Scarlet Revenge

by Sheri Lewis Wohl

  “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

  Karen hugged her back. “You have a great heart, but you’re no match for the monster out there now.” Her voice trembled and Naomi hugged her tighter. “None of us are.”

  If she could have argued with Karen, she would have. The problem was, Naomi was deathly afraid she was right.

  *

  Wind slapped her face while rain bit into her flesh like slashes from a hundred tiny sharp knives. Victoria raced through the night, stumbling only when she tripped on a fallen tree, catching herself before crashing to the sodden earth. She didn’t have time to pause for even a moment.

  In the distance, the sounds of terror filled the air. So did the sounds of laughter. God, how she hated that laugh. So many years ago, she’d run from it, hoping she’d never have to hear it again. Here in this new land and with a new life, she’d believed she was sheltered from the dangers of her past. No one knew her here and, more important, no one knew her secrets.

  Except for Roland.

  The only way to be safe was to keep her secrets buried. She had never intended to confess to him, yet it had happened as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Her words had streamed out in a torrent until she thought he must surely hate her to her soul; yet she’d been wrong. It wasn’t hatred she’d seen in his eyes that night but compassion and, more surprising, tears. Reverend Roland Lyle had cried for her—for what she’d been, for what she’d lost, for what she’d become.

  On that night, she found the father she’d never had, and her loyalty to him had been sealed for eternity. In her heart, she believed that nothing would be able to come between them. Again, she was wrong.

  Now she heard his words, barely audible in the throes of the building storm. She could feel the beat of his heart and hear the slight, thready breath that passed between his lips. Most frightening of all, she sensed that the life in his body was beginning to slip away. She ran harder, her skirts pulled high, her feet barely touching the damp earth. Nothing else mattered excepting reaching Roland’s side.

  At the rectory, she wrenched open the door, rain blasting inside as she flew across the threshold, the soles of her shoes slipping on the wet stone floor. She nearly lost her balance, barely managing to stay on her feet. The smell was like a slap in the face. It wasn’t the stench of hot, human blood that made her gasp.

  “I told you what I’d do.”

  Pierre stood, straddling Roland’s body, blood dripping from his fangs, his smile triumphant. Tall and lean, he was as beautiful as the first time she’d seen him, the night he’d turned her. Even the blood flowing across his full lips did nothing to dampen his raw sexuality and handsome face. That was one of his most dangerous weapons, and he used it again and again to seduce the unwary. She’d fallen victim to the smile and sexy voice only to learn what was beneath the smooth façade. How easily he hid pure evil behind beauty.

  The hate she’d tried several lifetimes to let go of roared to the surface, and her howl of rage cut through the storm’s power. The church’s lessons told her to forgive Pierre for what he’d done to her, and she could…almost. She couldn’t forgive him for what he’d done here in this place and on this night. Not in a thousand lifetimes.

  “I’ll kill you.”

  His smile grew as one long finger swiped away blood from his bottom lip. “Too late, my sweet, someone beat you to that one.” He winked.

  She hissed, her gaze steady on his face. She wanted to scratch his crystal-blue eyes right out of his skull. She wanted to make his face as ugly as his soul. “I’ll destroy you.”

  “Tsk, tsk, is that any way to speak to me? You know what I want. Give it to me and this all ends.” He waved his hand in the air, seeming to encompass the death and destruction that lay around them: the man prone and motionless at his feet.

  “Go to hell.” Her fingernails cut into her palms as her hands curled into fists at her sides, while her fangs dropped and her blood roared in her ears.

  Pierre stepped over and away from Roland, brushing by her where she still stood close to the doors. His finger trailed across her cheek as he passed, his touch icy against her flesh. “You first.”

  Then he was gone amidst a gust of rain and cold wind. She spun and nearly raced into the darkness after him. She didn’t, stalling at the door as a terrible sense of fear threaded through her heart. Behind her the interior of the church was eerily silent.

