The Vampire Dimitri

Naturally that could take weeks. Or months. Or longer. He knew that Woodmore meant to find a way to kill Cezar Moldavi, for until he did so, Narcise would never be safe. But his continued absence was making things even more inconvenient for Dimitri. And the sisters seemed to have confidence that their brother would be in attendance for their weddings, regardless of whatever else he was attending to.

Dimitri hadn’t had a good day’s sleep in weeks, so there was no sense in attempting it today. Perhaps he would respond to the message.

Lord Corvindale,

I should like to invite you to examine a new collection of works that I have recently procured. I am hopeful that one of them might contain the information you seek. Please advise soonest, for I have other interested clients.

G. Reginald.

Gellis Reginald was another antiquarian bookseller that Dimitri had patronized, although not for months since he’d found Wayren’s shop. Perhaps the man had heard that his most influential customer had gone elsewhere and wished to lure him back, or perhaps he truly did have something of interest.

Regardless, it was an opportunity to leave the house.

Dimitri put aside his other papers—contracts and balance sheets, bank drafts and bills that he’d taken a moment to peruse and sign merely in order to get Beckett, his man of business, to stop nagging him—and rang for the carriage.

The day was a normal gloomy one, with thick rolling fog and gray everywhere. Nevertheless, Dimitri needed his cloak. An abnormal wave of bitterness flooded him as he scooped it up and stalked out, leaving a house filled with squeals and giggles behind him.

When they arrived at Reginald’s dingy shop front, Dimitri climbed out and bade Tren to return for him at the public house on the end of the block.

“I don’t expect to be long,” he said. “Two hours at the outside.”

“Miss Woodmore asked that I—”

Dimitri flapped an impatient hand and walked into the shop, letting the door slam behind him. Immediately he was accosted by the smells of age and mold, as well as dust and even mouse dung.

He didn’t want to hear a thing about Miss Woodmore.

Likely she’d asked Mrs. Hunburgh to have one of the servants pick up some package or other for her, and Tren had been given the task. He didn’t care. Soon she would be out of his house, and out of his thoughts.

And, pray God, out of his dreams.

“Reginald,” he called in his peremptory voice when he saw that the shop was empty. “It’s Corvindale.”

Blast it. Why wasn’t the man waiting for him? He’d sent the message, after all.

Dimitri had no interest in examining the old watches and ratty-cornered Bibles and poetry books that the shopkeeper attempted to foist off as valuable antiquities. That was part of the reason he had ceased patronizing the man after a while—his offerings were nigh worthless when one sought words from the ancients, and in their own languages. Too many things were lost in the translation of others, so Dimitri had learned to do his own.

“Reginald!” he called again in a voice that made the glass cases shudder. He sniffed the air, suddenly realizing the faint strain of blood that he’d just noticed was too strong to be something as innocent as a nosebleed.

Dimitri was behind the counter in a moment, pushing through the sagging door that led to the back room of the shop. Once through there, the smell of blood was stronger and richer, causing him to hesitate for a moment to determine the direction of its origin. The room was cluttered in what could have been its normal state, or the scene of an altercation. A single door in the back wall presumably led to the alley behind, and the one window was, thankfully, covered in grime, making the chamber dim and shadowy. On the floor was a half-dried pool of blood.

As he turned, another smell reached his nose. A familiar one that made him frown in shock and confusion.

And then all at once, the back door burst open and three figures vaulted through, into the room.

Dimitri reacted automatically as they lunged toward him, grabbing one by the arm and slinging him into the wall, then turning to meet the others. He ducked and easily sent a second one flying, then swung around to slam a fist into the gut of another. The dull flare of fire in their eyes identified them as makes, relatively weak ones by his estimation.

He reached for a wooden stool, breaking off one of the legs into a jagged stake as he heard a noise behind him. The scent came with it, the familiar one, and it had him whirling just in time to see her stepping from the door at the front of the shop.

Impossible. She was dead.

Something red glittered on her hand and as Dimitri stumbled, his chest tightening and slowing, he saw that she wore ropes of them. Rubies. Dangling from her ears and around her throat and two robin’s-egg-size gems on her fingers. Tiny ones glittered in her dark hair. So many… His body lumbered, limbs clumsy and heavy.

His attackers came behind him, pushing him forward when he would have spun away, shoving him toward her, and just before something black and heavy wafted down over his face and shoulders, he managed to gasp, “Lerina. How?”

