Fallen Embers (33 page)

Chapter Nineteen

San Francisco, California

Anno Domini, 1857

Georgia didn't wait for the driver to hand her down when the carriage pulled to a stop in the dusty street. As soon as he'd reined in his horses, she drew her veil over her face and stepped out of the cab, ignoring his surprise. She was in too much of a hurry to waste time with social conventions. Her senses told her she was not yet too late, but she'd learned, over the centuries, not to rely overmuch on such things. Her timing was lamentable more often than not. She was taking a huge gamble coming here, but what choice did she have? Someone had to do something, after all.

Clutching her reticule in her hand, she hurried up the wide front stairs and knocked imperiously on the door. “I'm here to see your master,” she informed the wary-looking servant who came in answer to her summons. She brushed the veil away from her face, doing her best to appear harmless. “Would you be so kind as to tell him I'm here?”

“I-I'm s-sorry, miss,” the servant replied. His voice was shaking as badly as his hands. The nervousness in his gaze would have caused her to doubt his word, even if she didn't already know he was lying. “But M-m-mister Q-Q-Quintano is not at h-home at present.”

“I happen to know otherwise. So, pray, do not waste any more of my time with such nonsense. Where is he?”

The quaking man shook his head but said nothing.

Georgia rolled her eyes. Why had she even bothered to ask? “Never mind then.” She sighed. The servant gasped as she picked him up and moved him bodily aside. She ignored his surprise and swept past him into the house. “I will find him myself.” How hard could it be, after all? Her senses were already telling her Conrad was somewhere on the premises. The house was not so large he could hope to evade her forever. And the fact that he hadn't yet killed this hapless servant had to be a good sign.

“Miss—don't!” the man protested. “Please. For your own safety's sake, stay away from him. The master…he's not himself, miss. He-he's not well.”

“Thank you,” she called over her shoulder as she headed for the hall staircase. “But I am already aware of that fact. It's precisely why I'm here. Now, be a good man and draw some of these curtains. Your master needs dark if he's ever to recover his health.”

Upstairs, it was even more disturbingly bright. The stained glass in the window on the landing helped somewhat, but the trees on the property were not yet tall enough to deflect the sunlight and the building dwarfed the houses around it, so there was very little shade. For a vampire—and a man who put such high stock in the idea of blending in—this house seemed an exceedingly poor choice of a dwelling. She'd have wondered what Conrad had been thinking to buy such a place, but she feared she already knew the answer to that: he had not been thinking, at least not clearly.

Dust motes danced in each shaft of sunlight as Georgia made her way down the hallway. There was a set of double doors at the far end of the hall that drew her attention. Something told her she'd find what she was looking for behind them. She tightened her clasp on the bag in her hand, thankful that she'd had the forethought to come armed. Bearding a wild beast in its lair had never been a favorite pastime, but one did what one must to survive. That was one lesson she'd learned exceedingly well over the centuries.

She knocked softly on the door. “Conrad? It's I. Georgia. May I come in?”

A low growl sounded from inside the room. “No. Go away.”

“Unkind. Would you really turn me away when I've come so far just to see you?” When Conrad didn't answer she tested the door and was relieved to find it unlocked, but only because it saved her the trouble of breaking it down. Otherwise, the fact that Conrad had not locked it behind himself was a very disturbing detail indeed. Was he hoping someone would sneak in and stake him in his sleep? She would have judged his servants far too timid for such a step, so perhaps he was expecting another vampire? If that was the case, it was even better luck, on her part, that she'd arrived first.

“I'm coming in now,” she called through the door. “Pray allow me to do so, love. I've no wish to fight you.” Still no answer. Georgia took a deep breath. She pushed the door open and was all but blinded by the relentless flood of light.

“Merciful heavens.” She hurriedly pulled the veil back across her eyes. “What madness is this?” Conrad was lying sprawled across the floor, as though he'd stumbled and fell and had simply not bothered to get up again. Her senses warned her that he was still quite capable of doing so if he wished, however, so she gave him wide berth as she headed for the windows and quickly pulled the drapes closed.

