He is her captor. She is his soul… Princes of the Underground, Book 2 When Blaise Sevliss, Lord Delraven, rescues a young woman from the clutches of his vampiritic clone the sheer amount of soul energy blazing from her unconscious body stuns him…and awakens a primal, parasitic hunger he has fought for centuries to quell. Determined to keep her safe from the ravenous Scourge horde, Blaise must hide her in his underground stronghold. Where the powerful urge to consume her gnaws at the last shreds of his control. With a touch, Isabel Lanscourt can divine the darkest of secrets. Her ability is little help, though, when she awakens in a lush world where sensuality rules. Her shining spirit is a beacon to all the powerful immortals in Sanctuary, but only one can touch her. The enigmatic Lord Delraven, whose brusque coldness is belied by the heated need in his eyes. In a dangerous zone between temptation and memory, desire ignites an explosion of luminescent beauty. And Isabel’s healing touch begins to fill his emptiness with an impossible gift: a soul. But Blaise holds a dangerous secret, one that could extinguish Isabel’s inner light. And cast his lonely world into eternal darkness. Warning: Step into a sensual world of vampires who love to feed and love to…er…feast, where sexual variety is the spice of their lives. No sweetness and light here, this is one vampire who can put the “B” into “bad guy” without batting an eye.
eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work. This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental. Samhain Publishing, Ltd. 11821 Mason Montgomery Road Suite 4B Cincinnati OH 45249 Silken Rapture Copyright © 2011 by Beth Kery ISBN: 978-1-60928-675-0 Edited by Sue Ellen Gower Cover by Kanaxa All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: November 2011 www.samhainpublishing.com
Silken Rapture Beth Kery
Dedication
My thanks to my husband for his consistent support and my editor, for having faith in the project.
Prologue
Human beings live in ignorance of the fact that they are dependent on the earth’s energies to nourish and sustain their spirit. But the planet’s soul is affected by the spiritual cataclysm of powerful living beings as well. At the same moment that Chicago’s underground tunnels shook with the final battle of the Iniskium warriors and the bloodthirsty Scourge revenants, the earth also heaved beneath the city of London. The earth exposed a vein in offering—an ancient, powerful crystal obelisk thrust through the dark world of underground London. In the moment Saint Sevliss earned his soul, he won that same potential for one of his brothers as well. Blaise Sevliss—Lord Delraven—has been given the chance to claim his humanity if he possesses the strength to win the one woman who can grant him a soul.
Chapter One
Morshiel’s eyes remained glued to the mortal woman as the ghost fellated him. It was a little like staring at the brilliant, blazing sun while the moon made love to you. He lay on the plush carpet gazing fixedly at the captive female. Life, he thought greedily. For Morshiel, life and the woman were one and same. The ghost who pleasured his cock was named Shirian, and she was the conduit between life and death. Her lithe, golden-brown body stretched between the woman and him, the sole of her foot pressed to the captive’s ankle, her belly flush against the carpet the human drudge had laid on the platform. Shirian’s mouth kissed him to life. Unimaginable energy surged into his cock and up his spine. His flesh sang like a harp plucked by an archangel. Shirian was a petulant Princess of Egypt who was doomed to wander underground London as a shade after her coffin had been jarred loose in a defunct Tube tunnel near the British Museum. Morshiel had long admired her, but until tonight, she’d only been beautifully shaped vapor to him. He’d always approved of Shirian’s keen intelligence and ruthless ambition. He’d been doubtful about her plan to kidnap the psychic who was touring English universities. But then Morshiel had caught sight of the stunning human female and he’d become obsessed with Shirian’s plan. Isabel Lanscourt. Unfortunately, Shirian was not pleased that he focused all his attention on Isabel, and not her.
Beth Kery
“Stop staring at her,” Shirian snapped. Morshiel dragged his eyes off the frozen essence of beauty. When two of his human drudges had forced Isabel into contact with the gigantic crystal obelisk, the psychic’s body had jerked and then frozen into immobility. She’d begun to vibrate subtly, unable to move while vast amounts of energy poured through her. A low, melodious hum—an amplified version of the earth’s song—filled the underground chamber. It was the most sublime sound Morshiel had ever heard in his centuries of existence. Isabel had begun to glow, emanating massive amounts of vitessence, the energy that surrounded and resonated from all living beings, the energy Morshiel lacked and must steal from humans in order to live. He typically absorbed the energy first through the sex juices and later through their blood as he drained them of life. Humans were merely put on this earth to serve him, after all—cattle to satiate his hunger. But Isabel Lanscourt was no typical human. Most would have been killed by the shock of massive energy the crystal obelisk provided. Isabel’s body channeled it, amplified it exponentially. She would be Morshiel’s personal, private generator of vitessence. He bathed in the life force, became drunk on its potency. “Do you want me to stop?” Shirian asked, irritation spiking her richly accented voice. When he didn’t respond, but merely continued to stare at Isabel, enraptured, Shirian moved her naked foot off Isabel’s ankle. One second, he bathed in glorious vitessence. The next, he was left empty and hollow as a tomb. It was a pain unlike anything he’d ever known. “Put it back, bitch.”
