Let the Night Begin (14 page)

There was really no point in continuing, was there?

“Fine.” Pivoting on his heel, he headed toward the door.

She followed after him. Christ, would she not give him a moment's peace? “Where are you going?”

“The Bucket of Blood. There's someone there I need to see.” After what she had just said, that was all the information he was going to offer.

“Your victim from the other night?”

He stopped and glanced over his shoulder, his jaw tight at her snide tone. She pressed her fingers to her lips, as though she wished to take the words back.

Would that she could take them back and choke on them.

“Someone else.” It was more than she deserved, but he wasn't going to let her think he was going there to get off when he was trying to find her damn nephew.

She took another step forward, as though she was afraid to approach, but too stubborn to let him see it. “If it's about James, I want to come with you.”

He shrugged. “Do whatever you want. I don't fucking care.” But he did, he silently admitted as
she followed after him. After all he had done to try and win her trust, it hadn't been enough. It would never be enough.

If he thought she had broken his heart when she left him, it was nothing compared to what she was doing to it now.

 

“Reign, please listen.”

He didn't stop, and if he was listening he didn't let on. Even as they exited the attic and climbed onto the roof of the town house, he refused to acknowledge her.

He had told her he didn't care if she came with him and that was the last he had spoken. She chased after him, trying to apologize for her callous outburst, but he refused to hear it.

“You have no right to be angry!” she exclaimed, following him to the edge of the roof. “Why would I trust you after what you did to me?”

He met her gaze with one so cold and remote it chilled her to the marrow. “Because I agreed to help you find James even though I knew you weren't telling me the entire story. Because I'm still here trying to help you even though you lie to me every chance you get.”

When he phrased it like that, it made her sound like such a bitch. It made her feel…wrong. “Why
are
you still here?”

“Because once this is done, you'll leave again and I'll have some peace.” There wasn't one flicker
of emotion in his voice or expression. “Rest assured, darling, I won't spend the
next
thirty years wishing you'd come back.”

It was just as well that she didn't know what to say, because he didn't give her a chance to say anything. He simply vaulted off the roof into the sky.

The man who took his coach everywhere, was flying—and he didn't seem to care if anyone saw him or not.

Hell and damnation.
She really had pissed him off.

No. The realization hit her as she took to the sky after him. He wasn't angry. He was hurt. She hadn't meant to do that. He had started saying those things about James, making her wonder if the boy she thought of as her own son could possibly turn on her like that. Of course, he couldn't, but it made her think about how she had brought Reign to Scotland for the sole purpose of betraying him and it made her sick with shame.

All she wanted was James safe. But now, there was a voice in the back of her head asking, what exactly did James want? How could she doubt her own flesh and blood?

Whatever the answer to that question might be, Olivia didn't have a chance to ponder it further. Reign was descending toward the buildings of Old Town, and if she wasn't careful she might lose him amongst the narrow alleys and have to track him by smell—something she wasn't terribly good at.

They touched ground in the alley behind the Bucket of Blood, the same place where he had made her watch as he fed from a cheap imitation of herself. Made her want to be that woman. A shiver racked her at the seductive memory.

Reign leered at her over one broad shoulder, his face shadowed in the darkness. “Maybe your hunt from the other night will be here.”

She lifted her chin at his obvious attempt to needle her. “Yours as well.”

He didn't blink. “I'm not hungry.”

This was too much. “Reign…” She'd barely said his name before he was on her, carrying her backward until her shoulders hit the rough stone wall. A cough of mortar dust rose up around them from the impact. His mouth captured hers, his lips and tongue assaulting her with dizzying thoroughness. She clung to his shoulders, digging her fingers into the soft wool of his coat. He smelled divine. Tasted heavenly and felt deliciously sinful. Her body instantly reacted to his touch, tightening and warming in all the right places.

And when he pulled away, every inch of her cried out in grief.

“You say you don't trust me,” he rasped. “Your body says something else.”

She opened her mouth, but he stopped her by placing a rough finger over her lips. “One is a lie, Liv. Don't say a word until you figure it out.”

