Thank heavens, the madman listened. Slowly he removed her hand. He tipped his head to expose his throat to candlelight.
Her hand went to her mouth, but it did not smother her cry of horror.
A large, red burn in the shape of her hand curled around his neck. Smoke still rose from it, and blood and fluid oozed out.
“Why did you do that? Why did you force me to hurt you?”
“It will heal. In minutes it will be gone. But at least we have answered an important question.” Ravenhunt sighed. “I hoped I would have a great degree of immunity to your powers. It’s unfortunate—I was looking forward to kissing you.”
Pushing back his thick black hair, he got up from the bed.
She blinked. Already the burn on his neck was healing. The skin had grown over the wound, new and pale. It was astonishing.
“It will have to wait until later. I have to go out now, my dear.”
But she refused to be abandoned again, not when she had so many questions. “What did it mean that you healed so quickly?” Ophelia demanded. “And just because that happened, it does not mean you are not going to die.”
An amused smile lifted Ravenhunt’s lips. Fathomless and black, his eyes glinted at her. Candlelight shone along his irises as if they were mirrors. “I can assure you I won’t die. But kissing you will have to wait until later. I have to go out.”
“I am never going to kiss you—”
But in the blink of an eye, he had left. He veritably disappeared from the room, he’d gone so quickly.
She was no longer tied to the bed. She could escape.
He would never forget what it was like to kiss Lord Simon Black’s hot, hard mouth.
Valde, son of the woman who called herself Mrs. Darkwell, pulled open the door of the crypt that bore the name Black, the family name of the Earls of Darlington.
“Simon,” he whispered as he walked down the steps into the cool, dark depths of the tomb. His voice came out hoarse. His heart ached with great pain.
Stone coffins lay in neat rows within. The air was not dank or musty, for he came here many nights—at least once each week. Valde ducked his head to miss the low threshold, for he stood seven feet tall. Slowly he walked to the coffin he wanted. Unlike those for the earls, this one was simple. There was no effigy of his beloved Simon on the lid.
He touched the lid, running his hand over the marble.
Closing his eyes, he remembered the first time he had stripped off his clothes with the handsome, blond young man he’d loved . . .
It had been after a ritualistic ceremony. He was a demigod, or at least was one quarter god, and he had been determined to learn the secrets of black magic. Simon, an earl’s son, had been drawn to the warlock world, and was also trying to learn the dark arts.
After the ceremony, they had been alone in the field where the chanting and spell-casting had taken place. It was mid-summer, the air sultry and moist. He wore a robe of black silk with nothing beneath. The soft summer breeze was like a naughty caress when it slipped up his robe.
Simon had worn a gentleman’s attire. White shirt, waistcoat, tailcoat, breeches, and boots.
The air had felt charged—as if it might burst into storm. But there was no storm threatening. It had been mutual awareness, mutual desire.
He had known the invitation to touch was there when he’d gazed into Simon’s blue eyes. He cupped the lad’s cheek. Ran his thumb over those full, tempting lips. Velvety and more fascinating than any woman’s, for they were as plump as a female’s but firm and slightly rough because they belonged to a man.
He’d slid his hand around Simon’s strong neck. Drew the lad close to him.
Breathless moment. God, so arousing and breathless.
His mouth had touched Simon’s lips.
It had been like coming to life. Hot desire ran through his body. His staff had gone stiff as a brick, pushing hungrily at his trousers.
Kissing Simon like an eager swain, Valde had recognized the young man of twenty-two was a virgin when it came to the matter of two men making love.
Slowly, he had undone the cravat that held Simon’s shirt points against the golden stubble of his throat and jaw. He’d kissed the exposed neck, loving the scratch of stubble, the scent of cologne on the young man’s dewy skin.
He caressed Lord Simon’s broad chest. One mere pass of his hand had the lad’s nipples pointy and erect. Then he’d undone Simon’s trousers. There had been one murmur of protest from the innocent young man, but he’d silenced that with a passionate kiss.
Then his hand had slid into Simon’s small clothes and had wrapped around a thick, straining, vein-covered cock . . .
Valde touched the coffin, closing his eyes to fight grief.
He could not open the coffin. Simon was not undead. There was no beautiful, un-aged face for him to caress. No perfect vampire or demon lips to kiss.
They had taken the man he had loved and had killed him before he had immortal life.
The damned vampire assassin who had taken Simon, who had been working for one of the evil vampire queens, had left him with a decaying corpse.
He hated them—the vampires and the queens.
Hated the Royal Society, even though that group of vampire slayers believed he was one of them.
He knew what he wanted. He was the bastard son of a demi-goddess, and he was denied the power of a god. For a short time, as a child, he had been possessed of the magical powers of a god, with the ability to change weather, to move things with mere thought, and to make mere mortals fall in love with him and do whatever he asked. But as punishment for being the bastard son of a mortal, all of his power vanished when he reached the age of eight. When he had finally become just old enough to understand that his power could let him rule the mortal world, it was taken away from him.
Then he was taken from his beautiful mother, Mrs. Darkwell, who was the daughter of the goddess Aphrodite.
He knew the gods and goddesses of old legends did exist—but they could interact no longer with the human world. The only time they could intervene was when one of their own came into the mortal world.
Aphrodite’s daughter had done that. She had fallen in love with a mortal.
And he, as her son, had paid the price.
He had been forced to live as a mortal boy, working like a servant on the farm of an angry and brutal mortal man.
What he wanted was power.
He wanted his chance to rule.
Valde wanted revenge.
And he knew there was a woman who had the power to kill with just her touch. If he had that power, he could have all the vengeance he wanted.
He knew where she was—with that damned vampire assassin. The one who had taken Simon from him.
It was going to be a pleasure to begin his reign of terror—starting with the destruction of the vampire Ravenhunt.
3
Jade
Twilight had settled on London, blanketing the town with a purple-gray gloom. Raven walked through the streets, using his preternatural powers to move so quickly he was invisible to mortals. He walked in the center of the road, dodging carriages. Horses whinnied and reared as they sensed him pass. Nervous coachmen steadied them, and when these men saw nothing in the road, they crossed themselves.
Raven reached the house that had once been his: a huge home of golden stone on Grosvenor Square that spanned half the block. His cousin lived here now. His cousin was mortal. When Raven had left the world to believe him dead, his cousin Anthony had inherited the title of Marquis of Ravenhunt.
Some vampires who were peers attempted to live normal lives. They kept their titles, lived in their mansions, and tried to act like humans. He knew of many. The Earl of Brookshire was a vampire earl who also worked for the Royal Society. So was the Earl of Blackmoor. The Duke of Greystone was a vampire and a dragon hunter.