Be Mine Tonight (13 page)

The mere thought of how Pru would look as she reached climax was enough to give him a rock-hard erection.

Of course, he’d have to apologize for running
off on her earlier. He’d have to think of a reasonable excuse—one that she would accept but that wouldn’t make him look weak or sickly.

God, he hoped the Holy Grail was in that cellar, and not Temple and that cup of damnation. He wanted it so badly for Pru. He didn’t want to see the desolation on her face if her hopes were dashed. And yet, even though he didn’t want to see it, he hated the fact that he wouldn’t be able to be there for her, because the sun would fry him to a crisp. At least if Marcus held to his word and allowed him to investigate first, he might be able to share Pru’s disappointment and pain as they first struck.

Veering west, Chapel propelled himself closer to the ground. He was almost there. The shadow of Rosecourt loomed in the distance.

He landed on the balcony outside Pru’s room. The doors opened easily—and he stepped inside.

Pru wasn’t there.

He checked the library. She wasn’t there either. Where the hell was she?

A thought, small and awful, came to him. Swift and silent, he swept through the house to Marcus Grey’s room. It was empty as well.

Damn them both for being rash and foolish! They had gone to the site.

He was outside, about to wing his way to the ruins, when he heard a horse approaching. He sped toward it, instinct telling him it was Marcus who rode as though the hounds of hell chased him.

Where was Pru?

Both horse and rider started as Chapel came
to a halt before them. The run hadn’t even winded him.

Fear rolled off Marcus in waves, but not fear of Chapel. Fear of something else.

“Pru’s hurt. In the cellar. She needs help.”

Terror seized him, but Chapel pushed it aside. “Wake Molyneux. I’ll get her.”

He didn’t wait for Marcus to respond before taking off once more. He raced through the night, seeing perfectly in the darkness. Soon he saw the ruins appear before him, the mound of dirt and rocks near the cellar his focal point.

He sniffed the night, and caught a familiar, heart-swelling scent. It wasn’t Temple, though there were traces of his friend there.

Pru.

She was indeed there, but he also discerned something tainting her scent, something that threatened to allow his terror to break through his carefully constructed defenses. He knew that smell but couldn’t place it just yet.

He didn’t hesitate. He jumped over the steps and landed in front of the door. He pushed it open so hard it slammed into the wall and lodged there.

Nothing came at him. No feral vampire attacked. No friend greeted him. There was nothing.

No, not nothing. There was a dead man he didn’t know on the floor, and on the cot, in the pitiful glow of a dropped lamp, was Pru.

She was on her back, limp as a discarded doll. He could hear her uneven breathing, see the glassy pallor of her skin.

He knew without touching her, without any idea of what had happened there, that she was dying.

He was beside her in a flash, gently gathering her into his arms. Her eyes didn’t open. Her lips were as colorless as her cheeks. A film of perspiration clung to her skin and she was clammy to the touch.

But he could see no readily discernible mark on her flesh, no sign of a struggle. He hadn’t been expecting there to be—not once had he caught the scent of her blood. Temple hadn’t done this to her—not directly. The dead man beside Pru hadn’t been so lucky. Temple’s scent was all over him. Temple had killed him.

A shudder wracked Pru’s slender frame. She drew a breath—a shaky, tremulous sound like a child’s rattle.

Panic tore through him. She couldn’t die. She couldn’t. Not like this. He pressed his hand over her breast. Her heart struggled to beat, but it was beating nevertheless.

The sound of rending fabric punctuated the awful silence. He pulled the dart from Pru’s poor flesh. An ugly purple stain spread faint tentacles outward from the puncture. Scowling, Chapel sniffed the tip of the dart. He closed his eyes as the familiar scent sickened him.

Oh, Christ.

He knew the poison. It was rare and old, and hard to combat. It would incapacitate a creature such as a vampire or werewolf, and to humans it was deadly. He knew this because it was the same
poison that had nearly killed him the night they found the Blood Grail.

He knew of only one cure, and that was his blood.

No, there might be another way.

