Blood Curse (35 page)

Summoning every ounce of strength he had left, Raven tried to turn his head, tried to lift it out of the pool of blood that drenched his cheek. Nothing happened.

He loved Ophelia. He was not going to let her die because he was a bloody vampire who could not move until sunset.

In his thoughts, he roared in fury. Pain screamed through his body. His cheek rose a bit from the floor, then fell back with a splattering squish.

But he fought and finally dragged his legs ahead, forced his arms to move.

Nothing would stop him protecting Ophelia.

Ophelia was traveling in Harry’s carriage. Althea, Lord Brookshire, and de Wynter followed, along with two more vehicles filled with slayers from the Royal Society.

Guidon,
she called.
I need your help.

But she heard a weak groan in her head.
I’ve been shot, Lady Ophelia. But I must tell you this. The man you seek—who holds Ravenhunt and who had me shot—he is a demigod. Powerful and strong. He is—

The words ceased to flow to her.

A demigod? What power did he have, what could he do to Ravenhunt and to her, what did he want?

Guidon had told her about how he loved the daughter of the goddess Aphrodite, who was Mrs. Darkwell and that Darkwell was herself a prisoner, with the task of finding love for one hundred preternatural females. To defeat a demigod, would Mrs. Darkwell help her? She did not know why Mrs. Darkwell had kept her for years. She assumed her parents had paid the woman well. But how well did one have to pay a woman who had the powers of a vampire and some of the power of a goddess?

She closed her eyes and sent her thoughts to Althea.
Guidon has been shot. He needs help. Can you send some of the men to him?

We will
, Althea promised.

“We must go to Mrs. Darkwell’s house,” Ophelia announced to a startled Harry. Quickly she told him everything. Then the turmoil in her heart spilled out. “I think she could help me, but will she?”

“We will convince her,” her brother vowed.

“It won’t be that easy. Guidon told me she is as capricious as a goddess. It was her duty to find true love for the women under her care. That was how she could find freedom from the curse that holds her here.”

“Then she will help you, because this will help you find true love.”

She prayed it would. Her heart thundered as she recognized the streets. Ophelia pressed her forehead to the window and saw the town house that had been her prison. “There it is.” Strangely she was no longer afraid of the place.

But why should she be? She was never going to be a prisoner again.

Minutes later, she stood in Mrs. Darkwell’s office with her brother at her side. Terrible memories of loneliness lurked in Ophelia’s mind.

But she would not let them weaken her.

She slapped her hands down firmly on Mrs. Darkwell’s large desk, leaned over, faced the woman with courage, and said, “You are going to help me save Ravenhunt.”

“The man who captured you? You wish me to save him?” Mrs. Darkwell pursed her lips in anger, her thick black lashes lowered as her pale eyes narrowed. Her former keeper looked just as Ophelia remembered—tall, slender, dressed in a gown of black silk and lace, which made a stark contrast with the woman’s golden curls.

“Guidon told me everything,” Darkwell continued. “This man took you prisoner to kill you, and now you wish to save him. Child, you are completely mad.”

“I’m not a child anymore. I haven’t been for years—I’m three and twenty! He deserves to be saved! He may have taken me prisoner, but he rescued me. I intend to do the same for him.”

Mrs. Darkwell drew back stiffly in surprise. “You have certainly gained courage.”

“I’m not a cowering prisoner anymore, not weak and frightened. My power is gone, and I will never hurt anyone again.”

“Your power is gone?”

“Yes,” Ophelia hissed impatiently, but knew she would have to give the entire tale. She spilled out her story in a mad rush—explaining how she had lost her power, how Ravenhunt had saved her and was now a captive, and how she needed the help of a goddess to rescue him.

She could face Mrs. Darkwell, the woman who had once made her quake, with the confidence of a mature and strong woman.

“I am delighted you are freed from your power, and I am proud of how you have grown up, Ophelia. Yes, I will help Ravenhunt for you—if you truly love him.”

“I do! Of course I do.” How could the woman even doubt it?

