Trocar took it with bemusement. “It will be worth the charade, my friend, if we find them alive.”
Together, the leather dom-clad Grael and pseudosubmissive Werewolf left the room, the hotel, and caught a cab to the little Soho shop to begin their search. It would provide the beginning of the scent trail for Pavel’s tracking abilities.
In the annals of history there are few recorded individuals with the depravity of Dracula. His crimes against invaders and visitors were only surpassed by his crimes against his own people, even against his own family. Legends of his dining amidst a forest of twenty thousand of his impaled victims, both dead and dying, abounded. It was said that he dipped his bread in the blood of those executed.
Another oft-repeated story was that he sliced his mistress open from sternum to pelvis when she dared to lie to him about a pregnancy. She had hoped to cheer him up by telling him she bore the fruit of his love. Dracula opened her up like a melon, demanding to know where his child was. There were other stories. Stories of him nailing the hats to the heads of Turkish ambassadors who refused to remove them in his presence; executing babies born out of wedlock and their mothers; flaying nobles who ignored their responsibility to their lands and lord.
Once he took vengeance upon the poor and infirm of his own city. He had invited the lot of them to a feast in a church. Astonished by their ruler’s generosity, the unfortunate came to the feast. Dracula fed them well, then ordered the church doors and windows nailed shut. Dracula himself watched as tinder was stacked against the building and set alight. He then bragged that his city held no poor, no sick, no beggars; that only prosperity bloomed under his rule. The legends were true. Transylvania had a monster for a prince.
Dracula was a monster before his rebirth. The power of the Vampire only added to his twisted mentality. Now he was unparalleled in his viciousness and paranoia. Those close to him were there due to demonstrations of unswerving loyalty and blind obedience. His lieutenants possessed intellect as well. Dracula wanted orders followed to the letter, but also carried out in the spirit of the deed.
Watching as the women began to shake off the effects of the Pixie venom, Dracula sent out a silent call before moving to the stairs, leading up from the basement of the elaborate estate. He didn’t want his identity or his presence known just yet. By the time the women were under his subordinate’s thrall, he would be far away, using his time to plan his move against Rachlav.
The estate itself belonged to one of his trusted entourage: Mr. Oscar Gray, Esquire. He was a fairly young Vampire, but had sought out the dark prince in his mortal days, eager to be of service in exchange for immortality. Dracula’s thoughts flickered briefly to his protégé.
Oscar Gray, who at the moment was lounging his six-foot, two-inch gorgeous body by a crackling fire in the upstairs library, had posed under the name of Wilde, a writer. One of his works, The Portrait of Dorian Gray, had been a shocking best seller. The story of an ageless immortal who had made a deal with the devil. Dracula found that little plot twist particularly amusing.
In the story, the character, Dorian, had a portrait painted of himself. The portrait, hidden away in a secret room, carried with it all the depravity, disease, debauchery of its owner—aging and morphing into a hideous caricature of its owner while Dorian himself stayed young and beautiful.
The story wasn’t exactly fiction. Oscar had led a very checkered lifestyle. Upon contracting syphilis, he had sought and found Dracula, offering his own “soul” as it were, for the Vampire’s kiss. Dracula had been only too happy to oblige. Oscar was a particularly juicy coup.
Bright, blond, blue-eyed, beautiful and wholly without a conscience, Oscar was simply charming, winning over mortals and Paramortals alike, a trait Dracula found endearing. His legal expertise was essential to circumvent immigration, acquire property, a dozen different identities, and as bait: a perfect lure for anyone, male or female since he was bisexual and didn’t discriminate. Oscar owned the home they were in at the moment, but Dracula’s call had gone to another. Someone he wanted to personally take care of Rachlav’s little tart. Someone whose proclivity for twisted evil rivaled his master’s and was much, much more obvious.
Over one hundred-fifty years before, this someone had become legend. That legend, like him, had never died. Moving through the stately hallways and corridors to pass his master on the stairs with an graceful nod, the Vampire was almost ordinary next to Dracula’s dark, compelling beauty. Not particularly tall, about five feet, nine inches, of medium build and frame, his face was rather handsome, but in an almost ordinary, Human way.
