Chapter 45
Chapter Forty-Five
The Cavendish was easily one of London’s finest hotels.
Overlooking the Thames, its views were awe-inspiring, though when the wind blew in the wrong direction, the smell sucked all joy out of the vista. Inside the room were the finest of furnishings, and the long, thick drapes suited our needs perfectly.
Sunaria had procured one of their larger suites. The chestnut, four-poster bed was preferable to any casket, and its soft linen sheets were the type to which I’d become accustomed.
We paid the staff well to stay away from us.
I awoke to see Sunaria huddled up in a corner chair, her legs tucked beneath her. I raised myself up onto my elbows. “Come back to bed.”
“You have a death wish,” she said.
I shrugged.
She sighed. “You were having nightmares.”
“Can’t imagine why.”
“You ask me to share my secrets and then you keep yours from me.”
I threw off the blankets and swung my legs over the side.
My behavior had always been reckless, but last night, I’d outdone myself.
In one of Archer’s books, the ritual at Stonehenge had been described in detail.
They’d unwittingly gathered the ashes of all the vampires they’d slaughtered in one place.
“Don’t look at me like that.” Sunaria gave me an uneasy glance.
“My thoughts were miles away.”
She rose and approached me. “Darling, we’ve agreed we mustn’t keep anything from each other anymore.”
“Fine. You can go first.”
Her fingers caressed my scalp, and it felt good. But then she closed her mind to me.
I pushed her away and reached for the clothes I’d thrown onto the floor that morning.
“Where are you going now?” she asked, watching me dress.
I pulled on my coat.
“You’re not going to St. Paul’s,” she continued. “It’s too dangerous.”
“I have to see it through.”
“You went to that society’s house?”
“I don’t think it’s their official base.”
“And afterward, you visited Marcus.” She slid between me and the door. “What did you talk about?” she asked, glaring at me. “You’re not the only one who suffered. Delacroix trapped me in that awful coffin.”
I nudged her. “Step aside.”
“I know I should have told you everything. But I didn’t think you’d understand.”
“Then you insult me.”
“Try to see things from my side.”
“When you don’t let me in, I can’t.” I pulled away from her.
“And why are you bringing Marcus into this?”
“Sunaria, too many questions.”
“You trust him. Why don’t you trust me?”
“Get dressed.” I led her away from the door.
“I’m not going with you.”
“Then meet me there.”
“I refuse to go.”
“I’m not asking you, Sunaria” I snapped. “I’m telling you.”
She jerked away from me. “You can’t order me around like this.”
I took hold of her shoulders and sat her on the bed a little too forcefully.
“Why are you being like this?”
She tried to get up, but I pushed her back down and held her there. “Because I don’t trust you.”
“You can’t take the Creda on by yourself. As for Delacroix, we both know what he’s capable of.”
“I’m going to right your wrongs.”
She slapped me.
The look I gave her caused her to freeze.
Unable to push me off, she turned her head away.
I lifted the hem of her dress and reached between her thighs.
She struggled, unable to break free. My fingers found their way to that softness, and I excited her there with a perfect rhythm, expertly pleasuring her.
She couldn’t know that I was doing all this for her.
My love for her felt like a tender agony. Pressing my lips to hers and then gliding down to her throat, not in hunger, but in reverence, knowing that to love her fully would damn me to her darkness.
She arched her back and my mouth pressed against hers again, kissing her leisurely, skillfully indulging her as I controlled her with a firm touch, my fingers wet from her arousal.
“I forgive you,” she whispered.
I wrapped my left arm under her waist, shifting her up, all the while prolonging her excitement. “But the question is,” I said as my fingers plunged into her, “do I forgive you?”
My fangs grazed her nipple and I suckled it through her chemise, feeling it harden in response, all the while pumping my fingers. My thumb firmly rolled over her moistened bud, her hips rising to greet my thrusts, her exotic perfume mixing with her rich fragrance, and flooding my senses.
Loving you is like stepping into the abyss.
Her thoughts or mine?
Although Sunaria kept me at arm’s length, not so for the way I penetrated her now, breaking down her last defense.
My hand worked to persuade her to trust me.
I felt her quivering against my fingertips, appreciating every nuance of her.
I resisted the ache of my own hardness. I just wanted her to give herself over to me entirely.
Sunaria’s sigh became a throaty groan, and her thighs shuddered as she came, trying to catch her breath as I stole it from her with a kiss.
I slapped her buttocks playfully.
Sunaria stared at something behind me, and I turned to see Rachel in the doorway. Sunaria yanked down her dress.
“Well, hello there.” I smiled at Rachel.
“How long have you been standing there?” Sunaria asked, annoyed.
“Please hurry.” Rachel looked miserable. “Marcus is drunk.”
I sat up. “He can’t be drunk.”
“Unless his victim was,” Sunaria said.
Rachel bit her bottom lip. “He’s drunk three bottles of wine.”
Sunaria and I swapped a wary glance.
“Has he eaten food?” I asked.
Rachel nodded.
“That’s just great.” I sighed. “Bloody great.”
Reluctantly, I left Sunaria behind and followed Rachel out into the night. Rachel and I found Marcus lying in his own vomit.
They’d created a den of sorts in the lower rooms of a rundown East London shack. Paint was peeling off the walls and broken windows gave the room a horrid sense of vulnerability. No thought had gone into choosing their temporary refuge. At least, I hoped they considered it temporary.
“Nice place,” I said.
Despite my assertion that I’d take care of them, I’d let them down. Finding Marcus lying in this filth was evidence of my abandonment.
“How do you bear it?” Marcus slurred.
“It gets easier,” I said flatly. “Rachel, bring me a cloth.”
