The Hunger (11 page)

Asharti glided by her. From behind her Stephan said, “Draw your teeth.”

She ran her tongue over her lips. Her canines were already sharp and long. She was breathing heavily. She imagined blood coursing down her throat
.

“Feel for the pulse,” Stephan instructed. She caressed the strong throat. Yes, there it was, beating at her thumb. Her growl surprised her. “One gentle bite, no tearing, and then you suck. Your saliva will keep the blood flowing.”

She glanced up as Asharti pulled another young man to kneel beside her own. A shock of gold hair, sleepy blue eyes
—
she saw no more. She could spare no attention for Asharti. She placed her canines over the throbbing pulse and bit down. Her canines pierced the salty-tasting skin easily. Blood flowed up around them. To suck was natural. She pulled in rhythm to the heartbeat and the thick liquid coursed down her throat. She sucked and sucked. Her Companion sang a familiar song in an ecstasy of fulfillment. Beatrix shared the ecstasy as her reward for providing the blood. It sang in her veins and she was whole, powerful and whole
.

“Enough,” Stephan said above her. He shook her shoulders. “Enough, Bea.”

She raised her head and licked her lips, blinking at him. “Good.” He smiled. “You mustn’t take enough to kill him. Now button his shirt.”

Beatrix reached for the man’s collar. Stephan moved to Asharti, who pulled at the neck of her chosen. He watched for a moment then called, “Enough,” his hand on her shoulder
.

Asharti pushed his hand away and continued sucking. Stephan shook her, but Asharti wouldn’t stop. Finally he took her by the neck with one hand, pinched her jaw open with the other, easing her canines from her victim’s throat. He drew her up bodily and looked her in the eyes. “Enough,” he said sternly
.

Beatrix led her young man past Asharti and Stephan. How had Asharti missed hearing Stephan’s order? Asharti raised her eyes. Beatrix was shocked to see open rebellion there
.

Stephan set her firmly on her feet. “The whole point was to take only a little, Asharti.”

“I like the last drop,” she said, sulky. Then she raised her eyes to Stephan. “Do you not like to feel the life coursing into you? Have you never taken the last drop?”

“I have.” Stephan swallowed. “But that is not how we survive. Do you not listen?”

“I listen.” She shrugged
.

“Well.” Stephan’s voice hardened. Raucous singing echoed from the street. “Let us go home for tonight. We will try again another time.”

He folded the two girls in his cloak, and just as three men turned into the yard, yelling, “Hey, who goes there?” the darkness whirled up around them and they were gone
.

Later that night, Beatrix slipped into Asharti’s room, drawn by her need for answers. Asharti was sitting in bed, staring at the fire. At the opening of the door she looked up. Whatever emotion was in her eyes drained away. She smiled. “So, Bea, we graduate.”

Beatrix nodded and sat on the Turkey carpet in front of a dying fire. The room was cold. “How do you dare challenge him?” she asked after a moment
.

“Oh, that. How can you
not
challenge him? It would be easier for you than for me.”

“He cares for us. All he asks is that we learn the way.”

“Men want power over us, Bea.” She sounded sad. “I know that better than you do.”

“Not Stephan. He wants to give us the tools to live in this world. They are a gift.”

“All men want power, Bea, even Stephan.” Asharti said it with finality. Her eyes were hard. She turned to look at Beatrix and softened. “Oh, he has given me a gift, I admit it. He has taught me not to be afraid. I thought I would always be afraid.”

“Afraid of what?” Beatrix whispered
.

Asharti’s eyes moved back to the fire. “Them.” Beatrix didn’t know what she meant, but couldn’t ask. Not when Asharti’s eyes were so angry. Asharti came to herself. “You have to find yourself, Bea, not just be what he wants.”

It seemed so noble. Asharti seemed so sure. She stared helplessly at Asharti
.

“Only then will you be worthy of him . . .”

Beatrix felt she had been slapped. She blinked at Asharti. Asharti’s rebellion made her worthy of Stephan. Beatrix felt only admiration, even awe, for Asharti at that moment. Asharti knew things she had never even considered. She vowed to be worthy of Stephan, and Asharti, as she had not been worthy of her mother. But inside doubt grew a canker. Could she do it?