Dark brown, wavy hair framed that face and curled gently about the ears. Eyes that were a peculiar shade of reddish brown, almost a rust color, took in the scene as he reached the basement of the estate. Two women, scantily clad and bound, lay before him. The ordinarily handsome face suddenly became fascinating with otherworldly beauty as the Vampire smiled. It would have made him lovely except for the deadly cold malice in his eyes.
Kimber was stirring. The Pixie venom had worked its way through her system, leaving her muddled, bleary-eyed and groggy. Peering out through golden-green eyes, she could see that they weren’t alone. She instantly began to assess their situation as her vision cleared. Gillian lay near her but not close enough and didn’t seem to have come to yet.
It was a dimly lit, windowless area, damp and dank. Probably a basement. The lone man who faced them was dark, not very tall, handsome but unremarkable. Then he smiled and that smile chilled her more than any threat from any enemy she’d ever faced. Instinct told her to scream, run, get away. Years of training and an iron stubbornness to overcome all obstacles fought a brief internal battle.
“Kemo Sabe,” she whispered through a throat that was dry from the effects of the Pixie venom. “We have company.”
Dimly, Gillian heard Kimber’s whisper. Strange. She felt hungover but without the headache. Opening her eyes tentatively, she saw her friend lying nearby. Their eyes met. It seeped in what Kimber had just said. Shit, now what?
Turning her head slightly, her vision clearing rapidly, Gillian focused on the newcomer. Dark hair, what color eyes—rusty brown?—good looking, but…Jesus. She caught the smile that made him beautiful, then her empathy caught the soul and her blood turned to ice. Handsome yes, then suddenly strikingly fascinating and coldly malicious. Vampire. And a crazy fucker at that. No doubt in her mind about it at all. He was practically leaking evil and psychosis.
The voice was deep and inviting, clipped and pure upper-crust British. “My Prince wanted me to welcome you personally, Gillian Key.”
He didn’t move a muscle, just stood there like a mannequin, but Gillian was scared out of her mind. Pure undiluted evil seemed to radiate from every pore. The more she looked at him, the more it seemed the edges of his silhouette blurred just a little and his face seemed to shift. When she looked away, she couldn’t remember exactly what his face looked like. The Pixie venom apparently had lingering effects. It was like coming off a bad acid trip.
“Tell your Prince to go fuck himself,” she snapped and was rewarded by a flicker of pure malice in those rust-colored eyes.
“Such language from such a lovely mouth.”
The stranger’s tone never changed, but Gillian could hear Kimber’s teeth chattering. Or was it hers?
“Let’s skip the niceties and get to the point. What does your master want?” Gill deliberately used the term master. This one didn’t look as though he’d enjoy being anyone’s servant.
Laughter. He simply laughed, harshly, bitingly. It rolled like broken glass through her mind. “My ‘master’, as you call him, has entrusted me with…your care.”
Now his voice was a purring suggestion. She could guess the nature of that suggestion.
“Just fucking lovely.” Gillian sighed as she lay back on the damp floor, mentally shaking herself to scrape the Pixie-venom film off her thought processes. “Since you seem to know my name, you have me at a disadvantage,
as I don’t recall us being introduced.”
The Vampire looked at her as though she were a slow student in his class. She could feel his power radiating from him. It wasn’t as strong as Aleksei’s or Tanis’s but it was thick with depravity. He wasn’t very old. Maybe a century, not much more. That she could tell. Old or not, his answer made her stomach churn.
“I left my true name long ago, Dr. Key. But my Prince, and history, have named me Jack.”
That smile again. Ew!
“Perhaps you have heard of me and my particular talents from your history books,” he added smugly.
“I’m not sure, is there a special category for sociopathic ass-holes in fangland?” Gillian smirked while still steadily gazing up at him from her floor-level vantage point. She’d felt him clearly—he was making no effort to conceal what he was, and he was one psychotic son of a bitch by anybody’s yardstick.