Dawn was almost upon them. He could hide inside the passageway behind the tapestry, but Pru wouldn’t be so fortunate. If he waited much longer, she would die here and he would be powerless to stop it.

He could only pray that what he was about to do would be enough to save her.

“Please,” he whispered, lowering his head as his fangs slid from his gums. “Please.”

He prayed for strength as he sank his teeth into the delicate flesh of Pru’s breast where the dart had entered. He opened her savagely, making a larger wound to draw the poison out as quickly as possible. He drew from her with great force, taking her bitterly poisoned blood into himself. He gagged with every swallow, and still he drank, until he could no longer taste the poison, only sweet, heady Pru.

She was even more pale when he raised his head. The wound he had made was ugly, but he had stopped the flow of blood with a gentle pass of his tongue. In a day there wouldn’t even be a scar.

That was if he managed to get her back to the estate, back to Molyneux, who would know what to do. She would need fresh blood—he had taken too much of hers. And she would need herbs and medicine. Molyneux would save her.

Cradling Pru in his arms, Chapel rose to his feet. The poison would hit him soon and he had precious little time to waste. It wouldn’t kill him, but it would hurt him.

He held Pru in one arm as he yanked a blanket from the cot and draped it over his head, tucking it between himself and Pru to hold it in place.

Then he ran. Up the steps into the brightening morning, he moved as fast as his feet would allow. The poison slowed him, made him awkward, but he managed to remain upright.

The sun peeked above the horizon, searing him with a blinding slash of agony. He stumbled, regained his footing and ran on.

Every second was excruiating as he tore through the grass, across the dew-kissed green toward safety. His body was on fire, burning from the inside out, or from the outside in. He didn’t know where the blaze started, he knew only that his skin was blistering beneath the blanket and his clothes.

He wasn’t going to make it. He was going to explode just as Dreux had. He would splinter and burst into the sun in a million crystallized shards.

It was only the fact that he would be taking Pru with him that kept his burning feet moving. It was only the thought of Pru that gave him the strength to go on despite the agony that threatened to destroy him.

He was going to make it.

How he managed to make the leap from the ground to the balcony outside Molyneux’s room,
he would never know. It was as though an invisible hand had scooped him up and set him there. It might have been the blood he had taken from the prostitutes, it might have been fear for Pru—or it might have been the work of either God or Satan—but somehow he managed to get them both inside the priest’s room.

Marcus was there as well. They had prepared the bed for Pru. Molyneux crossed himself at the sight of him, while Marcus stared with horror. He must look a fright, with his burned flesh and wild eyes.

Marcus caught Pru as Chapel collapsed to the carpet.

“Help her,” Chapel pleaded of Molyneux as he crawled toward the huge wardrobe against the far wall. It was the only place where he could hide from the dawn that spilled into the room and continued to sear him.

“She’s been poisoned. Temple’s poison. She needs blood.” Summoning what was left of his strength, he hauled himself inside the wardrobe, heedless of the contents pressing around him.

“Save her.”

Molyneux nodded, and Chapel knew his old friend would not fail him. “Who will save you,
mon ami
?”

Chapel didn’t answer. He allowed himself one last look at Pru, so fragile and pale on the priest’s bed. Marcus was already rolling up his sleeve, prepared to give Pru his own blood. When this was all over, Chapel was going to pound Grey
senseless for taking Pru to that dig. Obviously the young man didn’t trust him.

Or he had wanted Pru to have the choice of drinking from the Blood Grail if it had been there. Stupid, stupid boy. He’d deal with him later.

Chapel drew the wardrobe door shut, encasing himself in blessed darkness. His head swam and pounded. His entire body throbbed in pain, but the fire of dawn could no longer touch him.

The only person who could save him was himself. He had to draw on his own strength and will himself to heal. If he did not, the combination of poison and the dawn just might bring his end. He had to hang on despite the pain, despite the peace that final death offered.

And he would hang on, because after centuries of wishing for death, he had something to live for.

And Chapel wanted to see her face just one more time.

“O
ur Father must have a plan,
mon ami
, for you to live another day,
comprendez vous
?”

