The Hunger

Phenomenal praise for Susan Squires’s
New York Times
bestselling novel

The Companion

“A darkly compelling vampire romance . . . the plot keeps the reader turning the pages long into the night.”

—Affaire de Coeur

“Bestseller Squires charts a new direction with this exotic, extremely erotic, and darkly dangerous Regency-set paranormal tale. With her ability to create powerful and tormented characters, Squires has developed a novel that is graphic, gripping, and unforgettable.”

—Romantic Times
(4½ starred review)

“Squires has just taken the traditional vampire novel to a whole new level with
The Companion
. With her riveting and compelling writing, she has woven a tale of love amidst the most desperate of circumstances and created unforgettable characters . . . fans of the genre will be fascinated . . .
The Companion
will capture your interest from the first scene until the last . . . readers who like a strong historical novel as well as one with a definite
bite
should add
The Companion
to their wish list. It will be a keeper for sure!”

—aromancereview.com

“Squires has demonstrated a talent that few can surpass. Her descriptions and historical details are flawless. Her characters exceed their potential and the plot keeps you quickly turning the pages. Squires has joined the company of authors whose books are classics. Look for this book to become a classic in its genre too.
The Companion
is a gem. Obviously, everyone needs it.”

—Coffee Time Romance

“A totally absorbing novel . . . the characters are brilliantly conceived and perfect for the gripping plotline. The author gives the reader a unique twist on what vampires really are, a tortured hero to adore, the only heroine who could possibly be right for him, a truly horrific villain—and a fascinating story that carries the reader through one exciting adventure after another . . . Squires’s prose grabs you from the beginning and gives you a relentless ride through this complex, beautifully written book.”

—New and Used Books

St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles
by Susan Squires

The Companion

The Hunger

The
Hunger

Susan Squires

NOTE:
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

THE HUNGER

Copyright © 2005 by Susan Squires.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

ISBN: 0-312-99854-6
EAN: 9780312-99854-7

Printed in the United States of America

St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / October 2005

St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

10   9   8   7   6   5   4   3   2   1

Simply put, this book belongs to Jennifer Enderlin. I wonder every day how I got lucky enough to have her as an editor
.

Become a member and get access to special features about the
world of the Companion at
www.susansquires.com
.

One

THE VALLEY OF THE LOIRE, GAUL
, 1180

The man lay naked on the thick Turkey carpet woven in intricate red and gold, sweating with his exertions. His body gleamed in the firelight. Beatrix watched Asharti run fingers through his blond hair and pull his head back. The baring of his throat, corded with muscle, inflamed her partner within. She trembled with its demands
.

Asharti caught her eye, laughing, beckoning. “Will you sample him?” she asked in that low, throaty voice that spoke of heat and sand. Her nose was long and straight, her eyes dangerous black pools lined with kohl, her lips full and her body lithe and golden. Anyone would call her beautiful. Asharti wore a heavy red velvet robe meant to protect from the damp in this remote outpost left by the Romans, but tonight in front of the fire it hung open to reveal heavy breasts with prominent, dusky nipples peaked with excitement
.

Beatrix looked down at the muscled male body. An English knight who had wandered into the wrong village. His sex was heavy against his belly. His eyes, which should be sated, were fixed hungrily on Asharti as she stroked his hair. The rich smell of blood hung in the air
.

Beatrix managed to shake her head, though her veins itched with need
.

Asharti shrugged, a derisive smile curving her lips. The only woman who understood her dilemma let her kohl-lined eyes go red; red like her velvet robe
.

LONDON, MARCH
, 1811

Beatrix shivered, pulse throbbing. Sex and blood, intertwined. These were only memories. She mustn’t let them overwhelm her. She shook her head to clear it. So long ago. Those things happened to someone else, surely, not to her. Who was she? She looked around as if the answer lay in the sumptuous room. Men smoked cigarillos openly, talking and drinking an ’87 claret from her cellars under Venetian crystal chandeliers and paintings in heavy gilt frames. Her eyes fell upon the rounded lines of Regnault’s
Venus
. The figure seemed so sure, so calm. She took a breath, absorbing her certainty.

There. That was better. She blinked. Her name was Beatrix Lisse, Countess of Lente, these days and she was holding court as she did every Tuesday and Thursday in her stylish house in Berkeley Square. Most of influential London society was here, or the male half at least. Not one of them would say anything she had not heard a thousand times before. But never mind that. She pressed down the desperation. Surprising—it
was
desperation, wasn’t it?.

Several young men gazed up at her, their chairs drawn close to the chaise in which she lounged. Some faces shone with expectation bordering on rapture. Stupid creatures! They believed her reputation as a courtesan. Others frowned in concern. Those were the ones who noticed her distraction. Maybe it was the hunger that left her vulnerable. Better that than madness. She launched into speech as a defense against that thought.

