The Vampire Dimitri (20 page)

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.

“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.

But the space was silent, and she stepped in farther, lifting her skirt out of the way. The place was a mess, and appeared as if some sort of battle had accompanied the puddle of blood. Something gleamed on the floor and Maia glanced around nervously before stooping to pick it up.

Her heart gave an odd little kick when she recognized it. Corvindale's button; unmistakeable because it was stamped with the earl's crest.

So he had been here. That odd feeling settled into something less pleasant and Maia glanced toward the window, which was dark with dirt. If she had more light, she could see…

“Miss?” came a voice from the front.

Tren. Maia turned and hurried back to the half-open door. “Call the constable,” she said. “I think something's gone wrong.” She came back, snatching up a lamp, and crouched on the floor, searching for something else that might prove that the earl had been there.

When she saw the hairpin, Maia's heart kicked up again as she reached for it. This was no ordinary hairpin, but one studded with tiny…rubies.

Rubies.

Corvindale hated rubies. They infuriated him.

Maia shook her head. No. Something was wrong. She remembered how he'd been so odd in the carriage when Angelica had been abducted, when they both had been wearing ruby earbobs. It wasn't that he simply hated them…it was that they had some sort of ill effect on him.

The prickling of certainty, her instinct, lifted the fine hairs on her arms.

With a flash, she recalled the night of the masquerade, and Mirabella's description of the fight.
There was a necklace of rubies on him.

A hairpin with rubies on it. Corvindale's button. Blood, and signs of struggle.

Maia went cold. It was no coincidence. Something had happened to the earl.

She looked down at the hairpin, recognition tickling the back of her mind. She'd seen this accessory somewhere before. Someone had been wearing it, or something like it. She frowned, concentrating, trying to pull up a picture of her in her mind.

Someone she'd seen recently.

Someone she didn't know.

But someone she was going to find.

 

Dimitri smelled, listened, felt…then opened his eyes.

He was in a chair, a large, upholstered one, sprawled as if dumped therein.

His body was still heavy—his arms, legs, nothing moved properly—yet he wasn't restrained. So to speak.

She was standing over him, wearing rubies, looking down with satisfaction. She appeared exactly the same as she had that night in Vienna. Tall and slender, thick dark hair, lush
red lips and cheekbones that cut like right angles. Still lovely, but now there was a flash of permanent anger in her eyes.

“Lerina,” he managed to say, looking around the chamber. It appeared to be some sort of parlor. Not particularly well-kept; it was dusty and some of the furnishings were covered with sheets. The windows were draped and the light was dim. Her scent filled his nostrils, along with other ones: blood, old fabric, dust, worn leather, water. Saltwater. Fish.

They were near the Thames, possibly the wharf.

“Have you missed me, darling?” she asked, lunging closer to pat him on the cheek. The rubies swung and shifted toward him. “We have so much to catch up on.”

He closed his eyes as a wave of pain swept him, then ebbed slightly as she pulled back. “Moldavi, I presume?”

Lerina smiled, showing her fangs. “You are a smart one, Dimitri.”

“Whose body did I find? Wearing…your gown?” he asked, trying to control his unsteady breathing. Now he knew how the secret of his Asthenia had become known.

Being his mistress, Lerina must somehow have figured it out; for he certainly had never told her. Or she and Moldavi together had done so.

She shrugged and the rubies danced. “I haven't any idea.

Cezar took care of that. Some mortal, most likely. The whole point was to make you believe I'd died in the fire.”

Dimitri pulled himself upright in the chair. Every movement felt as if he were weighted down with leaden pipes while slogging upriver through a heavy current. The pain from his Mark had melded with that from the rubies, stealing his breath and burning his skin. Yet, when he could lift himself above the physical discomfort, his mind worked like an oiled machine. And it was working now.

“Aren't you going to ask me what I want?” Lerina said, leaning close again.

Her scent filled his nose, along with a renewed rush of pain from the rubies. Dimitri didn't flinch or blink, holding her gaze steady with his own. “You'll tell me. Although I'm also…quite certain I already know.”

