Let the Night Begin (5 page)

She was trembling by the time she stepped onto her floor. After her quiet life on the shore, London was too much for her. It was the city that was to blame for this antsy, dangerous feeling. Yes, the city.

She hurried down the elegant, well-lit corridor. The thick carpet muffled the staccato fall of her feet as she ran away from an invisible foe, real or imagined.

The second she entered her suite much of the tension left her. The scent of lemon and clean sheets welcomed her. Here the sounds of the outside world were muted. There was no one watching her. No boys tempting her. No vampire with pale gray eyes to set her very nerves on edge.

Sagging against the door, she pressed her shoulders into the wood and drew several calming breaths. She was made of stronger stuff than this. She had to pull herself together. She couldn't hide in her room. She wouldn't.

She stayed in the suite long enough to regain her equilibrium and splash some water on her face. Then, she went to the French doors and lifted the latch, letting the night inside.

Her suite was on the back side of the hotel on the sixth floor. The balcony—if it could be called such—was a delicate wrought iron affair that was little more than a place to step. It was all she needed.
After ascertaining that there was no one around, no one watching, she closed the doors behind her and pushed herself into the sky.

Let someone try to follow her
now
.

The force of her own body soaring through the night tugged the pins from her hair and made her eyes water, but she pushed onward regardless. There was only one place that she would find peace this night, and she was determined to go there.

The steeple for St. Martin-in-the-Fields rose in the distance. Arms at her sides, Olivia sped toward it like a pebble propelled from a child's slingshot as her skirts flapped around her ankles.

She touched ground just behind the church and stepped out of the shadows while trying to restore the wind-loosened locks of her hair.

The massive building dwarfed her as she climbed the steps. Grecian columns rose high on the portico, supporting a roof that deepened the shadows night cast across the smooth stone. Were it any other building in any other place, it would have seemed daunting, perhaps even sinister, but here there was only peace.

The door opened with ease, just as it had the evening before, when she had come to sit and gather her thoughts. So many churches locked their doors now that being given entrance into this one, especially at this hour, was a little surprising. Yesterday, she had expected to walk in, given that it was Sunday.

So many people seemed to eschew religion for the new belief and theories in science. Olivia wasn't one of them—nor was she one of those who ridiculed Mr. Darwin's theories or other scientific revelations. She simply believed that there was truth in both science and religion. And while she believed that humans and animals evolved, she also knew that when life was difficult, it wasn't the Royal Academy she prayed to for comfort and strength.

The interior of the church was warm and golden with candlelight, and Olivia was over the threshold with the door closed behind her before she truly realized she was even inside. Right then, at that exact moment, she knew the meaning of sanctuary. Lightness filled her soul with every step she took down the aisle toward the front of the church, her footsteps echoing in the otherwise empty building.

“Good evening.”

No, of course it wasn't empty. At least she hadn't embarrassed herself by yelping. Olivia stopped where she was, daring to glance at the priest. He wasn't the same one who had been there yesterday. This priest was younger, sharper. Would this one recognize her for what she was? It always surprised her, though less now, that these men of God didn't know a demon when they saw one.

And this one was no different. He smiled at her as though she was just an ordinary woman, noth
ing the least bit remarkable about her at all. Inside, a part of her collapsed with relief. She returned the smile. “Good evening. Is it all right if I sit for a moment?”

He seemed surprised that she would ask. “Of course, my dear lady.” He even went so far as to gesture to the pew second from the front. “Please.”

Olivia seated herself on the polished wood, waiting until the priest left her before opening up her thoughts. She didn't know if praying would help James. She didn't know if praying did any good at all, or if the Almighty still listened to her voice. But it made her feel better to sit in a house of God and ask for the strength she needed to get through an ordeal. Even when searching her own heart, the peace and tranquility of a quiet church buoyed her spirit and made everything seem so much clearer.

She was doing the right thing. Reign would never help her if he knew the kidnappers wanted him in exchange for James. No one in his right mind, unless he were a saint, would make such a sacrifice. And Reign was as far from saintly as a man could get.

No, she would deal with the consequences of betraying Reign when they came. For now her only concern was James and seeing him safe again. Still, she wished there was some other way to bring him home. One that didn't involve her husband at all.

The prayer book in the pocket in front of her had a slip of folded paper sticking out of it, she noticed, jarring herself out of her thoughts—which were becoming clearer and clearer as the moments ticked on.