  Victoria turned away from the doorway and ran inside to Roland, dropping to her knees at his side. She pressed her fingers against the soft flesh of his neck, probing, feeling. Nothing. Not even the tiniest flicker of life. Tears blurred her vision and she thought her heart would surely break. Then she saw it, and once more her scream filled the night.

  Tory came awake with a start. She touched her cheeks, not surprised at the wetness she found there. That the dream had returned again after so many years troubled her. Not too shocking but troubling nonetheless. Even after centuries, she was never free of that night. Never would be. Guilt did that.

  Now it was even worse. How could she not think about Roland and that horrible night when she held the New Testament? The past was being thrown, literally, into her face. She couldn’t escape the biggest mistake of her life, no matter how far she ran or how many oceans she crossed.

  She swung her legs out of bed and headed to the bathroom, where she stepped into the large shower and let warm water pour over her. It didn’t chase away the chill but it helped. When the water began to cool, she turned it off and reached for a towel.

  Dressed, her long hair in a single braid down her back, she went to the refrigerator and pulled out an elegant crystal pitcher. She poured the dark, crimson liquid into a glass and drank. She didn’t even think about the taste any longer; she’d grown accustomed to it. Once she weaned herself away from the taste of human blood, all she was concerned with was surviving, and the crystal pitcher held what she needed.

  Showered, dressed, and hunger sated, she repeated last night’s exercise: she sat and stared at the book. What she wouldn’t give for a good old-fashioned psychic right now. She was getting nowhere and wondered if someone with a touch of second sight might be able to tell her what she needed to know. Secrets were beneath her fingertips, if only they could be coaxed out.

  Why not? Picking up her cell phone, she hit speed dial and waited as a classic rock-and-roll song played on the other end. It made her smile, just a little, remembering another, more happy time, and a concert filled with loud music, dope, and a hell of a lot of wine. Those were some wild days. Even a vampire had her moments.

  “Hey,” a cheerful voice said when the call connected.

  “Hey to you too.”

  “Vampira! What’s up?”

  Tory smiled. In her mind, she could picture Sunny O’Neill with her short red hair, emerald-green eyes, and lithe body holding the phone to her ear and smiling. She seemed to always have a grin on her face, and it reflected in her voice. Truth be told, Tory was a little in love with Sunny and had been since the first day she’d met her. Under different circumstances, Tory would have made a run for her, except Sunny preferred men, which left friendship as the only the option. That was enough for Tory, who was grateful to have a friend she could confide in. Thus, Sunny became one of the elite few who knew her secret.

  “Got a strange one for you, Sun. Do you happen to know anyone with real psychic abilities? I mean someone who really has the sight.”

  Sunny’s laughter was light and bright. “Damn straight, girlfriend. My buddy Viola Juve is a bona fide real deal. She’s helped the five-oh on lots of cases. Don’t know if she’s ever read another mistress of the dark before. No biggie if she hasn’t. If I tell her you’re okay, you’re in like Flynn.”

  Tory ran the name over in her head and came up with nothing. “I’ve never heard of her.”

  “And you wouldn’t, sweetie. One of Viola’s conditions is that her name is kept out of everything. She doesn’t do it for money or recognition.
For her, it’s one hundred percent about getting assholes off the street. You gotta understand, she only gets brought in when people are dying and the cops got nothing. She’s their candle in the dark.”

  “Exactly what I’m looking for. Do you think she’d see me?”

  “Sure, if I ask her to. We’ve been pals since the fourth grade. Like I said, I can vouch for ya. Besides, I know you’d only ask if it was real important, speaking of which, what is this about anyway, Vampira? You don’t usually need help from anybody else of the otherworldly persuasion. You’re more of the lone-vamp kinda girl, if you know what I mean?”

  Tory knew exactly what she meant. “I do and you’re right. Asking for help isn’t high on my list. Problem is, I’m in a real dark corner on this one. It’s a book.”

  “Uh? Why would you need a psychic about a book? They’re your cup of tea, sister. You’re like this incredible walking encyclopedia on cool books.”

  “This one is special and I know what it is. I just don’t know why it is.”

