Let the Night Begin (22 page)

One of the men with a sword rushed at her as a bullet whizzed past her head. Dashbrooke was screaming for his men not to kill her or Reign. He needed them alive.

Olivia ducked the slash of a broadsword and came up to land a blow to her attacker's jaw that shattered his face and dropped him like a doll. Whirling around, she caught a glimpse of James and the other boys, diving behind a sofa for cover. Good, they were safe for now.

And then she turned her back on them and leaped onto a man sneaking up behind Reign with a dagger in his hand.

 

Reign whirled around to confront his attacker, only to watch the man be knocked unconscious by one swift blow of his wife's delicate fist.

“Nice shot,” he quipped. “Behind you.”

And then she pivoted to disarm a man with a particularly nasty sword. A pistol fired as Reign moved. The bullet struck the metal plate concealed in his waistcoat. It hurt like hell and he'd have a brief bruise, but that was better than silver shot in the heart.

“I said don't kill them!” Dashbrooke shouted above the din.

Men rushed from both sides as Reign and Olivia fought, practically shoulder to shoulder. Olivia took pains not to kill her attackers, but Reign wasn't quite so careful. The most important thing to him was survival—his, Olivia's, and the four boys almost pissing themselves in fear behind the sofa.

Something sailed through the air and landed on his head and shoulder. It was a net made of silver.
Shit. He threw it off, but not before the fine strands of metal singed his face and hand.

Now he was mad. He turned and grabbed the man who had tossed the net by the head and twisted. The body fell to the floor with a remorseless thud.

He turned for the next attack and saw Olivia pin a man to the wall with his own blade through the shoulder. She might not be a killer, but she was a bloodthirsty wench to be sure and he loved her for it. There was nothing more perfect than a woman willing to fight for the survival of those she loved.

There had only been perhaps a dozen or so men in the room to begin with, and perhaps that amount again had joined them. That made for twelve opponents each. Twelve men armed with silver weapons—one of which had just sliced his arm. And his back.

There were two of them, trying to flank him and take him down that way. Reign grinned and ducked as the first swung his sword, then he came up under the man, grabbed the blade from his hand, and ran him through. He jerked the sword out and whipped around to impale the other as well.

It had been too long since he'd been in battle, but the skills were still there, the undeniable will to survive and triumph.

By the time it was over, not a member of the Silver Palm was on his feet. The majority of them were merely wounded, but several were dead.

Reign and Olivia were wounded, but not badly, a fact that surprised Reign given the amount of weapons and opponents they'd faced.

“You good?” he asked Olivia as he moved toward where she stood in the center of the room, her eyes wide and her mouth slightly open as she gazed straight ahead.

Reign followed her gaze.

Oh, Christ.

Dashbrooke had one meaty arm wrapped around James's shoulder and chest. In the other hand, he held a pistol.

That was aimed at James's temple.

Olivia cried out. Despite all that James had done, she still loved him as though he were her own son. She was mad as hell, but that didn't stop her from caring.

“Ah, that's better,” Dashbrooke gloated. “I knew it was just a matter of time before I regained control. You vampires might be superior in strength and speed, but you really aren't the smartest of creatures.”

“Yes,” Reign agreed. “The thought of manipulating young boys to get what we want would never occur to stupid sods such as us.”

Dashbrooke cast a suggestive glance at Olivia. “But your wife likes young men, doesn't she? One could say she has quite the
appetite
for them.”

Reign only laughed, even as Olivia bared her fangs at the fat bastard. “Sorry, mate. Insecurity is not a failing of mine.”

The smugness drained from Dashbrooke's face. “The two of you are going to do exactly what I tell you, or this little bastard is going to have a very large hole in his skull. Am I understood?”

“If I say yes, will you shut the fuck up?”

“Am I
understood
?” The barrel of the pistol dug into the side of James's head so hard the young man winced. Beside him, Reign felt Olivia stiffen, smelled the wave of fear that rolled off her.

“Yes,” he growled, despising having to say it.

So intent was Reign's focus on Dashbrooke and vice versa, that neither of them noticed Reggie's approach until he was standing at Reign's right shoulder.

He had blood smeared on one pale cheek, and a gun in his hand. It was pointed at Dashbrooke.