“Come, you are shivering,” Asharti beckoned. “Get under the quilts with me.”

Beatrix shook herself. Was that night the beginning of her lost innocence?

True, she had taken life like a feral beast before that
time. But a beast is innocent. It kills to defend itself, and because it needs to feed to live. Before she met Stephan she did not know right from wrong. Stephan’s teaching was the beginning of her end. Or maybe it was Asharti. Beatrix let Asharti lead her almost to destruction. For both, the need for blood was entangled with desire. All Beatrix could do was to suppress it, lest she become like Asharti. She had learned, in all those centuries. She had learned to suppress the desire. She squeezed her eyes shut.

All this talk of second innocence brought back Stephan and Asharti. She twitched the draperies closed, then turned and leaned against the window. It was Langley’s fault.

He was a match for her. She liked that. Maybe he was right. Maybe she needed a man she couldn’t bully.

What was she thinking? What she needed was a string of young men to offer their necks to her. She could risk nothing more than uncomplicated adoration. She couldn’t get tangled up with a man like Langley. He would demand more than dalliance. He was the kind of man who wanted to possess a woman, body, heart, and soul.

In spite of her better judgment she was looking forward to riding with him tomorrow night in the darkness. She breathed. In. Out. Of course, she could expect nothing more than a week of interest. She would hope for nothing more. A week without memories or fainting spells, perhaps. She curled in her bed as the March winds outside whispered at her window.

John walked back to Albany House as light first seeped through the brown haze of London. The masts of the ships crowding the Thames to the south rose between the church spires. Already the streets were filled with hawkers and tradesmen beginning the blustery day. He had been walking all night. He hoped the wind calmed today or she might not keep their tryst. Imagine a woman riding out at night! He had no doubt her horse would be highbred
and more than just stylish, or that she would come alone, without a groom.

Was he insane? He had no wish to connect himself with a nightmare like Pauline Bonaparte again. The information he had given Pauline last year in Sicily misled her brother about the size and courage of Wellington’s force in Portugal, making Masséna slow and overconfident in his attack. That turned the tide. Yet success came at a terrible personal price. The woman’s appetite for orgasm was insatiable. Any man with a strong cock and a disposition to use it would have done for her. He felt soiled. He had worried about extricating himself from a liaison with the sister of an emperor. Yet in the end all it took was presenting a dim-witted colonel with equipment of legendary size and Pauline thought the change her own idea.

He pushed down the part of him whispering that Beatrix Lisse was not like Pauline Bonaparte, or any of the others. He did not like the flare of hope that flickered in that corner. He was looking forward to a little dalliance in the week or so before he went down to Portsmouth to engage in some dalliance far less pleasant. No more. And he would find out whether she was a spy, given time. That was his reason for proposing his assignation.

He tipped his high-crowned beaver to the sleepy footman at Albany House as the watchman doused the street lamp in Albany Court. Withering had strict orders not to wait up for him, and for once, as John let himself quietly into Number Six, the wretch seemed to have obeyed him. A card was propped prominently on the table in the foyer.

John recognized Barlow’s hand.

He ripped open the missive and scanned it hastily. Damn! So soon? The winds in the Channel had been so contrary that the frigate bearing the French prisoners had put directly into Portsmouth instead of coming up the Thames. The prisoners were being taken on board the hulk
Vengeance
even now. He was ordered away directly.
He watched Barlow’s note burn in the grate. It told him only to proceed to Albemarle Street and that he would rendezvous in Drayton. His mind raced. A mill was taking place in Petersfield that would serve as an excuse to tool down that way. Blackstrade was fighting a local man. He strode through to his bedroom.

Withering was just shutting a valise. “I packed a few items only, my lord,” he said smoothly. “Shall I step round to the livery and collect the carriage or will you be traveling post?”

Curse the man! The fact that his valet realized that an envelope with that particular handwriting on it would provoke a journey said Withering knew more about John’s double life than he intended. “Livery,” he said stiffly. “Give me an hour. Let it be known I went to Petersfield for the mill and will be visiting friends in the area.”

“And how long do we expect to be absent?”

“Not long.”

The old man’s face betrayed nothing. “I trust my lord has provided for an exit?”