Strangely enough, Chapel did understand, and he agreed wholeheartedly. He was not going to die. He didn’t want to die. For the first time in centuries he very much wanted to live, even if it meant hurting like hell for a while.

Most of the pain had subsided. He had spent much of the day before in Molyneux’s wardrobe, healing himself with sleep and darkness. As far as the household was concerned, Chapel suffered only from his “allergy” to the sun, but that didn’t stop the seemingly endless knocks upon the door inquiring after his health.

Every time someone came calling, the arrival
woke Chapel, put him in an even more feral, on guarded state. It wasn’t good for the healing process, so Molyneux finally left the room for a few hours. He gave the family an update on Chapel’s condition and left express instructions that the servants not enter his room. He even went so far as to lock the door, for which Chapel was thankful. It would be hard enough to explain his appearance, never mind the murder of one of Mr. Ryland’s servants.

Molyneux looked after him, as he had many times over the course of their partnership.

Every once in a while, the sight of Francis Molyneux was a shock to Chapel. When he looked at him, he expected to see that same fresh-faced young priest who’d been assigned to watch over him as though he were an unruly child or an exotic pet. He’d let the church believe they could contain him and his fellow vampires, all the while praying that they could.

Molyneux had been assigned to him forty-five years ago, an eager young man with the fire of God burning in his belly. Now his black hair was liberally streaked with gray, his once-youthful countenance lined and not as bright. He was heavier, a little shorter, but to Chapel he would always be that stiff-spined boy who stared down what he had been told was a demon, confident that God would protect him. Chapel had delivered him of that notion quickly enough. He bared his fangs, took the boy down to the ground and held him there, letting Molyneux stare death in the eye.

Molyneux had lain beneath him, his heart ham
mering like the flutter of a hummingbird’s wings. He stared with wide eyes, and then Chapel felt the sharp point of the stake against his chest. The boy was as brave as he was terrified, and he was the first of a long line that Chapel actually believed could and would kill him if the need arose. That knowledge alone had earned the young priest his respect, and eventually his friendship. That friendship was why it was sometimes so painful to watch Molyneux age. He was going to die someday—they all did—and Chapel would miss him greatly when he was gone. There would be another young priest, eager to prove himself, determined to drive the demon out of Chapel, or worse, master it, but there would never be another Molyneux.

Just as there would never be another Pru.

He was in his own room now, almost completely healed from the combined torture of poison and sunlight. Molyneux returned with news of Pru’s recovery—and with the assurance that the family physician would not attempt to call on Chapel.

“How is she today?” he asked as he threw back the covers of his bed. The room was dark, but he knew the sun was sinking in the sky. He could feel the peace settling over his body.

Molyneux went to the window and pulled back the curtains, letting in the fading daylight. Chapel winced at the sight, his eyes still a little sensitive, but there was no pain.

“Mam’selle Ryland is expected to make a full recovery from her experience. I understand she will be joining us for dinner later this evening.”

His chest tightened. Whether or not he would be at dinner was still a mystery. “Do I look presentable enough for dinner?”

He had no idea what he looked like, only how he felt, and his high threshold for pain didn’t always allow for a reliable estimation.

As for looking for himself, that was a last resort. He didn’t look in mirrors much because the silver backing interacted with his curse, changing his appearance in an almost indescernible but disturbing manner. Since the incident at the cellar, he hadn’t wanted to look.

The priest smiled. “Your cheeks are a little pink from the burn, but other than that you look virile and healthy.”

Chapel arched a brow. “Virile, eh? Will the ladies all swoon, do you think?”

Molyneux blinked. “What is this, humor? Perhaps you are dying after all.”

“It’s not that unusual,” Chapel said as he crossed the carpet toward the small bathroom attached to his chamber. Rosecourt was equipped with all the modern luxuries and this lovely deep tub was Chapel’s favorite, especially since it was outfitted for shower bathing as well.

“I can count on one hand the number of times you have uttered a humorous remark this past half century.”

Chapel paused at the bathroom door. “No. Really?” He couldn’t be that somber and depressing, could he?

