Blood Fire (11 page)

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Authors: Sharon Page

Tags: #Romance

BOOK: Blood Fire
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So instead of reneging on that responsibility, he had acted like a blackguard with Octavia, leaving her alone while she was with child and was worried that she might grow ill again. She had seemed so strong and so well, he was certain she was going to be all right.
And now it looked like he had come all this way only to turn back and return to the town of Buda on the Danube. Where in Hades had the vampire gone from there?
Even if he gave up on his mission to destroy Esmeralda, it would take him weeks to return to England by sea.
“For a man who has convinced himself he is doing the right thing, you don’t look happy,” De Wynter observed. The vampire slayer sighed and turned from the window. “Talk to me,” De Wynter urged. “My—my brother’s wife is with child again, and I find I worry about being so far away when she is close to her time. Hearing your problems would be a distraction for me.”
“It’s a wild tale. Hard to believe.”
“You would be surprised by the wild things I’ve seen. Try me.”
With the sweet scent of the smoke filling the room, and his blazing fire finally warding off the damp cold, Matthew related the entire story to De Wynter, beginning with Octavia’s mysterious illness and her even more astonishing recovery. This wasn’t about confessing his sins; it was about airing his fears. What if she did grow ill again? Why had sex apparently made her well?
“It’s impossible, isn’t it? Pleasure couldn’t—”
“No, it’s not impossible. It’s actually very believable and very easily explained.”
“What are you talking about?”
De Wynter shrugged. “It makes perfect sense if your wife is a succubus.”
8
Escape
The village of Marlybowe
August 1821
 
I
t was the letter that had made her run.
Octavia plucked the kettle of boiling water off her simple stove. Heat filled the small cottage kitchen, and the summer sun spilled through the tiny paned windows. Beyond were meadows and the fields of the farms around the village of Marlybowe, forty miles west of London.
Octavia poured tea into a small, cracked cup. Cradling the cup in both hands, she sipped and walked back into the tiny parlor. No servants lived in to tidy the house or cook her meals. For the first time in her life, she had to look after herself. It was lonely. She missed Father terribly. And Eliza. But she’d had to run away—because of both Sutcliffe’s letter and the fact that she couldn’t hide the truth from her father anymore.
Not the truth about the pregnancy. Father knew about that—she’d admitted it to him, but only a fortnight after the wedding. What she had fought to hide was the fact that she was a witch.
She was utterly certain about it now. Sometimes she could control her power and cause anything she wished to happen just by desiring it. Other times, her magical powers went mad, and terrible things happened . . . which meant she’d had to leave London before people began to suspect.
The uncontrollable nature of her magical powers terrified her.
Sometimes she feared she might accidentally will the baby away.
She didn’t want to lose her baby. She wanted to be a mother, to put the baby to her breast, watch its smiles, its first steps. She could not give up her child.
But she didn’t know how she was going to look after her baby alone and in hiding.
Her powers had allowed her to acquire money. She had wished for it, and that time her magic had worked, and by remarkable good fortune money had actually appeared—a great stack of pound notes and sovereigns. Now she had a good nest egg.
One she needed to keep away from her husband.
Somehow, Sutcliffe had discovered what she was. He had figured out that she was a witch. He had spoken of her powers in his letter, though he didn’t directly call her a “witch.” But he had to believe she was bad and dangerous—why else would he intend to make her a prisoner?
She had received his letter one month ago—it had taken a month to reach her. He had told her he would return to London as quickly as he could, once he had exhumed his brother’s body and he had traced the route of escape of a vampiress named Esmeralda. When he arrived, he planned to take Octavia immediately to one of his most northern properties—an old and crumbling castle—and keep her hidden there.
Forever.
So she had run away—first out of London to the small village of Wharton-Upon-Loo, where she had taken a small cottage. She had told people she was a widow, though she noticed village women pointing at her and whispering. At first, they thought she was a scandalous ruined woman. It was almost laughable, considering she was a
witch
.
When she was agitated or nervous or angry, she could not control her powers at all.
In the milliner’s shop in Wharton-Upon-Loo, she had caused all the hats to fly off their stands. Quickly she’d commanded the door to blow open, and she’d pretended there had been a strong breeze. Anytime she went near a fire, it suddenly exploded and began to rage out of control. Glass would shatter for no reason. Horses grew frightened when she went near them.
Then the word
witch
was spread. She lived in Wharton-Upon-Loo for three weeks before she’d had to leave. The next village she abandoned in a week. Here, in the third village in which she’d lived, she barely left her cottage, terrified she would do something to give herself away.
Father would be worried about her, but she had written a letter of explanation—she had told him she had gone to visit relatives of Sutcliffe’s. This way, she could be absent and Father would not come in pursuit of her. She didn’t want her powers to get her father into trouble.
Had Sutcliffe returned to England yet? Octavia had no idea what he would do once he reached London and found her gone. Would he pursue her? Or would he not bother to try; would he be happy to be rid of her?
But she was carrying his child.
For that one reason, she didn’t think the Earl of Sutcliffe would let her simply disappear. No, he would come after her, and if he found her, he’d want to lock her away.
Octavia set down her half-finished tea.
Today she must purchase more food, which meant a trip into the village. She could not avoid the excursion any longer out of fear of what she might do.
She put on her pelisse, clamped her bonnet on her curls, and hooked her basket over her arm. If she was careful and she didn’t get upset, perhaps nothing would explode or burst into flame. Perhaps this time, nothing would go wrong.
 