John recognized the worry. “When have I not, old friend?” He clapped him on the back.

Withering sniffed. “I shall have the usual bandages and disinfectants ready.”

John smiled. “I shall endeavor not to need your ministrations. Now off with you.”

Withering retreated. John took out his pistols and examined the barrels, checked the shot and loaded them. He was almost to the door when he remembered his engagement tonight.

Damn again! There was nothing for it. He took a sheet of foolscap and dipped his pen.

An unexpected obligation of the first importance has arisen. I must leave town for a few days. Though it pains me to delay our engagement, I
have no choice. If you can forgive me, I shall wait upon you when I return
.

Yours,
Langley
.

Inadequate. She was proud. Men did not cry off engagements with her. He was weak enough to regret that the ride with her was lost. She would never grant another. He called for a link boy and gave him the address. Then he strode out into the clamor of the early morning.

Mrs. Williams led him up to Barlow’s sitting room without even remarking about the hour. Barlow was already there, untidy but alert. “Got my note at last?” he grumbled. “You were out carousing when you should have been home in bed.” He peered up at John. “Are you foxed?”

“I am not.” He sat, before Barlow could even gesture to the chair. “I’ll need money.”

Barlow gestured to a leather pouch upon the table and John pocketed it. “Papers?”

Barlow took a heavy envelope from his desk drawer. “You are a merchant, one Jean St. Siens from Dieppe, caught dealing with English smugglers. A load of wool for all those military uniforms Boney needs so many of. Of course, you will let on that that might not be your only game. That will give you something in common with Dupré. An officer of the Transport Authority will pick you up in Drayton and deliver you to the
Vengeance
. His name is Younger. Meet him at the Plow and Angel.” Barlow threw a piercing glance at John. “How long do you need until we spring you?”

“As for that,” John said lightly. “You can’t.”

Barlow’s caterpillar brows inched together.

“It might cause suspicion if I am paroled so soon.”

Barlow pursed his lips. They both knew that keeping their new knowledge secret was essential to the larger goal
of cutting out the heart of Bonaparte’s network of spies.

“No,” John continued calmly. “I must escape, not be rescued.”

“Prisoners do not escape from the hulks. You know that.”

“Growing squeamish or losing faith?” John asked, his voice casual.

Barlow bit back a retort. “All right. There will be one guard who knows who you are and can vouch for your identity, if things get out of hand. Faraday. He can help you escape.”

John grew serious. “Promise me, no matter what happens, you won’t parole me.”

Barlow looked mulish. Then he sighed. “Very well,” he groused. “You have my word. And one more thing.”

John raised his brows in inquiry.

“Dupré comes out with you for further questioning, or not at all.”

John nodded. Poor wretch. It was death or torture for him in the name of Britain’s national security. Dirty business. But John had known that for a long time. He strode out into the sunlight for a breakneck drive to Petersfield, and a possibly uncomfortable few days ahead.

Beatrix rose a little after the sun had set. How luxurious to sleep straight through for nearly eleven hours. No dreams, no memories tormented her. She would call for Andorra to be saddled at seven. Or perhaps a quarter past. A little late would be good for Langley’s soul. She sipped champagne mixed with the juice of Spanish oranges and opened the day’s messages.

Invitations. A protestation of undying love from Blendon, accompanied by a very bad poem. He would be hurt by her attentions to Langley at the salon this evening. She ripped open the final envelope. She did not recognize the hand, but a glance at the note told her all.

So.

He tossed her aside in favor of . . . what? She glanced at the note. “An unexpected obligation of the first importance.” A familiar heaviness swirled around her. She blinked slowly and sat on her dressing table stool like one of those great ascension balloons with the hot air let out of it. She jerked her head to the side, trying to avoid her painful thoughts. Impossible, of course. When she raised her eyes, she found herself gazing at her mirror. The problem with immortality was repetition. Comical, really, that she had tried so hard to avoid rejection. She had transformed herself into a fascinating woman. No man had abandoned her in . . . nearly seven hundred years. Yet repetition would not be denied. Langley discarded her without a thought. She did not cry. She had not cried in centuries. She only stared in the mirror, as though her face was a code for which there was a solution.