Molyneux nodded. “Ah,
oui.
”

“How do you stand to be near me?”

“I am witty enough for the two of us.”

Laughing, Chapel had to agree.

“In fact,” his friend began, carefully avoiding Chapel’s gaze as he brushed lint from the sleeve of his coat, “since coming to Rosecourt you have not been your usual self. The change has been most…pleasant.”

Stripping off the soiled dressing gown, Chapel turned on the taps and stepped naked into the tub. The water filling it was warm as it swirled around his ankles. From a jar at the side of the tub he took a scoop of herbs that would help with this healing process and sprinkled them into the water. “You think Pru is responsible, don’t you?”

The priest was all innocence. “Why would I think that?”

Because Chapel knew it to be the truth. Because Pru made him feel more alive than he had in…than he ever had.

“I’ll be back to myself in no time, don’t you worry.” He’d meant the words to be jovial, but they weren’t.

Molyneux’s expression saddened. “That is what worries me.”

Chapel had no reply.

After bathing, Chapel returned to his bedroom clad in a fresh dressing gown of thick quilted black silk. Today’s rest had helped considerably, as had the bath. There was no reason why he couldn’t go downstairs and join Pru—and the others, of course—for dinner.

He dried his hair ruthlessly with a soft, fluffy
towel. These modern times spoiled him and often made him feel as pampered as a woman. Now even men used perfumed soaps. He could remember having to bathe in cold streams with nothing but sand to clean the dirt from his skin.

Truth be told, he rather liked his perfumed soap; it smelled like sandalwood.

“Did you speak to Marcus?” he asked, seeing that Molyneux was still there, sitting in a chair by the window. There was very little daylight left. The sunset was a smear of orange against a violet sky.

The priest nodded, his expression somber. “Yes. He took care of the dead man’s body.”

That was good. The last thing they needed were the local authorities snooping around and asking questions. “What did he do with it?”

“I did not ask. I do not want to know. He assured me that even if the man is found, there will be nothing to link him to the Rylands.”

“That’s all that matters.” So long as the body was off Rosecourt property, it would most likely be assumed the man was killed by robbers. “What else did he say? Did he find it?”

“The
Sang Graal
? No, he did not find it, but you and I both know that does not mean it is not there. It would be hidden, I hope.”

The Blood Grail? Molyneux thought he asked about the Blood Grail? “I meant the Holy Grail. Did he find that?”

Molyneux crossed his legs. The movement looked painful, reminding Chapel of his friend’s
age. He suddenly looked very old, and very tired. “No, my friend. I am afraid he did not.”

He clenched the towel in his fist, so tightly that water actually seeped around his fingers.

“Does she know?”

If possible, Molyneux aged five years before his eyes. “I do not believe so.”

Chapel turned away. Poor Pru. What now?

“I will tell her.” He made the decision in an instant, as unpleasant as it was. “Marcus won’t have the heart for it.” Marcus had wanted the Grail for Pru so badly he had challenged Chapel for it. He would no doubt rather die than be the one to tell her they had failed.

“That is very good of you.”

A bitter laugh scratched its way up his throat. “Yes, I am very good.”

“You saved her, did you not?”

Chapel glanced over his shoulder. “Yes, and for what? A lingering death?”

Molyneux smiled. “Perhaps that is not to be her fate. God allowed you to save her, sparing her just as He once spared you.”

He shook his head. How naive could a grown man be? “God didn’t spare me, François.”

“How can you say that? You live.”

“I live because I went to a brothel and glutted myself on thirteen women. I live because I was strong enough to face a few moments of sunshine.” He tossed the towel across the room and turned to face his old friend. “I live because I was not going to let
Him
have Pru, not before I have to. That is why I live.”

Molyneux was pale. “You did not kill any of those women?”

He growled. “Of course not.”

The priest’s relief was palpable. “Good. There is no need for you to torture yourself, then. If you hadn’t done that, you might not have been able to help Miss Ryland.”

