The leader of the Imperials took three steps. The undead at the tables near him shrank away. Imperials, when angered, had been known to cannibalize their own.
"Sebastian Vioget, we have been sent to escort you to the presence of our mistress."
"Please give her my apologies, but as you can see, I am otherwise engaged this evening."
Max noticed that Vioget had shifted himself back toward the brick wall behind Rockley. Under the guise of adjusting his coat, Max moved to the left of Rockley, placing him between Sebastian and himself and only a few inches from the hidden doorway. Max wasn't about to let Vioget get through there without the two of them.
Not for the first time, he wondered how he had been saddled with babysitting a marquess… yet again.
"You are amusing, Vioget. Now, you can make this simple… or you can make it difficult." The way the Imperial leader caressed his lower lip with his left fang indicated that he much preferred difficulties.
Max touched Rockley and felt the rigidity of his shoulder. "Be ready," he said softly, without moving his lips. "Behind you."
But they never had a chance.
Suddenly the room was a flurry of movement—a table went flying, swords flashed, chairs splintered; there were shouts, screams, and the thuds of flesh on flesh.
Max grabbed Rockley and threw him under the table, then followed. Forget the hidden door; they would try to slink out by edging along the walls.
Phillip, who had found himself unable to move, suddenly knew his only chance to escape was to follow Victoria's cousin on the floor under the tables. He let go of the gun in his pocket, realizing, at last, what Pesaro and Victoria had been trying to tell him. Too late.
It hadn't been enough—the hypnotic tug and pull of the eyes of the customers in the inn, the way they seemed to bore into him and soften him… no, it wasn't until those five men, with burning eyes and lethal weapons, had exploded into the place that he realized that he was going to die.
He was going to die with accusations and anger toward his wife hanging between them.
Knowing instinctively that the crucifix in his pocket would be little protection against the five creatures, Phillip scrambled across the floor after Max, pinning his only hope of survival on the man who seemed to know what to do. Shards of glass and splinters of wood cut into his fine breeches, sliced into his hands. Something dark and sticky spilled onto his head and shoulders from the tables above. Rust's stench filled his nose. There was a loud crash behind them, and he smelled the spill of lantern oil and, closely thereafter, the clogging scent of raging fire.
He and Pesaro miraculously reached the curve of wall that ended at the bottom of the stairs to this place he would forever think of as hell. Shouts and the sounds of fighting followed them as they inched along the wall under the cover of a sudden thick smoke, and Phillip wanted to shout in triumph when they touched the bottom stair.
Stumbling up the steps, Phillip saw his guide look back, pausing on the stairs. He pushed past Max, onward, recognizing that there was no hope of helping Vioget. Or anyone else in the way of those five monsters.
But when he reached the top—freedom—he found himself facing two more of the creatures. Their eyes were red, and they did not carry swords. One was a woman. But, as unfamiliar with these demons as he was, Phillip recognized that they were vampires by the way he slogged into futile motions when he was caught by her gaze.
"How lovely," she said in a throaty voice. "Just what I needed. And I thought I would miss all the fun, being stationed up here."
He couldn't fight it; her eyes trapped him. He was picked up and carried effortlessly away… away somewhere. He struggled; he couldn't break free… she held him close, and he felt her heart beating in him, through him, as if wrapped in some kind of tendril that tightened with each struggle.
She shoved him somewhere; he fell onto something upholstered and struggled to get away. He was in a carriage; he could see out the door; they had Pesaro. They were dragging him toward the carriage, but she pulled him back, away from the opening.
"Now, my lovely," she said, and he looked into her eyes. He couldn't help it. They compelled him like nothing ever had. He was vaguely aware of a heavy burden tossed in next to him, for it broke the connection for the barest of moments.
"My lovely," she said again, and her strong fingers filtered through his hair like a lover's. Like Victoria's. Then she tightened them, pulled his head back hard, and he cried out at the shock. She bent to him; her lips were warm and cool at the same time. They touched the curve of his neck, the soft part now open and bare.
He struggled, but she pulled away and looked at him, settling him with her eyes. "It won't hurt, my lovely… my lovely." She licked his face, closed her mouth over his, and thrust her tongue into it. Choking him… yet pleasing him. When she pulled away, he tasted blood… and she was licking her lips. He wanted to lick them too.
Someone was struggling next to him in the carriage. It jolted him, and the female vampire hissed, "Subdue the Venator. But control yourself. The mistress will have your heart if you feed on him."
Then she returned to Phillip, smiling, calling him with her eyes. "And what is your name, my lovely? You are too pretty to remain nameless. Perhaps I will keep you."
He wanted to answer; he didn't want to answer… He had no choice. Her red eyes, circled with black, pinpointed with black too, compelled him to respond. "Phillip…" he managed. "Rockley…"
Her eyes widened in shock; her control slipped. Sharp nails dug into his scalp and into the upper arm she held. "You are Rockley? Married to Victoria?"
Faintly, above the rushing in his ears, he heard a desperate 'No.'" but Pesaro's groan could not stop him from responding, "Yes."
The woman vampire smiled, looking at him. Her fangs were long and pretty. He wanted them on him, in him. His cock throbbed in anticipation. He drew in a deep breath when she bent to his flesh. She teased him for a moment, her lips, her tongue, her fangs nicking, nibbling. "That changes things," she murmured, and sank her fangs into his ear.
He groaned as pleasure and pain stormed through him… like nothing he'd felt before. Warm liquid dripped on his neck; he could smell it—smell it on her breath when she came back to his mouth. He wanted to breathe it too.
"I won't have to kill you now." She drew in a long breath and exhaled, slowly, delicately… breathing warm into his flesh and blood as she sank her teeth into his shoulder.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Marquess, the Venator, and the Innkeeper Go Missing
Victoria had just returned to St. Heath's Row after a dinner party at Grantworth House when the message arrived.
She'd been hard-pressed to explain to her mother why her new husband hadn't attended with her; and it was even more difficult to extricate herself from the after-dinner socializing… but she had pleaded exhaustion. Apparently the blue-black circles under her eyes were enough to convince her mother that she was unfit for a late night. And if Lady Melly believed the reason was due to an impending happy event, well, Victoria was too heartsick to fight with her on it.
Thus, she had just begun to unpin her hair when the messenger arrived to deliver a note.
She didn't recognize the handwriting, but the seal was gold and bore the imprint of a bold V surrounded by trellises and cups. It could be from only one person… she tore it open.
I am in possession of something of apparent value to you, although your actions in my coach led me to believe otherwise. He will be safe until you arrive. You have my word.
S.
His word?
She threw the note on her dresser and called for Verbena to help her change. A visit to the Silver Chalice required some preparation.