Blood Rose (10 page)

Her fingers closed around the earl’s strong arms. All she wanted to do was kiss him. His mouth on hers was so erotic. Her heart beat in her throat.

She’d failed, she’d almost lost her life on this gamble, and all she wanted to do was kiss his lordship. She wanted to melt into Sommersby’s powerful embrace, lay her hands on his massive chest, and kiss him until she forgot everything.

What was wrong with her! How could she be so wanton?

His lordship’s hands encircled her waist…but his mouth eased back, breaking the contact—

“Vampires!” Drake Swift leaned into the doorway, his silver-blond hair wild around his face.

Serena almost fell back against the books as Sommersby pulled away from her.

She grabbed at the shelf—a few volumes tumbled to the floor around her feet. She glanced down—one book had fallen open over her slipper. On the cover was one embossed word.
Lukos
.

She bent and grabbed it.

“Hell.” Sommersby scooped his arm around her waist and hauled her up. He lifted her over the fallen books.

Struggling, she tried to break free of his grip. “I can’t go. Not yet! There might be something here.”

But Sommersby carried her back to the anteroom—their only way out.

A vampire was climbing out of the small tunnel. Serena saw the vampire’s face, the mouth open wide, fangs pale white. The vampire and Drake Swift met in a crash—Swift’s arm plunged as the vampire’s teeth latched to his already-wounded neck. With an unearthly shriek, the black-clad vampire dropped to the ground.

“There’s more coming,” Swift yelled. “And we’ve got no way out of here.”

“There is a way,” Serena cried. “The first door leads to the tunnel, but it goes to the Thames—

”

Swift raced to the door. “Blast! Forgot there’s numbers.” But the lock opened in his hand as he dragged his fingers away. “It’s unlocked.”

Unlocked? Someone had gone through before them, but Serena raced headlong after Mr. Swift into the room, not caring what she found. Lord Sommersby, on her heels, grasped her shoulder.

“Stay at my side, Miss Lark.” As he propelled her forward, she held tight to the book in her hand, her fingernails driving into the leather cover. Mr. Swift ran out ahead, his candle throwing a glow on the masonry walls, on the damp floor. “Where do we go from here?” he called back. “The Thames?”

Serena’s lungs dragged in air as they ran. Her feet slapped painfully on the wet, rough floor.

“T—there’s no other way.”

“Is there any fork in the tunnels at all? Even a dead end?”

Serena managed an astonished stare at Lord Sommersby. “There might be. There is a church above with…with some catacombs.” She panted the words out. If it weren’t for Sommersby’s grip on her arm she would have fallen into the muck. Her knees ached from the crawl. Her slippers slid sloppily on her feet as she tried to keep running.

“Can you find the catacombs?” his lordship demanded.

“But then what?”

“We double back, Miss Lark,” he answered. “And go back through the brothel.”

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How could they outrun creatures that could fly? And who was ahead of them—more vampires?

Even as the thoughts tumbled through her mind, Serena felt the brush of air, the fierce flap of wings through the dark.

Mr. Swift stopped abruptly. “Goddamn.”

In a maelstrom of wind that drew water and dirt from the floor, a vampire materialized before them. Lord Sommersby held her at his side; his torch threw out light on Roman’s powerful naked body, his long dark hair, his face.

His nakedness startled.

“Come with me, Serena Lark,” Roman crooned.

She felt the power of his voice—she stared into his reflective eyes, mesmerized, trying to will herself to look away. Sommersby shook her and she jerked free of the spell, just as Drake Swift charged forward, a stake raised. She screamed—expecting Roman to launch at Swift. But Roman turned and fled down the tunnel, his hair a long stream behind him. Swift laughed, the laugh of a man enjoying himself, and followed.

“No!” she cried. “It must be a trap.”

“I have to go after the bloody fool, and I’m not leaving you alone.” The earl grasped her hand and pulled her along.

“He must be—be leading Mr. Swift into disaster.” She gasped the words. Lord Sommersby’s hold on her arm again kept her from falling into the muck. Her slippers skidded as she ran.

Mr. Swift vanished into the dark ahead.

“You—God—Aieeee!”

Someone screamed. The worst scream of unholy pain.

“Christ Jesus!”

