Four Dukes and a Devil (16 page)

E
lise didn’t have time to turn around before the doors blew off the van, and Mencheres was sucked out into the sunshine. She dropped Blake, careful to make sure his head was hanging outside the chamber, and ran out of the van.

“Mencheres!” she screamed.

Nothing was around but miles of empty, ominous white salt. Where was Mencheres? Her sire was the most powerful vampire she’d ever met, how could he simply
disappear
?

Something slammed into her from behind. Elise fell, getting a face full of salt. Then she was propelled up and flung into the side of the van, hard enough to make it tilt on its tires.

“Bring him back,” Xaphan growled near her ear.

Elise whirled, but there was no one there. Another blow knocked her into the van again. Then another and another, all made by someone she couldn’t even see.

Elise tasted blood where her lip had split. The bright afternoon sunlight, naked of any cloud cover, felt like needles on her skin. Something seized Elise’s hair, grinding her face into a ragged piece of metal from the dent her body had made.

“Bring him
back,
” Xaphan said again, and she was shoved into the van.

Blake was still slumped over the chamber, motionless. Elise pulled him all the way out of the water, laying him on the van’s floor. He was as white as the salt outside, all the color gone from his skin, and his skin was cool enough to feel like he’d been carved out of ice.

The van gave a violent rock that had equipment sliding into the corner.

“Stop it!” Elise snapped. “If you break everything in here, I can’t save him.”

“Do it now,” that horrible, disembodied voice ordered.

Her hands trembled as she set the breather over Blake’s mouth, turning on the machine that would pump warmed, humid air into Blake’s lungs.
We must reheat his core slowly,
Mencheres had said.
Too much artificial warmth to his extremities will make lethal gases fill Blake’s bloodstream.

Therefore, Elise didn’t use the hot packs with Blake yet. She covered him with blankets and set up the IV to fill an artery with heated blood. Another IV was inserted for a warmed saline solution. Then Elise began CPR, forcing Blake’s stationary heart to pump.

An invisible hand slapped her across the mouth. “Faster,” Xaphan said.

The demon’s voice seemed to rise and fade at the same time. Elise took out a syringe with an elongated needle, punching that needle through Blake’s breastbone to inject epinephrine directly into his heart. Then she began compressions to his chest again.

“Bring him back
now,
” Xaphan roared. The van lifted off the ground a foot and smashed back down, shattering the windows.

Elise paused to take a long, poignant look at Blake’s face.
That demon is going to regret what it did to me,
he’d told her.
Don’t try to take that away from me, Elise.

That was what she was doing right now, taking away his choice because it hurt her too much to honor it. Searing pain tore through Elise’s heart.
I can’t do it. I love you too much to betray you like that.

She kissed Blake’s cold lips, then sat back. “It’s over,” she told the demon.

A viselike grip settled around her throat, lifting her until her head banged on the ceiling.

“You will obey me,” Xaphan said. Waves of sulfur curled around her, the odor so thick, it felt like it was slithering inside her.

Elise could barely talk with the pressure on her throat, but she managed to force out her reply.

“Go…to…hell.”

The van shook, metal curling back from the frame, before it was lifted and slammed repeatedly to the ground. Elise used all of her strength to tear away from the force that held her. She crawled toward Blake, covering him with her body when she reached him. Shielding him from metal shards that sliced through the air, ripping into her flesh and gouging the equipment around them. For a few nightmarish minutes, it felt like the entire world was being shaken and ripped apart.

A piercing shriek scalded her ears, causing Elise to lift her head and look in its direction. In the open doorway of the ruined van, a cloud of black flame appeared. It stretched into the form of a man with long, smoke-tipped wings coming from his back.

“Die,” the demon hissed. That cloud of burning sulfur shot straight toward Elise and Blake.

Elise braced herself but didn’t try to escape. She wouldn’t leave Blake, even if it meant her death.

Mencheres suddenly appeared in front of her, his power crackling the air around him. The flames reached him—and stopped, dissolving into smoke mere inches from his body.

“You’re not strong enough anymore, Xaphan,” Mencheres stated. “Your time is up.”

Xaphan screamed, but even as that awful noise reverberated, the smoke from the tips of his wings spread. It engulfed his legs, dissolving them out from under him. Then his arms, his torso, and finally, his sneering face, until there was nothing left of Xaphan but the faint scent of sulfur in the wind.