Curiosity got the better of her and she picked up the paper, unfolding it as the church door behind her opened and then closed. Another late-night sinner, perhaps, she thought with a smile.

But her humor was short-lived. Her smile froze as she read the words on the paper. There, in bold script, she read:

Do not dawdle, Mrs. Gavin. James is depending upon you
.

Dread filled her, yanked her to her feet.

The priest. He had specifically pointed out this pew.

Her jaw clenched as she crushed the paper in her fist. They were following her. She'd known it. And the priest was one of them, or at least had been influenced by them. She could kill someone.

“Olivia.”

Her breath caught at that voice. Reign. He would help her. He would hold the false priest while Olivia tore him limb from limb.

“Did you see a man?” she asked in a low voice as she turned to face him. “A young man with reddish hair, dressed as a priest?”

He stared at her, obviously surprised by her predatory expression. “No.”

“He might still be here, then.” She moved her head to the side, trying to direct her hearing throughout the levels of the church. Rats scurried far below. Bats fluttered high above. Was that a tap dripping?

“Do you smell that?” Reign asked.

She held up her hand to silence him. And then she heard it—the faint beating of a human heart.

Olivia bolted out of the pew toward the sound. It was behind the pulpit. The coward was likely cowering there, hoping she'd take the warning and just leave. Reign was behind her as she moved, reaching the very front of the church a fraction of a second behind her.

But it wasn't the young priest behind the pulpit. It was Father Abberley, the elderly priest who had been so kind to her the night before. And he wasn't cowering, he was lying on the floor, his head in a pool of blood.

“D
o you think he'll be all right?” Olivia asked as they entered her suite through the tiny balcony's French doors.

Reign shrugged and straightened his coat. “I hope so. The doctor seemed to think he would be.” A doctor glassy-eyed, though, from dipping into his supply of laudanum or some other equally as potent drug. Personally, Reign would be surprised if the old priest lived to see morning, which was fast approaching.

“Sometimes doctors lie.” She yanked the doors closed. Olivia wasn't stupid. “Maybe he was lying. There was a lot of blood.”

She felt responsible. That was the reason for all this fussing over the priest. “He took a cosh to the head, Liv. Those always bleed like a bastard.” He didn't add that the wound was bad. In his own violent past he had seen many such wounds and there was no doubt in his mind that whoever attacked the priest, didn't care if the old man lived or not. In fact, Reign suspected the old man had been meant
to die—a fact that made him more than a little uneasy.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” As distraught as she was—or appeared to be—he was more concerned about why the old man had been attacked—and Olivia's part in it. She had recognized the priest, called him by name. Thank God, I'd followed her, otherwise she probably would have taken the old man to the hospital herself, and wouldn't that have been an amazing thing to see—a woman carrying a full-grown man like a child in her arms.

She turned to him. “That was you following me, wasn't it? You were the man on horseback.”

He nodded. No point in denying it, and he wasn't about to apologize for it. He would have been an idiot not to follow her. His only thought was that he should have been better at it. Olivia was up to something—something that required his participation—and he hadn't survived six centuries by not knowing all he could about his enemies.

Olivia was his enemy whether he liked it or not. Until she was back in his bed and his life—until she trusted him and proved that he could trust her—he wouldn't treat her as anything else. For all he knew she might be planning to kill him, and this time she might be luckier than she had been thirty years ago.

He didn't blame her for despising him—hell, he deserved it. But he wasn't going to make it easy
for her to have her revenge. As for his decision to help her…well, that was complicated. He owed her some kind of penance, and that's what he'd tell himself whenever he wondered why he had agreed. It was much more palatable than thinking she had some sway over him.

He was not going to think about that. “How could the kidnappers track you to St. Martin's?”

“I went there last night,” she informed him, long fingers massaging her brow as she paced a small section of carpet. “That's how I knew Father Abberley. When I went there tonight there was another priest. I don't think he was really a priest at all.”

“Why not?”

She stopped pacing. “He told me where to sit. I found this in a prayer book.”

Reign took the crumpled, bloodstained paper she offered him and read it. If he had any doubts about the severity of her situation, they were gone now. He gave the note back to her, his jaw tight. “We'll find him, Liv.”

A mixture of confusion, relief and consternation crossed her face. “Why are you helping me?”

