of time today, filling in holes dug under the walls, patching any gap he found. It would be hard enough trying to get through the winter with only the two healthy animals left to them; they didn’t need to lose any more to the damn wolves. He sighed, gazing out over fields lying fallow, fields that would have been ready for late harvest if his older brothers had not gone off in search of better lands, a better life than this hard scrabble farm. Vadim hoped they found it, but he’d heard sorry tales of harsh servitude in the new lands.
“Volodya!” His little sister’s voice carried across the hard, dry yard as she ran to him, her long, black hair flying loose from its proper braid, her pale legs flashing as she lifted her skirts away from the dusty ground.
“Sasha,” he scolded, “you must remember to act like a lady. What would Arkady think if he saw you running across the yard like a hoyden?”
“Pffft, what do I care about that old man? He stinks of pigs. I don’t care what Father says, I’ll run away to Novgorad like our brothers before I marry that toothless relic.” She looked up at him, her face flushed with the cold air, her black gypsy eyes, so like his own, sparkling with mischief. How he loved her, and how he hated the idea of her going to the bed of a pig farmer.
“Softly,” he said, pulling her around the side of the barn, away from the shabby house where no doubt their father was watching their every movement. “You mustn’t speak so where Father can hear you.”
She leaned into him, resting her head against the middle of his chest. “I’m not afraid of him. Besides, you’ll protect me, won’t you, Volodya? You won’t let him hurt me again.”
“No,” he whispered fiercely, drawing her into his embrace. “No, he will not lay hand on you ever again.” He kissed the top of her head. “But we must be smart, dushenka. This is still his farm, no matter that I do all the work. He could throw us both off the land, and then what would we do? We’d have to find somewhere else to live, somewhere to work. I worry about our brothers, worry they’re little better than slaves working for strangers.”
She shivered in his arms. “Papa wants rid of me,” she said in a small voice. “He says my only value is between my legs and Arkady will pay good silver.”
Rage burned in his chest until he thought he’d choke on it. “I’ll kill him first, Sasha. You won’t be wasted bearing brats for an old man.”
It was her turn to urge caution as she put her fingers over his lips. “Sshhhh, Volodya! Don’t say such things. Father Feodor says God is listening.”
“Then let God show us the way, little sister. Or I will find my own.”
IT WAS FULL dark outside when Vadim sat up straight, shivering in the cold air as his furs fell away. Something had woken him. Was it wolves? Were they at the barn again? He listened, reluctant to venture outside. The animals came in packs, vicious beasts with no fear of man, especially not one armed with nothing more than a pitchfork.
Something was moving on the other side of the thin wall. Not the snuffling padding of wolves, but softer, more furtive. Feminine laughter lilted close to his head, and he leapt from his pallet, staring at the wall. Sasha? Was she outside on a night like this? He raced for the door, grabbing his heavy tunic as he ran, then chanced to look across the room where his parents slept, where Sasha lay deep in slumber on her pallet next to the fireplace.
The door rattled softly and he dropped his tunic, shuffling backward on all fours, reduced to a terrified animal. Something was out there. Something unnatural. His skin shivered over his bones and his breath froze in his lungs as he stared at the pitiful wooden latch holding the door closed. It shook slightly as something pressed against it from the outside. The stink of sweat filled his nostrils as his own fear ran down his chest to his belly.
There was more laughter, then. Louder. Not just a woman anymore, but men too, laughing like animals braying in the night. He heard the cows lowing and cried out at the thought of the poor animals helpless against whatever ravening beast was upon them.
“What?” His father’s gruff voice sounded from the alcove. “Vadim, something’s at the animals.” He sat up in bed and began pulling on his boots, his lip curling with disgust when he saw his youngest son crouched on the floor in fear. “What’s the matter with you, boy? Afraid of a few wolves? I’ll show you what—”
Vadim jumped up and grabbed the old man, wrestling him back to the bed before he blundered into the night and cost them all their lives. “Listen! Listen, Father! It is not wolves, not this time. Listen, you fool!”
