Bite Me, Your Grace (7 page)

“Ah, the rumors that you are a vampire,” she replied with a smirk. “Surely you do not believe anyone took them seriously. You heard their laughter earlier.”

Ian suppressed a growl and whispered against her ear. “Enough have taken it seriously. In fact, due to a substantial wager that I am indeed a vampire, my silk waistcoat and neckcloth were soaked with holy water last week by none other than your former suitor, Baron Osgoode.”

Her skin was like satin against his lips. Her scent was heady and overwhelmed him with the temptation to taste her once more. Ian drew back before he gave in to temptation and plunged his fangs into her right then and there.

Heedless to her danger, Angelica smiled, her lips twitching with mirth over the incident with Osgoode. Ian didn't know whether to kiss her or take her over his knee for such impudence. The couples surrounding them had given up all pretense of dancing and were watching them with avid interest. He fixed them with an icy stare and they backed slowly away.

“It was
not
in the least amusing, I assure you.” Ian gave her a stern frown. “I had to call him out to prevent other foolish young bucks from daring the same and ruining my wardrobe.”

This time, Angelica could not restrain her humor, and her musical laughter trilled through the ballroom. Ian fought back his own laughter. Perhaps the situation
was
a bit comical. “Enough, imp, do you want to hear why I seek your troublesome hand, or not?” His arms gripped her tighter, savoring the feel of her warm flesh despite his ire.

She sobered immediately, her chin lifting back to its previous angle to display her scorn. “Very well, I shall listen
most
attentively.”

Ian felt a twinge of regret for destroying the light mood, temporary though it was.

He sighed and bent to whisper in her ear. “I decided that if I married within the peerage, the gossip would weaken and gradually cease.” Her tantalizing scent spurred his hunger even further and he fought to regain his composure. “After all, no lady would marry a monster. And if I treat my bride well enough, perhaps she will vouch for my good character as well. Since you did not seem to be afraid of me, and I quite like you, I concluded, why not save your reputation as well?”

Instead of placating her as he had hoped, Ian's explanation brought Angelica's temper to a boil. Her eyes seemed to shoot onyx sparks. “Your
magnanimity
quite overwhelms me, Your Grace. But surely you realize that when you made your offer, I did not accept?”

He'd had enough of her ingratitude and vituperative tongue… and her intoxicating scent. It was well past time for him to feed.

“I will call upon you tomorrow evening to sort out the details of our engagement. I pray I find you in a better humor then.” Before the music ended, he promised in a low voice, “You will be more than willing to accept soon enough.”

As Ian prowled the streets of London in search of his next meal, he struggled to find a reason for her unseemly behavior. After feeding on a pickpocket, he lit on an idea. Could the cause for her hostility be that she was now frightened of him? She wasn't before, but now that she had time to think about what he was…
Of
course! She wasn't afraid before because she had a safe home to go to. But the thought that she would now spend her life under the same roof as a vampire would terrify any sensible person.
Another uncomfortable thought crept up on him.
My
God, what if she thinks I intend to kill her?

Remembering her fearlessness in their last two encounters, Ian was determined to charm her back to that state long before their wedding night.

Ben Flannigan breathed in the thick, fetid London air as he stepped off the gangplank and onto the dock. A city this size would be teeming with vampires, which practically guaranteed that he would have a great many kills here. Perhaps he would even take down an ancient. His breath caught in anticipation at the compelling thought.

He caressed his silver crucifix as he walked down the street, searching for an affordable but decent inn while glancing back over his shoulder to see if he was followed. He had so many kills to his name that the evil creatures would soon seek to discover his identity.

Ben expressed his relief with a whispered prayer as he immediately discovered an inn that appeared to suit his requirements. He ordered a room and a meal before adding a handsome sum in exchange for every newspaper that could be found. Ben had long since established a routine of checking the death notices for strange circumstances and the gossip pages for nobles with odd habits before approaching the locals for information. In his experience, dedicated research always paid off.

While he waited for his meal and the papers, he composed a brief advertisement. In the morning he would make his rounds to the offices of every likely publication and pay to have the notice printed at once.

A
man
of
God
is
seeking
a
situation
to
exterminate
nocturnal
vermin. The fee is fifty pounds, half of which will be due in advance.

He checked the notice for errors and grunted in satisfaction when he found none. The advertisement was vague enough to discourage those with rat or badger problems, yet contained just the right information for those who truly understood the threat that loomed over mankind. And if some individuals mistook his use of the term “man of God” to believe that he was a priest or a vicar? Well, he didn't mind in the slightest. He had been meant to be one, though the fools at St. Damian's had failed to see that.

As the second son of an impoverished baron, Ben had had the church as his only hope of a career that would keep his belly full. For the sake of having one less mouth to feed, his father had him sent off to St. Damian's priory school in Kilkenny every autumn after the harvest was in.

