Blood on Silk (23 page)

Eventually, she remembered she should be angry, even if her fear had gotten temporarily lost. “Where are you taking me?”

“To my palace.”

Palace. Not lair, or den, or crypt. “You have a palace in Buda,” she repeated. Of course, his definition and hers would be different. He lived below the ground, in cellars and sewers—why didn’t he smell bad?

“Oh no. I embrace the new city of Pest.” He swerved, then jumped, and Elizabeth again saw the Danube spread out before her.

“You’ve been misleading them,” she said in dismay. “Leaving a false trail.”

“Just in case they had the forethought to watch, or have the ability to see.”

They’d look like a blur to most people. He moved so fast, they’d just be a flash half glimpsed from the corner of somebody’s eye. A blink to clear the blur and they’d be gone. No one could see and no one would know. Her bag with her phone and the alarm buzzer were back at the Angel. Now she was truly on her own. And in just a few minutes, if she survived that long, the fear would kick in with a vengeance. Right now, she could relish its absence, even wonder at herself for the crowing she couldn’t resist.

“No roofs over the river! Even you can’t jump that far! How will you cross to the other side?”

“Like this,” Saloman said, and swooped. The air rushed through her hair, pulling at her skin while the ground leapt to meet her. This time she hid her eyes in his shoulder. But it seemed he had no intention of killing her in so pointless a manner. For an instant they landed on the cobblestones in front of the chain bridge. She opened her eyes, just as he leapt once more. Silenced, she could only gaze in fresh wonder as they bounded from the top of the first stone arch to the next, moving ever closer to the Parliament building on the other side. He even ran across that, apparently unnoticed.

There was nothing he couldn’t do, no way she or the hunters could defeat him. And it was she who had awakened him. Not the sort of fame she’d ever imagined—a firm place in the secret texts of the vampire hunters. But he wouldn’t be content with that either, would he? He wanted to rule the world, human as well as vampire.

Moving away from the river, they came to a series of well-planned streets and squares with large, classically built houses. Once the dwellings of the powerful aristocracy for whom they were built, they had long ago been divided into flats, or so she had been led to believe.

“Hold tight,” Saloman said on the roof of one such building, just before he stepped off it.

If her bones were shattered, he could still drink her blood, and she wouldn’t be in much of a position to fight back.

Her bones didn’t shatter. He landed with bent knees, absorbing the force with the ease of obviously long practice, and let her slither down his body until her feet touched the ground. Numb and dizzy, she would have stumbled and fallen if he hadn’t kept his arm around her waist as he moved along the side of the house to the imposing front door.

Humiliated, angry at her own helplessness, she snapped, “There’s no need to hold on so tightly. After that performance, there’s not much point in my trying to run away, is there?”

“None,” he agreed. He was unlocking the door, with a key. Not the cellar, then.

He opened the door, led her inside, and closed it. And Elizabeth’s upsurge of anger vanished. After all, it was as pointless now as running.

She stood in a large, gracious hall, dimly lit by one retro wall lamp, but hung with large, opulent, Renaissance-style paintings. There wasn’t much in the way of furniture—merely a tall, mahogany coat stand, with a black leather coat hanging from one hook.

She stared at the elegantly decorated cornice work of the ceiling as he urged her forward toward the massive curving staircase. It too was lit from strategically placed wall lights. She climbed. “You live here? In this house? Where are the owners?” Dead, of course; he’d eaten them.

“I’m the owner,” he reproved, as if he’d read her thoughts—which she didn’t put past him either, God help her. “I bought it. With the scraps of paper that pass for money in these very strange times. Come.”

Through open double doors, he led her into a huge drawing room, hung with dark red velvet curtains and Eastern-patterned wallpaper. Leaving her at the door, Saloman moved around the dark room, lighting candles that gradually illuminated the contents: large rugs scattered on the floor; a chaise longue; innumerable Turkish cushions; a low, round table; and, bizarrely, a television.

Elizabeth’s gaze moved on to Saloman, who stood watching her. She swallowed. This was her reality. She could no longer hide behind anger or lust or wonder, nor could she trust in others to save her. “You’ve brought me
here
to die?”

