Blood Fire (17 page)
“I. Cannot. Help. It.” Octavia tugged her hand free. It was Sutcliffe’s hand she wanted to squeeze, but Mrs. Darkwell had warned her she mustn’t send him any clue where she was.
How could she not push? For twelve hours, she’d had contractions. When they had come just five minutes apart, she’d thought her baby would come soon. She had been wrong.
But all the while, Mrs. Darkwell had assured her this was actually an easy birth. The physician was quite pleased with the progress. But it hurt. It hurt almost more than she could bear. She was struggling to stay calm.
How did women go through this? How did they survive? She feared the baby would never come.
“You may push now, my lady,” the physician urged. The man was blushing. But she was only relieved. She panted and pushed. The physician lifted the sheet draped over her legs. Perhaps she should be embarrassed to be seen in such a way, but she was far too weak to care.
She pushed. And breathed. And sobbed. And cried, and did any number of embarrassing things, then Mrs. Darkwell declared with triumph, “The head. Lady Sutcliffe, the baby’s head is crowning. We are so very close.”
She sobbed with hope. Someone grasped her hand, and held tight, and encouraged her to keep breathing. It was so intense. So very intense. She feared it would go wrong, that her baby could not be born. Mrs. Darkwell said firmly, “You must push once more, to birth the shoulder.”
The
shoulder?
What about the head? But Octavia pushed and felt a swift, slippery sensation, and the pain vanished. Relief rushed through her, and she laughed and cried in delight as she heard the soft cry of her baby.
shoulder?
What about the head? But Octavia pushed and felt a swift, slippery sensation, and the pain vanished. Relief rushed through her, and she laughed and cried in delight as she heard the soft cry of her baby.
It was the sweetest sound—most indignant—and her heart ached for the poor little one. How frightening it must be to go from warmth and darkness into a strange world.
The cord must have been cut, and she was exhausted, but Mrs. Darkwell wrapped her child in swaddling clothes, and brought the small baby back.
Octavia cradled her little infant to her breast. But with the cloth on—
“A little girl,” Mrs. Darkwell whispered. “You have a baby girl.”
A daughter. She held her baby girl closely. The little eyes were closed, the pink lips pursed. She gently kissed her satin-smooth cheek. The baby flinched, wriggled a bit within her swaddling blanket. Relaxing against the pillow, Octavia let out a deep breath. Her lashes flickered shut as exhaustion stole over her. Her hand spanned the belly of her little girl. She smiled softly.
Then hands came down and wrapped around her child. Fighting exhaustion, Octavia opened her eyes and rolled to look. It was one of the maids, and she lifted the baby to her gray gown-covered bosom.
Octavia held out her hand. “Where are you taking her? Can’t she stay with me?”
“My lady, I must put her in the bassinet. You could roll atop her, and you might not hear her cry. You could smother her.”
Surely she couldn’t. But the baby was so small, her tiny cries so sweet and quiet. What if it could happen? It would be horrible.
“I will bring her to you when she needs to be fed, my lady.”
Through a narrow slit between her heavy lids, Octavia watched the maid turn and carry her baby out of the room, after warning that she would return in about three hours for the baby to feed.
The physician was not yet finished—he began to massage her belly, then something else slipped out of her. After a while, he announced that he believed the bleeding was stopping. She heard Mrs. Darkwell sigh in relief.
“It is all done, my lady, and you did admirably.” Mrs. Darkwell smiled down at her. “A healthy baby girl, and all has gone well for you. Now you must rest. We will take you to your bed.”
Octavia was lifted by a strong servant and carried. She wanted to walk, but Mrs. Darkwell insisted she should not. She was laid in a large bed in a new room, one with clean sheets.
She was so tired; she had to sleep. She closed her eyes.
Her baby was her family, and Octavia would take care of her little one forever. . . .
The next thing she knew, she felt warmth on her face. Slowly, she opened her eyes, dazed, confused. . . . Light was pouring in through the curtains. She wanted to burrow deeper under her covers. Then she realized—
It was morning. She had slept through the night. No one had woken her to feed her baby.
