Blood Wicked (21 page)

Icy dread rippled through her heart. “It is daylight now! He can’t be outside.” Then real fear took root, as Dimitri merely sat in silence. “You believe he was killed, don’t you?”

“For vampires, the word is destroyed.”

She had her answer. Nausea gripped her. “Why would you let him go?”

In an instant Dimitri appeared at her side. “I did not let him. He chose to go. Even knowing how little time he had left.” His eyes seemed to bore into hers and she flinched. “Do you not understand, Miss Dare? Heath went on this foolish quest to
find out how to help you. And he may not be dead. If he found refuge in the dark, he should be able to survive for today.”

Should
. But there were no promises. She had nothing to cling to, except hope.

Was Heath alive? She prayed, prayed, prayed he was. But he could be injured and in danger. She was the only person here who could go out into the sunshine and find him.

T
he door swung open silently, revealing a dingy store packed with books. The smell of musty paper was overpowering. But Vivienne breathed in another scent as she entered the shop. A trace of sandalwood.

Did it mean Heath had been here?

The door closed softly behind her.

“Hello?” she spoke tentatively. The door had opened for her, and whoever had managed to command the door to do his bidding now knew she was here.

Prickles danced on the nape of her neck as she glanced around. Then, in a small shaft of sunlight that had braved the dirt-covered window, Vivienne spied a length of black thread. It ran along the wall, supported by metal eyelets. The string was connected to a contraption attached at the lower door hinge.

“So the door didn’t open by magic,” she murmured.

Footsteps shuffled. Instinctively she moved back, reaching for the knob of the door.

“Wait,” croaked a raspy voice. “Don’t go. I’ve never had
anyone as lovely as you in here. Nor as clever. No one before you has seen my little trick before it was explained.”

She paused. A small man peeked out from the shelves. He stood only four feet tall. Thin strands of gray hair hung around his ears. Deep wrinkles lined his face. If Drury Lane wished an actor to play a troll, they should speak to this particular man. Yet there was something sweet in his smile, as ugly as he was. And he was looking at her with awe. He leaped up and down in obvious, and very troll-like, excitement. “Tea!” he cried. “I must make tea. Come, come, my dear. Then we shall speak of what it is you want to know.”

“I don’t have time for tea,” she began, but the man—who must be Guidon—disappeared into the back of the shop.

He could feel the light warming the floor. It hadn’t reached him yet. Heath tried to move—tried to roll, flop, crawl, even slither. Anything to get into darkness and escape the shafts of deadly gold light, which slanted more and more through a broken window as the sun slowly arced through the sky.

Nothing worked. His brain sent the signal to his limbs to move, but his body didn’t respond.

He lay on his stomach. His cloak lay over his back, arms, and legs, but there were jagged tears in it from the demon’s claws.

The demon was now a pile of dust, sitting in the middle of the floor of this empty room, in this abandoned warehouse.

The gargoyle-demon had followed him as he’d lurched across the street and stumbled to the boarded-up front window of the warehouse. Heath had ducked at the last minute and the demon’s powerful wing had smashed a hole through one of the wooden boards. It was enough for Heath to fall in through the window.

After that, the beast batted him around like a toy. A gouge into his skin here, a rip of his flesh there. The thing assumed he
would be dead eventually, and wanted to draw out the pleasure of killing him. He’d managed to stagger into this big room, at the back of the building, still in darkness. He saw a hook and chain dangling over his head, obviously used for lifting boxes. The chain was slung over a pulley and ran down the wall where it was secured to another hook, and a pile of chain was coiled at the bottom. He dove for the hook on the wall.

Fortunately the demon wasn’t particularly bright. It followed him. He’d watched it lumber into position beneath the iron hook. Then he’d dredged up one last burst of strength and ripped the chain off the hook. The beast had looked up, only to have its skull crushed.

Ironic to think he’d managed to defeat a huge demon, but would burn in a shaft of daylight. In maybe an hour, light would land right on him.

So he did what any man would do in the circumstances. He entertained himself with a good sexual fantasy.

“Was there a gentleman here earlier today? A tall man with auburn hair?”