Learning to read and write had captivated him at first, but before long he began to crave something more. He admired the great power of the bishop. The man could bless anything he desired, pardon sins, sentence people to penance, even condemn someone to hell if he so chose. Ben longed for such power. He dedicated himself twice as hard to his lessons and soon became the shining star of the class. The prize neared his hand.

As he grew to adulthood, his responsibilities and authority rose. And as his power accumulated, so did his pride. Indeed, Ben was told that it was one of the many sins that barred him from consideration for the priesthood, although that vice wasn't the main problem.

Ben's strictness, verging on bullying, with the young novices wasn't what caused the bishop to summon him to his quarters. Nor was it the incident in which he beat a beggar nearly to death after he caught the thief stealing bread meant for the Holy Sacrament. It wasn't his fault that he forgot his own strength in the face of his pious rage at such blasphemy.

No, the final incident that had caused him to be called to the carpet and chastised like a recalcitrant schoolboy was so paltry that the memory still made Ben gnash his teeth. Someone had tattled to Bishop O'Shay that Ben had been seen pinching Sister Clarence's bum. Bishop O'Shay believed lust was the worst of all sins and he was determined to stamp it out of his flock.

“But surely the nun should be the one to be punished,” Ben protested. “She'd been wriggling her charms at me like a ripe piece of fruit. A man can only take so much temptation.”

The bishop's bushy brows drew together sternly, almost obscuring his eyes. “So Adam spoke of Eve and thus Man was banished from Paradise. I will not have a clergyman who is unchaste.” He advanced upon Flannigan like Moses calling God's wrath down upon the Pharaoh. “Tomorrow you will pack your belongings and leave. Your time here with us is finished.”

“But can I not repent?” Ben asked, unable to believe the sentence heaved upon him.

“I think not,” Bishop O'Shay replied with a regretful sigh. “If your sinful lust were not enough, your other sins are more than sufficient to give credence to the wisdom of my decision. You have no mercy or compassion within your spirit. You are too quick to anger and filled with far too much pride. You had years to repent and turn to the path of righteousness, but you did not. Such a man is not suitable for the priesthood.”

By the time Ben had packed his meager belongings and left his room, word of his dismissal had spread throughout the entire priory. A classmate's smug grin was too much for Ben's frayed temper, and his fist connected with the lad's face with a crack that echoed through the cloisters. A faint twinge of pleasure filled him at the sight of the blood gushing from the boy's nose. No more smug stares were upon him as all hurriedly turned their faces away.

His good feelings dissipated the moment his feet began to trod the long path home. What was he to tell his father? How long would he be welcome at the small estate? His older brother was due to marry this year, and soon the land would be signed over to him. Where would he go then? Ben's heart grew heavier with despair every step he took.

“I heard what happened, lad,” a voice called, penetrating his gloomy thoughts.

Donald O'Flannery walked beside him, and the understanding and sympathy in his eyes made Ben stop short. Donald was not a church member as far as he knew, but he was a frequent visitor to the priory and the school. No one was really certain of the purpose of the man's visits. He appeared to run errands for another church because Ben had once seen him leave with jugs of holy water, rosary beads, and a crucifix.

“What do you want?” Ben asked, unable to keep the petulance out of his voice.

“Dinna be ashamed, my son,” Donald had said. “For the Lord in his infinite wisdom and mercy has a calling for such as yerself. There be many hidden evils in the world and 'tis the job of folk like ourselves to eradicate 'em. I see the makings of a fine hunter in ye.”

“A hunter?” He wondered if perhaps Donald was mad, but still the man's use of the word “calling” intrigued him, invoking a faint thrill of hope.

O'Flannery nodded and loaded his pipe. “If ye'll join me for supper an' a pint or two of fine ale at the inn down the road, I'll explain all.”

Ben shoved his hands in his pockets. “That depends. Though my vow of poverty has ended, my funds have not improved.”

Donald chuckled. “It will be my coin this time. And if you remain with me, poverty will be a distant memory before long.”

After the first pint, Ben was wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “I appreciate the drink, but this heap of blarney is a wee bit too much. Vampires indeed!”

With a strange smile on his face, O'Flannery raised a brow at him and ordered their glasses refilled. “Vampires,” he continued as if he hadn't been interrupted, “are masters of deception. They have remained hidden for centuries by pretending to be human…”

By the time they were finishing the third pint, Ben was torn between admiration for Donald's ability to spin such a great yarn… and the slight kernel of belief that was sprouting in his breast. The idea that such monsters could exist right under the noses of civilization was horrifying, and yet the thought of becoming the hero who dispatched them was undeniably seductive.

“Do you have proof that these creatures exist?” he whispered, after the barkeep was out of hearing range.

Donald's smile was a predatory grimace. “Meet me at the old St. Thomas cemetery at dawn tomorrow.”

The next morning, Ben felt silly as he greeted O'Flannery in the moldering old graveyard. He wished he'd stayed in bed until his headache abated.

“Now, I've been leaving this one alone because it hasn't been bothering anyone,” Donald said as he opened the rusty gates. “Not only that,” he added with a wry grin as he chewed on his pipe. “There's no profit in this job. But for the sake of your education, I suppose I'll have to deal with the creature.”

