A Dark Heart (9 page)

"I think he already knows," she said flatly, crossing her arms.
“That excuse won’t work anymore.”

Rowan was silent for a long time, jaw clenched tight. "Perhaps he does,
the canny bastard," he said at last. "I knew something was different
the moment he decided to stay to dine yesterday. He never stays to dine. If he
does indeed know, he must have as little desire to press the issue as we do.
Besides, he has bigger concerns at the moment. The Council has been disbanded,
Tia."

She gave another shrug. "Should I care? Are you actually going to
start telling me what's happening now? After decades of
protecting
me
from the truth?" She shook her head. "I can't blame you entirely, I
suppose. I never did anything to make you see me as anything other than a
helpless child."

"I never thought you were helpless," he said with exasperation.

She just snorted with disbelief.

He gave a weary sigh. "But you are right in some respects. I don’t
care how old you are, I would protect you from every hurt if I could."

"You can't. You mustn't," she said. "And you haven't
protected me, for all of your trouble. Can’t you see that? You've hurt me more
by keeping these secrets than I've ever been hurt in my life. You and Elijah.
And I hate you both for it."

The color faded from Rowan's face at her words. "Don't say that,
Tia."

"It's true. I think I hate you. And not just for keeping the truth
about Elijah from me. I think I hate you for Bonding me. Making me live this
half-life. Sometimes I think I'd have been better off dead."

Rowan sat down on the edge of her bed, as if he couldn't stand any more.
He looked ... old. Deeply wounded. But she could not regret her words, or deny
how true they were. Nor could she deny how similar they were to the ones Elijah
had once spoken to her after his transformation.

So this was how it felt to want to die.

It was awful.

"I want to be released from our agreement, Rowan," she said
quietly.

He stared at her sharply. "You can't mean that."

"I do. I've been thinking about it for some time. Ages, actually.
When the time comes, I don't wish to renew our Bond."

"Your heart condition will return. You'll
die
."

She nodded. "And I will have lived longer than a hundred years. A
full life."

She’d never seen Rowan look so furious, even when he’d discovered what
she’d done to Elijah last year. He resembled Brightlingsea at that moment, and
it was enough to make her quake inwardly.

"My God, my God, you're serious. All because of this ... this
unending
thing
between you and that broken little boy!” he spat out
venomously. “I should never have pulled him from that damned fire!”

"I loved that broken little boy!" she cried, pushing back her
shock at his angry outburst. "And I'm
in
love with him! Have you
not realized that yet?"

He just stared at her, speechless, his mouth hanging open, as if she’d
managed to punch all of the fury out of him with those few words.

“Oh, lud. You
didn’t
realize, did you?” she breathed, shocked now
for a much different reason. Was he really so blind? “How could you not realize
this?”

Finally, he shook his head and cursed under his breath. "I suppose I
knew. But didn't want to believe it ... Bloody hell, Christiana. What a coil,
what a coil," he murmured.

She sat down next to him, shoulders slumping wearily. "But he
doesn't love me. He'd rather die than accept a crumb from me. Literally. I just
don't understand. I've never understood."

“He is not worth this, Christiana,” he said.

She laughed bitterly. “You must
want
me to hate you, to say
something so bloody
awful
to me.”

“I know what unrequited love feels like,” he said quietly. “I know you
can’t
make
someone love you. That’s not fair to either person.”

“I don’t need you to tell me what I already know. And you needn’t worry
that I’ll throw myself at Elijah. I’m through with him as much as I’m through
with you,” she said coldly, standing up once more and gathering her suitcase
and gloves.

Rowan stood with her, watching her with sad eyes as she walked towards
the door.

“Christiana,” he finally said, before she could escape him. She stopped
but did not turn around, clutching her suitcase so tight her knuckles ached. “I
don't know if I can explain this in a way you can understand, but I must try. You're
infinitely dear to me. My own family … Well, they didn’t
choose
me. My
wife and children hated and feared what I became, what I could offer them. But
with you …” He sighed wearily. “Perhaps you were right and I shouldn’t have
done it. You were only seventeen, and I thought … I desperately
wanted
to think you were capable of making the choice that you made. You’re the daughter
I never had, and the sister I always wanted. Before you came into my life, I
was without hope or purpose. You saved me, as much as I saved you.”