He walked toward her, lean and lithe as a large cat, unruffled by his recent race across the rooftops of Budapest. There had never been a creature more beautiful, or more lethal.

“I’m sorry.” He took her hand. She looked at it, a rather pretty shade of golden brown from the sun, or from the warm lighting he’d achieved, lying inert and helpless in his large, pale fingers. His voice was soft, though not lustful or mocking. Instead, there seemed to be a hint of genuine apology. “I would never have done it in the club. I promised us both a night together. Not a furtive fuck on a public dance floor. I just couldn’t resist playing your game. You looked so . . .”

Ridiculous.

“Desirable.” His voice dropped lower, warm and husky, and in spite of everything, her body tingled in response. His gaze roved over her throat and shoulders and breasts, down over her stomach and hips to her legs, and back to her face.

“Why?” she whispered.

It wasn’t a very clear question, but again he seemed to understand. “Perhaps because I owe my Awakener more than that.” His fingers moved, stroking her palm, the soft, sensitive skin between her thumb and forefinger. A caress, covering a pause that went on too long; an uncharacteristic hesitation.

His free hand lifted and touched her cheek, cupping it in his palm. “And because your beauty haunts me. Not just this lovely face or even this delectable body, but you. I want to know you.”

Elizabeth’s muscles jerked, reacting to this strangest discovery of all. “You don’t
want
to kill me. . . .”

“No,” he admitted, “I don’t.”

“Nothing compels you,” she quoted desperately.

“I wish that were true. But we are different species, you and I, and we think very differently. If I could choose, I would drain you of all the strength I could take without actually killing you. But then, the life force would remain yours, and if I don’t take it, one of my enemies will. That is what I can’t allow.”

“Your enemies?” she burst out, annoyed by the soothing effect of his deep, reasonable voice speaking such monstrous words. “I didn’t waken your enemies! What use am I to them?”

His eyes scanned hers, as if searching for an understanding she just didn’t have. His lips quirked. “Come, sit down.”

He led her across to the chaise longue and handed her into the seat with an old-fashioned gallantry that should have grated against his stated intention of killing her. And yet it didn’t. It was as if she’d fully entered his insane world. Shit, was she actually forgiving him? That small layer of intense warmth she could feel growing around her heart, was that
pleasure
because she’d been right and he did feel something for her?

This amazing, beautiful, fascinating being cared for
her
. However mad he was, it meant something. She just couldn’t work out what.

Dazed—was that any better than dazzled?—she watched him take a bottle and glasses from an antique cupboard in the corner, then bring them to the table in front of her.

“You like champagne?” he inquired, sitting beside her and reaching for the bottle.

“I’ve never been in a position to acquire the taste.”

“I love it. I’m going to buy land here and plant vines to make my own. I understand it will never have the snob value of French champagne, but I’m hoping it will be at least as acceptable as the best Italian Prosecco.”

She closed her mouth. “You really haven’t let the grass grow under your feet, have you?”

The cork whizzed off with a pop, and he poured the bubbling wine into both glasses. “Just because you have lots of it doesn’t mean you should waste it—time or wine. Cheers.”

She took the glass from him. Live for the moment. And she would never have the chance to ask again. “So you eat and drink as well? Like normal people?”

His lip twitched. “Like normal people? No. I don’t eat your food. I can drink since my body absorbs it. I can even get vilely drunk, but I won’t. An inebriated vampire is not a pretty sight.”

“Hey, I can take it. I’ve been in Glasgow on a Friday night.” It was a thoughtless, throwaway remark she expected to pass him by. She wasn’t prepared for the quick smile of appreciation, or her own foolish pleasure in inspiring it. In spite of everything she knew, it felt like a reward.

Like Stockholm syndrome . . .

“Is that your hometown?” he asked.

“Almost. We lived in a small town close by.”

“We?”

“My parents and I.”

He sipped his wine, regarding her with such intensity that she raised her own glass for protection. “You’re a lady of learning,” he observed. “An academic. What led you down that path?”

“I was good at it.”

“Yet you only graduated at the age of twenty-eight. I understand that is old.”

