Silken Rapture: Princes of the Underground, Book 2 (8 page)

“The plague?”

Jessie nodded earnestly. “The Great Plague of 1665. We had avoided it by evacuating London. Many of the brightest scholars of the age who either lived in London or were visiting there from various countries fled first to Oxford. We feared the plague would follow us there, and it did. My master—Aubrey Cane—became the leader of a select group of men, all of them made outcasts by the plague, all of them brilliant in their own right. The group became known as the Literati. We traveled from Oxford to the north, and eventually to Scotland. By a series of circumstances, Delraven befriended Cane and some of the others. We took refuge at Delraven’s estate. The plague was present in the country as well, though, and my master began to show signs of having contracted the illness. So did several other members of the Literati. By that time, Cane understood what Delraven was, and he begged him to make him immortal—to save him from death and a life wasted. Eventually, Delraven agreed, and it is that core group that survives today, each loyal to Lord Delraven and his fight against Morshiel and his band of Scourge revenants—the walking dead. We have had new members join us over the years—brilliant scholars who have been diagnosed with mortal illness. Aubrey occasionally approaches them, and gives them the choice of joining our small army, if they choose it. The Literati have lost many of their number to Morshiel and the Scourge over the years. We shrink in number, while their population grows, so we must fight harder and smarter than ever.”

“Are you saying that Lord Delraven was the one to make all the Literati into…vampires?”

“We are more than vampires, Miss. That is a term that comes from folklore. We crave vitessence and need it to survive.”

“And vitessence is in the blood,” Isabel said slowly, recalling her earlier conversation with Margaret.

“It can be found in bodily fluids most associated with human emotion—sweat, tears—” Jessie flushed again when he noticed her narrowed eyelids. “You spoke of the life force earlier, Miss. Humans are energy beings. We need that energy to survive.”

“And this energy can be found in its most concentrated form in the blood?” Isabel murmured as understanding dawned. Somehow it made intuitive sense to her.

Jessie nodded. “We do not take enough to harm the mortal, Miss. We are not like Morshiel and his revenants. They take pleasure from draining a human’s vitessence until death. They drink the very soul. Such taking is considered taboo by us. Lord Delraven has taught us to control our hunger.”

Isabel straightened, staring at Delraven’s painted crest, her curiosity for the leader of such a strange, powerful group of creatures mounting by the second. “Delraven said Morshiel was his clone. How did the two come into existence, Jessie?”

“I don’t know, Miss. None of us knows, save perhaps Delraven himself, and if he does know, he doesn’t share that secret with us. Perhaps he does with Aubrey Cane. They are as close as brothers. We only know how much Delraven strives to control Morshiel, and we share in his mission. Morshiel is cruel beyond belief. He murders Londoners regularly, and some—a small percentage of his victims—turn Scourge and strengthen Morshiel’s army. If you knew a tiny fraction of Morshiel’s crimes over the centuries, you would also have sympathy for Lord Delraven’s cause.”

“Are you saying I would consider Delraven a hero?” she asked with a small smile.

“The greatest,” Jessie said without hesitation, her sarcasm going unnoticed. “He is a fierce fighter. He was our maker, and is the strongest of all the Literati. None can best Lord Delraven, save Morshiel—and that is only half the time, and because fate has made the balance between good and evil such a close thing.”

Well that was an odd thing to say
, Isabel thought as she studied Jessie’s earnest expression. It’d sounded like someone quoting from scripture or something.

“And how did Delraven acquire his title?” she mused, striving to strike a note between casual interest and dawning respect—an attitude to which she sensed Jessie would respond.

“He has done service to several members of the royal family throughout the centuries,” Jessie said proudly. “Of course, each new monarch doesn’t realize he’s the same man, believing instead he is another Delraven ancestor. Once, Lord Delraven saved an Italian princess from kidnap by agents of the Spanish crown. His service in that matter was what earned him his title. The Spaniards thought an alliance between an English prince and an Italian princess, Elysse de Gennere, might prove a threat to the Spaniards.”

“What happened?”

“Lord Delraven rescued Elysse from her captors, who had actually come under the influence of Morshiel. It had become a personal matter for Delraven.”