  “Kinda cryptic, sister.”

  “I know, and I’m sorry I can’t give you more right now. I promise I’ll explain it all when you bring your friend over.”

  “Okey doke. Let me give her a call and I’ll get right back to you.”

  “Thanks, Sunny.”

  “No problem. Besides, you never know when I’m gonna need a favor from She of the Darkness!” Sunny’s laughter was as bright as the woman herself.

  When Tory flipped the phone shut, she felt better. Maybe just talking to Sunny did it. Her taste for life and continual optimism always lifted Tory’s spirits, and after the reappearance of the dream, that was precisely what she needed. She liked her world ordered and without surprises. For nearly two centuries she’d kept it that way, providing her with a comfortable, predictable life. Until, that is, that damned brown box showed up on her desk. Sunny’s offer of help meant a lot and would go a long way toward restoring order to her existence. Yes, she felt so much better…at least until she looked down.

  USA Today lay on her desk, in the same place Jenni put it each day before she left the office. Tory picked it up and read the headline, not once. Not even twice. No, she read it three times before dropping it as though the paper singed her fingers.

  Impossible. Yet there it was for God and everyone to see. Her aunt, the true daughter of Henry VII, sister to the infamous Henry VIII, and a vampire, was pictured on the front page under the headline, SERIAL KILLER STOPPED BY LOCAL ME. Dr. Riah Preston, apparently the name Catherine Tudor now claimed as her own, along with the assistance of three others, was credited with stopping a serial killer who left bodies all across the United States. Once again, she thought, impossible.

  Nearly two hundred years had passed since she’d seen her aunt in the flesh. Those had been happier days for Tory, a time when she’d believed she might actually have a chance to live in harmony with humans. Hope had bloomed in her then, but she’d been so very wrong about everything.

  Her heart ached as she looked at the picture of Riah, and she longed for a time when her world was peopled with friends and family. She had been full of love and laughter and, most of all, hope. Until the moment Pierre had walked in and robbed her of everything that was precious. Not once, but twice. First he took away her humanity, and then he snatched away the only father she’d ever known. After he took Roland from her, she had embraced an existence of darkness and solitude because that way she had nothing to lose. She made occasional friends, like Sunny, but kept everyone else at arm’s length. As long as nothing and no one mattered, she couldn’t be hurt.

  Tears dropped onto the paper and the face in the photograph blurred. It wasn’t fair. So much time, so much heartache. If only she had the courage to be more like Riah—to be bold and walk among humans, to take the curse and use it to do something important with it. How different would her life be if she wasn’t such a coward?

  Chapter Five

  Waiting was beginning to get on his nerves. In the old days, he’d had the patience of Job, but not right now. Of course it had been a good many years since he’d let the lessons of Job guide him, and the influence of those teachings was long gone. Or maybe he was just grumpy.

  Bottom line: he didn’t like waiting. He didn’t possess much of anything that even remotely resembled a calm demeanor these days, and for good reason. After what he’d endured, he was entitled to immediate gratification. He wanted what he wanted, when he wanted it. And he wanted her this instant.

  Then again, he did so like to play games. There was much to be said for the classic game of cat and mouse…as long as he was playing the cat. Like now.

  His little mouse was impressively quick. So far in the week he’d been in this nation’s capital, he’d glimpsed her only twice. She moved swiftly through the darkness and, from what he’d observed, steered clear of the daylight. She was getting old enough that the sun wouldn’t destroy her. Still, she shied away. Just as well. He preferred the night himself, an acquired taste that he embraced completely.

  He was standing deep in the shadows when she walked past him, her stride quick and sure, heading tonight in the opposite direction and toward Union Station. She only stopped when she stood beside a dirty old woman dressed in rags and huddled inside a bush near the edge of the park. As he’d seen her do the first night, she pressed money into the old bat’s hand.

