Blood Curse (18 page)

It changed
everything
.

Yes, he had rescued her from those men—though she had only his word for it they were from the Royal Society and wanted to dissect her to study her power. Yes, he had flown away tonight rather than hurt her, but he had wanted to bite her. His fangs had actually cut her flesh.

Fighting his hunger for her blood had been a tremendous struggle for him. How vividly she’d seen it. It was part of his nature and it was something he could not control. That was something she understood. She knew what it was like to have a power you could not stop, no matter how hard you tried. What if he gave in next time?

Ravenhunt would kill her.

The key.
She had to find it. Hiking up the trailing ends of the robe, she ran out of the attic room and raced down the stairs.

Panting, she reached his room. His clothes had been just tossed on the bed, and she slid her hands through them to find the key. His shirt and trousers carried his scent—sandalwood, and a spicy smell that was unique to his skin. Smelling it made her throat tighten. So did remembering his beautiful, almost-naked body standing at the foot of the bed. She thought of his dark eyes, bright with desire, as he watched her, admiring the way he’d tied her up.

Tears burned in her eyes. Why? Why should her silly eyes be filling with tears? She hadn’t lost him; she’d never actually had him in the first place. He wasn’t mortal, and he didn’t care about her.

Her fingers brushed cold metal. With a soft cry of triumph, she grabbed the key—

She couldn’t escape anywhere while wearing nothing but a velvet robe. Key in hand, she took two steps toward the door to go to her own room, when inspiration struck. His lush skin-smell was still in her head. His clothes were imbued with it.

His
clothes
.

Female clothes were hopeless—long, tangling skirts, heavy fabric, corsets. No one could escape anywhere dressed like that.

She would wear his clothes. It meant drenching herself in his smell, and she wanted so much to forget him, but she had no choice.

Cool air swirled around Ophelia as she stepped out onto the front step. It was madness, but she couldn’t just run away and leave his door unlocked. She turned the key in the massive iron lock, hearing it engage with a
clank
.

For a moment, she stood there, taking deep breaths. Ravenhunt’s house was on the outskirts of Mayfair. The entire world seemed to be in the street. Carriages were packed in the street and could barely move. Many people filled the sidewalk after disembarking from their carriages. There was a party going on just two houses from Ravenhunt’s, which meant many people were alighting from their vehicles.

Surely she was safe. Surely no one from the Royal Society would attack in front of all these people.

She had weapons, too. In a drawer in his bedchamber she’d found a box containing two pistols, along with shot and powder. Two loaded pistols weighed down the pockets of the great coat she had found, swinging and hitting her legs as she moved.

Though she prayed she didn’t have to use them. She didn’t want to have to hurt anyone, even villains who wanted to hurt her. She’d done enough killing and hurting through her life.

She was not just escaping Ravenhunt; she was going to escape from her life. She would go away, somewhere far away, where she could hide from other people.

It would mean she would be a prisoner, but at least she would be her own prisoner, instead of being kept hidden and locked up by someone else.

She was going to take charge of her own life. Finally.

Ophelia began to walk down the steps, then stopped. How could she blend into this crowd of people? She would have to walk along the sidewalk with them. She would bump against them, be jostled by them, perhaps she would have to grasp someone to steady herself.

She couldn’t risk hurting anyone, but she had to get away. There was no way now to get to the mews without going back through the house.

At the bottom of the steps, Ophelia held her breath, made her body as slender as possible, and tried to slip between people. But from behind, something struck her and she jerked around in blind panic. A desperate apology sat on her lips—but how could she say sorry for killing someone, not now, but hours or days from now? Whoever had hit her would sicken and die—

It was a walking stick. A gentleman’s stick had hit the back of her leg. Something utterly safe, but it meant the gentleman, who walked with his wife, arms linked, was nearing her.

She stumbled back, clearing the path, as the elderly couple passed her. Then she jumped to the side as a group of foxed young men staggered together toward the party.

