Blood Rose (16 page)

“So you have come to forbid it? Lord Sommersby wished to have me locked in my bedchamber for my own good.” She had to continue to let Ashcroft think she believed his lies. If she played along with their game, she could learn the truth. But if she lost this gamble, she ended up cut open. “I’m capable of hunting Lukos. I’ve been well trained by the Society.” Serena played her part. “I certainly proved my abilities at the brothel.”

At the word
brothel
, Lord Sommersby’s glass burst with a delicate pop, and brandy spilled on his hand and sleeve. He waved his hand, sending a shower of droplets to the scarlet carpet.

Jonathon met Miss Lark’s startled gaze. He almost lost himself in her magnificent eyes—so large, so lovely, and now looking at him as though he were a dangerous giant from a fairy tale.

“Things are not made for hands like mine.”

He could not find the next words that he’d planned. What was it about Serena Lark that made his tongue thicken, made him want to retreat back to his laboratory? Was it that “governess glare”

she was giving him? He didn’t trust governesses—his first had strapped him with abandon. He’d been too big and too bloody clumsy his whole life. Getting strapped hadn’t made his legs any shorter, his hands any smaller, his body any less beyond his control.

Miss Lark possessed two frustrating abilities—to make him feel clumsy and to make him hot, hard, and damnably aroused.

“You are to hunt with me, Miss Lark,” he growled.

“Exactly,” Ashcroft decreed. “I have decided it is the best way to keep you safe. And the most expedient way to draw out Lukos.”

“It is not necessary, if his lordship’s heart is not in it,” Miss Lark declared. “Mr. Swift has already invited me to hunt with him.”

Swift? Damnation, what in hell was going on? Jonathon was not about to let Swift hunt alone with Serena Lark. Either Swift would discover she was a vampire or Swift would seduce her. And he wasn’t about to let either happen. “Miss Lark, if you wish to hunt with us, you will take your orders from me.”

Sparks shot from Miss Lark’s silvery-gray eyes. He groaned softly. Every time he opened his mouth around women, he tended to lodge his boot firmly in place. It was why he belonged in the lab—his father was correct there. And why he hunted vampires. Vampires didn’t expect witty Blood Rose ©Sharon Page 2007 Email: [email protected] 65

conversation before a slaying.

“I am going to be your partner, my lord,” Miss Lark said, and her honeyed voice sent a bolt of arousal through Jonathon that made him want to howl. “Partners do not take orders.”

“In this case, Miss Lark, they do.”

“The ship was found floating along the chalk bluffs of Dover. The captain was lashed to the wheel, but he was a mere corpse.”

Jonathon nodded at Lord Denby’s words—it was what he’d expected. Of all the Society’s hunters, Denby was the one he trusted most.

Jonathon hunched his shoulders against the patter of the rain—it soaked into his beaver hat and the thick tiers of his greatcoat. Denby’s cane hit the rain-slick cobbles at they strode down the narrow dockside lane. Fog billowed up toward them, wreathing the other dark shapes hurrying up and down the dank-smelling street.

Denby remarked cheerfully, “Well, Sommersby, had the
Bonny Lass
not been found and boarded, she would have floundered or smashed on the rocks. But they were searching for her after receiving your message, lad. And they found her.”

“But no sign of Lukos, a coffin, or any trunks or belongings of his,” Jonathon bit out.

Damnation, he’d been too late, of course. There’d been no way to catch Lukos—it had been a desperate bid to fire off a missive to the magistrate in Dover. Jonathon knew he was playing a dangerous game—Ashcroft believed he wasn’t going to hunt Lukos, but Lukos was his best chance of saving Miss Lark, and Jonathon couldn’t trust that mission to anyone else. Denby was a good man whom he could trust.

“We suspect he sent everything else ahead, by a different ship. He had no passage on this one—alas, the crew had no idea they had a demon on board with them.”

“All dead.”

“Aye. Each and all. Drained of their blood. Not all accounted for—assume that the first were buried at sea. Then, as it became evident they would all perish, they didn’t bother with the dead.”

Fifty, grizzled, and silver-haired, the viscount appeared to make freetraders—smugglers—his quarry. Jonathon knew that wasn’t entirely true. Vampires were spreading out from their apparent origins in the Carpathians; they had begun to cross to England’s shores centuries ago, and Denby attempted to capture them before they landed.