He left her standing there as he turned and
walked away. She hesitated a moment, pulling herself together. God, the effect he had on her. Worse, he knew it.

When she entered the pub, the smells of cigar smoke and ale greeted her. The music was little more than a lone fiddler on a stool, tapping his boot in time to the lively tune he played.

Reign was at the far end of the room, talking to a short, heavily muscled man who stood behind the bar. He was not the same one who had been there the last time they visited. She approached, in time to hear the man speak, “There was a kid in here a week or so ago, lookin' for you.”

“A kid?” Olivia moved to stand beside Reign. She couldn't stop from casting a hopeful glance at him. He stared straight ahead. “Was his name James Burnley?”

The man behind the bar studied her the way one might study a painting or a tree. “You Olivia?”

Her brows shot up. “Yes. Have we met?”

The man shook his head. “Naw. The kid mentioned you too. Said he thought he should get acquainted with the place since his ‘uncle' Reign owned it.” He shot Reign a bored glance. “Thought he was cock of the walk, that one.”

Reign looked grim. “Don't they all. What else was he saying, Mac?”

The barkeep leaned forward over the thick forearms he rested on the polished oak. When he spoke, his voice was low, for their ears only. “He
was talkin' loud about vampires. Tellin' his friends stuff he should have had sense not to tell.”

Olivia bristled a bit, but it didn't last. James should have known better. He had lived with her secret for most of his life. She thought he respected her enough to keep it.

Perhaps when it came to James and Reign, she was putting her trust in the wrong man. She shook that thought off as soon as it came. James was family. Reign was…her husband. Damn it, this wasn't helping. She turned her attention back to the man in front of her.

“Then he got all belligerent when one of his fellas asked when was he going to become a vampire. They rode him hard for a bit after that, about how his auntie wouldn't turn him unless he ate his peas or said his prayers—foolishness.” He turned to Olivia. “If you don't mind me saying, ma'am you ought to have beaten that boy more.”

Olivia's lip curled. What the hell did this man know of being a woman alone trying to raise a child? She had done the best she could despite that she could never be a proper mother—could never run with him in the sun. Never take him to the shore.

“I do mind,” she said softly.

Reign placed a hand on her arm and she looked up. There was no sympathy in his cool gaze, but there was something there that told her he understood how hard it had been for her. Slowly, she relaxed.

Mac watched her warily, but he didn't apologize. “That was the first and last time I saw him, but a couple of his friends have been in since.”

“Any trouble?” Reign asked.

“Naw. Come in, have a drink and left. Got the feeling they were waiting for something.” He shot a pointed gaze at Reign. “Or someone.”

Reign shifted beside her, his attention still focused on the shorter, stockier man. “That's very interesting. Did you happen to hear any of these boys mention a group called the Friends of the Glorious Unseen?”

Mac chuckled. “They did. The four of 'em were right enthusiastic about it too. Said they were senior members. Left me a pamphlet for a meeting they planned to have here in Edinburgh.”

“May I see it?” Reign asked.

Mac turned to sort through a pile of papers on a shelf behind him. While he was distracted, Olivia turned to Reign. “George Haversham said he didn't belong to the Friends.”

He tilted his head. “Makes you wonder what else he was lying about, doesn't it?”

It did. It also made her wonder just what sort of “friends” her nephew had fallen in with.

“Here it is.” As he came back around to face them, Mac offered Reign a folded piece of paper. On the front was the title: “Mating Habits of the Vampyre: A discourse on the male and female of the species.”

“Oh, Christ,” Reign muttered. Olivia shook her head in agreement as she perused the leaflet from her spot beside him. “Thank you, Mac.”

They pulled away from the bar. Mac waved farewell and went off to attend to a thirsty patron.

Olivia glanced at him as they walked across the wooden floor. “There's a lecture scheduled the night after next. Shall we go?”

Reign, pamphlet in hand, stuffed the paper inside his coat, where he had stored the note from the kidnappers earlier. He barely looked at her. “Of course. It may lead us straight to James.”