“You promised me the most debauched man in England, Melly,” Beatrix accused the fashionable young fribble beside her. Perhaps a legendary rake would distract her from the darkness she felt growing inside her. “Where is he?” She leaned back with all the languid ease and mock annoyance they expected. They had no idea what real debauchery was, of course.

Apprehension fluttered through the circle. Their goddess was annoyed. Dressed in the silliest heights of fashion, they copied the Beau but failed to understand the extremity of his moderation. Their neck cloths were so enormous they could barely turn their heads. Their inexpressibles had ventured into pale yellow and dove gray. Behind the circle of unripe beaux were the prime movers of British society, ministers and lords, leaders of fashion, artists. They came for conversation, to drink champagne, and to be seen at Beatrix’s salon. All waited to exchange
bon mots
with the newest intellectual courtesan. Some wanted more. One might get more tonight, though not what he expected.

“He . . . he will be here, Countess,” the very rich and very impressionable Lord Melford promised. “He accepted the engagement before he left for his estates.”

“I do not think this nonpareil exists.” Beatrix let her mouth turn down.

“Oh, but he does,” Alvaney protested. “He has rooms at the Albany House. I live in Number Four, myself, and see him frequently.”

“And
have
you seen him?” Beatrix drawled. They mustn’t sense her anguish.

Alvaney looked stricken. “Damnme! Can’t say I have.”

Beatrix managed a shrug of displeasure. If it was her need that left her open to the wash of memory, she could take care of that tonight.

“I . . . I could recite verses, Countess, for your amusement.” Blendon’s cheeks flushed crimson. They were all so absurdly young.

“I have already heard your verses,” she said, surprised by her own gentleness.

“Ah, yes,” he said, his blush spreading. “Yes, you have.”

“They were quite nice.” They weren’t. But she liked the bashful ones sometimes. He wasn’t the body type she preferred, but that was all to the good. His figure was slight. He would be smooth chested, almost without hair. So, perhaps Blendon. Behind him, Castlereagh, the secretary of the Foreign Office, and the chief secretary of Ireland, Wellesley-Pole, brother of Wellington, were talking politics. Beatrix held up one white hand. “Mr. Castlereagh, I beg you, no more about the question of Catholic emancipation. If they are masochistic enough to want to stand for office, why not let them?” Two young men tittered.

“The answer to that question might tear the country apart,” Castlereagh protested darkly.

“Oh, I doubt that,” Beatrix sighed. “You’d be surprised how much it takes to tear a country apart.” Her task was to make it through the evening without another lapse.

“It is the milk shortage which is tearing my household apart,” Melford pouted. “The cook blames the housekeeper, who blames the tradesmen for hoarding.”

“Lady Wentworth says your complexion is the result of milk baths, Lady Lente,” Blendon ventured.

“Now ladies are buying up the entire supply of milk to bathe in it!” Melford cried.

Beatrix sighed. It was really so easy to become all the rage. “Actually, keeping out of the sun is more important.” Something interesting needed to happen here, something she had not seen a thousand times before, or she just might lose control again.

Blendon sat on a small footstool, gazing up at her. “Ladies are also pestering the perfumers for copies of your scent”.

“Cinnamon,” Lord Halmore said, joining the throng around her. “And something else. Will you tell us what?”

“That is my secret, my lord,” Beatrix murmured. The real secret? She wore no perfume.

Nights like this stretched ahead. Gaiety alone could not hold the barricade. Art had always been her refuge. She glanced around at the medieval tapestries, paintings, Roman glassware, Chinese ceramics in delicate shades of celadon. How long could art shelter her?

Perhaps Mirso Monastery was the only true refuge for such as she was. The thought depressed her. She had never thought to come to that. But Mirso was better than madness.

Wellesley-Pole opened his mouth. He was going to take the conversation back to politics. She couldn’t bear it. “Gentlemen, I have the headache. Do excuse me.” She rose, whispered in Symington’s ear, and withdrew, leaving shocked glances behind her. It would only fuel their desire to be invited back. The need in her veins ratcheted up a notch.

In the small sitting room that held her favorite paintings, her most treasured books, Beatrix steadied herself. Dawn in two hours. The last guests tottered to their carriages. The knocker rattled as the door closed. She heard it all clearly. Symington announced Blendon.

“Now, dear Blendon, we can be alone.” She needed to get on with it. Time grew short.

Blendon blushed to the roots of his hair. “You . . . you honor me.”

“Will you come up and help me take down my hair?” To be admitted to her boudoir to watch her toilette was a mark of distinction. To be chosen to undo those preparations was nirvana to the lucky man selected, because he thought his goal was at hand. It wasn’t.