A Vampire's Rise (34 page)

“Now it’s me being rude.”

I burst into laughter.

Archer smiled. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Really?”

“You have a serene presence. I really am interested in learning more about you and—”

We both froze. Someone lingered outside the door.

“They’ll be wondering where I am,” he said.

“The Creda have turned the tables.”

“In what way?”

“They have a secret rendezvous tomorrow night to discuss your downfall.”

“Where?”

I frowned. “Perhaps secret wasn’t the best word.”

“What time?”

“First, you must swear that you’ll not try to capture me.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“I offer you the elite vampires of London, where you can annihilate every last one, and you decline the offer?”

“When something sounds too good to be true, it very often is.”

“I hear the Creda’s plan includes the destruction of Stonehenge.”

Despite his attempt to look disinterested, his voice broke. “Impossible.”

“Apparently, in or around 2800 BC, the Welsh were hired to construct the monument.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“They plan to hire the Welsh to deconstruct it.”

“What do you gain from betraying your own?”

“I have the freedom to find a way back without interference.”

“The way back from?”

I gave a look of surprise. “This.”

“And how do you plan to do that?”

I reached for his hand, prized it open, and slid a small object into his palm.

He closed his fingers around it. “What is it?”

“One more thing to document in your collection.”

Archer opened his fingers and stared down at the small, black carved rook. “You play chess?”

“The Creda have found a cure but refuse to share it.” Scrutinizing his thoughts, I confirmed he’d fallen for it.

Archer’s brow furrowed deeper. “Where are they meeting?”

Chapter 42

THE CAVENDISH WAS EASILY one of London’s finest hotels.

Overlooking the Thames, its views were awe inspiring, though when the wind blew in the wrong direction, the smell sucked all joy out of the vista. Inside the room were the finest of furnishings, the long, thick drapes suited our taste perfectly. Sunaria had procured one of their larger suites. The chestnut, four-poster bed was preferable to any casket, and revealed the soft linen sheets I’d become accustomed to. We paid the staff well to stay away.

I awoke to see Sunaria huddled up in a corner chair, her legs tucked beneath her. I raised myself up onto my elbows. “Come back to bed.”

“You have a death wish,” she said.

I shrugged.

“You were having nightmares.” She sighed.

“Can’t imagine why.”

“You ask me to share my secrets and then you keep yours from me.”

I threw off the blankets and rested my legs over the side. My behavior had always been reckless, but last night, I’d outdone myself. In one of Archer’s books, the ritual at Stonehenge had been described in detail. They’d unwittingly gathered the ashes of all the vampires they’d slaughtered in one place.

“Don’t look at me like that.” Sunaria gave me an uneasy glance.

“I was miles away.”

“Where?”

“I meant miles away in my head.”

She rose and approached me. “Darling, we’ve agreed we mustn’t keep anything from each other anymore.”

“You first.”

Her fingers caressed my scalp and it felt good. She closed her mind to me. I pushed her away and reached for the clothes I’d thrown onto the floor that morning, and dressed.

“Where are you going now?” she said.

I pulled on my jacket.

“You’re not going to St. Paul’s,” she continued. “It’s too dangerous.”

“I have to see it through.”

“You went to that society’s house?”

“I don’t think it’s their official base.”

“And afterward, you visited Marcus.” She slid between me and the door. “What did you talk about?” She glared. “You’re not the only one who suffered. Delacroix trapped me in that awful coffin.”

I nudged her. “Step aside.”

“I know I should have told you everything. I didn’t think you’d understand.”

“Then you insult me.”

“Try to see my side of things.”

“When you don’t let me in, I can’t.” I pulled away from her and strolled back over to the bed.

“And why are you bringing Marcus into this?”

“Sunaria, too many questions.”

“You trust him. Why don’t you trust me?”

“Get dressed.”

“I’m not going with you.”

“Meet me there.”

“I refuse.”

“I’m not asking you,” I snapped, “I’m telling you.”

She grabbed my sleeve. “You don’t order me around like this.”

I shoved her onto the bed.

She tried to get up. “Why are you being like this?”

I pushed her back down and held her there. “Because I don’t trust you.”

“You can’t take the Creda on. As for Delacroix, we both know what he’s capable of.”

“I’m going to right your wrongs.”

She slapped me.

My glare caused her to freeze. Unable to push me off, she turned her head away. I pressed my mouth against hers, kissing her leisurely, passionately.

“I forgive you,” she whispered at last.

I wrapped my left arm under her waist and yanked her into me. “But the question is,” I grazed my fangs along her neck, “do I forgive you?”

I stole her breath from her with another kiss.

Sunaria gave an insistent glare and I turned to see Rachel in the doorway.

“Well, hello there.” I smiled.

“How long have you been standing there?” Sunaria said, annoyed.

“Please hurry.” Rachel looked miserable. “Marcus is drunk.”

I sat up. “He can’t be drunk.”

“Unless his victim was,” Sunaria said.

Rachel bit her bottom lip. “He’s drunk three bottles of wine.”

Sunaria and I swapped a wary glance.

“Has he eaten food?” I asked.

Rachel nodded.

“That’s just great.” I sighed. “Bloody great.”

* * * *

Rachel and I found Marcus lying in his own vomit.

They’d created a den of sorts in the lower rooms of a rundown East London shack. Paint peeled off the walls and broken windows gave a horrid sense of vulnerability. No thought had gone into choosing their temporary refuge. At least, I hoped they considered it temporary.

“Nice place,” I said.