“And then you'll be rid of me.” The words leaped out before she could even think of stopping them. Before she could think at all.

“Yes,” he agreed, moving toward the exit like a big cat prowling his territory. “Then we'll all be happy, won't we?”

Oh yes. She'd have her nephew and her life back. She could go back to Clovelly and try to spend the next few decades forgetting what she had done—forgetting Reign. Of course she would be happy. And the wetness burning her eyes? Those were tears of joy.

W
illiam Dashbrooke was not stupid. He knew better than to visit his “guest” in the evening. He went during the day, when the sun was high in the sky and no vampire could survive for longer than a few minutes.

He couldn't risk the operation by having Reign or Olivia—he had studied them so long he thought of them by their Christian names—follow one of them from his Edinburgh address to this little country cottage just a few miles outside the city. An unexpected visit could lead to catastrophe, and the vampires would be the victors.

No, it was imperative that they draw the vampires to them at the right time, when they would be able to capture the pair of them, hopefully with few casualties. They had lost several men in England taking Temple. That vampire had seemed to expect them, despite the fact that they had purposefully timed their efforts with an archaeological dig. The chalice he protected was long gone, the pieces scattered to the rest of his
brethren. Snarling and terribly strong with feral strength, Temple had killed two men before they could get one dart into him. It took three darts of the poison designed for vampires to bring the creature to his knees.

Amazing beings, these vampires. Demi-gods and they didn't even know it. The five of them, and their women would be a glorious sacrifice—and a necessary one.

Now with so many members of the Order awaiting the arrival of the other vampires, it was increasingly important that everything here go according to plan.

But there was a backup just in case. Always a backup. Vampires were fast and strong and practically invulnerable. The only way to beat them was to be smarter. Fortunately, vampires weren't very smart. Immortality tended to make them comfortable and lazy—they thought of themselves as invincible. They would go wherever the Order wanted, assuming they could fight their way out of any situation.

Not this time.

As he entered the cottage, he thought of how fortunate he had been to have young James Burnley fall into his hands. The lad saved him so much work, and provided the perfect situation for bringing Reign right to them.

Reign would never resist Olivia's call, and Olivia would not allow anything to happen to her pre
cious nephew, blaming herself for the boy's lack of a mother.

Perfect, really.

He found James in the little, sunny dining room, just sitting down for luncheon with Reggie. His son was proving to be less of a disappointment than usual.

“Good afternoon, lads,” Dashbrooke greeted them heartily as he sat down with them. “How are you this fine day?”

The young men made their replies and offered him some of their meal—good boys that they were.

“Have you seen my aunt?” James asked, spearing a thick slice of cold ham with his fork.

Dashbrooke regarded the boy with a smile. James looked very much like his aunt in terms of coloring. He was tall and thin, with a handsome countenance that Dashbrooke's own son Reggie coveted. Poor Reggie. He took after his grandfather.

“I have,” Dashbrooke replied. “She's very anxious to see you again.”

James smiled, but there was a hint of anxiety about it. “She's going to be so angry with me.”

“Tell her you had no choice. She'll forgive you.”

“Once she brings Reign to you, you'll keep your end of the bargain?”

Dashbrooke nodded. “You'll get exactly what you asked for, dear James. Small payment for all you've done for us.”

James's grin grew.

“What about me?” Reggie demanded.

Dashbrooke humored his son with a wide grin. “You too, my boy.”

He wasn't about to inform Reggie that once this was over the boy would be heir to more power than he could ever imagine. In the same vein he didn't have the inclination to inform James that while he intended to keep his bargain all right, it would no doubt end in the boy's death.

No, he hadn't the inclination at all.

 

Just minutes after midnight, Reign and Olivia entered William Dashbrooke's house via a second-floor balcony.

“Are you certain Dashbrooke is out for the evening?”

Olivia's voice was an erotic shiver down his spine as Reign closed the doors behind them. She had a low voice, rich and lush, and when she talked softly like this, it was like being stroked by velvet. “Yes.”