“Out of the way,” one of them shouted at her, a short, portly buck. His gaze went over her, taking in her borrowed breeches, shirt, and oversized great coat. “You are no lad. That’s a plump derriere squeezed into those breeches.” His leering and sneering tone made all the others laugh.

Another of the group, skinny with spotty pimples on his cheeks, barked, “She’s a useless, grubby urchin, that’s what she is. She’s blocking the sidewalk.”

She sensed something move beside her. It was the first gentleman, and he’d lifted his hand to grab her.

“Don’t,” she gasped. “Dear God, I could kill you.” She took a quick step to the street, and tripped in Ravenhunt’s too large boots. She fell toward the third of the young, drunk men.

His hand struck her shoulder, but only for a brief second, because he gave her a hard shove out of the way. She fell to her knees, wincing as they struck the ground. “Here,” the man shouted. “Mind your manners with your betters. You don’t walk into gentlemen, you little piece of rubbish.” His hand lifted, as if preparing to deliver a slap.

“Do not touch me,” she cried. She scrambled to her feet and rushed toward the busy street, stumbling off the sidewalk. Horses whinnied, a coachman shouted vile curses at her, and she turned to see hooves clawing at the air above her head. The metal shoes flashed, the horses seemed to be screaming in her ears, her legs felt caught in treacle.

She forced her numb limbs to work and jumped out of the way.

Hard cobblestones struck her hip and her shoulder. She landed on her side, and seemed to bounce off the cold, hard street. Pain screamed through her body, but dazedly, Ophelia got to her feet.

Then she ran like a rabbit, weaving around horses and carriages. Men shouted at her, a riding whip struck her shoulder, which made her cry out. At least the thick fabric of Ravenhunt’s coat absorbed the crack of the lash.

Men chased her. Men in dark coats, some with tall, black beaver hats, who were well dressed, and some who wore rough clothes and gray wool caps.

She ran. She ran in between the carriages, trying to keep close to the vehicles so she could hide, yet avoid hooves, wheels, and whips. Somehow she reached the end of the street without being trampled. She stumbled through the intersection. Sound was everywhere, filling her head with raucous confusion. Her lungs burned with exertion.

She raced across the road to the opposite sidewalk. Sucking in breaths, she stopped against a wrought-iron fence at the front of a house. Her insides felt as if they would heave up. But she didn’t want to stop long. Holding the fence, she dragged herself onward, until she reached a narrow gap between two rows of houses—a small, dark alley. She threw herself into the stinking space, and plastered her back against the damp brick wall.

“What in Hades do you think you’re doing?”

Deep and soft, the masculine voice came out of the shadows. She almost jumped out of her loose boots.

Ravenhunt. He was standing beside her in the shadows, where there had been nothing before. He gripped her wrist. She fought to get free, even as the pain began where his fingertips pressed hard into her flesh.

“Let me go. I’m not going to die as your dinner—”

“You aren’t going to be my dinner.” He released her wrist, but he moved so his body was in front of hers, mere inches away. His large hands braced against the brick on either side of her head. Rough brick bit into her back. He was naked; she couldn’t see him because he loomed over her, but she knew he must not have a stitch of clothing on. His muscular neck was bare. Faint light gleamed on the naked expanse of his wide, straight shoulders and his broad chest. His body stood in front of her like a wall. “I’ve fed on blood and I’ve gained control of my hunger, Ophelia.”

“None of that reassures me in any way,” she protested. “You are telling me you went out and killed someone and drank their blood.” She couldn’t stop staring at his teeth. They looked normal now. No fangs. They must disappear when he was not feeding. When they came out, it must mean he was ready to bite. She watched them nervously.

His lips cranked down in a frown. “I did not kill anyone. Now, listen to me. There are a dozen armed men coming after you. I am the only hope you have—”

“Hope for what?” she threw at him. “Hope that I survive a little longer, until you can no longer resist and you plunge your fangs into my neck? Or do you mean, hope to survive until you take my power so you can then kill me?”

“Love, this is not the place to argue.”

“It will have to do. I am not returning to your house. And I am
not
your ‘love’.”

