Blood on Silk (4 page)

His hand brushed the curve of her hip. “Workman’s trousers,” he said with contempt, sweeping the caress upward until his hand lay just under her breast. “And a whore’s bodice. Are you a whore, Elizabeth Silk from Scotland?”

“No!”

“Yet my coarse language doesn’t offend you. You are an intriguing mix. And since you have awakened me, would you like me to awaken you?”

She pushed past him, hoping to fool him by the act of an offended woman—which, in fact, wasn’t all act for some reason she hadn’t quite grasped.

He let her go three steps, four. Her heart thumping, she worked out that if she got two more paces in, she could leap for the boulder, spring off it, and grasp the side of the hole to haul herself up into the open. He could follow, of course, but if she made it to the car . . .

One more step. She could feel his eyes boring into the back of her head. He had such bloody scary eyes—powerful, alien, opaque, and yet so deep you could drown in them. And hungry . . .
Don’t think about them, don’t even imagine what he could do. . . .

Another step. She drew in her breath—and suddenly he was there in front of her. She cried out but had no time to run, for he took hold of her hips and drew her hard against him. At the same time, he gyrated his own hips just enough to make her bite back a moan of sudden, raging lust as the clothed ridge of his penis slid against her pubic bone.

“Don’t pretend,” he whispered. “I can smell your arousal at twenty paces. Whore or virgin, you’re mine.”

He lowered his head, and though she strained away from him, he buried his face in her neck. She grasped his broad shoulders through the dusty velvet cloak and tried in vain to push him off. His lips glided over her skin, finding the sensitive spot of her previous neck wound, which no longer hurt but tingled in treacherous welcome, even when his teeth grazed against it.

“It’s sweet to satisfy both lusts together. . . .” The words vibrated through her neck, shooting straight to her core. “For each of us.” He sucked the skin of her throat into his mouth, and she couldn’t keep still, instead jerking her head back. One of his hands tangled in her hair, holding her head. He bent her backward so that their lower bodies pressed closer together. His knee nudged her legs apart, and the column of his erection found the hot tenderness between.

Clutching his shoulders, she let out a moan that was half sob. His teeth teased her neck; his tongue flickered out in short, sensual licks. His whole mouth seemed to move on her skin, seducing her not just to compliance but to blind, desperate need. She wanted to feel his teeth bite into her flesh, to know again the strange icy pleasure as he drew her blood into his mouth, into his own body. And if he was inside her at the same time, giving her sweet, urgent sex . . .

How can I even think I want that? It’s
him,
some dark, perverse magic. . . .

But would it really be so very bad to give in? To know this wicked thrill just once?

His hand roved over the curve of her bottom, drawing her harder into him, and it felt so good, so amazing. . . .

I shouldn’t feel like this. I’m
not
this person!

“No,” she gasped out.

Her fingers were gripping his shoulders so tightly that they hurt. She forced them to loosen. His lips stilled on her neck, then released her skin with one last teasing lick.

“No?” He lifted his head, regarding her with open mockery. “You like to deny yourself. Perhaps you’re right. The pleasure is often heightened by postponement.”

“You’re full of shit,” she said shakily. She didn’t mean to say it; the words just came out. His eyes widened, giving her at least the satisfaction of having taken him by surprise. He stared at her for several seconds, while she wondered in desperation if that was anger, incomprehension, or simple lust boiling in his dark, menacing eyes.

None of those, it seemed.

The “vampire” threw back his head and laughed.

At the same time, he released her, and she backed away from him, listening to her own uneven breath rasping in her throat.

“Oh, decidedly, we will meet again,” he promised. His eyes gleamed as he regarded her retreating person.

“No, we bloody won’t.”

“Have faith, my little thistle.”

Stunned, she finally comprehended that he was letting her go. She turned, stumbling, then almost tripped over her bag before she grabbed it up and ran on shaky legs to the boulder. It was clumsy, but at least the fear lent her strength, for she took only one jump to grasp at the ground above and scrabble, climb, and haul herself through the gap into the blessed fresh air above.

Though there was no light out here, the velvet sky was clear, shining such welcome, beautiful starlight down upon her that she wanted to weep. Instead, she staggered to her feet and cast around for her car.

He’d said he wouldn’t follow, but it seemed she couldn’t stop running. She needed only seconds to reach the car, unlock it, and throw herself and her bag inside. A few more seconds saw the key thrust into the ignition, and then she was moving, driving hell-for-leather for the road, for Bistriƫa, and for her hotel and blessed sanity.

But she was going too fast on the narrow, winding hill. When the figure loomed out of the darkness in front of her, she knew, even as she slammed on the brakes, that she couldn’t avoid him. In the screech of tires, she had one glimpse, appallingly close up, of Dmitriu’s dark, distinctive face, and then it vanished.

Before the car finished its final jolt, she threw herself out into the road. She ran all around the car, looked underneath it, and even searched the ditch at the side of the road on her hands and knees. But there was no sign of Dmitriu or anyone else.

She sat back on her heels, dragging one trembling hand through her hair. “I’m going mad,” she whispered. “I’m truly going insane.”

And then, since she could do nothing else, she stood up, climbed back into the car, and drove on with a last look around her. But this time, heeding whatever warning her disturbed brain had been trying to give her, she took it slowly and carefully.

She’d gotten in. That much was clear from the gaping hole in the ground, and the wild, scrambled tracks surrounding it. What else she had done wasn’t so obvious. After all, her white, drawn face as he’d glimpsed it through the car windshield might have mirrored no more than shock at almost running him over. And she lived.