Through her mind, she spoke to Raven—and lied, of course, to learn where he was. She promised Lord Brookshire and de Wynter would go to him, with Royal Society men. But the moment she ended the conversation, she turned to Mrs. Darkwell. “He is being held in an abandoned church in the stews. He has told me the way, and we must go quickly.”

“Here, Ophelia. Time to learn to use a crossbow.”

Harry pushed the weapon into her hand. Nodding, she watched her brother’s expert, effortless movements as he loaded the bow, drawing back the taut string to place the arrow. She winced as she forced the string back—heavens, it took so much strength.

Harry pointed at a noticeboard, long unused, on the side of the church. “Aim for that.”

She lifted the heavy contraption. Sighted.

“Fire,” he said.

She released the arrow. It smacked against the wooden door, three feet to the right of her target. She let out a small cry of fury. Her arms ached with the effort.

Harry looked to Mrs. Darkwell. “Perhaps she should have learned a skill or two with you.”

Ophelia’s eyes widened. She was ready to defend her brother against the goddess’s attack, but Darkwell merely inclined her head. “Perhaps you are correct. But I am a goddess, and this is easily rectified.”

Mrs. Darkwell lifted her hand. Sizzling streams of white light, like tiny lightning bolts, leapt from her hand. They arced through the night air. Ophelia stumbled back, but they slammed into her chest. Her entire body tingled.

“Try again, Lady Ophelia,” Mrs. Darkwell urged with calm. Ophelia found it was easy to draw back the bowstring. She lifted the crossbow, which now felt weightless. And let fire.

The arrow hurtled, straight and true, and bit into the center of the board. “Heavens,” she breathed.

“I have bestowed the strength of a vampire on you for a while,” Mrs. Darkwell said, wearing a smug smile. “Now, let us find the man you love.” The smile disappeared. “This will be a very dangerous battle, Ophelia. You can go, if you wish. Save yourself. You will be fighting a very powerful being in that church. Not only that, the rebel members of the Royal Society have followed you here. They will attack.”

“Now? When I have to save Raven?”

“Of course now, my dear,” Mrs. Darkwell said. “They have been waiting for this chance to claim you and your power.”

“My power is gone,” Ophelia declared. But fear struck even as she spat out the words.

Mrs. Darkwell shook her head. “There is something you must know.”

“I don’t want to know it. My power is
gone
.”

“No, it is dormant, waiting, preparing to be triggered back into existence—and back in control of your body. But not gone.” After a sigh, Mrs. Darkwell explained everything.

Ophelia’s entire body went numb and cold as she tried to take in what the woman was saying. Her power was indeed not gone at all. Her only choice was destruction.

“No, it is not,” Darkwell said, as if she’d read Ophelia’s thoughts. “There is another way. I promise.”

“What happens to me doesn’t matter. I want to help him.” With that, with her crossbow loaded, she pulled open the church door and jerked her weapon up to guide her way into the church.

Candles burned, sitting in pools of wax at the ends of the pews. The flickering light made a length of gold, while darkness reigned everywhere else. Candelabra lit the altar. Guidon’s body lay on the floor in front of the altar and her heart lurched. For him . . . and for Raven.

Raven stood, half-naked in his trousers, his hands raised in the air, in the position of surrender. A dark-haired man who stood almost seven feet in height trained a crossbow on Raven, the arrow aimed at his heart. It was as if her thoughts were coming to her through fog-filled air. They came in dizzying snatches and snippets.

She had never seen this man before. His face was as white as marble, his features cut as clean as a sculpture’s.

What did he want from Raven, from her?

He had a crossbow, the tip of the arrow pressed right against Raven’s bare chest, directly over his heart.

The man motioned with the crossbow. “One more step, demon,” he barked at her, “and I shoot him. Rip a hole through his chest, take out his heart, and spear it into the wall beyond.”

“I won’t move,” she said quickly. Her voice didn’t even shake. She was terrified, but for some reason, her body was calm, her mind worked swiftly.

“My power is gone,” she said. “The vampire queen named Jade took it from me, and she was killed as she did, so the power vanished with her. It is gone. I can’t give it to you. We have nothing that you want.” It was a lie, but she hoped he believed it.

