Chapter Sixteen
As Jonathan carried a hastily blindfolded Felicity out of the gambling hell, he cursed his mistake. He had forgotten that Mr. Aaron Wormwood had taken over management. The last time they’d met, Jonathan had swindled the man out of hundreds of pounds.
He shuffled Felicity in his arms. She had been almost unrecognizable in her role as his concubine. It made him wonder what she would be like in bed. Most humans were quite fragile, so he’d only visited his past mistresses every few days. Though lately, the idea of finding a new one did not appeal.
Perhaps it was Felicity’s blood. He’d only consumed a drop during their kiss, but the fresh, tart taste clung to the inside of his mouth and made him long for more.
And her scent! Instead of dimming with his bite, it had intensified.
No human had ever tempted him more. As he clutched her closer and inhaled, he tripped over a rock.
When he hit the ground, Felicity rolled away, plucked the silk from her eyes, and leaped to her feet.
Damn. Now he’d have to extract a real promise from her not to reveal the location of the gambling hall to her family. He held out his hands as Felicity stomped toward him, steam practically erupting from her ears.
“How.” Stomp “Dare.” Stomp “You!” She put her hands on her hips. “Stand up.”
The order shot through him like an electric shock. He fought the compulsion, but it was like trying to move the bed of a rushing river. His sore thighs flexed, and his body moved of its own accord until he was back on his feet.
She swung a hand, obviously intending to slap him, but he caught it, then pressed his lips to her knuckles. “You did exceptionally well.” He drew her close, then continued in a whisper. “We are still being watched. Keep up the act unless you want me to return you home without your head.”
Her face turned bright red, but she kept her lips shut. All the better, as a dozen vampires peered down from the windows of the buildings above. Wormwood’s spies.
Jonathan scooped Felicity over his shoulder like a sack of flour. She didn’t resist but made an angry noise in the back of her throat.
“That’s more like it, darling,” he said loudly. “Save your fury for our bedchamber.”
They were almost at his carriage. His driver, Mr. Ferris, had arrived just in time. He sped up, but just as they were within reach of freedom, something slammed into his side.
He was quick to rise, but not quick enough. Their attacker, an emaciated, red-haired fledgling garbed in a pale-yellow dress that sagged around her skeletal frame, was already on Felicity. She snapped her jaws and shredded Felicity’s cloak with her claws.
Red tinted his vision. He withdrew his fangs and tackled the woman off her.
“Jonathan!” Felicity cried.
She had said his given name. A small part of him cheered in triumph, while the rest struggled to get the fledgling under control. Angry-looking bite marks covered the woman’s thin arms, and when he inhaled, he smelled burning candles and incense.
Marguerite.
The writhing creature jerked her head, tearing a chunk of flesh from his throat.
The wound shouldn’t have been serious, but within a few seconds, his limbs grew heavy.
He clasped the vampire’s head and twisted once, violently.
Her head came off with a sickening crunch.
He tossed it so it rolled toward Felicity’s feet.
Then he lay on his back and stared up at the hazy sky.
If he hadn’t been so exhausted, he would have leaped to his feet, grabbed Felicity’s hands, and twirled her around.
He’d been right all along. Marguerite was alive, and she’d returned to London.
What he didn’t understand was how she was connected to the fledglings. Was it possible she’d made them? The maker he remembered would never have done something so foolish as letting her children roam the street.
Maybe that was exactly what she’d intended.
This could have been some manner of test, a way to gauge if her nest had become strong enough to survive without her.
If so, he was going to fail. He probed his wound with his fingers.
It hadn’t fully healed. The mate atrophy was worsening.
He had to get the codex and find the cure for his condition before his maker saw how weak he’d become and left the city in disgust.
Felicity bent over him, her hair drooping around her head. There was a bruise forming on her collarbone, and her cloak was in ruins. She frowned. “Why aren’t you healing?”
“I don’t know,” he lied.
There was a gash on her forehead. Blood dripped down her neck and landed on his lips. He stretched his tongue and shuddered when the honey-sweet liquid filled his mouth.
“Stay there,” Felicity said. “Don’t move.”