She sighed in relief as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Cautiously, she crossed the room to where Conrad lay, still unmoving. She crouched beside him and eyed him closely. “This will not do, you know—lying about on the floor in the middle of the day. Why, one might almost mistake you for some no-account beggar, rather than the master of the house. Now, tell me, my love, what is this all about? What is it that ails you?”

“He's gone.” Conrad's face was stark as he raised his head to face her. His features were twisted in agony. His eyes were hopeless. “Gone. Destroyed. I killed him.”

“I see.” Georgia kept her composure, but not without an effort. “Well, well, I am sorry to hear it.”

Conrad's pronouncement was more than a little unsettling. Had he dispatched some important personage? She'd heard no rumors of such a thing, but if that were indeed the case, it would be most worrisome. Still, she chose to remain optimistic. Conrad had his fortune yet, so far as she knew, and it was a considerable amount. Surely it was enough that he could easily buy himself justice, even in this strange new world. If not…well, there were other, older methods by which the two of them might contrive to make the matter go away. And, if even that failed, as a last resort, he would simply have to go away himself.

Blessedly, they were on a continent where there was yet an abundance of wilderness. With very little effort, a man might lose himself for several decades here. So, however bad the situation might be, it was far from hopeless. They'd both survived worse.

“But who is it you've killed, love? Tell me. Let me help you.”

“Damian.” Conrad's voice all but broke on the name. “I've killed Damian.”

“Oh!” Georgia didn't know whether to laugh or cry or swear in frustration. “Conrad, really, what nonsense is this? It's too bad of you to worry me like that. You've done nothing of the sort!” But Conrad had let his head drop to the floor again and would say nothing more. Misery radiated from him. Georgia sighed.

“My love, please, I hate to see you in such distress. I do not know how you came to be so terribly misinformed, but I assure you Damian is not dead. He is in fact very much alive, most annoyingly so. He is merely keeping his distance, which, for him, is so surprisingly prudent a move, that I imagine you must have ordered him to do so. Why did you think him dead?”

“I lost my temper. I…I attacked him.”

“Yes, yes, so I've heard. The merest scratch, what of it? It was a harsh lesson, perhaps, for someone so vain, so spoiled, so used to being pampered. I don't doubt he had it coming, however. No one would ever dare fault you for your treatment of him, you know. And, hopefully he'll have learned something from the experience.”

“No. No excuses. He's gone. Dead and gone. I've killed it—he said so himself.”

Sighing, Georgia rearranged her skirts and settled herself more comfortably on the floor. She dug around in her bag and pulled out one of the glass vials of blood she'd brought with her. “Here, love, why don't you eat something? I fear you've been neglecting yourself most shockingly, and you know no good can come of that!”

“It doesn't matter,” Conrad muttered, but as Georgia uncorked the vial she could see how he stiffened, how the scent of the blood called to him. “Nothing matters now. I've lost him.”

“Allow me to disagree, love. What happens to you matters a great deal to those of us who call you sire. Think of us, if you please. Or, if you cannot find it in you to be concerned with the rest of us, then think of Damian. Consider his position in this. It's obvious you already feel badly for your actions toward him, why compound the damage by leaving him friendless and forcing him to fend for himself?”

“I've already forced him into doing that,” Conrad said, but he'd raised his head and was eyeing the vial greedily. “Have you not understood a thing I've said? I'd hoped to protect him, but I could not even protect him from myself. He could hardly do any worse without me.”

“And, yet again, I fear I must disagree with you.” Georgia held out the vial and breathed a sigh of relief when Conrad snatched it from her hand. He emptied it in a single swallow and was already reaching to take the next one from her before she'd even uncorked it. Giving up, she merely opened her bag and laid it on the floor between them, happy to let him root each of the six vials out and empty them in turn. “How have you failed in your role as protector? No one has harmed him but you yourself—which you were well within your right to do. I am convinced no one else would dare touch him—now, even more than before. You must know it was not the tattoo itself that's kept him safe all these years. And, if I may be frank, pretty though he looked with your ink upon his skin, surely the marks you've left upon him now are even more of a deterrent. Who could look upon them and not think twice before doing anything to cross you? For, if that's how you deal with a loved one who's caused you displeasure, how might others fare should they fall afoul of you? Indeed, as I've said, I'm quite convinced he's even more protected now than he was before.”