After all the effort she'd put into convincing him, he was surprised she asked. “Would you rather I didn't?” She seemed angry that he was offering his help, even though she had come asking for it.

“I just want to know why you would help a woman who tried to kill you.”

“You're my wife. I will always be there for you.” To him that revealed more than he wanted, but there was only confusion in her gaze.

She looked away then. Guilty conscience, perhaps? Playing to her emotions was definitely the way to find out. Seducing her, body and mind, would lower her defenses, weaken her resolve. All he had to do was make her care for him again—make her think he still loved her, that he regretted all that had happened. Regret wouldn't be hard—he had an abundance of that, but love? No, he wouldn't be fool enough to allow that to happen again. Loving Olivia made him do irrational things, inane things, and that would be playing right into her hands.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“Hmm, that's twice now that you've thanked me this evening. Satan must be putting on his ice skates. Oh, was that a smile?”

The curve of her lips was gone as soon as it had come, but the sparkle in her eyes remained. At that moment Reign realized that he didn't want to manipulate her so much as he wanted to genuinely protect her. “Do not let it go to your head.”

Somehow, he managed a wry grin. “I have to say, this is not how I thought we'd spend our thirtieth anniversary.”

“We've been apart longer than we were ever together.” She said it as though the thought had just occurred to her.

His smile faded, as did any good humor he might have felt. “Sad, don't you think?”

She nodded. “Yes.” He watched in horror as tears filled her eyes, but they weren't for him, or even for them. “He's not even twenty, Reign. James is just a boy and these people have him…” The helplessness in her expression wounded him more than the blade she had shoved into his chest all those years ago.

Reign went to her, hesitating but a moment before he put his arms around her. She might think him a fool. She might hate him and be using him for her own means, but her tears were real.

He had only seen her cry once before and that was when he…betrayed her. He had thought the world was going to end with her tears. Olivia wasn't a woman who cried easily, especially not for herself. Her tears were reserved for moments when she honestly felt helpless and alone.

He could use this to his advantage. The thought came to him from the cold, untrusting part of his mind determined to have the upper hand. If he pressed now, could he wheedle the truth from her? Could he take her to bed, press her into the mattress and feel her body wrapped around his once more? She had haunted his dreams for years and he fantasized about her coming back to him. Sometimes she crawled, begging for forgiveness. Other times he found her and seduced her into coming home. And sometimes, he simply imagined what it
would have been like had she never left. The one thing that always stayed the same in the fantasy was that she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

She let him hold her for a few minutes as she wiped the dampness from her eyes. The tears didn't even make it down to her cheeks before she ruthlessly pushed and blinked them away. Then she pushed Reign away as well—not forcefully, but it was obvious that she did not want his comfort.

Or perhaps she wanted it too much. It hardly mattered. There would be no pressing her into the mattress this night, and dawn would soon be upon them.

“They knew I'd go to the church. They're watching me,” Olivia remarked as she put some distance between them. “Without my knowing. How is that possible?”

Reign remained silent. She didn't need him to answer. It was possible because like most preternatural creatures, Olivia fancied herself superior to all others. It wasn't that she held no regard for human life, but rather she thought she was above human intelligence. She was now learning how wrong that assumption was.

“If they're watching you it means they are not entirely certain you will do what they ask.” It also meant that they knew about him but not, perhaps, what he was. Still he knew to be on guard. He wiped at a spot of dried blood on the
top of his hand. It was from the priest. It didn't want to budge, a fact that annoyed him to no end. Finally he licked it. “We can use that to our advantage.”

“How?” She scowled at him—at what he was doing. “How can I save James if they're watching my every move?”

Reign wiped the back of his hand on his trousers. It was a wonder he wasn't covered in the priest's blood, there had been so much of it. “Where there is an inability to predict the enemy there is fear. They're afraid of you, Olivia.”

She made a scoffing noise. “They know I'll do whatever they want to free James.”

“They know you'll do
anything
to free James. That's what scares them.” It should scare him too, but he stopped caring for his own safety a long time ago. About thirty years ago, to be exact.

She nodded warily, not believing him—and he knew there would be no convincing her. Olivia would rather slit her own throat than admit that he might know something she didn't.

“It will be dawn soon,” she reminded him needlessly. “You should go.”

Reign laughed—a short, clipped bark. “Don't pretend concern for my person, Liv. Just tell me to get out.”