“Fool?” his father roared, bringing one thick arm around to knock Vadim to the floor. “You dare call me fool?” He stormed over to the door, grabbing the pitchfork as he yanked it open. “I’ll show you—”
Vadim shouted in horror as the creature grabbed his father’s outstretched arm, jerking him out of the house and sinking impossible teeth into his neck. Blood sprayed over the old man’s chest, his body convulsing like one of Arkady’s pigs at the slaughter. Sasha’s screams joined their mother’s, jolting Vadim from his own shock. Their mother streaked by, leaving the safety of their home to beat on the creature holding her husband. Sasha followed, clinging to her mother’s arm, trying to drag her back into the house. Vadim jumped up and grabbed the fallen pitchfork, charging into the yard and stabbing at the monsters, shouting at his mother, at Sasha, to get back. But it was too late. The dreadful creatures were everywhere in the yard, tossing his father’s body between them, playing with him as the barn cat played with a dead mouse. His mother’s bloody form was draped over the grisly arm of another, its fangs buried in her neck and making obscene slurping sounds as the life drained from her body. Vadim swung about in terror. Sasha. Where was his Sasha? A shrill scream spun him fully around and he moaned in horror. Two of the creatures had her between them, their hands crawling over her body, ripping her bodice to bare her breasts, their foul mouths closing over tender flesh. Sasha’s terror-filled eyes found his and she mouthed his name, no longer able to scream.
He howled, raising the pitchfork and thrusting it at her attackers, one of them shrieking in agony as the sharp implement buried itself in his side. The ungodly creature turned to snarl at Vadim with gore-filled teeth, and he thrust the pitchfork mindlessly, again and again, until they were forced to let go of his sister and deal with him.
“Run, Sasha,” he screamed. But she lay limp and lifeless, fallen to the ground only to be taken by yet another monster who lapped the blood from her torn neck like the sweetest cream. Vadim fell to his knees, numb with
horror and loss, waiting for the creatures to take him, to tear his throat out and let him join his family in death.
A woman’s laughter drifted over his shoulder. He shrank from the sound of it, watching fearfully as the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen circled around him, her hips swaying seductively beneath a whore’s tight dress, her tongue sliding out to lick full, red lips.
“Don’t,” she snapped.
Vadim twisted around to find one of the creatures backing away, hissing at the woman, its eyes glowing red in the dark night.
“I want this one,” the woman said, jerking Vadim’s attention back to her. “He’s pretty.” She strolled around him, running a delicate hand through the silky black length of his hair, along the breadth of his shoulders. “And so strong.” She leaned her face into his and he almost gagged on the carrion stench of her breath. “Would you like to live forever, pretty one?”
Vadim shook his head in denial, fighting to break away from the impossibly strong grip of those delicate hands.
“Too late,” she whispered. And then she laughed again, her shrieks rising into the night sky as those red, red lips opened and her fangs sank into his throat.
HE STUMBLED down the rutted track, weak with hunger, with unquenchable thirst. Dried blood caked his clothing, his hair . . . he lifted his hands and stared at the crusting of black beneath his nails. Not the clean earth of mother Russia, but blood. An endless amount of blood. Wolves followed along in the underbrush, whining pitifully, drawn by the smell of flesh, but confused by the scent of danger exuded by this pitiful remnant of a human.
He was only peripherally aware of the wolves. All that mattered was satisfying this overwhelming hunger, a craving as if he’d never before eaten in his life. He heard human voices and lifted his head. A monastery shone in the darkness, candles lighting its windows, the sound of singing echoing over the green fields surrounding it. He blinked, suddenly confused, not remembering how he came to be standing on this road covered in blood, knowing only that he was empty, hollowed out by grief. He howled his anguish to the night sky and the wolves shrank away, their bellies pressed to the ground in fear.
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