“Hmmm, very romantic. And did the princess end up marrying the English prince?” Isabel asked, her smile turning wistful. “Or did she instead fall in love with the hero who had saved her from her kidnappers?”

“She did—both,” Jessie glanced away, a troubled expression on his youthful-seeming countenance. “There is little doubt she was in love with Lord Delraven, but Elysse de Gennere did her duty and married the crowned prince. She killed herself soon after the royal marriage.”

Isabel’s small smile faded. It’d been as if they were discussing a charming fairytale until she fully took in Jessie’s crestfallen expression. It wasn’t a story. Jessie clearly was remembering the untimely death of someone he had known, admired…liked.

You don’t know much of anything. Not about his world, you don’t.

Isabel blinked, recalling Margaret Turrow’s words. Maybe she had a point.

She edged toward the corridor with the Delraven crest above it, drawn to it for some reason. She started back in surprise when Jessie moved with preternatural speed, blocking her path.

“Ever played sports, Jessie? Basketball, maybe? You’d be a natural for track,” she said, her wry tone disguising her shock at the evidence of this paranormal ability. Jessie didn’t appear interested in her banter, however.

“I’m sorry. Lord Delraven’s quarters are off limits.”

“Of course,” she said lightly, waving to the corridor to the left of them. “What wonders shall we witness next in Sanctuary, Jessie? Flying pixies? Talking beasts, perhaps?”

Jessie’s small smile disappeared and he twisted around. His nostrils flared. Isabel had the distinct impression he was seeing something besides the shadows cast from the flickering torches that lined the hall. She knew she was right a moment later when she caught the dim glimmer of a human aura. A woman’s figure resolved out of the darkness. The female who approached them wore only a satin robe and thin slippers. She was obviously naked beneath the thin fabric. She ran a cool, hard look over Isabel.

“Don’t waste your time. He’s in a mood. Doesn’t want female company, he was clear about that.”

“He must be a great fool, then.”

Isabel let out a small squeak of shock at the deep, seductive male voice that came from just behind her right shoulder. Aubrey Cane’s gray eyes were directly on her when she turned, although he had obviously been responding to the woman in the skimpy robe. He smiled. Isabel gave a sigh of relief when she saw his teeth were straight and even, the incisors she’d witnessed earlier nowhere in evidence.

His smile widened, as though he’d perfectly read her thoughts.

“My Lord,” Jessie said, clearly almost as surprised as Isabel had been by Aubrey’s unexpected presence. “I had not realized…that is…I thought you were organizing the patrols for this evening in the detail room.”

“I was. Tunnel patrols are off,” Aubrey said smoothly. “I was wondering, Jessie, if you might escort this lovely young woman to the Angelus Salon.”

“Of course.”

Isabel started to accompany Jessie, but Aubrey halted her with an upraised hand.

“Not you,” he said softly to Isabel. He turned his head, finally removing his stare from Isabel’s face. She was relieved. His eyes—his nearness—disturbed her.

“I will meet you in the Angelus Salon in a moment…Margarite, isn’t it?”

The auburn-haired woman nodded, her gaze running over Aubrey with a cool gaze that turned warm. She apparently liked what she saw.

“We will settle our business then,” Aubrey told Margarite.

The woman’s eyes widened slightly, as though Aubrey had just given her a secret, intimate caress, although Isabel could clearly see they were many feet apart. Margarite’s lips curved and she thrust her breasts against thin fabric, displaying the areolas of her nipples to full advantage. Aubrey Cane didn’t glance downward. His smile seemed to indicate appreciation of Margarite’s gesture, nonetheless.

He relatched his gaze upon Isabel when Jessie led Margarite away.

“My name is Aubrey Cane. Are you enjoying your stay at Sanctuary, Isabel?”

“How do you know my name?”

He laughed. Isabel almost felt as though she could reach out and touch his charm, it was so thick and tangible. Even so, Aubrey Cane made her wary. Perhaps her skittishness was associated with the fact that she’d watched him making love earlier, and that he’d known of her voyeurism.

“All the Literati know your name, Isabel. You are our resident celebrity.”

“I’m your resident prisoner,” she corrected acerbically. Irritation swelled in her when she recognized the truth of her statement, making her bold. “Which reminds me, I need to go find my jailer. I’m pretty much ready to wake up from this nightmare, and they say the best way to do that is just to confront the monster head on, if you know what I mean. Have a good evening, Mr. Cane.” She nodded once briskly and headed down the corridor with the crest above it.