If her water had broken so many hours before, Octavia must have had the baby.
Matthew drained his brandy. He tossed the glass toward the large table that sat in the center of his library. The empty brandy balloon slid across polished wood, smashed to the floor on the other side.
He’d thought he had found her, only to discover he had been outsmarted. He had found the house where the letters supposedly had been sent from, but it was empty.
Why hadn’t she let him come to her?
Thud. Thud. Thud.
His terrace doors were rattling. Half-drunk, he lurched off his chair and stumbled to the door. A young lad stood outside, getting pelted with cold rain as he pounded on the glass.
What in Hades? Matthew wrenched the door open. The urchin clutched a wet cap and had streaks of mud on his cheeks. Rain dripped off his small, upturned nose. Matthew looked the boy over from head to toe. “Exactly what are you doing in my yard, young man?”
The boy wiped the droplets from his cheeks. He gave a look of complete honesty—it appeared to be a look well practiced to con gentlemen. “I heard ye’re looking for Lady Sutcliffe, milord. Me brother told me you were asking questions around Birdwell Lane.”
That was the street he had been to today. “How can you help me?” he asked sharply.
“I know where she is, milord,” the boy said, wide-eyed.
Hope flared. A mad hope that made him hunger to go at once. Instead, he held the door open. “Come in, dry off, and warm yourself.” Grasping the boy by the shoulder, he led the lad to the fireplace. “How would you know where Lady Sutcliffe is?”
The boy held small, pale hands out toward licking flames. He gave a sigh of pure pleasure. “Mrs. Darkwell, the lady that runs the school, pays me to take messages for ’er.”
Mrs. Darkwell? Was that the real name of Mrs. Smith? Was the boy’s tale the truth? He couldn’t trust the beguilingly innocent look on the boy’s face. On the other hand, why would the lad lie? “What school is this?”
“It’s one for orphaned ladies, milord. Mrs. Darkwell has a house east of Mayfair, and she gives a ’ome to girls that don’t ’ave families. Wellborn ladies, like the one ye’re looking for.”
“All right, lad. You take me there, and I find you’re telling me the truth, you’ll receive a generous reward. What is your name?”
“John, milord. How much reward? Me brother said it were to be two gold sovereigns.”
“John, if you take me to Lady Octavia, I will give you five pounds.”
The boy’s eyes lit up and he spun away from the fire, rubbing his hands together. “I’ll take ye now, milord.”
Matthew walked up steps to the deserted-looking house on the eastern boundary of Mayfair. The stone steps were chipped, the windows shrouded on the inside with faded drapes, and paint hung in strips on the door.
“Here?” He turned, but the street was empty except for his carriage. The boy had run.
That didn’t surprise him. It did surprise him the lad had fled
before
he got his money.
before
he got his money.
The rain had turned to thick, wet snow. The streets gleamed with wetness. It was possible the mysterious Mrs. Darkwell was keeping Octavia a prisoner inside and the boy had run in fear.
Why would a woman who ran a house for homeless girls take in Octavia? Who was this woman? A healthy instinct about danger had protected him in the past—the only time he had blatantly ignored it was when he had found Esmeralda’s tomb in the Carpathians. His instincts were on alert now.
He was sure Octavia was not safe with the woman—she was in danger.
Matthew tried the door, found it locked. He retreated, then charged, and slammed his shoulder into the wood. It was half-rotted and gave way easily, sending him stumbling inside. Given he’d already made enough noise to wake the dead, he shouted, “Octavia? Are you here? Mrs. Darkwell, I am the Earl of Sutcliffe. I demand to see my wife at once.”
The house was gloomy, and he stood in a foyer that contained no light, no servants, nothing but the smell of damp. It wasn’t dusty, he noted, and a faint line of light gleamed at the base of a door opposite him. The house had been elegant once. Eight marble columns soared around the circular foyer, with delicate fanned designs at the top, supporting a domed skylight. Rain streaked on the glass panes.
