Let the Night Begin (18 page)

She was going to have to fight her way out, and no one there was going to come to her aid. She peered around the side of the pillar and saw the
barkeep with a rifle raised to his shoulder. He spotted her and fired. She ducked. The bullet tore into the wood by her arm.

They weren't trying to kill her. They just wanted to bring her down. Capture her.

Jesus Christ, how stupid was she? She cursed herself as she leapt up to the exposed beams in the ceiling. She kept herself low, tucking into herself as two more shots narrowly missed her. Crouching, she shuffled farther into the darkness, the burning in her shoulder like a hot poker in her flesh.

Dashbrooke had come prepared to capture her. Maybe he planned to use her to lure Reign in, or maybe capturing her had been his plan all along. Maybe he'd had his sights on both she and Reign. But what the hell for?

A window downstairs exploded inward, sending shards of glass flying across the tavern. A dark shape hit the floor and then rolled to his feet.

Reign. Olivia could have wept at the sight of him were it not for the murderous expression on his face. He was followed by Watson and Clarke and several other armed men whom she recognized from the Bucket of Blood. He must have planned for them to be there because there was no way he could have gathered them so quickly.

The barkeep lifted his rifle, and before Olivia could cry out, Reign leaped over the bar, seized the rifle and smashed the man in the face with it.

Then all hell broke loose.

Glass shattered. Guns fired. Shouts rang out. And Olivia crawled along the wide beams, toward the center of the tavern, just above Reign. She could drop down to the bar without jarring her shoulder too badly. She would fight beside him if he would have her.

He barely glanced at her as she landed beside him. He was too busy beating three men who had attacked him. There was no rhyme or reason to this fight now. Everyone in the tavern was involved, whether they were part of Dashbrooke's group or not.

Olivia punched a man in the face and knocked him several feet backward, sending him crashing into a table. Her opposite shoulder was going numb and her arm hung uselessly at her side.

A shout caught her attention and she turned in time to see a woman advancing on Clarke, who was already engaged in battle, with a knife in her hand. Olivia dove at the woman and knocked her to the floor. The wild-eyed female didn't let go of her weapon, however, and she slashed Olivia across the face. It wasn't silver, but it stung all the same. Enraged, Olivia broke the woman's wrist and then cracked her forehead with her own, rendering her opponent unconscious.

Clarke didn't even notice how close he had come to being stabbed in the back.

Olivia pressed her sleeve to the gash in her face as she staggered to her feet. It would stop bleeding
soon and start to heal, but for now blood was running down her cheek and neck.

She turned toward the door. Two men were helping Dashbrooke outside, and the others were slowly making their way in the same direction—those who were still conscious, that was.

Olivia bolted for the door. The heaviness bleeding down from her injured shoulder slowed her somewhat, made her awkward. One of the men flanking Dashbrooke had a pistol and he turned it on her just as she grabbed the fat bastard's coat.

He fired.

Pain blossomed in her chest and knocked her backward. She stumbled and fell to her knees. Dazed, she looked down and saw rich, bright crimson seeping through her shirt on the left side of her chest.

“Olivia!” It was Reign, shouting her name. She tried to turn toward him, but she fell face first onto the rough, dirty floor. She tried to breathe but it hurt, and when she opened her mouth to tell Reign she was hurt, all that came out was blood.

So much for immortality, she thought as blackness swept over her mind, blinding her.

She was going to die.

T
he last thing on Reign's mind when he left the Wolf, Ram and Hart with Olivia bleeding in his arms, was whether or not anyone sober saw him leap into the sky and fly.

He didn't care that Dashbrooke had escaped. The man who shot Olivia hadn't. Reign had twisted his neck like a rag doll. There'd been no thought to it—he simply grabbed the man and killed him. He would have gone after Dashbrooke as well, had all his focus not been on Olivia—where it should be. Watson and some of the others would track Dashbrooke. Clarke took the carriage and would meet Reign back at the house. He wasn't going to risk jostling Olivia in the cumbersome vehicle, not when he could get her home in a faster, more comfortable manner.

He was terrified. He knew this because he felt nothing. He was totally numb inside, pushed beyond his mind's comprehension of fear and how to face it.

He had seen vampires survive worse wounds,
although none so young as Olivia. The bullet in her chest had missed her heart or she'd be dead by now. But it was still bad—very bad. The silver shot would have to be removed, and if that one in her chest was as close to her heart as it appeared…

I will not lose you.

He pushed himself faster, hurtling toward his house so fast that the wind tore at his clothes and stung his eyes. Olivia didn't stir in his arms, and the numbness inside him fractured slightly under a wave of panic.

He arrived at the house ahead of Clarke, and took Olivia to his room. He put her on the bed and removed the blouse and demi-corset she wore. The wound on her back was awful and purple, the puckered edges already trying to close themselves. The wound in her chest was worse, the entirety of her breast bloodied and bruised-looking. Her flesh was trying to heal itself despite the burning silver tucked inside it. The shot had to be removed before it did irrevocable damage.

He couldn't wait for Clarke.

“Liv,” he murmured, stroking a few strands of silky brown hair back from her face. Her skin was hot, as though she had a fever. “Liv, can you hear me?”