“Is that so?” Lerina grinned and ran her tongue over the points of her incisors. “I've waited more than a century for this, Dimitri, darling.”

“An entire century,” he managed to say. “Did you have nothing better to do?”

Her hand whipped out and caught the side of his face, one of her ruby rings slicing his skin. The blow left his ears ringing, but he didn't move. Warm blood trickled down his cheek.

Her nostrils flared as she drew in the scent, her attention focused on his cut. Then she seemed to refocus, shaking her head a bit and stepping back with an odd smile.

He was certain he was in no imminent danger of anything more than Lerina's nonstop chatter and further displays of temper. Moldavi had to be behind this, and Dimitri presumed the man would want to have a moment of glory in front of his victim before otherwise dispatching him—or whatever his plan was.

“Since you won't ask me, I'll tell you all,” Lerina announced.

“Just the basics, please. No need to…embroider the details.” He was finding it more difficult to remain easy and keep his voice strong.

Annoyance flared in her eyes, a bright glow ringing blue irises. “Very well,” she said, mercifully stepping back. Her hand fluttered as she posed for what promised to be a dramatic soliloquy.

“Cezar ensured that I was made Dracule,” she said, as if it were some great pronouncement. When he gave no discernable reaction—he would have rolled his eyes if he'd had the energy—her mouth tightened and then she continued, “I wanted
you
to sire me, Dimitri. We would have lived very happily together for eternity. But you refused.”

“Thank the Fates,” he muttered.

Her face darkened again. “You always were a testy, cutting person,” she said. “Attractive as you are in…other ways. It's no wonder Meg left you after she got what she wanted. But I would have stayed. All you needed was to make me immortal, and I would have loved you forever.”

Dimitri ignored the stab of surprise and pain at her easy mention of Meg. More than a hundred thirty years and the memory of his foolish love could still twist his belly. Because of the foolishness, not so much the love.

“Cezar heard it from Meg, and then he told me the entire story. About how you pulled her out of the fire and as you both were lying there, dying, you asked for help. You'd give anything for you both to survive. Such a romantic sentiment, Dimitri, darling.”

He resisted the urge to close his eyes against the image.

But the memory, though vague, hadn't fully left him. What he'd believed to be his deepest desire had been answered that night, in the midst of pain-filled, swirling half dreams, by a visit from Lucifer. He'd hardly known what he'd agreed to. He hadn't realized until later that the miracle was not a miracle at all.

“Did you try to pull
me
out of the fire in Vienna, Dimitri?” she asked with exaggerated coyness. “Or did you not love me enough?”

He declined to answer, allowing a blaze in his eyes to give her his response. As if he would have stood by watching
anyone perish. Especially since fire was merely uncomfortable to a Dracule, and not at all life-threatening.

“You probably would have…and then dropped me like a hot potato, no?” She was wandering in front of him, pacing back and forth. “Did you think I hadn't seen the signs? Why do you think I went with Cezar that night? I knew it would either make you realize how much you loved me—pah!—or I would have found a new protector. And we both know how that ended.”

Again, he remained silent.

“So you saved Meg's life, helped her to become a Dracule…and then she left you. Once she realized the power of her immortality and the liaison with Lucifer, she
left
you.”

Dimitri concentrated very hard and managed a negligent shrug. “And you wonder why…I wouldn't make the same mistake…twice.”

“Your poor broken heart. Has she ruined you for every other woman? It would seem so.” She smoothed her hands over the generous bodice of her gown as if to remind him of what she offered. He grimaced.

“Meg's dead, Dimitri. Did you know that?” Lerina leaned toward him again, bringing those shimmering, lethal rubies along with a scent of bitterness. “Cezar killed her himself.”

The rumor he'd long believed was true, then. A rush of relief surged through him, overshadowing a surprising dearth of pain, and was followed by a flicker of sorrow. He supposed he had loved her, in a youthful, clumsy way, even if she hadn't loved him. Or at least, loved him enough. Now, she was with Luce in hell. Never to leave.