He hissed at that, and his power surged. Kimber managed to swing her legs around and kick Gillian in the butt. “Shut up!” her partner snarled. “I know we’re not supposed to show fear, but pissing him off is not a good plan right now!”
“Hey, it couldn’t get much worse,” Gillian bit back.
“I beg to differ, Dr. Key. It most certainly could be much worse. Just as it was for those lovely ladies in Whitechapel.” Now it was the Vampire’s turn to smirk as realization dawned in Gill’s mind.
CHAPTER
30
S HE paled as realization clicked on, her thoughts picking that particular moment to rally and make sense of what he was saying. Whitechapel, London…ladies…worse things…his apparent age…the thoughts were muddled but lining up in a very unfortunate manner. If she were right about who and what stood before her…she and Kimber were in deeper shit than they’d ever been in before, without a prayer of getting out of this alive and in one piece. Ideally she was still under the hallucinating influence of Pixie-venom nightmares and would wake up cold and uncomfortable in some random Vampire’s basement without the possibility of running into this particular Vampire.
Gods above, just this one time, let me be wrong, she prayed silently.
“Whitechapel?” Her mouth was dry and she cleared her throat. “Are suggesting that you are…”
“Not suggesting, Dr. Key, just stating a fact.” He interrupted her smoothly, dropping his gaze to admire the nails on his left hand.
Kimber, who had also been paying attention and had read some of Gillian’s deviant behavior textbooks, was drawing her own conclusions and had an opinion. “Oh shit.”
“Jack,” Gillian began, ignoring Kimber for the moment and still desperately hoping that she was wrong. She shifted onto her hip and shoulder, raising her head higher to meet his eyes.
“Just Jack?”
She shivered involuntarily in memory of the faded autopsy photos she’d committed to memory, displayed prominently in a textbook on serial killers and their signatures. Wrapping her mind around this was difficult with the Pixie venom, and she really, really didn’t want to come to the conclusion she’d already arrived upon.
Being a Vampire would explain how he vanished into history’s pages of infamy, never having been caught, his identity to remain a mystery for all time. The most infamous serial killer in history, though his actual body count was fairly low…but known for the silent ferocity, the viciousness of his attacks…all against women. The things he had done to those women…
That chilling smile again. “Saucy Jack.”
“Shit.”
“Or in more conventional circles, Jack the Ripper.”
He smiled more broadly as he watched terror enter the eyes of the two women. They were all the same no matter what century they were in. All of them were in need of guidance and purification from a strong male, especially these modern ones who dressed and acted like men. Sluts. He would see to it that they were properly prepared for his Prince’s expectations.
What he didn’t count on was that Gillian was just as determined that they would live through this. She was also rapidly formulating a plan to put him to rest once and for all, if she had to come back to England eventually to do it.
Kimber was struggling with her bonds in near panic. Gillian didn’t bother, though she was close to the same panic. The Pixies, nimble-fingered little bastards that they were, had done a stellar job of immobilizing them. Until someone untied them or they were given an opportunity to help each other, they would remain tied up.
Talking might be a bad idea, but it was all she had at the moment. Proud of herself that she was able to keep her voice from shaking, she went for it. They were worth more alive than dead or they already would have been gutted and bled out; of that she was certain.
“All right, but I have to assume that even if you are Jack the Ripper, that your boss has told you to keep us alive, or we would already be dead.”
Jack laughed. “You may assume that, yes. However, there is no guarantee that you will remain alive, Doctor. At least not in the Human sense.” His eyes glittered at them but he still made no move.
Kimber interjected at that point. “But you’re a serial killer, even if you are a Vampire. So that would eliminate you, er, feeding on us.”
It was Gill’s turn to swing around and kick her. “Shut up! Do not help me with making instructive observations, okay?”
After that moment’s inattention, he was right beside them, a scalpel in his left hand. Both women flinched back as far as they could in their bindings. They knew his history and his manner of killing. He crouched, careful not to touch either of them directly, and stared at Kimber.