A ghost of a smile danced on her wide lips. She looked sad and tired, and worst of all, resigned. “Get out.”

“That's my girl.” He continued to grin even as her smile faded. She didn't argue, however. She probably knew she couldn't change how he thought of her. “I will come for you tomorrow evening. We can hunt together.” It was more than an excuse to be with her, it was a way to keep an eye on her.

“Hunt?” One dark eyebrow rose haughtily. “Are humans prey now?”

He backed toward the door of the room, not quite prepared to turn his back on her just yet. “They always have been, Darling. Always will be. That's why I always feed from strangers.”

Her expression darkened. “Not always.”

He might have smiled at the storm brewing in her gaze, were he not so conscious of the pain behind it. He did love baiting her. “There's an exception to every rule.”

“Is that what I was?” Her hands fisted on her hips, the universal stance for the indignant female. “An exception to your rule?”

“You are my wife,” he remarked, finally allowing himself that smile as he opened the door. “Rules don't apply.”

 

Glib-tongued, deceitful, smirking bastard
.

One thing Olivia had never liked about Reign—and unfortunately it had been just about the
only
thing she never liked about him—was the way he liked to pick at her, goad her until her temper
reared its head. He called it teasing. She called it torment, but that didn't stop him. He seemed to like getting under her skin, and thirty years and an assassination attempt hadn't changed that.

He only did it to people he liked. People he loved. That he continued to do it to her was even more aggravating than the behavior itself. Why could he not hate her? It had been easy for her to hate him. Apparently not easy enough, though, given that she felt more than a little guilt for leading him to whatever peril awaited him in Scotland.

Reign would survive. He always did. If she, a vampiress in the throes of fury, couldn't harm him, what chance did a few humans have? James, on the other hand, wasn't nearly as robust. James and his safety were all that mattered—more than Olivia's own life and more than Reign's. The two of them had both lived full lives. Hell, Reign had easily lived a dozen. James deserved the chance to live one. Olivia had tried her best to give him the best chance of that full life. If it hadn't been for her inability to travel during the day, Rosemary never would have died, and James wouldn't be held in exchange for the man responsible for Olivia's condition.

Was it unfair of her to blame Reign for so much? Probably. Did owning that ease any of her anger? Not one bit.

It had been twenty minutes since his departure and dawn was still safely tucked on the other side
of the horizon. She had time to go out and feed—“hunt” as Reign liked to call it. She added
heartless
to the list of her husband's attributes.

Still, it was difficult to excuse her own actions as anything but hunting. She left her room and the hotel with the utmost speed and stealth, careful not to be detected. It would raise brows, her going out at such an hour, looking as she did, with her hair mussed and bloodstains on her pelisse. No one would care about her appearance where she was going. Or rather, when she found the person she was looking for, he wouldn't care.

The club on St. James's Street was less than a mile from Claridge's. Hiking her skirts, Olivia scampered over the tops of buildings and down dark side streets to get there in a matter of minutes. Reign was right about flying, it was too risky, and sometimes running was easier.

She was perched on the roof of the club—she didn't know if it was White's or Boodle's or some other bastion of manly pursuits—when three drunken young men staggered outside. Two of them climbed into a waiting carriage. The other continued around the building, obviously continuing onward to another haunt.

As quietly as a cat, she dropped to the shadows behind the club and waited. A few moments later the young man staggered into her line of sight. He might have been four and twenty, and had dark hair and a rugged face that would be handsome
once he reached full manhood. She could overlook that. It was the attitude that drew her in. He had that same kind of presence that made a person notice; a silent strength that pulled her closer. He was confident, perhaps even arrogant, this boy. Yes, he'd do.

He looked up as she came close, his eyes—they were light green—widening at the sight of her. This was St. James's after all, and women weren't terribly welcome on this historically male street.

“Are you lost, madam?” he asked. Oh, yes, he'd do. A nice low voice—not as gravelly as she liked, but delicious all the same.

“No,” she replied, sliding her hand up his arm. She could feel the solid muscle beneath the dark fabric of his coat. “I've found what I was looking for.”

It wasn't right, her stalking him this way, toying with him. But she wasn't thinking as a person at this moment. She was thinking with her hunger and her anger and her lust. She was hunting with all the shame that overtook her whenever she went looking for a man who suited her specifications.