God.

She struggled to fight back the sudden glut of tears welling in her eyes.
She didn't want to cry in front of Rowan.

“What do you expect me to say to that?” she choked out.

“Nothing,” he said, looking a bit helpless.

“I’m not going to stay or change my mind because you suddenly decide to
tell me you care.”

“I know,” he said sadly. “But forgive me one day, will you? I’ll be
waiting.”

She was glad her back was turned so he couldn’t see the tears that finally
fell from her eyes as she walked out of his life. She just wanted to hold on to
her anger towards him, not feel this onslaught of bittersweet tenderness. And
grief. She had lost a brother last night as surely as if he’d died.

He would be waiting a long, long time before she’d even think about
forgiving him.

ELIJAH
couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually felt cold. When he was turned,
he’d stopped being effected by the elements. He could sense the temperature, of
course, and knew when to make the pretense of bundling up in the wintertime, or
removing layers in the cloying heat of summer. But he never truly felt anything.

It was disconcerting to
know
that when snowflakes fell from the sky
and hit his upturned face they were cold and wet, but not to
feel
the
familiar chill in his bones warning him he’d catch his death if he didn’t wear
an overcoat. It had been disconcerting to find himself invincible altogether,
and if he was honest with himself he’d never fully adjusted.

He’d been born without a single defense to his name and raised by the
fists of a ruthless and depraved gangster. He’d certainly been the farthest
thing from invincible since Nick O’Connor had turned him to the trade. He’d
been broken into pieces long before he’d lost his eye and crushed his leg. He
hadn’t known how to be anything else but a crippled gutter whore, even when he
suddenly
was
.

But maybe he had forgotten more than he thought of his old mortal life,
for the chill that now pervaded his bones was shocking. It wasn’t even winter,
either, just a brisk, slightly damp spring night. As a lad, he’d spent
countless nights in the coldest weeks of January in little more than a
threadbare, too-small jacket, curled up in doorways, inured to his misery. Now,
even wrapped in a thick woolen greatcoat on an April night was apparently too
taxing on his delicate bloody constitution.

So much for being invincible.

He shivered – actually
shivered
– and drew his coat’s
collar higher around his chin, as he crouched in the shadow of an old chimney
on a rooftop overlooking Lord Montague’s residence. He’d been waiting all night
for the Gentleman to put in an appearance, and at this point, he doubted the
thief would come at all, since it was nearly three in the morning and edging
too near to dawn. But after his conversation with Brightlingsea, he wasn’t
about to let the little blighter slip through his fingers. He was more
convinced than ever that running the thief to ground was his key to bringing
O’Connor down once and for all.

If he helped the Duke in the process, then so be it. He could always use
that favor.

And he didn’t have much time left, judging from his body’s reaction to
the cool evening air. A frisson of what felt very much like panic –
another thing he’d not felt in years – traveled down his spine. Would he
find his vengeance in time? Was he even ready to die?

He’d thought he was. He’d thought he’d been ready for years.

Elijah tucked his arms around his body and rested his back against the
sooty brick wall behind him, shutting his eyes for a moment. He didn’t even
need them these days to find his prey. One thing that hadn’t failed him yet was
his acute sense of smell. If a human came within fifty feet of him, he’d know.
He supposed it was his body’s last resistance against its inevitable death. It
was trying its best to tempt him into the hunt.

He needed to feed, if only to prolong the inevitable just a little bit longer.
But it just seemed like a lot of bloody effort these days. He’d not had a
single craving since Percy had poked him awake this morning – aside from
seeing Lady Christiana, of course.
That
had been a rude, visceral shock.
Never mind the ever-present thirst for her blood; he had nearly forgotten how
intense
feelings
could get. And his were fairly intense, where she was
concerned.

So beautiful.

And so sad. He wondered sometimes if he was the sole cause of that
diminished light in her eyes. He knew she regretted what she’d done to him, and
that some part of her cared for him. But she lived a life apart from him. He’d
made sure of that. Who knew what made her sad? But it couldn’t be him, not
entirely at least. He didn’t mean
that
much to her, with her perfect
life, her perfect, eternal, unsullied future.

Did he?