How in hell did he know that? Dmitriu. She’d given Maria, along with everyone else she interviewed, a brief biography with her qualifications to prove she wasn’t just a time waster.

“I only took the standard four years. I was a mature student.”

“Why? What did you do before?”

“I looked after my parents.”

“Were they sick?”

She nodded. “My father had Alzheimer’s.” She cast a quick glance at him. “You know what that is?”

“A kind of dementia suffered mostly by the old?”

“Only mostly. My father contracted it when he was comparatively young, which meant he was in no fit state to look after my mother, who had Parkinson’s disease.” She took a mouthful of champagne. It felt weird to be talking about this stuff. She never mentioned it to anyone. Those who needed to already knew about it.

“When?” he asked. “How old were you?”

She shrugged. “Fifteen or thereabouts. When it got bad.”

“Did you go to school?”

“When I could. I did all right, considering the absences.”

He was frowning. “Did no one help you?”

“My aunt came twice a year and drank tea with my mum. My friends helped, covered for me . . . I coped. If I hadn’t, the authorities would’ve done something, taken them into care of some kind. But my dad needed familiarity, not a new home, and my mum needed him there, even when he stopped knowing who the hell she was.” She took a deep breath. “Oddly enough, when my mum eventually died, my dad followed within the year.”

He nodded. “Somewhere, he still knew she was his roots, his hold on life. They needed each other as much as they needed you.”

She’d never put it into words before, hating the schmaltzy sentimentality that could emerge from simple truth and sully it. She found herself watching him with something approaching gratitude.

Stockholm! Remember Stockholm?

Saloman stirred. “It happened like that with my people sometimes too. When the familiar things, the familiar friends—and enemies—all vanished, there was nothing left to make life bearable. It drove some insane.”

As he spoke of his people—the Ancients—all of whom were now gone, she caught a glimpse, dark and unbearable, of a loneliness well beyond anything she’d ever known, even in her worst moments. It hurled her into speech. “They say
you
’re insane.”

His lips quirked again. “Who do? The vampire hunters?”

“There are documents,” she said defensively.

“Of course there are. Written by whom?”

By those who were left when he’d “died.”

As if he read the dawning comprehension in her eyes, he smiled. “There’s a lot of truth in your thesis, Elizabeth Silk. Many things are said and claimed to justify acts that are otherwise unjustifiable.”

She leaned forward to set down her glass. “They say you killed the only other Ancient still in existence. Over a woman.”

“Tsigana.” He watched her as he spoke the name. But she could see no trace of emotion.

“Did you?”

“Perhaps. Oh, I killed him. Perhaps it was insanity—certainly I can’t justify it. And some of it was about Tsigana.”

Elizabeth took a deep breath, but she had nothing to lose. “Is that why she betrayed you?”

His lips twisted. “No. She betrayed me because I wouldn’t give her what she sought—eternal life.”

“She wanted you to make her a vampire?”

“She loved power, poor Tsigana. It was what drew her to me. But when you can see power without touching it, it’s no longer enough. She wanted more. I refused it, and Maximilian promised it. The rest was inevitable. Although it must be said the last laugh is mine. Maximilian never gave her the promised gift. She died a very old woman, I understand.”

It might have given him satisfaction. It was hard to tell. He was gazing into his wine, the half smile not fading on his full, sensual lips.

“Didn’t you know?” Elizabeth blurted. “Didn’t you suspect they were betraying you?”

“I should have,” he agreed. “I knew them both—knew them all—well enough. I suppose it must have been the insanity you spoke of.” He lifted the glass to his lips and drank, as if that would hide the old, ugly wounds. But the softness of tragedy stayed in his black, not-so-expressionless eyes.

The knowledge rushed on her like a revelation, peculiarly devastating. Not insanity. Just simple love.

He lowered the glass and caught her staring. He laughed. “What’s the matter? You think me incapable of love because I’m evil?”

“Are you?”

“Incapable of love? Come here and I’ll show you.”

“Evil,” she said firmly.

“Like beauty, it’s in the eye of the beholder.”

It was so easy to drown in his eyes, in his darkness. To lose the fraying thread that bound her to reality—just.