“You still have your power, my lady.” He sneered as he spoke her title. “I want two things from you—the damned vampires in the Royal Society attacked us tonight and arrested most of our group. I escaped. But there is no way those softhearted blood drinkers would want your death on their hands, Lady Ophelia. You will be my ticket to freedom. Then I will take your power and give you the freedom you want.”

“No.” Raven reached for the tall man, but the villain ruthlessly pressed the weapon harder against him. It broke his skin and blood dribbled, reminding them both of the threat.

“Don’t move,” she implored Raven. “He will kill you. I will go with him.” She knew Harry was in the shadows near the door. She had no idea if Darkwell had followed her in.

“Over my dead body,” Raven growled.

“You are already dead.” The man spat to his side. “You are a corpse that walks around, Ravenhunt—a revolting parasite that should be destroyed. Do not worry—you will be dead.”

A mocking grin widened the man’s mouth. He looked evil and hideous. He took a step back, and his finger jerked with infinite slowness.

Ophelia screamed as she saw the taut cord move, the arrow flying forward, propelled by the pull of the trigger. It shot, straight and true, across the meager two feet separating the Society man from Raven.

It drove into Raven’s chest, and protruded out the back.

He collapsed. Ophelia swayed on her feet, then forced herself to run forward. She dropped to her knees at his side.

He wasn’t moving. His eyes were open, staring glassily.

“Raven?”

No response. No twitch of his body, no attempt to move, no life in his eyes. Dear God, no.

A rough, harsh laugh echoed in her ears. The man stalked to her, grasped the collar of the shirt, and hauled her to her feet.

The floor tilted beneath her as the man shoved her forward. In the few seconds she had been at Raven’s side, this monster had reloaded his crossbow and prodded her back with the arrow to make her move.

Surely Raven would get up and pull the arrow out of him and he would be healed. Her heart poised in its beating, and she strained to hear him groan, or hear him get to his feet.

Nothing. Just cold silence broken only by the horrible fast breathing of her captor.

She couldn’t see Harry or Mrs. Darkwell. Had Brookshire and de Wynter brought men?

What did it matter? If Raven was dead, she didn’t care if he killed her now. She didn’t want to live.

“Why don’t you just shoot me?” she spat.

“Think you’ll be reunited with him?” The fiend’s laugh was harsh. “He’s got no soul. Destroyed, he lives in purgatory. Don’t know where you’ll go. You’ve got a soul, but it’s a witch’s one.” He pushed her out to the front steps of the church. “Go to that carriage over there,” he snapped.

Should she try to run? Fight him? Do something so he would shoot her and this would be done with?

Raven’s voice in her head. He wasn’t dead. She had to follow his orders, she had to stay alive.

The carriage steps dropped, and her captor pushed her up them. She lost her balance and sprawled on them. She scrambled up. He held the crossbow pointed at her, then he hauled a pistol from his pocket and kept it in his left hand. “Where are you going to take me?”

“To Darkwell’s. She will help me,” he muttered. “She will have to. I will not allow my mother to ignore her duties to me. Otherwise those damned Society vampires will kill me.”

“Your mother? Mrs. Darkwell is your mother? Who are you?”

“My name is Valde. I am part god, spawn of a mother who is a daughter of Aphrodite. I have powers of my own, you know. Powers you cannot comprehend.”

He spoke like a sulking boy. “I am sure you do,” she said. “But we do not need to go to Mrs. Darkwell. She is here.”

No one responded. She had hoped for a dramatic entrance of the demi-goddess. But there was silence, except for the whinnying of the four horses hitched to the carriage.

Her captor laughed. “A good attempt at distraction—”

“She is here, you fool,” Ophelia snapped. “But she now seems to have gone away.” Which meant she could not rely on Mrs. Darkwell, the demi-goddess, to rescue her.

How could she rescue herself? “Does my touch hurt you?” she demanded.

“No, because I am part god.”

So much for that idea.

A twanging sound came from behind her. Valde jerked around as a crossbow bolt slammed into the carriage between them.

It was not Harry, but the older gray-haired man of the Royal Society, Cartwell, along with young, pimply-faced gentlemen carrying a variety of weapons—pistols, blades, a crossbow.