“Let him go, Father.”

Dashbrooke spared a brief glance for his son. “You are just like you mother, Reginald—such a disappointment.”

Reggie's expression didn't change. “To you perhaps, but I'm feeling rather pleased with myself at the moment.”

So was Reign. “That's a good lad.”

“If you are done living vicariously through my son,” Dashbrooke interjected, “perhaps we can get on with Mr. Burnley keeping his brain and the two of you doing what I want?”

Reign started to turn his attention back to Dashbrooke, but then Reggie snagged it again. “I'm not
joking, Father. Put down the gun and let James go.”

“Or what?” his father demanded. “You'll shoot me?”

The arm holding the pistol never wavered as Reggie stared him down. “Yes.”

It was at that exact moment that Dashbrooke lost control. Reign could see it. The bastard knew he was beat, that his chances of survival had just dropped, and it was making him desperate.

“You want him?” Dashbrooke roared. “Take him!”

It happened in a flash. Dashbrooke pushed James forward and lowered his pistol. A loud bang reverberated throughout the room as the shot discharged. James's knees buckled. Olivia screamed. And a blossom of crimson appeared on the back of James's shirt.

Reign dove for the boy just as a second shot rang out. This time it was Dashbrooke who fell to his knees, but there was no crimson on his shirt—it ran down his forehead instead. Reggie had kept his word.

Somehow, Reign managed to catch James before the boy hit the floor. Olivia fell to her knees beside him, followed by James's friends. Reign didn't care about them. He cared about his wife, who was pale and weeping, her hand pressed to her mouth.

“He's going to be all right, Liv.” He made the
futile promise once again, but James wasn't all right, that was obvious from the wet, rattling sound he made as he gasped for air. Blood leaked from between the boy's lips.

James shook, his young body fighting to live as Reign held him. His eyes, so much like Olivia's, were round and slightly unfocused as they searched the faces of those gathered around him. Finally, his gaze settled on his aunt.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered, the words taking on a watery sound as blood spewed from his mouth.

“Don't,” Olivia croaked. “There's nothing to be forgiven for.”

Reign disagreed, but now was not the time. If Olivia wanted to forgive her nephew, that was her choice.

Would she forgive Reign for not being able to keep the boy safe as he had promised?

“He wanted to be immortal,” Reggie remarked, his tone disembodied as the shock of killing his father began to take hold. “More than any of the rest of us, he wanted to live forever.”

The boys shared a meaningful look that tightened Reign's jaw. And when Olivia fell forward, wrapping her arms around James's narrow trunk as she sobbed with great, shuddering breaths, he knew what he had to do.

And he had to do it fast. James's heart was already dangerously slow.

He took one of the boy's arms in his hand and lifted it to his mouth. He bit and drank quickly, not even taking the time to enjoy it. Olivia looked up at her nephew's gasp, and her tears trickled to a stop as she saw what Reign was doing.

“No,” she whispered, but she didn't mean it, he could tell.

Reign held her stare for a second as he let go of James's wrist. Then, he raised his own arm and bit himself in the same spot. He held the open wound to James's mouth. “Drink it.”

Feeble hands caught at his arm, holding on as though afraid he might try to take the gift of life away. James's mouth fastened onto the punctures and pulled. Reign winced, but didn't move. This was not the pleasant experience he had when Olivia fed from him, in fact, it turned his stomach. He wasn't doing it for his own benefit, he was doing it for his wife.

It was a simple process, requiring only a blood exchange. The tricky part was whether or not the demonic essence would take hold. In Reign's experience, the likelihood of success increased with the age of the vampire. In his youth he had tried to change others and failed. He hadn't known it could be done until he witnessed Temple do it two centuries into their immortality.

There was a very good chance that James's body would accept the change, but there was still the chance that the change would kill him, or worse,
make him insane. It didn't always work, as he had discovered that night with Temple.

Finally, when James had taken more of his blood than necessary, Reign pulled his arm away. The boy tried to fight him, but was as ineffectual as a kitten.

Olivia took his hand and pressed her mouth to his wrist, closing the wounds with her tongue so he wouldn't have to. It was a strangely intimate gesture that tugged at his heart.

The three boys clustered around them gaped in open wonder. “Is James going to become a vampire?”