She moaned and her eyelashes fluttered, but she did not speak. Still, it gave Reign hope. “I'm going to take the bullets out, Luv. It's going to hurt. I need you to be as still as you can.”

No response. He could only hope that she had understood him, and that she would be able to keep herself quiet as he worked.

He would never be able to live with himself if he killed her. He would walk out into the dawn and fry. He had almost done just that thirty years ago when she left him. The only thing that had kept him alive was the hope that she might one day come back. If she died all his hope died with her.

“You're not leaving me again,” he informed her, his voice hoarse and thick in his own ears. “No fucking way am I letting you go.”

He had to leave her side long enough to collect a small knife and tweezers that he kept for just such occasions. A bottle of whiskey would clean the wound. She would have scars—the degree of which would depend on the purity of the silver used. The better the quality of the metal, the worse the scarring would be.

As carefully as he could, Reign climbed onto the bed to straddle Olivia's prone form. He pinned her arms with his knees and locked her upper legs together with his feet. His weight wouldn't do much to keep her still, but his strength would.

He rolled up his sleeves and soaked a handkerchief in some whiskey, which he then used to clean as much of the area as he could. The sight of her battered and torn flesh brought the sting of tears to his eyes.

He lowered the knife and cut a small incision on
two sides of the wound in her chest—just enough to widen it a bit. Then, he took the tweezers in his hand, and gritting his teeth in an effort to keep his fingers steady, he began probing for the bullet.

When he found it, Olivia bucked beneath him. Her eyes flew open as a scream that shook the walls tore from her throat. Reign flattened his other palm on her chest, holding her down as he gripped the bullet with the tweezers and pulled. It did not want to let go of her, but his strength won out and he pulled it free.

Olivia screamed again—with so much pain that Reign could no longer contain his tears and they slid down his cheeks in scalding tracks. The first bullet was out and the hole was gushing fresh blood. He poured more whiskey over it and pressed the damp handkerchief against it. If he had done the job properly, it would stop bleeding in a matter of moments. If not…

Olivia lay still beneath him. A light sheen of perspiration gleamed on her brow and cheeks. He couldn't feel the rise of her chest beneath his hand. And she was pale. So terribly pale.

“Please, God,” he whispered as tears slipped between his lips. He wiped them away with his sleeve. “Let her live. I'll never question or doubt you again if you let her live.”

“Never thought…I'd hear that from you,” came a hoarse reply.

Reign looked down. Olivia was looking up at
him through narrow lids, her gaze unfocused, her dry lips parted by shallow breath.

She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

“I don't plan to make a habit of it,” he replied with forced lightness. “So don't expect to ever hear it again.”

Her smile was barely a curve at the corners of her lips, but it warmed his heart regardless. He peeled back the crimson-soaked linen at her breast—the wound had stopped bleeding and was healing.

She was going to live. Now, he just had to get the piece out of her shoulder before it did any permanent damage.

“Reign,” she rasped. “I have to tell you something.”

“It can wait. Right now I have to turn you over and dig more silver out of your back.”

She either hadn't heard him or was ignoring him. He'd put money on the latter. “It's about tonight. And why I drugged you.”

“Later.” He would be more than willing to listen to a full confession once she made a full recovery, but none of it mattered at this moment.

He lifted himself off of her and slipped his arm beneath her to roll her over. He had just begun to lift her when she caught at his arm with weak, but insistent fingers, halting his progress.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered, licking her lips. “For everything.”

Reign's expression turned grim as he rolled her onto her stomach. He applied the little knife to her flesh once more. “So am I.”

 

“Dashbrooke's hiding out in a house in Haddington,” Watson reported almost four hours later, as he and Reign and Clarke sat together in Reign's study, having a glass of bourbon and discussing what to do next.

His men had followed the injured Dashbrooke to the country. Clarke, meanwhile had done a little reconnaissance of his own and discovered that Dashbrooke had closed his Edinburgh address, so his move to the country had been planned.

“We watched the house for some time,” Watson continued. “The men with Dashbrooke didn't leave except to fetch a doctor.”

Reign's smile held no humor, but a large amount of satisfaction. “So the fat bastard's hurt.”

Watson nodded. “Your missus dealt him a fair bit of damage, aye.”

A perverse pride filled him—now that he knew Olivia was going to recover, he could see her actions as brave as well as foolish. “That's my girl.”

Clarke eyed him warily as he lifted his glass to his lips. “Speaking of your girl, what do you intend to do about her?”

Reign met his old friend's brutal gaze with an honest one of his own. “Beg her to plague me for all eternity and hope that she'll say yes.”

“So that's the way of it, then.”

“Yes.”

Clarke looked away, wisely silent. Reign appreciated his friend's concern, but he couldn't change what was in his heart anymore than he could change Olivia—and he didn't want to change either.

Watson glanced between the two of them, as though trying to ascertain what exactly was going on, but he was too smart to ask. “What do you want to do about Dashbrooke?”

“Kill him,” Reign replied honestly. “But first I need to know if James Burnley is being held in that house as well.”