He heard her walk away and assumed she was dealing with the remains of the fledgling.
“Does she…” he started to ask before exhaustion robbed him of the ability to speak.
“Yes, it has the mark,” she said. Then she returned and helped him upright. His head lolled to the side. And blood gushed from his neck.
This was backward. He was supposed to be the one protecting her.
At the end of the alley, Mr. Ferris jumped down from his seat. The man’s black hair was plastered to his head, and his round face was as white as a sheet. When he spotted them, he rushed forward. Before he reached them, a chilling howl split the night.
Werewolves.
Felicity waved the man back. “Get the door!”
He hesitated for a moment before whirling around and doing as she’d asked.
“We’re out of time,” Felicity said between panting breaths. “I have no choice.” She gently laid Jonathan down, then rose and put her hands on her hips. “Get up.”
The order jerked his aching body into movement. He rose unsteadily to his feet.
She pointed to the carriage. “Walk.”
He shuffled forward. With each step, white-hot pain shot up his legs, but at least he was moving. He wiped his sweaty face with his sleeve.
“Keep waking,” Felicity said. Her voice was strained.
“Why are you helping me?” he asked. She could have staked him or left him to perish when the sun rose. That was what Marguerite would have done. She’d often said that a vampire who couldn’t protect themselves deserved to die.
Felicity ordered him into the carriage. When he was awkwardly sprawled inside, she removed a handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it against his wound. “I don’t like you, Mr. Drake.”
“‘Jonathan,’” he croaked. “You called me ‘Jonathan’ earlier.”
She scoffed. “Fine. I don’t like you, Jonathan. You are a murderer. A creature of darkness.”
He pulled back his lips to bare his teeth, even though his fangs were not out. “Grr.”
She sniffed. “Precisely. But for now, I need you.”
Those words, even said with contempt, made his heart pound. When was the last time anyone had needed him? His siblings certainly didn’t. He was the carefree rogue, the flippant younger brother who only got himself in trouble.
He leaned into the warmth of her touch. “Thank you.”
The carriage suddenly halted. A moment later, Mr. Ferris wrenched the door open, letting in a blast of cool air.
Felicity draped an arm over Jonathan’s chest. “Why have we stopped?”
Mr. Ferris cleared his throat. “I am terribly sorry, Miss Sorrow, but I cannot take you to the haven.”
She tightened her grip. “What? Why?”
The friction against Jonathan’s wounds made him wince, but he did not complain.
“Mr. Drake’s orders,” Mr. Ferris said. “I am not to allow any human to learn the haven’s location.”
Felicity huffed. “That is absurd. Jonathan, tell your driver—”
“He’s right,” Jonathan said. “Mr. Ferris, you are to deliver Miss Sorrow to her townhouse before returning to the haven.”
Felicity must have finally agreed because the next thing he knew, Cordon was carrying him up the steps.
Then the world went black.
When he awoke again, he was lying in his bed with his neck bandaged. He had dreamed of Felicity, her body soft against his, her lips caressing his skin, her blood dripping down his throat. His body insistently reminded him she was a most attractive woman.
It had been mere hours since he’d anticipated making her suffer, but his revenge would have to wait now that he knew the vampire she sought was connected to Marguerite.
Wormwood had suggested it might be Madame Pearce, the owner of a brothel near the docks, but it would be foolish not to consider the possibility that his own maker was responsible.
The way Felicity had described her parents’ attacker matched what he remembered of Marguerite, but it didn’t make sense.
She wouldn’t have attacked hunters in their own home, nor would she have left Felicity, a witness, alive.
Until he was sure how his maker was involved, he had to stay close to Felicity. The only thing worse than not finding Marguerite would be letting her fall victim to hunters.
He struggled out of his bed, feeling as if he had been run over by a thousand horses’ hooves, then picked up the carafe of blood sitting on the table beside his bed and flicked open the lid.
It was cold, but he didn’t care. He downed the whole thing, then licked his lips and waited for relief.
Usually, consuming human blood allowed him to heal within seconds.
When several minutes passed and he still felt terrible, he peeled the bandages from his neck.
They were still sticky and wet, definitely not a good sign.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t see the cut, as mirrors were not something he could use.