He stiffened and twisted to look at the mouth of the narrow alley, while his arms and body kept her trapped. “They’re coming, damn it. I can smell them.”

“We have to run,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.

“It’s too damned late—”

A sharp, strange sound filled the air—the sound of something snapping. Ravenhunt howled and his body fell forward, pressing her against the wall. She tried to push him back, but she couldn’t move him. Then he slid down, his hands pulling along her arms.

Good heavens, he was collapsing. She froze, because pain was shooting through her arms where he touched her. She couldn’t help him. She could barely move. He fell heavily to the ground, landing on his side.

Oh God. A long shaft stuck out of his back. It was an arrow of some kind. Despite the sheer agony in her body, Ophelia dropped to his side. “Ravenhunt!” She felt along his strong back. Her fingers slipped in his blood.

“Should I pull it out?” she whispered. God, could she? “I don’t know what to do. Will I hurt you more if I try to pull it out?”

“No, love.” His eyes were black as pitch. His hand clutched hers, but then the pain came and he had to let her go. “Pull it out. Then I can heal.”

She gripped it and tugged, hoping to ease it out. But it wouldn’t go. He gave a cry of pain.

“I can’t do it.”

“You have to.” His voice was harsh. “Pull hard, don’t think about hurting me. Yank as hard as you can and rip it out.”

She pulled, wincing as he fought to smother a roar between his gritted teeth. It should be easy to hurt him—he was a vampire, and he had wanted to bite her. But it was not easy. She could not stand to inflict pain on him.

Then, with a horrible sucking sensation, the arrow came out.

Hands gripped her shoulders and jerked her backward. She was dragged along the cobbles in the alley. She could see legs all around her, male legs with boots.

She struggled—

A cloth was clamped over her face, and Ophelia breathed the same sweet, sickly scent she had when Ravenhunt had kidnapped her. Wildly, she struck out, trying to fight, but whoever gripped her face wasn’t afraid of her.

Her arms flailed weakly.

She saw Ravenhunt jerk to his feet. But a man in a black cloak stepped in front of her, lifted a crossbow. The arrow flew. It slammed into Ravenhunt’s chest and he fell back.

No! She screamed it in her head, for she could make no sound.

Was he destroyed? Could even a vampire endure such a thing? Desperately, she reached out toward him, but she was too dizzy and weak to move. He had been right, right about everything, and now she was going to die.

She couldn’t let him be destroyed for her—

She tried to fight free of her captors. Somehow she got to her feet, but then the brick walls whirled around her and her legs seemed to disappear beneath her.

Ophelia blacked out.

R
avenhunt!

Ophelia opened her eyes in a panic. She remembered everything. The horrifying
twang
of the crossbow’s string, the way his body had jerked as the arrow slammed into his broad, bare back . . . the look of agony in his dark eyes as he’d collapsed on the ground.

Dear heaven, she couldn’t see. Even with her eyes wide open, she stared into unfathomable blackness.

Fabric scratched her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. Something pressed against her eyes and the back of her head.

She was blindfolded.

Ophelia felt herself move through the air—she wasn’t flying, someone carried her in strong arms, but not with any care. Her legs struck something; her shoulder bumped an unyielding surface that could be a wall. Ropes bound her arms to her body and secured her wrists—too tightly. She couldn’t move her legs. Far too slowly, her senses came back. Pungent mustiness of old, damp wool flooded her nose and made her gag. It was a scent wafting up from just below her nose, so she knew they had bundled her in a blanket.

Panic made her heart thunder, her breaths sounded like hissing steam. If she could calm down, she might be able to
hear
. She fought to focus.

Whoever carried her breathed heavily, and his breath stank of beer and onions. Scraping sounds came to her ears, which she guessed were shuffling footsteps on a hard floor. There were other footsteps, too, crisper ones, which meant boots striking the ground in a refined gait.

Voices reached her ears, indistinct, as if through a thick, muffling fog.

“Bring her in here,” growled one voice—a deep and harsh male voice.