She scurried off.
“I thought you were staying at the Old Towne Inn?” I gave him a thin smile.
“Rachel took a fancy to the innkeeper.”
“She didn’t—”
“Drank him dry.” His eyelids fluttered shut.
I shook him. “Did you finish the job I gave you?”
“Are you sure you want to go through with it?” Marcus asked.
“Yes. Though I didn’t account for you getting inebriated.”
“I’m dying.”
“You’re pissed. You have a headache.”
He retched and I dodged his vomit.
“My head’s spinning,” he mumbled. “We can’t eat food. Does that not strike you as strange?”
“We’ve been over this.”
Rachel returned and placed the bucket by my side. I dipped the old rag into the water and washed Marcus’ face.
“She doesn’t seem to mind drinking blood.” He pointed to Rachel. “She almost looks like she’s enjoying herself.”
I found Rachel’s guilty expression endearing. “You need mentoring.”
“If you die tonight, we’re done for,” he sobbed.
“What’s happening tonight?” Rachel asked.
“I’m a vampire!” Marcus cried.
“You’re a sorry excuse for a vampire,” I said.
He clutched my shirt sleeve. “Am I insane?”
“Help me get him undressed.” I turned to Rachel. “He’ll sleep off the booze, and then he’ll be fine.”
Marcus pulled me closer. “I’ve let you down.”
I glanced out of the window and wondered how long it would be before he sobered up.
“We have to be at St. Paul’s in under an hour,” I said.
“Shall I throw the rest of the chicken away?” Rachel said.
I stared at her, hoping she was joking. She wasn’t. “Get your things. You’re both staying with me.”
Marcus stirred and grabbed my shirt collar. “It seems so wrong.”
“It’s the only way.” I pulled out of his grip and watched Rachel wander out.
She looked back at me and smiled and then disappeared from sight.
“Think you can pull this off?” Marcus asked.
“We can pull it off.”
“What about the others?”
“The Creda will free us from the Stone Masters.”
“But does she have to die like that?” Marcus asked.
I sat back and stared out of the window. The witching hour was fast approaching. “If I’m to be free from the Creda,” I said, “it’s the only way.”
Later that night, a storm raged over London’s skyline.
Thunder rolled, followed by flashes of lightning, and a deluge of rain weaved through the city’s lanes only to find its way back into the Thames.
I entered St. Paul’s alone, just missing the worst of the downpour. A schism in the silence – whispers up near the nave. Hugging the walls, using the shadows for cover, I approached. Incense hung thick in the air, bestowing a faint fragrance of rare spices.
Count Delacroix murmured to a man who was hunched over in the front pew. Trying to get a better view, I drew closer. I bit down hard on my hand to suppress a gasp.
It was Roman and he was talking. The very head that I’d stuck in the coffin the previous night, down in the catacombs, was now frighteningly animated and attached to someone else’s torso.
His head was out of proportion to the slender body and his features moved sluggishly.
Along his neck ran shoddy sutures all the way around, and his flesh bubbled up in between the thick stitches.
A macabre rush job, stitched with a callous hand.
It was Roman’s head, but Benjamin’s body.
Despite all that Benjamin had done, I felt awful. I’d trapped him in the casket, making it easy for the count to catch him and perform his sick work. Delacroix nodded in response to the morbid head’s utterances. Roman, or what was left of him, was struggling to be understood.
No Creda yet, but the Stone Masters were here. They hid somewhere far back in the west cloister, and they were also watching the spectacle. I tried to count how many of them were here, got to twenty men, and then movement pulled my attention back to Delacroix.
Grasping the handle of an axe, he raised it high above his head, and then swung the blade wide, slicing through Roman’s neck sending his head flying off his shoulders. The body shuddered, slumped, and then slid to the floor and stilled.
I stepped out from the shadows. “Even your brother isn’t immune to your madness.”
Delacroix’s hands shook with anger.
“You can’t blame that on me.” I tried to keep my eyes off the decapitated head.
Delacroix gazed down at Roman. I wondered if he’d been this evil as a mortal. I dashed away from the nave and down into the lower chambers. He followed me, closing in, and soon passed me, almost colliding with the far wall.
“Dead end!” He spun around and headed back the way we’d come, passing me again.
I rammed the silver stake into his back, straight through his heart and he stumbled and fell.
I knelt beside him.
He lay conscious, but incapacitated.
I buried my fangs into his neck and closed my eyes.
A wave of images flashed before me, dragging me with them.
Macabre visions of Delacroix’s life unfolded with each mouthful, revealing a million fragments of moments, experienced over centuries – a continuous revolving nightmare.
Slipping away, the present was no longer perceptible as my mind struggled to grab hold of something solid, something real.
Drowning in him, I lost my way and had to pull back.
He picked up on my reluctance and his mouth slid into a smile.
Pressing my lips against the neck wound I’d made, I gulped the scarlet flow again, impossible to subdue the turmoil.
As if peering into the blackest mirror, my authentic nature was realized.
I barged past his resistance. Tortured faces appeared, each human life we’d taken, the madness of murder – and I was unable to ignore the visage.
I faced my own atrocities as they intermingled with his.
The Count didn’t have my son.
I tried to pull away, but something held me at his neck, an invisible force. It wasn’t Delacroix, it was something supernatural that kept me drinking, and it came from within. No turning back. Secrets passed over, information unraveled, and all sinuous links disintegrated.
This is what Sunaria had whispered about to me, an ancient caution breathed between kisses and candle smoke.
It was far too late for me. Too late to unbind the invisible chains of that otherworldly will, too late to resist the rapture of descent, as the darkness claimed me with all the gentleness of a lover – and none of the mercy.