Aubrey was suddenly in front of her, blocking her path. She’d expected it, but a chill went through her, nonetheless. She’d never seen him move. It was as if he’d just coalesced in the air in front of her.

He took a step toward her and looked down at her with a heavy lidded stare. She swallowed with effort and forced herself to stand her ground.

He looked hungry.

“Do you plan on biting me?” she asked, her fear barely covered by her paper-thin act of bravado.

“I wish,” he replied quietly. His light eyes roved over her face. “Or perhaps you do.”

“Don’t kid yourself.”

He laughed again, his amusement striking her as too rich to be feigned.

“Let me pass. I
will
speak to Lord Delraven.”

Aubrey’s smile faded as he studied her. “Unfortunately, Blaise has left specific instructions that you are the last person he wants to see.”

“And you follow his every command, is that it? Hail Lord Delraven, the King of the Vampires. I suppose when he orders you to clean his toilet, you ask him if he’d like it done with a sponge or your tongue,” she said irritably.

“I’m not his servant. I happen to be his closest friend.”

“Then he’ll understand when you tell him what happened.”

He smiled wolfishly and stepped even nearer to her.

“And what
did
happen, Isabel? Please tell me, because I’m spinning from your nearness and don’t know up from down at the moment.”

She rolled her eyes, even though she had to admit, he truly did look a little like he’d been hit over the head. She felt her power over him in that moment as clearly as she saw his face and the shadowed corridor.

“It was all a misunderstanding, a miscommunication between you and Jessie,” she said smoothly. “Both of you thought I was being escorted by the other, and I slipped away in order to escape.”

“Let me touch you, and I will let you pass,” he whispered.

She blinked, sure for a moment she’d misunderstood his request, he’d made it with such restrained intensity.

“Touch me?” she asked, bewildered. “Why? Where?”

He didn’t seem capable of speech. His nostrils flared as though he was breathing her…absorbing her, even though they weren’t touching anywhere. Yet. He lifted his hand and held it an inch over her shoulder.

“If you promise to let me go?” she clarified suspiciously. She could not shake the feeling she was dreaming—Alice dropped down the rabbit hole. These men were so strange, yet so compelling.

“I will let you pass, but you will never escape Sanctuary,” he said.

“Just let me go,” she said through clenched teeth.

He nodded, his gaze fixed on his hand above her shoulder.

“Give me permission,” he said roughly.

“Yes. All right.”

She felt the pressure of his hand. Suddenly he was hissing and stepping back, a snarl marring his handsome features.

“What the—?”

“I grant you your wish,” he grated out, his white teeth clenched. “
Go
.”

“But what happened to your hand?” she asked, bewildered.

He glanced down at his reddened palm. “It is nothing. It is pain. I will overcome it.”

Isabel glanced back warily over her shoulder as she passed him in the opposite direction of Delraven’s suite. A wild desire to escape had overcome her in those tense moments, a frantic need. She had no idea what had just happened, had no idea why touching her had made him recoil. Aubrey looked up from his palm. She felt his stare on her as she began to run. It frightened her to consider it too closely, but there was a certainty inside her that what he’d said was true.

She’d
never
just walk out of this fortress on her own.

She raced down gloomy hallways and up stairs, opening doors that led to luxurious salons and bedrooms, and once, a large laboratory, all of them empty. An hour and a half later, she’d still found no exit and encountered no one to either help or hinder her. It was almost as if the residents of Sanctuary followed her movements and took care not to be seen. She felt like a rat being observed in a maze. Fear and desperation built in her until it reached a crescendo.

She did her best to retrace her steps, feeling a grim sense of satisfaction course through her when she once again saw the corridor with the Delraven crest. Aubrey was long gone, probably paying that woman—Margarite—in equal parts money and pleasure.

She must be becoming as mad as this waking dream to be running
toward
an enigma like Blaise Sevliss, Lord Delraven. She reminded herself that like Aubrey, Titurino, Jessie and the group of men called the Literati, Delraven was a paranormal creature…something not human. But Delraven was different somehow, more than that…