Her legs wobbled in relief beneath her at the sound of Drake Swift’s voice. He was alive, thank heaven, and while his voice betrayed astonishment and surprise, he didn’t sound weak or in pain.

Serena forced her feet to keep moving forward.

Then a great force of air rushed over them, and the edge of the torchlight illuminated wide, black wings. Roman had transformed into a bat and flew back toward the brothel.

The earl stopped first. Under the light of his torch, Serena saw Drake Swift in a crouch. Had he been hit?

With a cry, she pushed around Sommersby and stumbled forward, just as Mr. Swift straightened. “I bloody missed him. He dove at me, clawed me, and I staked him—got him below the heart again.” Swift stared right into her eyes. “Miss Lark, angel, don’t look so distressed. I’m not hurt.”

The earl held up his hand. “Listen.”

She strained to hear—and suddenly her mind was filled with the splatter of drips, the distant rush of the water in the tunnel.

“I don’t hear wings or footsteps,” Sommersby murmured. He drew out his pocket watch, and for the second time, he gave a slight smile. “A quarter of seven. Daylight.”

Blood Rose ©Sharon Page 2007 Email: [email protected] 40

Mr. Swift winked. “Saved by dawn, little lark. We can go back through the brothel—it will be empty now.”

“The library,” Serena whispered. “We must return to the library.”

His lordship shook his head. “No, Miss Lark. You have had a traumatic night—you will be returning to Lady Brookshire’s house. With me. The Society will take care of the library today.”

“My lord—no!” She reached for his arm.

“Yes, Miss Lark.”

Seething in frustration, she looked to Mr. Swift, but he nodded in agreement. “Little lark, we must get you to safety.”

Without the book, how could she find out the truth? Panic gripped as the earl turned and swept her up into his arms. No, she had to go back—

“She gave you a right shiner.”

Jonathon touched the swollen corner of his right eye, but he would be damned if he’d give Swift the satisfaction of wincing at the shot of pain. Serena Lark had indeed pasted him right in the eye as she’d struggled in his arms. He should take it as proof she was a vampiress—she had incredible strength for a female.

He scrubbed his jaw. She’d been after a particular book, one that was missing. He would have to discover which one. Since Ashcroft’s stories about two vampires raiding her parents’ home was a lie, what book could she have found?

Swift poured more coffee into his cup and leaned back in the chair, holding the cup, then insolently propped his booted feet on the breakfast table. He drained the steaming brew in one gulp.

“Miss Lark was damned angry at you for taking her away from those books. I suspect you won’t be kissing her again anytime soon—not without getting a slap for your trouble.”

“Leave her alone,” Jonathon snarled at his partner. “I behaved like a bloody cad last night. As did you.”

“We risk death,
brother
—the rules of polite society needn’t matter to men who risk death every night.”

“We face death by choice, Swift.” Jonathon refused to show any reaction to Swift’s use of the word
brother
. They weren’t brothers, not by blood, but he knew their relationship was stronger, more intertwined, more damned infuriating than the one between real brothers. “It’s no excuse not to behave as gentlemen.”

“Then it’s fortunate I’m not a gentleman.” Swift swung down his feet and stood. “I’m off to bed. Regrettably alone. Are you going to lock yourself in that bloody laboratory again?”

Jonathon grunted. That was exactly where he was going. He swallowed his coffee without tasting it and poured another brimming cup as Swift sauntered out. Damn, he was exhausted, but he had to fight it, and the coffee helped invigorate him. Forgoing cream or sugar, he gulped down the second scalding cup and set it rattling on the saucer before striding out of the room.

Rumpole, his elderly butler, stood in the hall, looking as morose as ever. “Lord Ashcroft, my lord. Waiting in the laboratory.”

Jonathon gave a brief nod and hurried down the corridor. He passed the many unused rooms of his home—the curtains drawn, the furniture swathed in Holland covers, fires unlit. The coolness of fall was beginning to settle into the house.

He thought of his father’s words of warning as he passed by dark room after dark room.
A
vampire hunter’s life is a solitary existence. You’re better to be alone, because you’ll fear the risk
to someone you love.
It was the truth. He possessed a house that was no longer a home, populated with a few aging, trusted servants. He never attended parties or balls. Never gamed, never drank to Blood Rose ©Sharon Page 2007 Email: [email protected] 41

excess, never spent the night in a mistress’s arms. His house was devoid of the sparkle of a woman’s touch, a woman’s laughter…a woman’s soul.