“Octavia?” He shouted it again. Unease settled heavily on his shoulders. With nothing but silence answering him, he made for the door.
Pushing it open, he breathed in a sweet, heavy, perfumed smell.
The scent was drugging. One breath and his head felt dazed. It made his skin grow hot, his heart pound. Arousal hit him— Matthew was instantly sexually aroused, but for no reason. Where in hell was the smell coming from?
His feet were moving down the corridor. There was another door at the end, and the light he had seen came from under that door.
Was he in a dream again? Would he open the door and find Octavia there, naked and ready for him? Was any of this real?
He must be losing his mind. Of course it was real. He had not gone to sleep. Anyway, Octavia had left him when her water had broken—she had run away because the baby was coming. Would she be coming back to him for sex right after the baby was born?
Given she was a succubus, he didn’t know, but he didn’t think so. So what in hell was this place? He kept walking forward, though logic warned him of danger. He couldn’t stop his legs moving. By their own compulsion, they took him to the door, one painted a glossy black. Unlike the others, it looked used.
He didn’t touch the door, but the knob turned and it began to swing open. A bevy of feminine giggles drifted out to him. A woman cried happily, “At last he has come. I have been so
hungry!
”
hungry!
”
Matthew hesitated. He had a pistol, but De Wynter had taught him in the Carpathians that his gun would not be a protection against the undead, and the instant he saw the women, he knew they were vampires. It was obvious by the long, pure white fangs that lapped over their full, crimson lips.
They were all nude, lying in a tangle of arms and legs on an enormous oval daybed. He could see their full, bare breasts, their rounded rumps, their long seductive limbs. There were six women in all, all of different shapes, all endowed in different ways. Two were sleek, with small breasts—though one had large, dark nipples, and the other possessed tiny pink ones. Two were of more ‘average’ endowment, though one had round plump breasts that sat high on her chest, the other had longer, tubular breasts, with thick, chocolate brown nipples. The remaining two vampires had the largest breasts he’d ever seen. The two sets of huge bosoms were being petted, licked, and kissed by the other four girls, while all six women watched him.
Now he could see exactly what they were doing. Their legs were spread, flung over each other, and each woman was sliding a large dildo in another woman’s quim. They licked their lips and thrust the toys more vigorously. The room was filled with the carnal noise of thrusting and with the ripe smell of aroused women.
“Watch us,” whispered one of the women with the biggest breasts. “Enjoy the sight of our climaxes, and let your cock grow ready for pleasure.”
He intended to back away.
Instead, his feet moved him forward, to a large chair that sat facing the daybed and the writhing women. He was flung into it as though pushed by an invisible hand.
In front of him, the women squirmed over each other. They began suckling each other’s pussies, working their tongues around the thick, flesh-colored dildos inside them.
Once this would have aroused him; now he was just aware of the wasting of time, and the unsettling feeling of being a prisoner. “I’m here for Octavia,” he said coldly. “I’m not interested in watching.
“Octavia? There is no Octavia here. No, you were brought to us for another reason entirely.”
He had indeed been an idiot. “What reason? Who the devil are you—all of you? Or who employed you to bring me here?” Who would organize an orgy with vampires and drug him, forcing him to come in here? Somehow, that smell had affected him like opium, stealing his wits.
“We can help you find your beloved Octavia.”
Shoving hard on the arms of the chair, he tried to rise to his feet. He could not move. “Do you know where she is? Tell me. Every moment counts.”
“You fear she has had her child, do you not? You wish to have your child. To hold the sweet babe, and kiss its tiny, fragile head—”
“A babe. How delicious,” breathed one of the smaller-breasted women, who had long, blond hair. She licked her sharp fangs.
He recoiled, revolted. In the Carpathians, he had rescued children from demons like this. Unfortunately, he’d been too stupid to save himself this time. The women rose to their haunches, like wolves, smiling seductively at him. “Come to us. Take us all. You may do anything you wish. Imagine the pleasure of having all of us at once—”
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