Elise closed her eyes for a second. The demon was gone. He couldn’t hurt Blake—or another innocent person—anymore.

Then her eyes snapped open. “Help me,” she said to Mencheres, scrambling to get the equipment set up again.

Mencheres moved quickly, gathering up the pieces of equipment that had been scattered around the van, but the outcome was soon obvious. Everything had been damaged. The generators weren’t working, which meant no heated oxygen, blood, or saline, and most of the IV lines had been shredded. Elise looked at the wreckage of their medical supplies with numbing panic. They’d never get Blake to a hospital in time, even if Mencheres flew him there, and they needed these things to bring him back to life.

Elise made her decision in the next moment, a steely determination filling her.
I won’t let you die. I won’t.

She grabbed the nearest unbroken syringe she could find and rammed it into her throat, drawing out her blood. Then she plunged that same needle into Blake, injecting her blood into his artery.

“Begin compressions,” she directed Mencheres, blowing into Blake’s mouth.

Mencheres gave her a look she couldn’t read, but she didn’t care, whatever it meant. She kept blowing air into Blake’s lungs, pausing only to draw more blood from her to inject it into Blake. After five minutes, she had Mencheres stop, but Blake’s heart was still silent.

“Let’s warm him up more,” she said, and gathered everything that still held heat and piled it around Blake. All remaining warmed blood and saline bags were pressed to his armpits and groin, plus more blankets were piled on top of him. Elise even hauled the broken generators over to place Blake’s body on top of them, since they were still warmed from their recent activity.

“Again, more compressions,” she said, and injected another syringe of her blood into Blake.

Mencheres complied, manipulating Blake’s heart while she continued to blow air into his mouth. After another several minutes, Blake felt warmer. Elise’s hopes leapt when his heart made a few faint, erratic beats, but then it fell silent again.

“Come on,” Elise shouted in fear and frustration. “You’re not ready to die yet!”

“Elise…” Mencheres said.

“No,” she cut him off. “I’m not giving up on him.”

She looked at Blake—silent, pale, beautiful—and did the only thing she could think of. She bit into his neck, right at the jugular.

“Begin compressions,” she said to Mencheres. Her tone dared him to argue.

Mencheres pressed on Blake’s chest in those measured, controlled pumps. Elise sucked, drawing Blake’s blood into her with the help of Mencheres’s actions. She drank deeply, chilled by the temperature of Blake’s blood but not stopping until what she’d taken from him would have been lethal if he wasn’t clinically dead.

“Now,” Elise said. “We’re going to transfuse my blood to Blake. All of it.”

Mencheres found a catheter that wasn’t broken and set up the line in Elise’s throat, positioning the other end of the IV in Blake’s jugular. Once it was set, Elise closed her eyes, willing her blood out of her body and into that narrow plastic tube.

It took ten minutes for Elise to drain herself into Blake. When she was done, she felt light-headed, as if she hadn’t fed in weeks. She found the portable defibrillator under the remains of the car seat and charged the electrodes, pausing only to send up a silent plea.
Please. Don’t take him from me.

Then she sent the volts into Blake’s chest. His heart fluttered again for an extra few beats after the shock, but then stilled once more. Elise charged the defibrillator and hit him with another set of volts. Blake’s heart responded, beating on its own for a full minute, then it quieted again.

Mencheres touched her arm very lightly. “You’ve done all you can. Even if this worked, Blake’s heart won’t restart enough for him to live as a human again. He will either rise as a vampire, or he will stay dead.”

Elise put her arms around Blake. “So now we wait?”

Her sire nodded. “Yes. We wait.”

E
lise looked around at her home under the defunct train station in the District. In a lot of ways, she would miss this place. But a promise was a promise.

She hefted her books into a double-plied leaf and lawn bag, thinking she’d leave the bed and chair for another lost soul to make use of. Maybe her former home would provide the same kind of refuge to someone else that she’d needed these last few decades. The thought pleased her.

An arm slid around her waist, the muscled flesh the same temperature as her own. “Ready to go?”

Elise smiled and turned into Blake’s embrace. He was faintly flushed from a recent breakfast of plasma, but the new silky luminescence to his skin looked very different than when he’d been human.