Octavia strode briskly up the rutted track. It was a shortcut from the village back to her cottage, and passed through a grazing field of a farm. She had spent the day in the village, purchasing food that now weighed heavy in her basket. The sun had set;, the sky was the soft purple of twilight, and she was hurrying home before dark.
Here, in the field, she was safely on her own. So when she reached the stile at the edge of the next field, she willed her body to soar over it.
It was much easier than clambering over it in a skirt and stays, with a rounded belly. There was no one to see. No one but sheep, and while they bleated mournfully, they couldn’t speak of the magic they’d seen.
“Where are you going, my pretty one?”
The male voice stopped her. Deep, seductive, it sent shivers through her. It sounded like . . . it sounded like Sutcliffe, and she froze in her tracks. She had nothing to fear—he knew what she was, she had nothing to hide anymore, so she could use magic to escape him. He was not going to make her a prisoner.
Slowly, she turned around.
Screamed.
It wasn’t Sutcliffe. The creature that faced her, that stood on the path behind her, his arms folded over his chest, was not even human.
He had horns. Curving horns that erupted from his forehead, and fangs, and skin so pale it was almost marble white. He had goat’s legs like the mythical satyr. With a soft clopping sound, he approached.
Shock held her in place, her stupid legs too frozen to move.
This
couldn’t
be real . . . yet she could smell the dank odor of his fur. She could hear the snorting sound of his breathing. He cast a shadow on her as he moved closer, and she could hear the squishing of his hooves in the mud.
The beast smiled at her. “What a beauty you are. Once I learned a new creature had been unleashed, I had to see for myself. It will be a shame to destroy you, but first, I intend to take my fill of pleasure with you.”
A new creature?
Destroy
her? This
had
to be a mad dream. Octavia grasped her forearm and pinched as hard as possible through her sleeve. There was a stab of pain, and the horrid realization she was wide awake.
Had she conjured up this monster? Had her magic done this?
“I’ve never made love to a being like you before,” the satyr-like monster casually said. He stroked his hand down his furry stomach. As though mesmerized, she felt her gaze follow the movement of his hand. Then she saw it—the evidence of his arousal. It was an awful parody of that beautiful part of Sutcliffe’s anatomy. The satyr had a thick and heavy penis. It was a brownish color and looked like a club. Thick, unattractive veins roped around it.
She backed away. She must say something, but her mouth was dry and she couldn’t force words from her lips. Finally she screamed again. “Leave me alone!” she managed to shout. “Go away and leave me. Or—”
“Or what?” The beast had features that looked almost human, and he smirked at her. “What can you do to me?”
She had her basket. She could hit him—
She had her
magic
. She’d never used it to defend herself. Shaking, she stared him and willed him to fly backward.
It worked. The goat-like monster flew heels over head and landed with a hard thud on the ground. But he jumped up swiftly and roared like a lion. “I’ll kill you first, you witch,” he shouted. He lowered his horns and rushed toward her.
She tried to use magic to push him back again, but it didn’t work. Fire always went out of control when she was angry or afraid . . . but if she started a fire in the field, she would probably burn to death also. It might consume the whole field, then take the farm and the village with it.
She had to stop the satyr—
An arrow streaked through the air. It struck the monster in the back, and the force of the strike sent the monster sprawling on the ground. The thing howled and writhed. With its powerful arms, it tried to pull the arrow from its back. Blood poured from the wound, and Octavia’s stomach roiled.