Once Ana’s green eyes had been so vibrant, despite her illness. And
they’d shone with hope and love and a thousand other lovely, alien things when
she’d first come back to him as Lady Christiana. That was how he’d known she
was Ana deep in his heart, even when he’d still thought things such as
immortality were still impossibilities.

He refused to admit that the light in her eyes had begun its slow fade precisely
after the night he’d come to her as a vampire. He would never accept that he
had so much power over her, that anyone could care so much for
him
.

Ana had
, a quiet voice inside of him insisted.

He squeezed his eyes shut and huddled closer to the wall, seeking warmth
and escape from his bleak thoughts. Just for a moment, he thought, he’d let
himself remember her, the older, fragile girl with her big green eyes and even
bigger smile, who’d been so lovely to his eight-year-old self it had been
painful. He’d lain in that absurdly big, absurdly soft feather bed at Llewellyn
House, unable to move because of his shattered leg, unable to escape her soft,
roseate scent, her dulcet voice, her gentle hands.

He’d been a prisoner to her kindness, and at first it had been excruciating
and so damn confusing. No one had been kind to him before, not without wanting
something from him in return. He’d lived on tenterhooks that first week, wondering
when she would take whatever it was she wanted and shatter the illusion.

It had been a total shock when he’d finally let himself believe that she
had no ulterior motives. Then he’d been terrified she’d discover what he’d been
and turn from him in disgust, for that was what all respectable people did to
whores like him. But he’d quickly come to realize that even if he told her about
the things he’d done for O’Connor and countless, faceless men in the dark,
she’d not even understand what he was talking about. He’d not known such
innocence could exist. He’d not even known what innocence
was
until Ana.
She’d been nearly a decade older, but he’d felt ancient in comparison.

And eventually, over the course of that strange year they’d spent
together, he’d been lulled by her impossible loveliness. He’d forgotten his
innate mistrust, his fear, his shame, and basked in her friendship. She’d taught
him to read, to smile, to even hope a little. He’d almost felt normal.
Almost
.

Until she’d been ripped from him, taking all the light with her.

He’d never returned to the streets. His life had been good with the
Drexlers, better than a gutter whore like him could have ever imagined, much
less deserved. But he’d never recovered from losing his first friend.

And when he’d learned years later that she’d never died at all, had
lied
to him…

Well, it just confirmed everything he’d always known deep down anyway:
he’d never been very important to her.

Ana had cared,
but not enough
.

When he finally opened his eyes, he was surprised to find the sun had
risen high in the sky, beating down on the side of his face with unrelenting
heat. In fact, his entire body was on fire. The cool spring night had given way
to a warm spring day. And he was curled on one side with his knees drawn to his
chest, wrapped in his greatcoat, his back to the brick wall, like he was that six-year-old
lad again, sleeping in doorways in January.

He sat up slowly, disoriented, and rubbed the grit from the side of his
face that had spent the night plastered to the rooftop. He’d not noticed the
passage of time at all. It had felt like a few minutes at most since he’d shut
his eyes. He squinted against the sun and groaned. It was late morning. He’d
lost at least six hours, maybe more.

And he was thirsty. Damned thirsty.

He patted his pockets and cursed again. He’d left his morphine in his
office at the Yard. Another symptom of his failing wits.

Suddenly, the clockwork
tick-tick-tick
of his wireless tickertext
started going off in his pocket, and he nearly jumped out of his skin. With a
shaking hand, he extracted the brass and copper-plated device and waited until
the small, narrow tickertape had spooled out to the end. He tore it off and
read the message from Matthews through alarmingly unfocused eyes before balling
it up in his fist and sending it to the other side of the rooftop.

Meeting with the Chief at noon today. Where are you?

He honestly wasn’t sure anymore.

He stood up on wobbly legs, as if he’d spent the night before tossing
back tubfulls of gin, and glanced across the alley separating his perch from
Lord Montague’s. If he’d missed the Gentleman because he’d bloody drifted off
like an old woman, he was going to…

Well, he wasn’t sure what he could do to punish himself. His life seemed
about as shite as it could possibly get.

He leapt from the rooftop to the secluded mews below, and about halfway
down the thirty-foot drop, he wondered if he should have attempted it in the
state he was in. Usually leaping from rooftops was nothing to him, but he was
quickly coming to realize he had limits again.