  Armed with acute senses, he nearly gagged when he detected the odor drifting from the rags that completely covered the old woman. He didn’t get it. Why would Victoria even bother? People like that didn’t matter; they simply took up space. Diseased, filthy, and smelly, they didn’t even make a decent meal. He wouldn’t waste his time or soil his hands. Only the very desperate would look twice at the worthless thing. Considering how well-fed he was at the moment, she wouldn’t rate a second glance. Even if he was starving, he’d hesitate to feed on her.

  Of course, Victoria wasn’t feeding on the filth. In fact, she seemed to be taking care of her rather than scoping out a good meal. She might be altruistic in her actions toward the beggar. She wasn’t thinking dinner. Made him wonder where she did feed in this pretty little world she’d created for herself. So far he hadn’t seen her approach a human. The thought of animal blood made him shudder. Why would anyone in their right mind give up the sweetness of a human for an animal? Nothing compared to the ambrosia of the blood of a well-bred human.

  Hard to say what she was up to in this incarnation. She’d changed after the attack at the parsonage so long ago. Not for the better either. She’d had some kind of break with reality, and that break had cost him dearly. Now she had to pay. He’d lost time she could never give back to him. Still, there was something to the old saying about a pound of flesh. He intended to get what was coming to him, and she was going to be the one to give it to him.

  As he watched Victoria turn away from the old woman and begin to walk once more in the direction of Union Station, he had a sudden wicked though delightful thought. Brilliant, if he did say so.

  He watched the old woman as she lumbered away from the park and down the street. Yes, it was distasteful but it might very well give Victoria the kind of push he’d find endlessly entertaining. So far, his first gift hadn’t riled her up as much as he’d believed it would or should. How could she not sense both kills had been for her? Was she that far gone? It was time to ratchet the game up a notch or two and see what she was made of.

  When Victoria disappeared from view, he slid out of the darkness and began to walk in the same direction as the dirty old woman. Her stench grew stronger as he closed the gap. Perhaps he should come up with a different, less nauseating plan. But he kept following. It was too perfect to ignore, even if it was disgusting.

  The woman shuffled as she walked, the swish of her coat melding with the sound of her voice as she held a conversation with some nonexistent companion. Though her mental limitations and physical state repulsed him, Victoria seemed to have some sort of connection that made the old w
oman not just interesting but irresistible. He closed the final few feet that separated them.

  He quietly moved next to her and tilted his head toward hers. “Good evening,” he cooed.

  The old bat started and then put several feet of distance between them, shuffling her feet as fast as she could. “Go away,” she rasped, a fine spray of spittle nearly hitting him. “I’m invisible.”

  He smiled, even though the sensation of her saliva on his flesh made him want to snap her neck. Taking a breath, he buried his rage and kept his expression friendly. Out of the range of any more flying bodily fluids, he said, “Of course you are. So am I.”

  Her head rose and the remnants of a surprisingly once-pretty face tipped toward him. Now instead of beautiful, it was lined and sallow, framed by gray, matted hair. Her lips were cracked and dry, a line of dried blood across the bottom lip. A breeze blew, carrying with it a fetid odor that hit him full in the face. It took massive self-control not to let the overwhelming repulsion show on his face. He needed to end this before he lost it.

  Holding out his hand, he forced his smile to grow. She would come, they always did. Persuasion was a skill he could wield at will. Time hadn’t taken it away from him or dulled its power. “Come, let’s watch the night together.”

  She seemed to study him for a long time, her brow wrinkled.

  “It’s so beautiful with all the stars and the glowing moon. I would be honored to share it with you.”

  Perhaps he was losing his touch. She didn’t move, only continued to stare into his eyes. Then just about the time he thought he might have to use force, her expression cleared and she put her hand in his.

  *

  The last thing Tory meant to do was go back to the National Cathedral. She had work to do, not the least of which was figuring out how the New Testament had showed up on her desk. The only bit of information she’d confirmed so far was that Katrina had not destroyed Roland’s crypt, and while there had been some vandalism, it was still intact. Of course even if vandals had taken it from Roland’s final resting place, there was no way to connect it to her. For all the world, she’d ceased to exist hundreds of years ago.