Chapter Twenty-Five
Felicity wandered the streets for quite some time, unsure of what to do.
As tempting as it was to return to Marguerite’s haven without reinforcements, it was a mission that could only end in her death.
Going home was likewise out of the question.
The townhouse was a simmering den of hatred, an environment that had helped sustain her fury for so long.
So many evenings spent furiously launching sharpened silver knives at wooden targets while imagining them as the vampire she’d been searching for.
Anger had done that to her, twisted her up inside until the pressure had built and made her desperate for release. Then the perfect victim had come along.
Jonathan.
At first, he’d been nothing more than a stitch in her side, an irritating distraction that wouldn’t go away. But when she’d learned he was a vampire, she’d leaped at the opportunity to use his abilities to further her own interests.
And she’d called him selfish.
Remembering all the times she’d used the crucifix on him made her feel like she was going to cast up her accounts.
How could he ever love someone who had used him like a tool?
Her legs suddenly stopped moving, and she realized she was standing outside the Sloan House. The exhibit waited inside, a painful reminder of hundreds of hours spent furiously chasing revenge that wouldn’t have brought her family back.
It was time to close that chapter of her life. Mr. Blackwood would be furious when she told him she needed the artifacts that she’d donated back, but she had to try.
With renewed determination, she entered the building and made her way through the halls.
It was only when she heard shouting that her steps faltered.
She knew immediately where it was coming from, and her suspicion was proven correct when she found a group of uniformed men clustered around the curator outside the conservatory.
Mr. Blackwood moaned and tugged at his thin hair.
As she got closer, she realized the confrontation she’d feared would not be necessary.
Her exhibit was gone.
The tables were bare of all but the smallest and most trivial of artifacts, ones she assumed had been left behind because they were counterfeit or had no significant historical importance.
It had to have been Jonathan, although she didn’t know how he’d penetrated her warding spell.
Her shock slowly faded, replaced by a remarkable sense of lightness. None of the items had ever truly belonged to her. They’d been stolen from vampires her ancestors had murdered. Now they were back where they belonged.
Jonathan had solved that problem for her, and she loved him even more for it.
Mr. Blackwood shoved through the constables and rushed to her side, a notebook clutched in his arms. “Oh, Miss Sorrow, what are we going to do?” His cloudy eyes filled with tears. “We cannot allow patrons to see such a disaster! I’ve been trying to rearrange the displays—”
“Mr. Blackwood,” she said, but he continued talking over her.
“—cannot find a configuration that won’t result in a noticeable gap.” He dragged her into her office and slammed the door. “It’s impossible!”
“Mr. Blackwood, if you would—”
He moaned. “There is no other option. We will have to refund tickets.”
She plucked the notebook out of his grasp, which finally silenced him.
After studying the scribbled lists and rough sketches, she saw the problem. He’d been trying to use the existing layout in the conservatory, presumably to avoid moving tables, but that wouldn’t work.
“Do we still have the Great Exhibition collection in storage?” she asked.
Most of the objects from the grand event more than a decade earlier had been relocated to more prestigious museums or remained in the Crystal Palace, but a few of the more esoteric items had ended up at auctions, where Mr. Blackwood had acquired them.
“Yes!” the curator said. “Yes, that will work. Oh, thank you, Miss Sorrow!”
There was a soft knock at the door. The curator jumped to his feet. “Oh! That must be your great-uncle. I hope you don’t mind, my dear. I summoned him when I discovered we’d been burgled.”
Felicity tensed, expecting the old man to be furious, but when he entered the room, he lifted her into a crushing hug. “Where have you been?” He set her down. “You had us all worried, vanishing like that.”
“W-Well, I…” How could she tell him she’d occupied her evening engaged in amorous congress with a vampire? “I was out hunting.”
It was the best excuse she could come up with.
Having him angry at her for disobeying that order was preferable to him learning she’d betrayed her family by siding with the enemy.
“I’m sorry. I told you I would give up trying to follow in my parents’ footsteps if anything went wrong with my exhibit, and, well”—she dipped her chin—“you know the rest.”