And he was right to worry. When he crashed to earth, his whole body
jangled. He pictured one of those ancient ceramic teapots covered in a thousand
spidery hairline cracks he’d once seen at a museum and suddenly knew how it
felt to be one. And he didn’t even land on his feet. He landed halfway on his
poor, beleaguered, grit-covered cheek, which was now a poor, beleaguered,
blood
-covered
cheek.

And it was not healing
.

He realized that about three blocks later when people he passed on the
street kept giving him strange looks even after he’d done his best to clean up
the mess he’d made of himself.

When he finally arrived at Scotland Yard, the looks grew even more
intense, as if he’d sprouted a third head, but he felt comfortable enough in
his notoriety as the man who’d chopped off the Ripper’s head to return the
looks with his own savage glares. That forestalled any questions until he
reached Matthews, who loitered outside his cramped little basement office,
waiting for him, a worried expression on his bulldog face.

Unfortunately, no amount of daggers in Elijah’s eyes could stop the
constable’s questions.

“What the hell happened to you, gov?” Matthews demanded.

“I was attacked.”
By the ground
, he added silently.

Matthews followed him inside the office and shut the door tightly before
continuing. “You’re a bloody mess. Why aren’t you healing?”

This time, Elijah’s loaded glare seemed to have some effect, for Matthews
swallowed heavily. “You need to have a good hunt, gov. You haven’t in a while.”

“I was going to last night, after I took care of the Gentleman,” he
muttered, only half-lying, as he pulled out the spare shaving kit he kept in
the office and examined his ruined cheek in the mirror. He poked the raw,
bloody patch and winced. It actually hurt.

Matthews’ eyes narrowed. He knew Elijah was not being completely honest.
“Were you, then? What happened? Did the Gentleman get the jump on you? A little
speck of a thief?”

“He didn’t come,” Elijah said, blotting the blood with a handkerchief and
fumbling about his desk for his other kit. Constable Matthews’ blood was
beginning to smell alarmingly delightful to his starved senses. “At least I
don’t think he did.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Matthews demanded.

“I fell asleep,” he gritted out. “Where is my damned kit?”

Matthews pursed his lips with disapproval and shook his head. “You need
to hunt, not chase the bloody dragon.”

“Don’t tell me what I need,” he shot back.

Matthews just continued to stare at him with stubborn defiance, massive
scrap-iron Welding arms crossed over his chest.

Elijah couldn’t stand the scrutiny. Really, what the bloody hell did
Matthews care? “Do you want me to hunt
you
then?” he sneered. “Because
that’s what I’ll do, if I can’t find my kit.”

Matthews just snorted. “I’d like to see you try. The state you’re in, I’d
say my odds are fairly even, mate.”

Suddenly Elijah was an inch from the ugly bruiser’s face, daring him to
try his odds, with no memory of even deciding to move. Something had just
snapped inside of him, his vampiric nature taking over. It was enough to make
Matthew’s bravado fail completely. The constable’s face drained of color, and
he faltered back a step, holding up a hand.

It took Elijah another minute to realize his fangs were out and his eyes
were glowing again, but only because he could taste his own blood on his lips
where the fangs had shredded his mouth during their clumsy descent.

And he seemed to be about one second away from attacking Matthews.

“You’re bloody out of control, Elijah,” Matthews whispered shakily.

He squeezed his eyes shut with regret, tried to make the fangs recede.
But they wouldn’t go. Matthews had taken his kit. He could smell the morphine
hidden on him, and the monster that lived inside of him was thirsty and ripping
for any excuse for a fight.

 “Just give me the kit,” he said wearily. “I’ll hunt later, I
promise.”

Matthews drew the kit out of his waistcoat and passed it over with a
tremor running through his massive iron-plated hand.

“I take it back. You don’t need a hunt,” Matthews murmured as Elijah
retreated to his desk. “You need
her
.”

Elijah froze and slammed the kit on his desktop. Matthews had learned
Lady Christiana was his maker when they’d both helped the Romanovs last year.
Matthews had not mentioned her often, but his opinion on the matter had always
been clear. He thought Elijah a fool for keeping his distance.

“You’re really pressing your luck this morning,” he said, jerking out of
his greatcoat.