Reign's lips tightened. “We'll have to wait and see. Come, let's get him home.”

Watson and Clarke stayed behind to interrogate the surviving Silver Palm members. Fitzhugh Binchley volunteered to ride into Edinburgh and rally some of the Bucket of Blood folk to come help them. Before dawn they would burn the house to the ground, letting the fire deal with the dead inside.

Reggie and George Haversham took horses from the stables and agreed to meet them back at the town house. Then Reign and Olivia flew home, Reign carrying James in his arms.

They would deal with the boys and the ramifications of this evening later. Right now all that mattered was getting James back to the house, and getting that awful look of terror out of Olivia's eyes.

So on the way back to Edinburgh, as the wind stung his eyes and dried his lips, Reign indulged in something that seemed to be becoming a habit as of late, even though in this case he knew it wasn't going to be of any help.

He prayed.

T
here was nothing she could do for him.

Two nights after the horrific events at Dashbrooke's country house, Olivia watched from across the room they'd “borrowed” at the Bucket of Blood, as Reign taught her nephew how to properly feed from humans without hurting them.

James listened intently to Reign's every word, gazing at her husband as though he were some kind of god, and not the man he had so obviously resented just a few short days ago. And when the time came for James to assuage his hunger, he did exactly as he had been told, taking enough to sustain himself, but not enough to harm his victim.

“There,” Reign said encouragingly as James lifted his head from the unconscious woman's throat. “Well done.”

James licked his lips and smiled at his mentor. “May we fly back to the house?”

Reign lifted his gaze to Olivia's. She could tell from the subtle change in his expression that he guessed at the turmoil in her thoughts.

“May we?” he asked.

Olivia nodded. “You two go ahead. I'll take the carriage back.” She had some thinking to do, and she wished to be alone to do it.

James flashed a brief grin and was out of the room in a flash. Reign took a more leisurely exit, stopping to kiss Olivia before he left, James calling for him down the hall. The boy was eager to stretch his wings, as it were.

Olivia left as well, after making sure that the woman on the bed was indeed fine. She went downstairs and out into the street where the carriage sat waiting. She climbed inside and settled against the squabs, allowing her mind to drift back to those awful moments when she'd seen Reign give his blood to James, and the equally awful ones that followed as they waited to see if the process was successful. She needn't have worried.

The change had taken to James, and James to it with frightening ease.

He loved his new senses and abilities, reveled in the changes in his body. He was a newborn vampire infatuated with all the world had to offer, and his friends listened to the stories of all his changes with rapture.

All except for Reggie, who seemed to have soured on the idea of immortality, at least for the present. He made George Haversham agree to see a doctor in London about his headaches. His concern touched Olivia, but she turned away before some
one asked Reign to turn Haversham as well. An eternity of youth was not what the boy needed.

How long would James's enthusiasm last? Thirty years from now, how would he feel about his youthful countenance? When everyone treated him like a boy instead of a man, would the frustration become too much? Or would he live out eternity as a boy, never growing up and never learning responsibility?

If he stayed with Olivia and Reign that was exactly how he would end up. Olivia would allow it, as well. She knew herself well enough to see that. She would look after him and coddle him as long as he wanted it. She didn't want to coddle him. She wanted him to stand on his own two feet and take responsibility for who and what he was. He needed to be away from her—somewhere she couldn't run to if it looked as though he might be in trouble.

Closing her eyes, she leaned her head back and tried to keep her mind quiet for the rest of the drive. Finally, the carriage rolled to a stop in front of the town house. When she stepped out onto the walk, it was with the perfect clarity of knowing exactly what she had to do.

The hard part was going to be doing it.

She didn't waste any more time fretting. The boys and Reign were in the parlor when she arrived and she joined them. After greeting them all, she made her announcement—the one she and Reign had discussed earlier that evening.

“Reign and I will be leaving tomorrow night.”

“Where are we going?” James demanded, his brow knitting like a child who had just been told he couldn't have a sweet.

Olivia drew a breath, but Reign replied before she could. “Olivia and I are going north for a bit before returning to London. You're going to New York.”

Four mouths dropped open, and James flushed angrily. “You can't just leave me now that you've turned me!”