“I’m ready now.”

Elise was ready for a lot of things, the first of which was living with the man she loved. And maybe next was learning how to drive. Or how to play chess.

Now that she had Blake, the possibilities were suddenly endless—and wonderful.

About Jeaniene Frost

New York Times
bestseller
JEANIENE FROST
lives with her husband and their very spoiled dog in Florida. Although not a vampire herself, she confesses to having pale skin, wearing a lot of black, and sleeping in late whenever possible. And, while she can’t see ghosts, she loves to walk through old cemeteries. Jeaniene also loves poetry and animals, but fears children and hates to cook. She is currently at work on her next bestselling Night Huntress novel.

Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

Catch of the Century

Sophia Nash

To Philip Vanderbogart Nash, a handsome devil and a most beloved uncle…

V
ictoria Givan would rather be alone and plump with coin in a London rookery than walking beside the colorful profusion of flowers here in the dales of Northampton. Indeed, the end would come all the quicker in the former scenario.

Lord, how she loathed the countryside. A casual observer would never guess that the turmoil of worries tumbling through her mind this fine spring day rivaled the stories to be found in the sole possession Victoria carried—a book of
Canterbury Tales.

This was her last thought before the shrill blast of a carriage horn interrupted all. “Take heed. Make way!” A driver’s voice rang out from one of the three regal coaches barreling down the turnpike.

For the fifth time that hour, Victoria hurried her three young charges to the edge of the road to avoid being trampled. Spirited horses shook their heads, and polished brass and metal traces jangled in the air as the lead team jigged closer at a spanking pace. At the last moment, the first carriage swerved toward them, and Victoria spied the silhouette of a masculine profile beyond the gilt-edged window. The rear wheel passed perilously close to her boots, and a flag of wind whipped over her as she stumbled back.

The trio of adolescent boys reached to steady her and murmured words of concern. She coughed and sputtered amid the clouds of dust kicked up by the departing entourage. What sort of uncaring person had the audacity to nearly run them down without even a—

There was a shout, and the impressive set of equipages came to a dead halt a hundred yards away, before she could catch her breath and quell her frustration.

A stylishly liveried driver from the lead carriage jumped down and opened the highly lacquered door.

“Wait here,” she admonished the boys. She strode forward a few paces, then stopped—her legs shaky, her composure even more so.

A tall, daunting gentleman unfolded his frame from the polished carriage, his gloves and hat fisted in one large hand. It was obvious even at this distance that he was as dashing in his elegant clothes as she was uncommonly shabby in her faded gray gown. His long, loose strides ate up the distance between them, and suddenly, he was right in front of her, his gold quizzing glass gleaming as it lay amid the starched shirt linen between the lapels of an austere dark blue superfine coat.

He ran his fingers through his dark hair and replaced his lustrous brushed-beaver hat before he finally glanced down at her. His brows drew together.

Victoria’s breath caught in her throat.
Good Lord.
His eyes were the most arresting shade of pure blue—deep and devastating. They spoke of seduction even in this overly sunny florist’s fantasy of countryside buzzing with all manner of perverse insects.

Not that she knew the smallest particle about seduction. The closest thing to temptation unleashed had been her introduction to chocolate several months ago courtesy of her benefactor, the Countess of Sheffield.

He perused her form in a slow, unsettling fashion, appraising her from the top of her sensible and very old chipped straw hat down to the toes of her very new and very fashionable calfskin half boots, courtesy of another good friend.

“Well?” she asked, collecting her wits in the face of such magnificent masculinity. From the expression decorating his extraordinary face, it occurred to her that most likely he had rarely been brought to heel for anything in his life.

“I should like to apologize for the ill example of driving my heretofore excellent coachman just exhibited, madam.”

“I’ve seen drunken sailors after a decade out to sea show more care behind a team.”

He pursed his lips for the barest moment, and Victoria was uncertain if it was in annoyance or in humor. “You’ve the right of it, madam. Shall I have Mr. Crandall keelhauled at the next port, or shall I have him tied to the nearest tree so you can lash him yourself, straightaway?”

She snorted.

“My thoughts exactly.”

He undoubtedly agreed with her only to deflate her. But she refused to retire her displeasure. The day had been far too awful, and this was the proverbial last straw. “It’s easy to accept guilt when it falls on another’s shoulders and not your own.”