“You still believe the boy to be an innocent in all of this?” Clarke's tone was incredulous at best. “After all that's happened?”

“I don't care if he's innocent or not.” Reign reached for the bourbon and poured a liberal amount into his glass. “What I care about is Olivia, and she believes the boy is in danger.”

Again, Watson's expression was one of acute interest, and again he did not ask. Smart man. “I left a small company of men to watch the place from a discreet distance. They'll report any activity.”

Reign rubbed his jaw. “Once my wife has regained her strength, she and I will venture out to Haddington and examine the situation for ourselves.”

“Do you think that wise?” Watson asked, his
brogue making the question lyrical. “I mean, won't they be expectin' you?”

“Never mind that,” Clarke bit out. “Do you think it wise to take
your wife
there at all?”

Reign found himself caught somewhere between amusement and annoyance. “I could leave her here with you.”

Clarke's mouth thinned and Reign allowed himself a smile. “That's what I thought.” Then to Watson, “They very well might be expecting us, but I'm not going to give them the satisfaction of an attack unless it's absolutely necessary. When we do move against Dashbrooke, I want to be as prepared as I can.”

Watson nodded, and then gave voice to what Reign was already thinking, “They knew to use silver shot.”

“And now they'll have time to prepare for our retaliation,” Clarke added.

Reign swirled the bourbon in his glass. The lamplight caught the facets of the crystal, making it shimmer and glow. “Gentlemen, I need you to do something for me.”

“What?” they asked in unison, and then shared a brief chuckle.

“Spread the word that Mrs. Gavin is gravely ill and expected to die.” He smiled at their startled expressions. “I want to see how Dashbrooke and his minions react to hearing that they just may lose their bargaining power.”

For the first time that evening, Clarke actually smiled. “James Burnley is nothing to you.”

Reign inclined his head. “I certainly wouldn't walk into a trap to free the boy, but Dashbrooke will start to wonder just what I'll do to some of his loved ones to avenge my wife.”

“We'll make the bastard fidget like a whore in a chastity belt,” Watson quipped almost gleefully. “He'll be bound to make a misstep.”

“At the very least,” Reign said, “he'll concentrate solely on me, rather than me and Olivia. We'll have an element of surprise when we do make our move.”

“Do you think Olivia will go along with it?” Clarke asked, his smile fading.

Reign flashed him a bright grin. “That bloodthirsty little wench? To destroy Dashbrooke, she'd dig her own grave.”

And didn't he adore her for it.

 

“Where the hell do you think you're going?”

Halfway out of his bed, her limbs infuriatingly weak, Olivia froze at the sound of Reign's gruff—angry—voice.

Closing her eyes, she slumped back against the pillows. She couldn't meet his gaze. Not just yet. “I wanted to get up.”

“It's not even dusk yet. Where did you think you were going to go?”

The suspicion in his voice gave her strength. She
could face his anger, even buoy herself with it. She opened her eyes and looked at him.

He looked like hell—that wasn't so easy to face. “I'm covered in blood. I thought I might get a bath.”

He gave a sharp nod. “I'll draw one for you.”

She watched him cross the floor in his rumpled and bloodstained clothes. Some of that blood was hers—she could smell it. Her wounds had closed over, and while still very tender, were healing well, so it wasn't as if he had tended to her recently. Why hadn't he changed?

When he walked out of the bath, stripped from the waist up, the rush of water filling the tub a gentle rumble behind him, Olivia knew the answer. He had been waiting for her to wake up—waiting for this moment.

Her heart cracked. Why was he doing this to her? Why didn't he say anything about her going off on her own? About her drugging him?

He came to the bed, flung back the covers, and scooped her up into his arms as though she was a child. “What are you doing?” she demanded.

“Carrying you to the bath.”

“I can walk.”

He made a scoffing noise. “Right.”

She regarded him closely as he carried her. This close she could see the wariness etched in the lines around his eyes, the tightness of the muscle in his jaw. The arms that held her were like unyielding
iron, his spine and shoulders rigid. Yet, he kept his anger in. Was he trying to lull her into a false sense of security before he unleashed his fury on her?

Or was he more angry with himself for trusting her, and wanting her trust in return?

She was already naked, so Reign took her straight to the tub and gently lowered her into the hot, fragrant water. Olivia sighed and shivered as the heat enveloped her, warmed her and soothed her. Then she shivered again as she watched Reign remove what was left of his clothing.

Nude, he was a magnificent sight. Golden skin, lightly dusted with dark hair, pulled smoothly over long, defined muscles. His was a body that came from a mortal lifetime of riding horses, wielding swords, and hard training. He had been a warrior in his prime when he became a vampire—a year younger than she had been in mortal years. His rugged features hid his age. He could easily pass for any age between nine and twenty and forty, simply because his face was perfect in its masculinity. There was nothing youthful about it, nor was there anything that would have him look old.

He was lovely—beautiful even. When she first met him, her sister Rosemary had thought him frightening, his appearance and personality overwhelming. Olivia had taken one look and decided she had to have him. Never in her life had she been as bold as she had with him. He asked her to dance
and that same night she took him to her bed, with every intention of keeping him there.