Guidon had lit a small stove and now waited for his kettle to boil, dancing from foot to foot as though he had a fire beneath him. Vivienne felt ready to lose her mind.

Finally he seemed to hear her question. “Is it Lord Blackmoor of whom you speak? I recognized him at once, of course. That is why all the records are kept with me. I’ve remembered each and every one—every vampire who has walked the face of the earth for thousands of years. And every book ever written by vampires is in here, too.” He tapped the side of his head. “The vampire slayers took all my books, and I have had to write everything again. Millions and millions of words.”

Vampire
slayers?
She quivered with fear. “Where did Lord Blackmoor go?”

“I do not know, madam. He left my shop. It was close to
daylight. I assumed he had to return to his coffin as swiftly as he could.”

“But he didn’t get home.”

“Then he found shelter.”

“But what if he didn’t?” This was hopeless. She spun and ran back toward the door. But suddenly the little man was in front of her. He laid a gnarled hand on her sleeve.

“Wait … Miss Dare, is it not? Lord Blackmoor was asking about you—” A whistle came then; that had to be a kettle on a stove. “Tea is ready.”

“I have to find Lord Blackmoor
now.
”

But Guidon shook his head. “If he did not find shelter, then it is too late. There is no point in you running out there without a fortifying cup of tea. Come and sit down.”

She hesitated. She almost expected the little man to try dragging her. But he watched her, cocked his head to the side. “Does it feel like you have lost him?”

“W—what do you mean?”

“Look inside you, Miss Dare, inside your heart. Do you believe you have lost him?”

She had no idea what he meant. She refused to believe Heath was gone. But that was her heart speaking, and it did not prove anything. “No.”

The gnomelike vampire nodded. He grasped a chair with a velvet-covered seat and hurried back with it. “This is for you, Miss Dare.”

Tea came in a heartbeat. He had barely left her before he returned, holding a chipped cup by the saucer beneath it. She took it from her host and took a swift sip. Then she moved to put it on the desk. She must go …

She swallowed. The flavor was unusual, and it warmed her inside. Then she heard breathing. Slow, steady breathing. She turned swiftly in the chair. But there was no one behind her.

“A connection between you and Lord Blackmoor. Interesting.”
Guidon had perched on a stool at the desk. He opened a book. Dipped a quill in ink. “Your entry,” he said with a frown, “is not complete.”

Entry? “Are you telling me I heard Lord Blackmoor’s breathing?”

“Is that what you heard? I knew it was something. But then, you only had a sip of the tea.”

She stared down into the cup. Could the tea have really let her hear Heath? Perhaps Guidon was lying to her, tricking her. Even poisoning her.

“I would never do any such thing.” His small hands had gone to his hips, and he was pouting at her.

He had read her mind. “I—I’m sorry. It’s just that … so much has happened. Heath can’t be out in daylight—”

“Of course not. And you are worried about him. Like a wife.” Guidon nodded. He turned the book so she could see it. “See, I have begun an entry on you.”

Her real name looked up at her from the page. Her date of birth. Her mother’s name. Details of her life. “How could you know this?”

“When any new being is created—or born—I know of it.” He motioned around him. “The problem with Lord Blackmoor: he clings to his mortal foibles. He is fearful of emotion. He seeks to avoid pain by avoiding love, but that denies him happiness.” The little man looked at her slyly. “I would not be reluctant to love a woman such as you, Miss Dare.”

“But Lord Blackmoor has been cursed—”

“Curses can be broken.” Guidon waved his curved hand impatiently.

She blinked. “Do you mean
Heath’s
curse can be broken?”

At first she thought the gnarled old man would not answer. He had turned his attention to the book that he had put in front of him. He flipped another page in it, ran a blackened finger over the script. Then he looked up. “Of course it can be.”

“How?”

“He has accepted the terms of the curse. He does not fight it. Once he no longer accepts it, then he will be free.”

“It cannot be that simple. And I’m certain he has wanted to make love more than once—” She broke off, blushing.

“Apparently not enough. He found ways to get what he wants, yet accommodate the curse.”