“Quite right. That’s just what I told Crandall when he tried to blame the poor pheasant running across the road just past your party. Shall I dismiss him without reference?”

“Of course not!” She nearly shouted in frustration.

“Or perhaps you’d prefer me to go after the bird?”

She ground her teeth together.

“Well, then, since you clearly possess the heart of a saint”—she would swear the corner of his lips twitched just the barest bit—“the matter is settled. I’m so glad you escaped injury, madam. Good day to you. I do apologize again for any inconvenience.” He bowed and began to turn away.

It was her muttering that probably stopped him in his tracks. “Did you have something further to say?”

That habit had always got her into trouble in her youth. There was no excuse for it really. “Nothing, nothing whatsoever.”

“Are you in need of aid? Perhaps a bit of compensation is in order for all the trouble?” She could sense rather than see the wariness in his eyes as he fished in his darkly patterned waistcoat and produced a gold guinea.

She gripped her beloved book to stop herself from taking the much-needed coin. “Absolutely not.” Her voice sounded tense and high-pitched to her own ears. “I don’t need money, and I certainly would never accept it from you if I did.”

“Are you sure? You would be doing me a favor, really—easing my conscience.” His blue eyes appeared even more vivid as he finally displayed a dazzling smile, which only served to irritate her further since it caused the most annoying fluttering in her stomach. It must be hunger.

She tried to shrug off the importance of his offer—and wavered. Pride lanced need. “No, thank you.”

He raised the handsome quizzing glass to his eye and stared at her.

She felt rather like a moth under a magnifying glass. A dusty one. She had never been good at hiding her emotions. And today was obviously no different.

“Here, take it,” he said quietly as he advanced the coin and lowered his eyepiece.

The man hadn’t even condescended to ask her name.

Only her tacit forgiveness had been required, and a guinea offered to enable him to forget her all the faster. But then, on the playing fields of the rich and titled, mere mortals of the working class did not require names. She should know that much by now. She turned on her heel to see to the boys. “Good day to you, sir,” she tossed over her shoulder.

Christ,
the dark auburn-haired siren had robbed him of his ironlike grip on his wits. Who would have guessed snapping, green-eyed beauties could be found scampering about the back of beyond in intriguing, fashionable little boots and a hideous gown barely fit for the ragman? This species of female did not exist in town. It bore further inspection.

He easily caught up to her as she reached the trio of boys, who silently gazed at her with complete adoration in their eyes. Apparently, her charms worked equally well on the younger members of his sex.

She turned around again, her vivacious eyes spearing him. They were the color of spring. Of life. They were the eyes of some mysterious stubborn female tribe—one he’d heard tell of but never encountered. All the ladies he met were well-mannered, exceedingly accommodating, and possessed of a certain fondness for riches.
His riches.
But facing him now was an outspoken hellcat, bent on countering his every word despite her station. She was also the worst liar he had ever seen. She was altogether quite refreshing in an exceptionally impolite fashion.

“Madam, my manners have gone completely begging. Would you be so kind as to favor me with your name?”

“
Another
favor? I rather think you’ve used up your allotment today, sir. Everyone knows too many favors breeds complacency, which only leads to dissolute behavior. I won’t have the ruination of your character on my conscience.”

John Varick, the newly minted ninth Duke of Beaufort, nearly shouted with laughter. He couldn’t stop himself from going after her again when she herded the boys past him. They followed her despite their evident desire to gawk further at his carriages. The smallest boy was lagging and looking parched.

He said to her back, “I beg your pardon, ma’am. Look, I know we got off on the wrong foot, but it’s apparent one of your party is ailing. May I offer all of you some refreshment? Water at the very least? You know, it wouldn’t be any trouble a’tall to escort you to your home.”

She stopped in her tracks, and her shoulders slumped forward for the briefest instant before she arched her back again. Only the crickets could be heard, and a horse pawing the ground. Without turning to face him, she said softly, “All right.”

He took a deep breath and came ’round the little group. He bowed properly. “John Varick—your servant. May I ask who I will have the pleasure of escorting?”

She lifted her chin. “May I present Gabriel, Matthew, and Peter? Masters Towland, Smithson, and Linley.” Each boy ducked his head at the mention of his name. The last and littlest looked at him reverently.