Chapel didn’t bother to tell him that those women were probably what had saved Pru from his hunger. And he didn’t tell Molyneux that he’d gladly kill twenty humans—men or women—if it meant Pru could have her full life. Hell, he’d change her if it didn’t mean damning her soul.

But while he’d kill for her, he didn’t dare change her, because he knew he wouldn’t be doing that for her.

He’d be doing it for himself.

Blood filled Marcus’s mouth. He spat it onto the boot of one of the men holding him. There was one on either side, holding his arms so that he couldn’t attack their leader again. He didn’t strain against their grip, but he kept his muscles tense, ready to pounce if the opportunity presented itself.

He had come here looking for answers, looking for some way to fix what his involvement with these men had wrought. Instead he found more lies, more deceit.

He hadn’t been able to control his temper, not when he thought about what these men had cost him—had cost Pru. He simply attacked, going
straight for the man he believed responsible for all of this.

He glared at the man before him—the man who had hit him—before turning his attention to the older man farther back, dabbing at the corner of his own mouth with a snowy handkerchief.

The man—he’d only heard him addressed as Magus—raised his black gaze to Marcus’s. “You are a brave and stupid man, Mr. Grey. What did you hope to achieve by coming here and attacking me?”

“You were in the cellar.” Marcus’s jaw hurt, it was clenched so tightly in an effort to keep himself from pulling against the hands that held him. He kicked the body at his feet—the one he had delivered himself. “He’s one of yours, isn’t he?”

Magus’s gaze flickered briefly to the corpse, but he didn’t deny it. “We did not find the Holy Grail, if that is what you think.”

Marcus held the man’s gaze even though it made his flesh crawl. He doubted these men would admit to finding the Grail even if they had. They were smart enough to conceal possession of such an item. “What did you find?”

A coy smile curved thin, bloodless lips. “Only vermin. Only old relics. Nothing you would find interesting.”

Marcus’s heart skipped a beat. There was something in the way Magus spoke. Yes, he was smart enough not to be specific, but pleased enough to brag. Vermin. Relics.
Temple. The Blood Grail.
God help them all.

“You promised me an interview with Temple.” As if that mattered now. At first he had jumped at the chance to learn about Dreux Beauvrai, and the creature he had become. He wanted to unlock the deep dark secret in his family’s past—and yes, the idea of immortality intrigued him, but now…now it all seemed so stupid and petty when held up against Pru’s struggle to live.

What had he done? At least the poison hadn’t killed Pru, but the Grail hadn’t been there either. They had promised him the Grail. He had promised them silence—that no one would know of their involvement.

More importantly, he all but promised the Grail to Pru. His belief that something in those ruins could save her had nearly killed her.

Promises meant nothing to these men. All they understood was power. And now they had it all.

He could only hope that Pru would forgive him. That Chapel would help him rather than kill him. Help him make this as right as he could.

“Do you want me to hit him again, master?” The man who had punched him asked.

Magus came closer, the cut in his lip raw but no longer bleeding. “No. I will take care of this one myself.”

Marcus grinned. He couldn’t help it. “Are you up for it, old man?” No sooner had the words left his mouth than he pulled free of his jailers, seized them both by the back of the neck and smashed their heads together. They hadn’t even hit the floor when he struck the third man hard in the throat
and then to the back of the neck, knocking him unconscious.

Then he pulled the revolver from his pocket and leveled it at the older man.

A scholar he might be, but Marcus had learned to fight with a professional his father had hired for him as a young man. The skills he learned at the gentleman’s pugilist salon had been honed on the exotic and sometimes deadly streets of the East and even closer to home. He knew how to fight and he wasn’t above being dirty about it.

Magus’s eyes narrowed even further—they were little more than black slits in his face.

Marcus shrugged his jacket into place. “I just wanted to give you a chance to end this.”

“The end is here for you, dear boy.”

The air around him seemed to grow heavy, as though a great storm were coming. Marcus wasn’t certain what Magus was capable of, but the man thought himself a mage. If he was responsible for this sudden change in the air, and was able to wield that kind of magic, Marcus and his pistol would not be able to stand against him.