“The captain’s log?” Jonathon asked. His boots took heavy steps on the rough cobbles.

Between them, he and Denby almost filled the lane, forcing others to skirt them. Dirty, rain-soaked buildings loomed around them. Laughter spilled out, and feminine screams—either mad laughter or pain, it was impossible to tell.

“Records the panic and the fear they felt,” Denby said. “They thought it was a murderer amongst them—the captain slit the throat of one he suspected as his paranoia grew. And he shot the last one remaining but him in cold blood. Wrote it all down—a form of confession, I suppose.”

“Catholic?”

“No, lad.”

A man’s religion was not relevant—the cross around the neck never stopped a vampire, at least not in his experience. He had slain dozens of vampires, but he still did not understand what a vampire really was.

The answer is in science,
his father had insisted.
The answers can only be found in study, in
faith in the work.

How many brains had he sliced for his father’s work? Hundreds. How many rancid corpses had he prodded, measured, dissected? An army’s worth. And how many answers had he found?

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None. Each clue he grasped at with a combination of hopeful faith and rational logic brought him nowhere.

“Lukos left the ship before it reached land,” Jonathon mused. “He could have taken that final step in many ways—he could have swam for it, his disciples might have met him with a small boat.

Or he transformed shape and flew—which I suspect is the most likely. So we’re a step behind him—finding his victims.”

Denby clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Relax, lad. There’s information to be found here—the

“ghost ship” is the talk of the docks.”

Jonathon groaned. Another night spent gathering wild tales, most of which would be outright lies. A dozen drunks would claim to have seen the demon with their own eyes. He brushed his damp brow.

At the last place on the lane, outside a narrow curved window of thick glass in black frames, Denby tapped on the glass. “This is it.”

On the inside, men’s backs pressed up against the grimy windows. Over their heads, Jonathon could see the glint of lamplight in glasses hanging over the bar. A narrow little public house—the wall behind the bar couldn’t be more than a dozen feet from the window.

Denby yanked the door open, and Jonathon stepped into the heat, the loud belligerent conversation. The smells of fried potatoes, spiced meat, and male sweat hit his nose. All around him, tankards sloshed their contents over the floor, as men conducted merry arguments.

Was there really a trail to Lukos to be found here? Hell, he wished he could be with Miss Serena Lark tonight.

She was with Swift—and his heart was hammering, his teeth on edge, the hairs on his neck prickling. He wanted to see her, to reassure himself she was safe.

The drizzle, the fog, turned all around them into a blur. Serena held tight on the lapels of her pelisse and clutched her simple black umbrella. The cold seemed to run in her very blood.

Whipping down the narrow lane, the wind blew the droplets right into her face. They dripped from her lips and lashes and ran down her nose, icy and irritating.

Drake Swift linked his arm in hers and laid his other hand over her trembling fingers. She avoided his eyes. His conduct had left her adrift, unsure how to behave. He’d been a complete and utter gentleman, acting with such cool deference she might have thought she’d imagined their entire scandalous encounter.

In complete bewilderment, Serena had tried to open conversation about everything but their intimacy. About Lukos. About where they were going. About what he and Lord Sommersby had learned. Mr. Swift had charmingly avoided her every question. Finally he had leaned forward in the carriage—he’d sat across from her, his back to the direction of motion. His great, black-clad hands had clamped on the seat on either side of her knees. She’d caught her breath, parted her lips, expecting a kiss.

Instead, he’d turned his intense green eyes on to her. Serena had felt her chest tighten. “Do you trust me, Miss Lark?” he’d asked.

No, in truth she did not. But she knew that was not the answer she needed to give.

“Why does it concern you that I might not?” she’d parried.

“Your answer is ‘no,’ then,” he’d said. Then he slumped back against the carriage seat and propped his boot on the velvet cushions. Stretching his arms along the back, he had flashed his devilish smile. He certainly looked every inch the gentleman in three-tiered greatcoat, trousers that clung to lean legs, and the obligatory shining black boots.

And he looked so disappointed, she reassured, “I do trust you, Drake Swift.”