Her laughter curled around his ears and into his consciousness as he fought to breathe. He saw the flash of red in her eyes and the gleam of fangs. Weakness deadened his limbs and the heavy cloth tightened around him. The rubies came closer; he could feel them through the fabric. Binding, burning.

And then everything went dark.

12

HELL HATH NO FURY

“I’m sorry, I am, my lady,” said the groom as he opened the door for Maia.

“Is everything all right?” she asked, pausing when she noticed the stricken look on his face. He was more than thirty minutes late picking her up from her fitting at the seamstress’s shop, and Tren had always been on time in the past.

“I wouldn’a been so late but my lordship…well, I but waited for him and he ain’t never come.”

“Well, I am certain he’ll find his own way back to Blackmont Hall,” Maia replied, settling in her seat. After all, as he was fond of reminding her, he was Corvindale. “Or perhaps we should make one more stop at where you were to meet him, in the event he was detained?”

“Oh, my lady, if you would permit the delay, I would do that.”

“Of course,” she replied, thinking mostly of the tongue-lashing poor Tren would get from his master if he weren’t there when Corvindale expected him to be. Even if the earl was late, the fault would lie with his servant.

Maia frowned as Tren closed the door and retracted the unpleasant thought. Despite his impatience with her, Maia had never witnessed the earl being unaccountably rude to his servants. Firm and directive, certainly, but never overbearingly rude.

And then her thoughts wandered to the next logical step: that if they did succeed in meeting up with Corvindale, she would be forced to ride alone in the carriage with him again. Aunt Iliana and Angelica had gone on home earlier, for the latter had had an appointment with a flower-seller and Maia’s fitting had gone on too long, for one of the seams had to be redone.

Maia’s heart stuttered as she imagined him sitting across from her on the seat, filling the space and making it smaller.

Perhaps she ought to have Tren take her back to Blackmont Hall first.

No. Maia wasn’t a coward. She’d face him if she had to.

Nevertheless, her throat was dry as a bone and her belly swirled with nerves as Tren drove them along Picadilly and past Bond. The calls of flower-sellers and metal-workers clashed with the constant rattle of wagons and open carriages over the cobblestones. Dogs barked, children shouted, messengers dashed nimbly along the edge of the streets, weaving in and around shoppers and shopkeepers alike. Nothing ever seemed to slow or to quiet in London, she reflected, trying to keep her mind on something other than the possibility of riding home with the earl. Even the storefronts and houses seemed loud and overbearing, packed together as they were, built up against each other like uneven, brick teeth.

At last, the carriage came to a halt. Maia waited as Tren climbed down and went into a little pub called the Fiery Grate. As she sat there, she noticed the sign for G. Reginald, Antiquarian Books and Curiosities.

It was only a block from the public house, and she wondered…would Corvindale have gone in there? It seemed a place that would interest him.

That little prickling of instinct bothered her along her forearms, and when Tren returned moments later, she opened the carriage door and made the suggestion.

“Indeed, my lady, that is the place I took him first,” the groom told her. “But he gave orders to meet at the Fiery Grate and he isn’t there. No’ne has seen him.”

Maia gathered up her skirts. “Perhaps he’s in the shop and has lost track of time. If you like, I’ll go in and look.”

The poor groom’s face was so relieved Maia smiled. She could imagine his reluctance to enter a shop dressed as plainly as he was, and in an unfamiliar place. Aside of that, she thought there might be items of interest in Mr. Reginald’s place.

Inside she found the place strangely quiet and deserted. It wasn’t all that uncommon to enter a shop and need to wait for the proprietor to come from the back, but the place was so silent that Maia sensed immediately that something was wrong.

“Hello? Mr. Reginald?” she called, leaning on the counter to see if she could peer into the back room. The door was ajar and she smelled something that wafted over the commonplace aromas of dust and age that often accompanied antiques.

Something was amiss. The smell on the air…it boded no well.

Maia started toward the back of the shop, then hesitated. She should ask Tren to come with her. What kind of fool would she be, walking into somewhere alone?

Yet, he’d have to find a place to tie the horses….

“Hello?” she called again, skirting carefully around the counter, looking for something that she might use as a weapon. Settling on a long, heavy cane in one of the display cases, she pulled it out and tiptoed toward the ajar door. Heart pounding in her throat, she raised the cane up in front of her shoulder, and stepped into the back room.

The first thing she noticed was the dark pool on the floor, and immediately attributed the strange scent she’d smelled to it. Blood. Lots of it. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">