She was afraid to run in the direction where the arrows were coming from, which was back toward her cottage. She whirled around. She would run toward the village, toward people. For the first time in months, she longed to be with people—
Stumbling on the uneven ground she raced like a mad woman. Her skirts tangled around her legs, and she tried to pull them free. Her foot landed in a deep rut, her ankle twisted, and she fell, like a useless heroine in a gothic novel.
She rolled over and sat up as fast as she could.
The satyr was on its feet. Two arrows were in its back, two stuck out of its arms, and three were in its strong, hairy legs. The beast began to retreat toward the woods that bordered the field. It waved a fist. “Blast,” it roared. “You have her now, but you have not won.”
Then it turned and ran toward the strip of forest. It crossed the field with impossible speed on its hind legs. To her, it looked like a blur of gray. Another arrow sliced through the air, but landed well short; it stuck into the ground. The satyr vanished into a grove of trees.
She couldn’t see her rescuers. There was no sign of anyone who had shot arrows.
Her heart thundered. How could it be? The arrows had come from behind the satyr creature, and there was only open field there. Suddenly, grass swayed and rippled in the breeze. Sheep bleated. But there were no other sounds and no sign of archers.
How could it be?
Then the air in front of her seemed to . . . to flutter. It looked like a pond when a stone was thrown in. Circular ripples flowed through the air, and then two dark forms took shape.
She tried to scramble back, but caught her heel on her skirts. Using magic, she willed herself up on her feet.
Two men in breeches and tailcoats emerged from the eerie whirlpool in the air. They held strange-looking bows, had quivers of arrows on their backs.
One turned and spoke back into the vortex in the air. “Should we pursue?”
“No.” The voice was female. “He has gone now. You will never catch him.”
A woman stepped out from the wavering air. She held up her hand, and the air magically smoothed out. The woman stood unusually tall and wore a gown of severe black, but a pelisse of rich amethyst velvet. A velvet bonnet was perched on pale gold curls. Her face was pale, her eyes dark with such thick lashes it was hard to see the color of her irises. Large, pale pink lips smiled gently. “Do not be afraid.”
The woman’s voice was soft, melodic. It reminded Octavia of her mother’s voice, which she’d last heard when she was very young.
“Thank heaven we found you when we did, Lady Sutcliffe,” the woman said. “If we had been a bit later, he would have attacked you. I fear he would have raped you first, and then he would have killed you.”
“How do you know my name?” Who was this woman? Had Sutcliffe hired her to find his runaway bride? But what sort of woman could emerge out of thin air? What sort of woman was quite calm about confronting—shooting at—a mythical beast? “W-who are you? What was that
thing?
”
“That was a satyr. My name is Mrs. Darkwell. I have been pursuing you for three months now. I recognize that you have moved from cottage to cottage, and you rarely venture outside. You are afraid that people will discover your powers and become afraid of you.”
“How do you know all this? How could you?” Even her father did not know about her powers. “Did Lord Sutcliffe send you?” she demanded, though she felt guilty about being so sharp with someone who had saved her life. Yet she was afraid. The whole situation struck her as eerie and unsettling, highly suspicious, and she was still shaking at being confronted by the beast with the horns and goat legs.
It was one thing to become a witch and another to see an impossible mythical being, and one that obviously meant her harm.
Mrs. Darkwell elegantly shook her head. “Lord Sutcliffe does not know about me. I do know you are carrying his child. I also know that he has no idea how to properly take care of you.”

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