Conrad growled in response. “Have you forgotten that you also wear my crest? If you find it so ineffective, perhaps you, too, would be interested in exchanging that mark for another?”

Georgia bowed her head. “If that is my sire's wish, I will of course submit to whatever punishment you choose to inflict on me. But, tell me, in what way have I displeased you? I merely brought you food and took the liberty of drawing your drapes. Can you not find it in your heart to forgive such wicked transgressions?”

A faintly rueful smile curved Conrad's lips as he levered himself into a sitting position. “Indeed. I believe I might contrive to overlook them. But spare me any more nonsense. While I appreciate your attempts to turn my sins into virtues, my girl, it will not do. Perhaps I didn't kill him. Perhaps the damage was not as grievous as I'm remembering. But I've killed his regard for me—not even you can deny that. I've killed everything that was tender and good between us. What's the point of my remaining any longer in this world where the only inevitabilities are sadness and loss and the certain knowledge I will eventually poison every source of my own joy?”

“As to that, I do not know. One must live somewhere, I suppose.”

“Or not live at all.”

Georgia frowned. “Such thoughts are not worthy of you.
Noblesse oblige
, my love. You have a duty. Perhaps you might determine to live for the sake of the good you might yet do? Or for the sake of those who love and depend upon you?”

Conrad snorted derisively in response. “Aye, there is that, I suppose; although I never claimed to be noble. But perhaps anyone foolish or unlucky enough to love or depend on me deserves what he ends up getting.”

“Or she,” Georgia responded. “And, yes, perhaps we do! For I tell you, Conrad, you are not near as black as you paint yourself, as anyone
fortunate
enough to be beholden to you will no doubt tell you.”

“Anyone? Surely not.”

“Yes,
anyone
, even Damian. Why, if he were here right now, I'm sure he'd say as much. And were he to say otherwise, I would call him a liar to his face. Pray, do not forget, Conrad, that for four hundred years you put up with such behavior from him as no other sire of my acquaintance would ever countenance. When I heard what he'd done, well, I-I could scarce believe my ears.”

Conrad growled. “Enough.” Dark fire blazed in his eyes. Georgia felt her own anger stir in response and tamped it down vigorously. Even weak as Conrad was right now, she knew herself to be no match for him. And for all that she'd attempted to make light of Damian's injuries—for the sake of Conrad's peace of mind—she truly had no wish to find herself similarly scarred.

Conrad adjusted his position, turning until he was facing her and leaning back against the side of one of the arm chairs with which the room was furnished. He rested his forearms on his bent knees and gazed at her wearily. “Why did you come here—and at this time of day, no less? That cannot have been pleasant for you.”

“No. It was most unpleasant, in fact. This is a most hideous locale, so sunny and bright.”

“Indeed.” Conrad's eyes narrowed. “I can, in fact, think of only one reason to explain your presence here. Were you perchance hoping to find me in a weak enough state that you might kill me?”

“Oh! Most unfair! However can you accuse me of such a heinous thing?”

“Does it seem heinous to you? I can't think why. I might even have thanked you for it, were that the case.”

“Did I not just draw your curtains for you? Did I not come here with food to strengthen you, with soft words to comfort you? Are those the actions of someone who wants you dead?”

“No, they are not. And, as I've said twice already now, I don't understand. It would have been in your own best interest to leave me here to rot—you can't deny it. If I were to have died, you'd at last be free. Is that not what you've always wanted? And if you were to have killed me—heinous though you seem to think it—you'd have done even better for yourself. You'd have inherited everything. Your position would be unassailable. No one could have touched you. You're no one's fool, Georgia. You must have thought of it.”