“You got what you wanted,” Olivia reminded him softly. “I'm glad you are still alive, James and I want to keep it that way. The Silver Palm may be looking for us and the only way I can be sure you're safe is if you're in another country.”

“I'll be safer with you.”

Guilt stabbed at her heart. “But you can't be with us, darling. You have to make it on your own.”

“But—”

“We've decided,” Reign interjected, his deep tone brooking no refusal. “Olivia was shot once because someone thought to use you against her and I won't have that happen again.”

The flush rushed from James's cheeks. He hadn't known about her being shot, obviously.

“One of Dashbrooke's men,” Olivia told him. “It happened a few nights before we came after you. It's not safe for us to be together, James. Please, go to America where I know you can be safe.”

“No.” He shook his head adamantly. “I won't.”

“Your obituary has already been sent to the papers.” Reign locked gazes with the younger vampire. “Everyone in London thinks you're dead. You cannot go back.”

For a moment Olivia thought James might cry and she reached for him, but he jerked away. Angry. He'd been angry with her for so long and she never saw it.

“You wanted to be a vampire,” she reminded him. “And now you are. This is the life you chose, James. Every choice you've made has led you to this place. Now you have to live with the consequences.”

A mulish expression darkened his features. “I only wanted to know what your life was like. I only wanted to share that with you.”

Olivia understood, and her heart was heavy with it. “You're my boy,” she whispered. “You'll always be part of my life.”

George Haversham and Fitzhugh Binchley exchanged uncomfortable glances. “Can we go home?” Fitzhugh asked.

Reign nodded. “Clarke has tickets for you on an afternoon train to London.” He turned to Reggie. “There's one for you if you want it.”

Fitzhugh and George looked down at their feet. Reggie shook his head, his own gaze fastened on James. “I'll go to New York with James. It's not safe here for me either. My father's friends will
look for me—either to recruit me, or to avenge his death.”

That took some of the sadness out of James's expression. “Thank you, Reggie.” He turned his attention back to Olivia, straightening his shoulders and looking so grown up that her throat tightened at the sight. “Will I see you again?”

Reaching out, she placed her hand on his arm. “After a while, when we're certain it's safe, Reign and I will come visit you.”

James's jaw was tight as he nodded. A hint of moisture glistened in his eyes, but he managed to hold it at bay. Olivia hoped she'd be as strong, but when he turned and wrapped his arms around her, a hot tear slipped down her cheek.

“I'm sorry, Aunt Liv.”

“I know.” Damn, her voice was already strained and hoarse.

“I love you.”

The tears were flowing like a stream now, unstoppable and quick. “I love you too.”

Reign offered her a handkerchief and she took it to dry her eyes while he said good-bye to James and the other boys. Then her husband put his arm around her and held her tight against his side, giving her his strength and support as the second most important man in her life walked out of it.

 

“Do you think he'll be all right?”

It wasn't the first time Olivia had asked him that
question, but it was the first time she'd voiced her concerns since James and the other boys left earlier that day. It had been four days since the incident at Dashbrooke's, and Reign and Olivia had moved from his Edinburgh home to a small rented cottage in the Highlands.

Olivia thought they were hiding out, and that was partially true, but Reign also just wanted to be alone with his wife, with no intrigue to get between them.

He called it a belated honeymoon. And just to drive that point home, he kept her in bed as much as he could. They were there now, having just woken up. Outside their snug abode the night was settling in, bringing a fresh breeze and the scent of darkness.

“He'll be fine,” he assured her in the same soothing tone he used every time she asked. Actually he had no idea what would happen to James. If he could survive the centuries looking like a boy, being treated like a boy, then he'd be all right. If he couldn't…Memories of his friend Dreux's suicide came flooding to the surface. “I'm sure he'll be fine.” He said a little prayer—a new habit for him—for added hope.

“Do you think he hates me?” Her voice was muffled by his chest, where her cheek rested, but he heard the sadness in it.

“Liv, he almost got you killed and would have cheerfully handed both of us over to Dashbrooke
to achieve his own goals. Little fucker's lucky you don't hate him.”

She lifted her head to look at him, her thick hair tumbling over her naked shoulder in a tousled mass that appealed to his baser natures. “If you despise him so, why did you change him? Why not let him die?”