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Now, as they walked through the fog, Serena glanced at Mr. Swift—at the side of his face, the curl of his long lashes, the firm set of his lips, the high ridge of his cheekbone. She wished he would turn to her, yet, at the same time, she hoped he would not.

He pointed ahead, his face shadowed by the mist, the dark, and his tall beaver hat. “Here.”

She eyed the blackened door warily. No light spilled out of the windows—black material shrouded them and hid all inside from prying eyes. The eyes of the law, no doubt.

“What is it? A tavern?”

“A brothel.”

Her lips curled at that. There was a flash of light as the door across the lane opened, enough to illuminate his eyes. She saw no mischief, so he wasn’t doing this merely to discomfit her.

“This is my world, love.” Mr. Swift held out his hand for hers. “If there’s one thing a vampire wants, it’s a fetching young virgin to feed from. And Mrs. Bellamy knows every one that’s used and abused in London.”

Serena shuddered. “Doesn’t that bother you?”

“Aye, it does.” He rapped on the door and it swung open revealing a gloomy foyer and a bulky servant. “Here, love.” Mr. Swift grinned. “Come with me.”

Serena squared her shoulders, shot him a glare, and passed by him to cross the threshold. After all, she had been to a
vampires’
brothel. How could one that serviced mortal men be any more scandalous?

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Serena saw at once that this was a different world than the vampires’ elegant brothel. Only two wall scones cut the gloom of the narrow front hall. A woman bustled forth, a woman in a dress that had once been vivid scarlet. The woman’s hair was garishly red, and it fell in thick, untidy curls.

The woman neared the lamp. God help her, but Serena recoiled at the sight.

Shame hit her at once. It was hardly the woman’s fault she’d been disfigured. She’d had to survive, hadn’t she? Who was she to judge a woman who’d had nothing but her wits, her body, and her determination to survive?

But the wide smile of recognition on the woman—the madam, obviously—set Serena’s stomach churning. Drake Swift had been here before. Often, she’d guess.

For information on vampires? And, of course, for sex.

“And what do ye be wanting tonight, sir?” The madam’s gaze swept to her, and the face changed. The one good eye narrowed. The woman’s lips pursed revealing deep, powdered lines.

“Mr. Swift?”

“May I introduce my partner, Mrs. Bellamy.”

“Partner, sir?” Mrs. Bellamy curtsied, which set Mr. Swift chuckling. “And what be both your pleasures, sir?”

Shocked, Serena swung to face Mr. Swift and caught that mischievous glint in his eyes. The devil—what was he about?

“Miss Lark is a vampire huntress,” Mr. Swift said. He dug his hand into his pocket and withdrew something—something crumpled in his fist—and he gave this to the madam. While Serena couldn’t see the amount of the note, the woman didn’t even glance down at it. Apparently, the madam expected a certain fee and Mr. Swift knew what it was.

“Have there been any men of means requesting virgins?”

“Every blooming day, Mr. Swift.”

“You know the sort I mean, Mrs. Bellamy.”

“There was a foreign gent. He had the twins—yer favorites. Wasn’t particular about them being pure. Gave them the mark, though ’e left them living.”

Twins? Favorites? The stifling air would not go into Serena’s lungs. She took deep, desperate breaths, but it felt as though she were trying to breathe in flour. It was hot, so horribly hot—

probably the body heat of all the rutting inhabitants. Moans and groans drifted down the shadowed staircase.

“What did this gent look like, my dear?” Swift asked.

The madam gave a careless shrug and trailed the note over her powdered, freckled cleavage.

Mr. Swift handed her another and she cackled in delight. “He was a well-dressed bloke, but he kept in the shadows. He doffed his hat, so I saw that he ’ad black ’air streaked with white. ’Andsome sort—but very foreign. White teeth—no fangs, mind.”

Serena gasped as Mr. Swift’s hand clamped tight around her waist. He drew her to him, holding her up. Had her legs almost given out? She wanted to tear at the buttons of the tight pelisse. Rip her corset off, let her lungs expand—and breathe.

A breath, even a shallow one, steadied her nerves, gave her time to summon her voice. “Do you Blood Rose ©Sharon Page 2007 Email: [email protected] 69

know where he lives? Where did he go?”