Reign had never been much of a housebreaker or thief—that had been Saint's job. His own special talent seemed to be being able to discern when a situation was as it ought to be or if there was something underhanded afoot.

And he
knew
that Dashbrooke's house was completely empty save for the servants belowstairs, just as he knew that Olivia was warring within her
self. Over James, and over him. He told himself he didn't care about the outcome.

He'd been a damn fool to think he could win her back. A damn fool to want her.

He wanted her still.

“Reign, this is ridiculous. What are we looking for?”

“Anything that looks important.” He didn't bother to look at her. It hurt to look at her and he was getting tired of hurting. He should be harder than that.

He heard her sigh behind him. “That's so helpful, thank you.”

He looked at her now, numbing himself against the sight of her face in the gloomy night. “We both know Dashbrooke and James's friends are involved somehow, or at the very least know more than they're telling. If we're going to find any clue as to what happened to James or where he is, we'll find it here.”

Her expression softened, and with it went his heart. “All right. Where do you want to start?”

“The bedrooms. Anything of personal value will be there.”

The room they were in was obviously a guest room. It had been cleaned and made up neat and tidy for a future guest. There was nothing there. Still, Reign would be remiss if he didn't give the room at least a cursory examination, so he checked the closet and the chest of drawers as well as under
the bed. Just as he expected, there was nothing of consequence.

The next room—down the narrow hall and on the left, belonged to George Haversham, proven by the monogrammed underdrawers draped over the back of a chair.

“Disgusting,” Olivia griped as they stepped inside.

Reign had to agree. The room had obviously been tidied by the maids that morning, but Haversham had left clothing scattered all over the place. And a used, uncovered chamber pot sat near the bed, lending a particularly pungent aroma to the room.

Quickly, they picked through the dresser, armoire, and small writing desk. They even searched his luggage. All they found was a leaflet for the Friends of the Glorious Unseen, and a pair of women's drawers.

Reign held up the flimsy linen undergarments with one finger and chuckled. “Think Haversham got these from an obliging tart? Or does he wear them himself?”

Olivia grinned. “Either way, I don't want to know.”

For that second, they were as they had been before he'd ruined everything, and the memory of those days sliced through him like a blade. His smile faded and he tossed the drawers back into the dresser where he had found them. “We're done here.”

The next room was Reggie's. It was notably
cleaner and more pleasant smelling than Haversham's. Reggie also had a leaflet for the meeting of “The Friends.” On it he had drawn pictures of little vampire faces. The fangs, tiny v-shapes.

“Obviously he missed his calling as an artist,” Olivia quipped, and Reign allowed a smile.

Reggie kept a notebook. Every page was a new list with titles ranging from, “Things not to say to Young Ladies” to “Ways to be Less of a Disappointment.”

“That's a little sad,” Olivia remarked. “Look. Number twenty-three: ‘Try to be less of a nitwit.' Poor thing.”

Reign rolled his eyes. “Every boy his age is a nitwit.”

“Were you?”

He thought about it, but it was so long ago, not many memories came forward. His only memories of having felt like an idiot where when his father called him one. Fortunately, the centuries had dulled those to the point where they seemed to be the memories of another man.

“Undoubtedly,” he told her. “I just didn't realize it at the time.”

She set the notebook back in its place. “Someone has made certain Reggie knows it.”

Reign closed the armoire door. “Probably his father.” He was aware of Olivia watching him closely—too closely. He left the room to avoid conversation.

She followed.

The next room was another guest quarters. “This was James's room,” Olivia whispered, as she moved toward the chest of drawers.

“Do you smell him?” It would be faint after so many days, but it was possible.

“No, but this is his.” She held up a fine, dark brown beaver hat. “This proves that he didn't leave here on his own.”

“It's just a hat. He could have forgotten it.” Christ, he had been known to take off and leave everything he owned behind.

Her mouth thinned. “I gave him this hat. There's no way he'd simply forget it.”