Nevertheless, cautious by nature, Dmitriu stood well back from the entrance to the crypt and reached out with all his senses.

Vampire. There was certainly a vampire close by. He could hear the slow beating of the creature’s heart and smell the recycled blood that powered his existence, but he couldn’t identify him. He could be a strong vampire, masking his signature, or he could just be a weak fledgling. Either way, the creature was close. Below in the crypt, perhaps, or . . .

His spine prickled, and Dmitriu spun around, fists raised to defend himself.

The vampire sat on a boulder that had once formed part of the castle. His cloak stretched out behind him, barely stirring in the cool breeze of the night. Across his knees lay a broken sword, the top third of the blade apparently snapped off. His strong, handsome face was in profile, and he seemed to be gazing upward at the stars, but Dmitriu didn’t let that fool him. The vampire knew exactly where he was and what stance he had taken.

Dmitriu let his hands fall to his sides. “Saloman.”

The vampire smiled, almost as if the last three hundred years had never been. He rose to his feet in one quick, fluid movement, letting the broken sword fall to the ground, and Dmitriu saw that he wasn’t masking. He was weak. It was mere willpower that gave him strength enough to move, to walk toward him.

Emotion threatened to choke him. It seemed after all that he, Dmitriu, was the weak one, for it was he who stumbled in, closing the distance between them.

“Dmitriu.” Saloman embraced him, and he fell to his knees, taking the cold white hand in his and pressing it to his lips. “You sent her.”

Dmitriu nodded. A drop of blood had fallen from his eye onto Saloman’s hand; embarrassed, he wiped both on his shirt before rising.

Saloman said, “How did you know?”

“I could smell her. She reeks of Tsigana. You let her go.”

“For now. There’s more to be had here than an instant of gratification.” Saloman caught and held his gaze, and with massive relief, he realized at last that he was safe. Saloman had lost neither his memory nor his sanity in the frozen centuries. It didn’t matter. Dmitriu would have done this, whatever the consequences. “I am grateful.”

Dmitriu swallowed. “There’s no need of thanks. I only wish I could have done it sooner.”

“You didn’t forget.”

“I couldn’t.” A thousand questions choked him about how it had been for him and how much he remembered; yet he couldn’t bring himself to ask. He didn’t want to know. Distracting himself, he bent and picked up the fallen sword. It was surprisingly light, and the hilt wasn’t Saloman’s. In fact, it wasn’t even a sword. Silver paint peeled and crumbled over a blade made of red-stained wood.

“So that’s how they did it,” he exclaimed. A stake disguised as a weapon that only threatened humans. “A contemptible ruse!”

“Several ruses,” Saloman said without apparent interest. He’d had three hundred years to digest it, but Dmitriu wasn’t fooled. He hadn’t forgiven or forgotten.

Dmitriu lifted his gaze. “What will you do now?”

Saloman smiled. He stretched out his arms and turned as if embracing the whole world from this hilltop. “Live,” he said. “Feed. Fuck. Frolic.” He came to a halt and stared into Dmitriu’s eyes. “And take back what is mine.”

Dmitriu smiled. For the first time in decades it felt good to be undead. “No ‘f,’ ” he pointed out.

Saloman’s lips quirked. “I’ll think of one.”

Dmitriu’s heart pumped. He tipped his head to one side. “I can help with the feed. My blood is stronger than most these days.”

“It should be,” said Saloman, reaching for him. “It’s mine.”

Dmitriu’s head jerked back as the other’s fangs pierced his skin. He shuddered at the strength of Saloman’s desperate pull, losing himself in the exquisite pleasure, not unmingled with fear. “Just don’t bloody kill me.”

Saloman lifted his head, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “No guarantees,” he whispered, and plunged once again into Dmitriu’s jugular, bending him back like a twig with the force of his hunger.

E
lizabeth woke with a thud.

“Domnişoară?”
Someone was rapping on her door. “Miss Silk?”

Elizabeth dragged her hand across her face and through her hair. She felt as if she’d just fallen asleep. “Hello?” she croaked.

“Can we come in?” asked a woman’s voice, but it didn’t sound like the chambermaid. Perhaps this was a different girl.

Elizabeth glanced at her travel clock—nine o’clock. She was normally up, breakfasted, and out researching by this time. But then, she hadn’t gotten back until midnight.

“Domnişoară! ”

“Coming,” Elizabeth mumbled, sitting up and staggering out of bed in one clumsy movement. She grabbed some clean clothes from her open suitcase on her way to the door. Unlocking it, she opened the door a crack before heading back toward the bathroom. “Give me five minutes and I’ll be out of your hair.” That probably didn’t make much sense in Romanian, judging by the girl’s lack of response.

“Miss Silk? We’re not hotel staff.”

Elizabeth turned in surprise. Through her half-open bedroom door she could see one woman and two men, young and casually dressed, though not as casually as she was in the thin and ancient T-shirt she wore for sleeping. Clutching her clothes in front of her like a shield, she walked toward her visitors once more.

“What can I do for you?” she asked, puzzled.

“We need to talk to you,” said one of the men. He was tall, fair, good-looking in a robust, square sort of a way. He was perhaps her own age, just shy of thirty. “About last night.”

Her heart seemed to plunge to her toes. “Last night? Oh shit. Dmitriu?” They were the police. She really
had
run Dmitriu over and just hadn’t seen the body.