Despite my consideration that I’d take care of them, I’d let them down. Finding Marcus lying in this filth showed evidence of my abandonment.

“How do you bear it?” Marcus slurred.

“It gets easier.” I said flatly. “Rachel, bring me a cloth.”

She scurried off.

“I thought you were staying at the Old Towne Inn?” I held a tight smile.

“Rachel took a fancy to the innkeeper.”

“She didn’t—”

“Drank him dry.” His eyes fluttered shut.

I shook him. “Did you finish the job I gave you?”

“Are you sure you want to go through with it?” Marcus asked.

“Yes. Though I didn’t account for you getting shit-faced.”

“I’m dying.”

“You’re pissed. You have a headache.”

He retched and I dodged his vomit.

“My head’s spinning,” he mumbled. “We can’t eat food. Does that not strike you as strange?”

“We’ve been over this.”

Rachel returned and placed the bucket by my side. I dipped the old rag into the water and washed Marcus’ face.

“She doesn’t seem to mind drinking blood.” He pointed to Rachel. “She almost looks like she’s enjoying herself.”

I found Rachel’s guilty expression endearing. “You need mentoring.”

“If you die tonight, we’re done for,” he sobbed.

“What’s happening tonight?” Rachel asked.

“I’m a vampire!” Marcus cried.

“You’re a sorry excuse for a vampire,” I said.

He clutched my shirt sleeve. “Am I insane?”

“Help me get him undressed.” I turned to Rachel. “He’ll sleep off the booze. He’ll be fine.”

Marcus pulled me closer. “I’ve let you down.”

I glanced out of the window and wondered how long it would be before he sobered up. “We have to be at St. Paul’s in under an hour,” I said.

Marcus fell asleep.

“Shall I throw the rest of the chicken away?” Rachel said.

I stared at her, hoping she was joking. She wasn’t. “Get your things. You’re both staying with me.”

Marcus stirred and grabbed my shirt collar. “It seems so wrong.”

“It’s the only way.” I watched Rachel wander out.

She hesitated and stared at me, smiling, and then went all coy and disappeared from sight.

“Think you can pull this off?” Marcus asked.

“We can pull it off.”

“What about the others?”

“The Creda will free us from the Stone Masters.”

“But does she have to die like that?” Marcus asked.

I sat back and stared out of the window. Witching hour fast approached. “If I’m to be free from the Creda,” I said, “it’s the only way.”

* * * *

A storm raged over London’s skyline.

Thunder rolled, followed by flashes of lightning, and flooding rain, weaving through the city’s lanes only to find its way back into the Thames.

I entered St. Paul’s alone, just missing the worst of the downpour. A schism in the silence, whispers up near the nave. Hugging close to the walls, using the shadows for cover, I approached. Incense hung thick, bestowing a faint fragrance of rare spices.

Count Delacroix murmured to a man who was hunched over in the front pew. Trying to get a better view, I drew closer. I bit down hard on my hand to suppress a gasp.

It was Roman and he was talking. The very head that I’d stuck in the coffin the previous night, down in the catacombs, was now frighteningly animated and attached to someone else’s torso. His head was easily out of proportion to the slender body and his features moved sluggishly. Along his neck ran shoddy sutures all the way around, and his flesh bubbled up in between the thick stitches. A macabre rush job, stitched with a callous hand. It was Roman’s head, but Benjamin’s body.

Despite all that Benjamin had done, I felt awful. I’d trapped him in the casket, making it easy for the count to catch him and perform his sick work. Delacroix nodded in response to the morbid head’s utterances. Roman, or what was left of him, was struggling to be understood.

No Creda yet, but the Stone Masters were here. They hid somewhere far back in the west cloister and they were also watching the spectacle. I tried to count how many of them were here, got to twenty men and then movement pulled my attention back onto Delacroix.

Grasping the handle of an axe, he raised it high above his head, and then swung the blade wide, slicing through Roman’s neck sending his head flying off his shoulders. The body shuddered, slumped, and then slid to the floor and stilled.

I stepped out from the shadows. “Even your brother isn’t immune to your madness.”

Delacroix’s hands shook with anger.

“You can’t blame that on me.” I tried to keep my eyes off the decapitated head.

Delacroix gazed down at Roman. I wondered if he’d been mad as a mortal. I dashed away from the nave and down into the lower chambers. He followed me, closing in, and soon passed me, almost colliding with the far wall.

“Dead end!” He spun round and headed back the way we’d come, passing me again.

I rammed the silver stake into his back, straight through his heart and he stumbled and fell.

I knelt beside him.

He lay conscious, but incapacitated.

I buried my fangs into his neck and closed my eyes. A wave of images flashed before me, dragging me with them and carrying me down. Macabre visions of Delacroix’s life unfolded with each mouthful, revealing a million fragments of moments, experienced over centuries. A continuous revolving nightmare sucked me in. Slipping away, the present was no longer perceptible as my mind struggled to grab hold of something solid, something real. Drowning in him, I lost my way and had to pull back.

He picked up on my reluctance and his mouth slid into a smile. Pressing my lips against where I’d bitten him and bruising them, I gulped the scarlet flow again, impossible to subdue the turmoil. As if peering into the blackest mirror, my authentic nature was realized. I barged past his resistance. Tortured faces, each human life I’d taken and he’d taken appeared, only to be replaced by another, the madness of murder entangled. I was unable to ignore the visage. It was impossible to turn away. I faced my own atrocities as they intermingled with his.