“You cannot be suggesting we just … try to break it.” If Heath were even still alive—or at least, not destroyed. “What happens if that doesn’t work?”

Guidon tapped his quill to his lips. “He would have to make a choice. His existence or his death. But to live as he is, with his heart closed off, pining for the one thing he will never let himself have, what sort of existence is that?” The vampire peered at her. “You have finished your tea. You may now hunt for Lord Blackmoor. But first, I need to know one thing about you. It is something I do not know, which is annoying—for I am supposed to know everything.” He stared intently at her. “I need your father’s name.”

“I do not know it.”

“Of course you do. I cannot let you leave until you tell me.”

Vivienne felt dizzy. She grasped the back of the chair. She tried to stand. The room turned black, then it was filled with a harsh, white light. No … she was having a kind of vision. In front of her eyes, she could see a stark room. Sunlight poured in high windows. A man’s body lay in the shadows….

“Heath!” she gasped. She pushed off the chair and stood. “I must go. I’ve—I’ve seen him. He is in a room. Not moving. And there is light pouring in through the window.” Heath had obviously been unconscious. Which meant he could not escape the light.

“No, Miss Dare. You have not answered my question. You cannot go.”

*  *  *

Heath wasn’t a complicated man when it came to his carnal tastes. So his fantasy began simply enough….

He was in the stables, surrounded by the scent of hay. Vivienne walked in. She wore a snug, velvet riding habit. But she opened her jacket and removed it, revealing voluptuous naked breasts, lifted up by the edge of a lace-trimmed scarlet corset.

In his fantasy, Vivienne stood in sunlight—in the shafts that strayed through the barn windows. Golden light played over her bare shoulders. And danced across her graceful neck. As for her breasts, they wobbled and bounced and the sparkling light struck her nipples so it looked like tiny diamonds hung there.

In her hand, she held a riding crop and she tapped it firmly against her open palm. He swallowed hard in anticipation as black leather smacked smooth, bare skin.

There was no escape. Not when he lay spread-eagled upon a pile of hay, with cords wrapped around his wrists, securing him to wooden posts. The same cords bit into his ankles and held his legs wide apart. He’d tried tugging his legs free but her knots were far too cleverly tied, too strong. He was her prisoner. At her mercy.

He shifted a little on the warehouse floor. But he still couldn’t move. His cock was growing long and hard at his fantasy, trapped between his stomach and the floor. The thing was damn sensitive. He let out a low moan.

Vivienne in charge … He liked the idea of it. He wanted her to feel strong. Confident. Courageous. He wanted to see her sashay with wicked intent toward him, her breasts swaying with her every movement.

He wanted her aroused by the display he made, tied up buck naked in the stables, with his cock standing to attention.

Anticipation should have him savoring her slow walk toward him. She would stroke her crop along the length of his rigid prick. He would let her play, tapping him here and there
with her weapon. And wait with bated breath and shaking limbs as she lightly spanked his ballocks.

And perhaps, just to tease him, she would make her breasts bounce with judicious slaps of the crop….

Heath was too impatient. Too aroused. He skipped right to the part where she straddled him and surrounded every inch of his throbbing erection with the silken grip of her cunny. She rode him like a wild thing and spanked his arse between his legs with her every bounce.

He’d never let any woman tie him up. He’d never let any woman control him.

Perhaps why this was his last fantasy …

Vivienne ran out of the shop into the thin, meager sunlight. The light fought its way through the soot-filled clouds that hung around the East End. It fell upon the crowds now jostling along the sidewalk of Charing Cross Road.

She had been in the bookstore only a quarter of an hour. It felt like eternity.

How was she going to find Heath? She kept seeing the same vision over and over. A large empty space. Light spilling through high, narrow windows. Heath’s body lying on the floor. He was lying on his stomach and a torn black cloak was draped over him.

In the last vision he’d been groaning intensely. She must be running out of time.

She stood on the sidewalk and turned in a circle. Which building was it? Bookshops lined this section of the street.

Heath had spoken of a connection. He had projected his thoughts into her head. Could she do that now? She had to try.
Heath, if you can hear me, tell me where you are!