Now he just wanted to shake her. Surely she didn't need him to answer that? “Because it would have hurt you if he died—more than making him a vampire ever would.” If it was anyone but James, he'd even go so far as to remind her that no one would be able to use or take advantage of him now, but he couldn't say that and mean it.

Smiling softly, she leaned down and kissed him. “Thank you.”

He wrapped his arms around her and held her naked body tight against his own. “Thank me in other ways.”

She snuggled against him with a chuckle. “Reggie will take care of him, won't he?”

Christ.
He loved her, but he was so sick and bloody tired of hearing about James. He'd heard enough about the boy over the last couple of weeks to last a lifetime. “Yes. Stop worrying. You have to let him go and be his own man.”

And then, just to make certain she didn't take the conversation any further, he kissed her, exploring her mouth with his tongue as his hands roamed every warm, soft inch of her.

When he rolled her onto her back and positioned himself between her splayed thighs, he found her hot and wet and ready for him. He gazed down into her strong, beautiful face and was so bloody thankful for the second chance he had been given he couldn't begin to describe it.

“Thank you,” he said thickly. “For forgiving me.”

Smiling seductively, she arched her hips so that his cock slid fully into her. Her gasp mingled with his groan. “I will always forgive you. I love you.”

His throat was too tight to speak, so Reign didn't even bother to try. He lowered his head to warm, fragrant skin in the hollow of her neck and pierced that fragile skin with his fangs, taking her inside him as his body thrust into hers.

She bit his shoulder, heightening the already spiraling sensations firing between them. Everything was sharper, clearer, more intense. Reign kept it going as long as he could, slowly churning his hips against hers, shivering as the slick walls of her squeezed his cock. Trying to prolong it was no good, not when Olivia gripped him like that, her mound rubbing against him, her little gasps of pleasure vibrating along his skin where her mouth was fastened.

He came as soon as he felt Olivia begin to orgasm, unable and unwilling to hold back any longer. Squeezing his eyes shut, Reign let the pleasure engulf him, letting it make him forget that
there was real evil in the world and the fear that the Order of the Silver Palm wasn't finished with them, not in the least.

 

By the time Reign and Olivia returned to London, several weeks had passed since their original departure.

Since the Silver Palm knew Reign's address in Belgrave Square, they agreed to stay there only as long as it took Reign to right his affairs and pack what belongings he needed to take with him. From there they would travel to Olivia's home in Clovelly to do the same, before boarding a ship to France. Once settled Reign hoped they could find out just what the hell the Silver Palm wanted with them.

He was in his study, sitting at his desk going over his correspondence with Olivia sitting on the sofa with a pad and pen making arrangements of her own, when Clarke came into the room.

“You have visitors,” he informed them. He was still cool to Olivia, but at least he looked at her now. Reign didn't give him a hard time for it. Olivia would win him over eventually.

“Who?” he asked. Olivia looked up, little lines of worry appearing between her brows.

“An old friend,” came a voice from the door.

Reign's head snapped around. He'd know that voice anywhere.

“I'll be buggered.” Rising from the desk, he crossed the room in several quick strides to meet
the dark-haired man standing just inside the doorframe. “Saint!”

His old friend smiled, though there was a terseness to it that gave Reign pause. The displeasure wasn't directed at him, though, of that he was certain.

“The murders,” Reign murmured. He had been so preoccupied with his own situation that he had arrogantly forgotten about the horror here in London. A quick look at the papers had filled him in and brought a sick feeling to his stomach. “I planned to call on Maddie tonight. How is she fairing?”

“My mother is fine, thank you.” It was then that Reign noticed the woman who had come to stand beside Saint.

“Ivy?” It was Madeline's daughter. Reign shot a glare at Saint. The bastard. “You didn't.”

When Saint turned his dark gaze to the honey-haired woman beside him, it was with such love that Reign was embarrassed to witness it. “I did.”

“Congratulations.” Honestly he couldn't think of anything else to say. Then, his brain snapped back into place. “May I introduce my wife, Olivia, to you both?”

After introductions were made, Olivia and Ivy did that thing that all women seemed to do when meeting someone in similar circumstances—they became instant friends—and then Saint wasted no time in explaining why they were there.