That thought spurred Jonathon to race up the stairs, to jog toward the dark, tomblike east wing that housed the laboratory.

After last night, he knew he could no longer obey Lord Ashcroft or the Royal Society. He couldn’t let Serena transform into a vampire, and he knew he couldn’t destroy her.

If he wanted to try to save Serena Lark’s soul, he had to get to work.

The door to the study adjoining his laboratory stood open. Inside the study, Ashcroft cradled the jawbone of a vampire in his hand, holding it up to examine it under the sunlight that drizzled in the windows. His mentor—the man who had been more of a father than his own—turned at the sound of his step and touched the long upper fangs. “Fascinating.”

Jonathon gazed on the face of the man who had always encouraged him—who had often acted as peacemaker between he and his father, and realized, with shock, how cadaverous Ashcroft looked. The tall, lean body stooped, the back rounded, the shoulders slumped. Deep lines etched Ashcroft’s face, and his few remaining strands of hair were chalk white. His cheeks were sunken, his eyes shadowed.

Jonathon frowned. “Are you ill, sir?”

The older man gave a thin smile. “Blunt as always, Sommersby.”

His words had been ill mannered, but he didn’t have time for niceties. “The truth, sir. What ails you?”

“I take it I don’t look at my best.” Ashcroft looked amused. “It’s the loss of sleep, my boy.

And old age.”

Jonathon got to the point. “Who the hell is Lukos? And why does he wants Miss Lark? Could he know what she is?”

“I’ve no idea who Lukos is.” Ashcroft eased himself into the club chair closest to the low fire.

“There’s no mention of such a vampire in any of the literature possessed by the Society. We have only begun to remove that treasure trove of books you found beneath the brothel.”

Jonathon raked his hand through his already disordered hair. “Miss Lark found that.”

“A clever woman.” Ashcroft leaned his head back, shut his eyes for the moment. Jonathon moved to the brandy decanter. He poured two drinks. Given the odd hours he kept, he took brandy whenever it was convenient. Ashcroft did the same.

Ashcroft accepted the glass.

Jonathon cradled his between his palms. “You told me that Serena Lark has not yet transformed—that she is still mortal. She still has a soul; she doesn’t yet have the characteristics of a vampire. I want to try to stop her change into vampire.”

“Impossible.” Brandy spilled from Ashcroft’s glass as the earl pounded his fist into the leather chair arm. “Her transformation on All Hallow’s Eve cannot be stopped—and it will be the Society’s first chance to witness the actual moment of change.”

“My father believed there was a way to stop it.”

Shock registered on Ashcroft’s shadowed face. “You found your father’s journals? Where?”

“Not the journals, just notes and a letter. Unfinished and hidden underneath a secret panel in his desk.”

“A letter? Written to who?”

“To me.” His father had started it the day before his death of a heart seizure.

“And what did it tell you?” Ashcroft barked. He perched on the edge of the seat now, pale blue eyes burning with intensity.

Blood Rose ©Sharon Page 2007 Email: [email protected] 42

“Only that my father kept records of Serena Lark—meticulous records of her life. From records kept by the people who raised her—apparently from Mr. Bridgewater, who died shortly after she left their care—when she returned looking for answers.”

His mentor’s face jerked up. “From Bridgewater? But why—” Ashcroft broke off and passed a gloved hand over his jaw. “I had no idea your father and he corresponded. It was dashed unfortunate that Bridgewater and his wife died.”

“I believe my father was keeping these records for you, sir. He was planning to unveil his discovery—the way to stop the creation of a vampire.”

Ashcroft was trembling. “I never saw his journals, Jonathon. He never showed them to me.”

Jonathon put his untouched brandy on the desk. Frustration surged in him. “I’m still searching for the journals. I’ve tried every blasted property belonging to the estate—and I’m back here, none the wiser. In that unfinished letter he was gloating over the grand discovery. Why would he hide it from me?” He could understand his father’s care in hiding the books, but not why his father would have left no clues for him. “I’ve been trying to work from the laboratory books prior to those that are missing—to see if I can replicate what he found.”