“You are correct. But I am more than that term you use—serial killer—my dear. I am what your Dr. Key would term a sexual sadist. Is that not correct, Dr. Key?”
At her surprised look, he added, “I am not illiterate, Doctor. I do read and I do keep up with your world’s current events and terms.”
“Great. I am impressed that you know your own pathology and diagnosis, you sick twist. Is this the part where you taunt us, then carve us up?” Gill was scared.
Kimber was torn between giving Gillian “atta girl” points for having brass cajones in certain-death situations, and choking her for being a smartass to a serial killer. She settled for squeaking in an inarticulate, unmarinelike manner. “Okay!”
“No, my dear Dr. Key. I am here merely as an incentive for you to cooperate.” Jack’s voice was soothing, neutral, as he ignored her comment. “If the Prince wanted you dead, he would have sent Bruno.”
“And Bruno is worse than you?” she asked incredulously.
“Infinitely. The man has no finesse.”
Jack twirled the scalpel in the dim light, studying its razor-sharp edge. Great. Wasn’t that just fucking comforting?
Gill let that go. “Cooperate in what?”
“I will let Prince Dracula tell you in his own time. I am what awaits you should you decide to not be agreeable to his suggestions.”
He rose. “I must leave you now, but shall return later. At some point I will send down food, drink and”—his gaze raked them both—“more suitable clothing.”
With that, he turned to leave. Gillian didn’t think—she kicked out with both legs, catching him off guard. As he fell, she bucked again, delivering a two-footed kick directly between his legs. Even a Vampire will notice a direct assault to his gonads and, with a groan, Jack folded like a bad poker hand.
Both women stared in stunned horror as Jack the Ripper assumed the writhing-lotus position on the floor, dangerously close to both of them. Gillian managed to get her shoulders up against Kimber’s legs and shoved the other woman further back, away from the thrashing Vampire. Struggling mightily, Gill managed to get her knees under her and tried to get to Kimber, who was nearly bent double, fighting against her bonds.
Abruptly Gillian’s head was jerked backward, her alarmed eyes meeting a pair of rust-brown orbs as Jack’s fingers wrapped in her hair, pulling her backward, exposing her throat. Fangs slammed down as hi
s mouth opened and his eyes blazed inches from her face.
“You pathetic little slut!” Jack hissed in her ear, twisting her neck painfully.
“Sick twist!” Gillian gasped out, refusing to give him any more of her fear than she already had.
“Oh fuck,” moaned Kimber, watching the unfortunate exchange playing out in front of her.
Gillian figured she’d had it. This was a rather incongruous way to die, with Jack the Ripper’s fangs in her throat. Silently she began her funeral prayer: Cast not me down for I have done no evil…—it was all she could do. He had her positioned so she couldn’t move. Her strength against his was paltry at best. If she couldn’t die fighting, she’d do it with dignity.
“If not for my Prince’s order, I would open you like a melon.” Jack’s voice wasn’t getting any better. He had the purring silk of any Vampire, but overlaid on it was maliciousness and hatred so thick she could have cut it with his scalpel.
Scalpel! Where was it? He’d dropped it on the floor, she was sure, or it would now be buried in her throat. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a glint of silver. Fluttering her eyes shut, she went boneless in his hands. The unexpected collapse of his captive made Jack reflexively let go as she stopped resisting him and Gillian crumpled to the floor. She managed to fall on top of the surgical instrument, praying like hell that the Vampire wouldn’t notice it was missing.
“There will be little time for fainting theatrics later, girl.” The Vampire got to his feet, glaring down at the little blonde curled on the floor. Kimber noticed that he wiped the hand he’d held her with on his trouser leg, then kept it out from his body, touching nothing with it. He whirled, gliding up the stairs and out of the room, his image blurring as he moved away from them. The door slammed forcefully behind him.
Once he was gone and they were alone, Gillian rolled toward Kimber. “Well, shit, let’s get out of these strings and figure out how to get out of here.” She moved to reveal the scalpel beneath her.
Key to Conflict Page 32