He would have to get someone else to inspect the damage.
There was a rap at the door. Jonathan sighed. “Come in.”
It was Cordon who entered, of course.
“How do you feel?” Cordon asked.
Jonathan shrugged, which was apparently the wrong move because it caused his wound to tear open.
Cordon cursed. “That should have healed by now. Keep pressure on it. I will get Helena.” Then he ran off.
Jonathan stared at the carpet beneath his bare feet, the patterns seeming to blur and then come back into focus, until the sound of rapid footfalls warned his brother was returning. He lifted his head as Cordon entered, with Helena on his heels.
She dropped to her knees in front of him and put her hands on his shoulders. “Show me.”
He tilted his head to the side and allowed her to peel back the dressing. The putrid aroma emanating from the injury made him nauseated. Cordon gagged, but Helena remained completely unfazed.
She reached into her pocket and removed a glass vial filled with a hazy, white liquid.
“What is that?” Cordon asked.
She pulled the cork free with her teeth, then lifted it to Jonathan’s mouth. “Distilled blood. I acquired it from Marcus.” She dripped the substance onto Jonathan’s lips. “Drink.”
He shuddered at the soapy taste but forced himself to swallow, then felt the foul concoction wriggling down his throat. A cloying taste clung to his tongue until he scraped it away with his teeth.
“It’s not the best taste,” Helena said. “But it encourages healing.” She removed another vial from her pocket. He groaned.
“None of that!” She curled his fingers around the vial. “Drink this one yourself.”
Somewhat to his surprise, he had the strength to lift his hand to his lips. He tilted his head back and took the contents of the vial like a shot of whiskey.
Helena pursed her lips. “How did you get yourself into such a terrible state?”
He ran his fingers over the unblemished skin of his neck.
The crucifix must still have been there, although he could not feel it.
Another of the artifact’s tricks. It must also have been invisible to Cordon and Helena, or they would have said something.
He scraped a bit of dried blood from his chin.
“I was attacked by another crazed fledgling.”
Cordon uttered a string of words that would have made Felicity blush.
“You were with the hunter, weren’t you?” Helena asked. There was no accusation in her voice, only resignation. Still, he felt the need to defend himself.
“I know what I’m doing.”
Lying to them was easier than admitting his own failure. He had lived for decades longer than Felicity, yet he remained ensnared in her trap.
Helena pressed her lips together and glanced at Cordon. The older vampire shook his head slightly.
Jonathan clenched his hands. They were treating him like a child again.
“I think it would be best if you remained inside the haven for a few nights,” Cordon said. “You were lucky Seraphina was watching you with the hunter and alerted us, or we might not have arrived before you.”
Jonathan gritted his teeth. He was so close to finding their maker. At least Helena hadn’t noticed the crucifix when she’d bandaged him, or he was sure he would have been the recipient of one of Cordon’s lectures.
He was tempted to tell them he suspected Marguerite was alive, but he knew exactly what they’d say. Without proof, they’d claim he was seeing patterns in chaos, creating a scenario that would fulfill his desperate wish to see their maker again.
Helena leaned back. “We’re worried about you, brother. You waited too long to act and now the codex is protected.”
Winifred had told them about Felicity’s warding spell. The youngest vampire in the nest had failed again. He was surprised Marcus had not yet arrived to relieve him of his duty.
“I have a plan to get through the hunter’s ward,” he said. They didn’t need to know Felicity had cast the spell using his blood, which made him immune to its power. “Lest you forget, this is my mission.”
Cordon sighed. “You’re stalling, brother.”
Jonathan wasn’t sure which irritated him more, Cordon’s glowering disapproval or Helena’s gentle admonishment.
They were behaving as if he’d been made months ago, instead of decades.
He almost preferred Felicity’s commands to his siblings’ attempts to guilt him into compliance.
At least the hunter had respected the threat he represented.
She hadn’t begged for his help as women often did when they wanted to sway a man into doing their bidding.
Quite the opposite: she had forced him to do her bidding. He respected her for taking control.
“I can take care of myself,” Jonathan said. Then he strode out of the room without looking back.