He chuckled. “What you have done is worth setting aside my anger at the loss of a few artifacts. A haven is within our reach! It is only a matter of time before we find it. When we do, I will ensure you are officially credited with the kills.”
This was everything she had wanted. All she had to do was stay silent, and she’d have the future she’d imagined for nearly a decade.
She couldn’t do it.
After everything she’d seen, and especially after meeting Mordecai and the others, she couldn’t imagine hurting them. Some of the creatures she’d previously hunted had undoubtedly been monsters, but that was true of humanity as much as it was true of vampires.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“No need to apologize,” the old man said. He guided her out of the room with an arm around her back. “You will lead a patrol tonight. That will ease your mind.”
“W-What?” She’d hardly imagined joining a patrol, and now he wanted her to lead one. How could she explain that the thought of donning her gear again gave her chills? That she feared she would see Jonathan’s face in every vampire they fought?
Jonathan.
He’d said there could be nothing more between them, but she still didn’t want him to die of mate atrophy. Her blood had healed him. Did that mean she was his fated mate? She’d have to ask Winifred, now that the walls around her heart had fallen and she was no longer afraid of the answer.
“…cousins are preparing your equipment,” Great-Uncle Ezra said.
“I’m quite tired,” she said. She mostly wanted him to stop, although there was an aching in the back of her skull, like someone had smashed her head against the tile. She’d wait for her family to leave her alone, then return to Winifred’s haven.
The old man’s expression softened. “Of course. You will have as much time as you need to rest. You can always join the hunt tomorrow. Come, let us return home.”
He led her out of the museum, droning on about how her parents would have been so proud and that he’d known all along that she was meant to be a hunter. She ignored him and stared at her feet during the cab ride.
Storming out of Jonathan’s house without giving him a chance to explain had been rather impulsive. Perhaps he had a good reason for keeping his true motives from her. She had certainly hidden enough from him. Anything he had done had been to protect himself from the enemy.
She owed him an explanation.
Unfortunately, escaping her family proved much more difficult than expected.
Her cousins mobbed her the moment she’d walked through the door and made her suffer several hours of celebrating.
By the time she convinced them she had a megrim, it was well past midnight.
She trudged up the stairs and waited in her room until the house fell silent, then threw her cloak over her shoulders and crept down the back staircase into the alley.
The air was thick with smoke, and the sky above her was stained pink. Her mouth went dry as a terrible suspicion entered her mind. She ran around the building and halted at the edge of a crowd.
Thick, black smoke billowed out of open windows on the ground floor of Marguerite’s haven as firemen pumped water out of a small, wheeled fire engine.
A group of black-clothed figures lingered across the street, the leader of the Sorrow hunters among them. When he spotted her, he lifted his arm in greeting.
She approached with numb legs.
“I see you changed your mind,” Great-Uncle Ezra said. He nodded toward the house. “You should be proud. We would never have realized a haven was so close if we hadn’t used William to follow you.”
It was at that moment that Felicity felt a searing pain in her palm. She yanked off her glove, but the flesh was unblemished.
Her great-uncle grasped her shoulder. “What is the matter?”
Jonathan was in trouble. She didn’t know how she knew, but she did. She struggled out of the old man’s grip and ran toward the burning building, not caring when he called after her. She had made it around to the back of the house when Winifred suddenly appeared in front of her.
Felicity reeled back. “Winifred! W-Where—” She gasped as the pain returned, this time in her chest.
“What’s wrong?” Winifred asked. “Are you injured?”
“N-No.” Felicity could barely speak. It felt like her corset had transformed into an iron vise that was closing around her.
Winifred grabbed her face. “Where is Jonathan? He wasn’t in his haven.”
Felicity’s whole body went cold. “I-I don’t know. I told him the vampire who had made the fledglings and killed my parents was hiding next door to the hunter base, then we fought and I-I ran.”
Winifred paled, then turned her head toward the fire. “Oh, God.”
Felicity shoved past her cousin. Jonathan was inside Marguerite’s haven. She didn’t know how, but his pain was being transmitted to her. She squeezed through what remained of the door.
“Jonathan!”