She sounded so sure—or rather she sounded like she
wanted
to be sure. Reign wasn't. Instinct told him that James was a brat, who resented Olivia for being immortal while he wasn't. The boy resented her for a number of things, he imagined. Boys generally did. The fact that he had left his hat meant nothing more than he hadn't cared to take it with him.

There was a shirt and a pair of shoes in the closet as well, as well as an umbrella in the corner. “He certainly didn't pack all his belongings and leave as Haversham would have us believe.”

Olivia's expression was grim. “Let's move on to Dashbrooke's room.”

The master bedroom was a large, opulent space that suited Dashbrooke. It was decorated in a de
cidedly haughty style that was ill-suited to the simple architecture of the house. It was the room of a man who thought very highly of himself, and felt the need to prove it.

They searched the adjoining bath and found nothing. The armoire contained a red sash with a ruby pin, that seemed ceremonial, but nothing out of the common way. In fact, Dashbrooke's room was void of anything too personal. There was a small pile of stationery in the desk, but no letters.

There was, however, a small pile of ash in the grate of the fireplace. A tiny corner of paper, unburned and blank sat amongst them.

“He burns his correspondence,” Reign mused aloud. “Interesting.”

“Look at this.” Olivia came to him holding a small, open ring box. “I found it in the dresser.”

Inside, on a bed of red velvet, was a silver signet ring with a chalice on it. It was new and shiny—the kind of gift a father gave a son, or an underling who had performed a duty well. The top of the ring was movable. Reign took a pencil from the desk and used it to turn the ring over. The silver would burn him as surely as sunlight.

What he saw on the other side made his heart stop cold.

“What is it?” He could hear the frown in Olivia's voice.

He stared at the embossed image of a hand,
palm up on the small, polished surface. “I've seen this before.” Seen it. He'd borne that mark many times, had it bruised into the side of his face.

“You know someone who had a ring like this?” Olivia obviously thought this was a significant piece of information. “Who?”

Reign closed the lid on the box and thrust it back at her. “My father.”

 

“This can't be a simple coincidence. Can it?” Olivia waited until they were back at their…
at Reign's
house to ask. She'd let him have the trip back here to ruminate, but now they needed to talk.

Reign shook his head. While she paced, he lay sprawled on the sofa, one arm across his stomach, the other above him on the cushions. “James's kidnapping, Dashbrooke having the same ring as my father. The murder in London happening just after I left. I can't believe any of it is simple chance, and the one connection between them is me.”

Olivia's heart quickened until he added, “But my connection to James's kidnapping is slight to say the least.” At least he hadn't mentioned her return to his life, otherwise he very well might start putting the pieces together. She almost wished he would, then she might have a better idea of just what James had gotten them into.

She didn't believe that James had knowingly involved himself in something underhanded, but he certainly seemed to have fallen into a fine mess.

“I have to send word of this to Clarke. Maybe he can uncover what the symbol means.”

“You don't know?”
How could he not know?
And if he didn't know, how were they going to ascertain what this group wanted with James? And with Reign himself?

“No. My father wasn't very…open.” He rubbed his jaw. “I don't know what's going on in London either. Christ, I can't go back there now, not after this.”

He looked so torn, she couldn't help but comment, “You care about those women, don't you?”

“Of course. They're my responsibility.”

It was said so matter of factly that Olivia could do little more than gape at him in response. Was that how he looked at her? Probably. That was why she had convinced him to help her so easily. He saw her as a responsibility to be fulfilled.

If that were true, why would he have insisted on having sex with her? Of course, they hadn't shared their bodies for several nights now. In fact, this exchange about his father and his own confusion was the deepest intimacy they'd shared since she told him she didn't trust him—on that night when he'd looked at her as though she'd just kicked his favorite puppy.

“You don't trust me either,” she blurted.

His head turned, and his bewildered, but annoyed, gaze locked with hers. “What has that got to do with Dashbrooke's ring?”

“Nothing.” She had stepped in it, so she might
as well see how deep she could sink. “But I'm tired of your sulking over what I said when you feel the same way about me.”