“And the name of the,” he paused, “
lady
escorting this troop of apostles?”

“Victoria Givan.” Her voice was lyrical and soft when she allowed her ire to cool.

He waved to the driver near the horses. “Crandall, please arrange space for Masters Towland and Smithson in the other carriages. I shall take up Master Linley and Mrs. Givan.”

“
Miss
Givan,” she corrected.

John Varick knew well how to hide from the world the humor he felt tickling his mind. He stole another glimpse of her pretty boots.

Soon enough the boys were settled, and he offered his arm to hand Miss Givan into the carriage. “And where shall I direct Crandall? To the Pickworth estate down the road, or perhaps somewhere else in the neighborhood?” Surely she was a governess out taking the air with her charges, although that did not explain the impractical elegant footwear.

She settled on the bench beside the young boy he had carefully chosen as their chaperon and rested the large book on her knees. As he ducked inside to join them, she lowered her mossy eyes. “It’s a bit farther down the road, Mr. Varick. We’re on our way to Derbyshire actually. Wallace Abbey to be precise.”

He nearly missed the last step. The forward motion propelled him into the seat across from her and the boy. “
Wallace Abbey
? Why, that’s
sixty
miles from here.” He should have known better than to have been lured by an unusual face.

His amused driver of the last decade and a half cracked a rare smile upon hearing her direction and shut the carriage door, leaving no escape. There had been quite a dry spell since Crandall had last won a round in their association.

“Really? Sixty miles?” she said, lifting her small pointed chin, “I hadn’t known it was quite so far.”

“Miss Givan, were you planning on walking the entire way?”

“Of course not.” Her mien, voice, and eyes violated all ten rules of honesty.

The carriage moved forward, picking up the pace a few moments later. A long silence ensued, during which John poured a glass of water for the boy, who downed it eagerly. Her hand wavered a bit as she accepted another glass from him. “Miss Givan, dare I mention that Wallace Abbey burnt to the ground over two decades ago? You weren’t planning on spending the night there on your, ahem,
pilgrimage
?”

“I’m well aware of that. I’m escorting the boys to Derbyshire to take up their new positions there as apprentices to the architect Mr. John Nash. Perhaps you know of him? He’s quite famous.”

“Certainly.”

“Wallace Abbey is to be rebuilt and will serve as an extension of the foundling home where I’m employed in town. I’ve promised to settle the boys in a refurbished cottage near the abbey and to hire several servants for Mr. Nash’s colleagues, who will oversee the boys and the rebuilding.”

“I see.” He removed his hat, turned it upside down, and slipped it between the parallel leather straps running the length of the carriage’s high ceiling. He debated how far he would be willing to accompany the pretty woman and her charges. It would be simpler, nay, more prudent, to arrange passage for them on the next mail coach. “Are you ever going to tell me how you came to be walking on this road—so far from London?”

Victoria Givan, orphan, teacher, and all-’round manager of dozens of little-men-in-training, concentrated on steadying her breathing. All it had taken was a glance at the golden
B
above the famous royal crest on the carriage’s outside door to confirm her suspicions. How on earth was she to think properly with the freshly anointed Duke of Beaufort sitting across from her?

Good God.

Every morning and afternoon his sobriquet blazed from all of the newspapers—
The Catch of the Century.
Sometimes every letter was capitalized if the columnist was especially overawed. His story was oft repeated; as a young man he had taken his modest maternal inheritance and formed a seemingly never-ending string of brilliant foreign schemes and investments leading to a fortune that rivaled the royal families of Europe. And all this before it became apparent that he would, indeed, succeed to the illustrious title since the former duke, his uncle, had never sired a son.

And he was ridiculously handsome—a man in his prime. His mesmerizing blue eyes were said to have caused a multitude of ladies to swoon dead away in his presence. Silly schoolgirls composed poems about his awe-inspiring smile and his even more dazzling riches. Victoria sighed.

His ability to withstand the onslaught of ambitious ladies flung at him by their determined relations over the last decade or more was one of the most popular topics under the swagged edges of the
Fashionable World
columns. Why, his every movement and his every word were recorded in biblical proportions. And the gossip had reached its zenith this past month, when the former Duke of Beaufort had died unexpectedly, investing the man before her with the title he wore with such ease.