He led Ben to an ancient crypt covered with ivy and removed a pry bar from his pack.

“Is there really a vampire in there?” Ben asked, still unable to believe that he was here participating in this foolishness.

O'Flannery ignored him and set to work on opening the tomb.

Ben's pulse raced as he followed Donald into the crypt. Spiders and other vile creatures fled from the morning light. A pile of bones lay in a shadowed corner. The stone slab they had rested on was now occupied by a fresh corpse… or was it? Ben gasped as he saw its chest rise and fall softly. The thing was alive.

With speed and strength that seemed almost godlike, Donald pounded a stake through the thing's breast with a heavy mallet and then cleaved the head from its body with one powerful strike of his ax.

Ben recoiled when Donald picked up the head and thrust it at him. “Take this while I drag the body outside.”

His gorge rose, but he suppressed it and followed O'Flannery back out into the daylight. Donald chuckled at Ben's cry of surprise when the corpse began to turn red and smolder.

“Drop the head here,” he ordered as he pulled a jug from his pack, uncapped it, and circled the remains while pouring out the holy water.

“Amazing,” Ben whispered as he watched the flames engulf the vampire's head and body. “Will you teach me?”

Now here he was in London, having surpassed Donald's legacy long ago. And best of all, there were no vows of poverty, chastity, or
obedience.
Ben Flannigan was his own man, beholden to no one… and the money wasn't very meager either.

His meal arrived and Ben lifted his glass of ale in his customary toast to the memory of his teacher. Donald had gotten clumsy in his old age. He didn't strike quickly enough before the last vampire awoke and flung the hunter against the wall, shattering his spine and killing him instantly.

Ben had barely gotten out of the cave alive. The creature had been so enraged that it had lunged out of the opening and into the sunlight, grasping Ben's collar. Only when the monster's face and arm caught fire did it release him.

Ben shuddered at the memory, which still gave him nightmares. He'd never been to Spain since. Just as he was sopping up the last of the gravy from his plate with a crusty roll, a young lad arrived at his elbow, looking ready to topple from the weighty stack of newspapers he held. Ben took the papers and tousled the scamp's hair, then gave him a coin. “That's a good lad.”

He carried the papers and his pack up to his room, the excitement of the hunt rising to a glorious tenor.

By the light of as many candles as he could spare, the hunter read every gossip article in
The
Times
,
The
Tattler
, and
The
Morning
Chronicle
. He started on the oldest issues first and worked his way forward. Most of it was inane nonsense, such as who was wearing what, whose ball was deemed a success, what courses were served at this party or that, ad nauseam. But one name stood out in all this drivel, rendering his headache and strained eyes worth the endeavor: Ian Ashton, the Duke of Burnrath.

The gentleman fit the profile of a hidden vampire to complete perfection. He came and went unpredictably, traveled far more than the usual nobleman, and all of his so-called “ancestors” were so similar that they may as well have been the same individual.

Ben chuckled in reluctant admiration at the “tradition” for all dukes of Burnrath to marry foreign brides and live abroad until their heirs returned to the family seat. It was a perfect deception.

Now the duke's disguise seemed to be on the verge of crumbling. Due to the recent popularity of vampire tales, Lord Burnrath's oddities were beginning to receive closer scrutiny. If Ben were to catch this prey, he would have to act fast, before the London gossips frightened the quarry away. He licked his lips in satisfaction. The hunt was on.

***

Scallywag John's was a deplorable hovel. The antithesis of its aristocratic counterpart, Gentleman Jack's, the tavern turned boxing club was a haven for the working class. Old barrels functioned as stools around a splintery slab of wood that served as the bar. A few shoddily crafted tables occupied dark corners, but most of the place was standing room only on the filthy sawdust-covered floor.

Ian's nose wrinkled against the miasma of sweat, stale beer, and dried blood as he pushed his way through the mass of shouting bodies. At last, the ring came into view. The structure was little more than a square of frayed rope strung through old dock pilings. The rickety craftsmanship didn't matter, for men did not come here for luxury. They came to see the fighters. Ian was here for one in particular.

“And now for the fight ye've been roaring for.” A small, rat-faced man stood on a crate and shouted over the din. “The Ox is the challenger!”

A gargantuan mass of a man lumbered into the ring, holding his scarred fists up to the cheers of the audience.

The announcer waited for the noise to abate slightly before declaring, “His opponent is our own champion, the Spaniard!”

Ian grinned as his second in command, Rafael Villar, strode into the ring. The crowd cheered so loudly that the building trembled, but Rafe ignored them. His amber eyes were only for his adversary. The Spaniard did not need to hold up his fists to flaunt his scars. One side of his face and the majority of his left arm were covered with puckered, ugly flesh. They were burn scars from the sun, but Ian knew little else, except for the fact that the damage was so severe that Rafe's left arm was nearly useless.