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He saw Shirian blink, even though she’d altered from flesh to a bluish mist in a second. He could barely make out her misty features, but he knew Shirian had been surprised—and yes, intimidated—by the strength of his anger. How dare a weak, ephemeral little phantom deprive him of his legacy? A second later, Shirian’s foot came back into contact with Isabel’s leg. His head fell back on the carpeted floor as energy jolted through him, the nirvana of it making him want to forget everything else but Isabel. But he couldn’t be so foolish. Not when Shirian threatened a pout. He lifted his head and met the sloe-eyed beauty’s gaze. Her lips appeared puffy and red from sucking his cock so vigorously. Her cheeks had grown pink from arousal. He touched her flawless face and felt heat. “Blood flows through your veins, Shirian?” “I know not,” she whispered, her throat roughened from taking his cock deep. “I only know that I have not felt so alive for four thousand years and more.” He ran his fingers through coal-black hair and palmed her skull, urging her back to her task. “Then you will take the word of a bloodsucker that vitessence runs through your veins, Princess. I will taste it on my tongue.” Her smile was a flirt and a snarl. “Not before I taste your come on mine.” He returned her smile and pressed on her head, watching her steadily as she spread her lips and vacuumed him into her humid heat. He managed—with effort—to
keep
his
eyes
glued
to
Shirian’s
increasingly
enthusiastic
maneuverings instead of the hypnotic vision of Isabel Lanscourt. It was arousing to watch an unparalleled beauty suck his cock like a waif tasting strawberry soda through a straw for the first time. But Morshiel could have almost any sexual pleasure he desired. He had experienced almost every sexual pleasure
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imaginable. He’d grown as weary of his gluttony on sex as an obese man grows tired of the chains that tie him to food. But this experience…this was singular. His body shimmered with energy, the last stopping place of a conduit running from the earth’s mighty soul to the strange crystal obelisk that had erupted from nowhere after a minor earthquake several weeks ago. It traveled like a current from the crystal to Isabel’s body, to Shirian’s foot which touched Isabel. It ran like electricity from Shirian’s sucking, pistoning mouth, to his straining cock, up his spine and straight into Morshiel’s pulsing brain. He would crush his clone, Blaise, with this newfound power. Shirian strove to push her lips farther down the column of his cock, but her throat had taken on all the sensitivities of human flesh and refused him entry. She gagged and bobbed her head rapidly over the first half of his length, as though in apology for her shortcoming. Morshiel tightened his hold on the thick, lustrous hair at her nape. “Come now. My most hideous Scourge revenant, Roberto, gives head better than that. Egyptian princess,” he hissed scathingly. “Show me the filthy little whore who resides in your royal flesh.” Her eyes flashed up at him defiantly. He chuckled when he saw her fury, knowing she would accept the dare because it was in her nature. He knew she was aroused, as well. He was typically so contained, so noble in his manner when he interacted with his servants. Each and every one of them loved it when they were chosen to give him pleasure, but few ever witnessed him acting without perfect manners. If they did, it was the last thing they saw before Morshiel took off their head. Shirian stilled her gag reflex this time and slid him into her throat, her nostrils flaring as she gasped for air. He moaned in pleasure as her throat
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tightened around his cockhead and energy poured up his spine and quickened his flesh. “Yes. That’s how you please your master,” he muttered between clenched teeth before he began to erupt into her throat. He held her down on him, even when she balked and tried to eject his convulsing cock so that she could breathe. After an ecstatic moment, he released his grip, allowing her to jerk off him while she caught her breath. Her head fell to his belly as she gasped wildly for air. “You bloody bastard,” Shirian rasped after a moment. “I thought you prided yourself on being such a gentleman.” He laughed, feeling wonderful. Better than he’d ever felt in his life. In fact, it was quite possible he’d never felt anything in his life until he’d experienced the soul-energy of the woman. “You don’t want a gentleman, ghost. If you do, better haunt my clone, not me.” “Blaise is a beast,” Shirian replied. “Everyone says so. Lord Delraven is a glorious beast.” Morshiel’s smile faded when Shirian mentioned his clone’s name in a tone of longing. He—Morshiel—who was so deserving of a title, had never been conferred that honor despite throwing away vast amounts of money on philanthropic efforts that might gain royal notice. Instead, it was his insufferable clone who had won the title centuries ago for saving that royal Italian bitch. Why did Blaise always garner all the attention? “I am his twin in looks,” he told Shirian, made jealous by the gleam of longing in the beauty’s eyes. She studied him with a sharp gaze. “Technically, yes. Your appearance is much more…urbane, shall we say? Why do you shave your head, when you could have Delraven’s equal in hair?”
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He caressed his smooth skull and shrugged with forced casualness. “If your twin was also your enemy, would you not want to differentiate your appearance?” It was his secret that his hair—when long—seemed to possess nerve-endings. Stroking it could send him to shivering in mindless pleasure. He did not relish the idea of another being potentially holding such control over him. He had grabbed his clone’s hair in battle many times, and was dismayed to realize Blaise didn’t seem to have the particular sensitivity. In what other ways had Usan created Blaise and him differently? It made him uneasy to consider that question. “What do you mean when you say Lord Delraven is a gentleman when it comes to this,” she dropped her gaze to his satiated cock significantly. “Blaise is nauseatingly careful when he takes a lover. I hear from his onetime meals that he even refuses to fuck them, although he assures their pleasure, many times over. It’s ludicrous. He allows his lovers to live. You have never haunted Blaise while he feeds, apparently,” Morshiel said with a sneer. “Not for lack of trying,” Shirian whispered. Morshiel grunted in irritation, knowing what she meant. “Yes, Usan guards Sanctuary with powerful wards,” he said, referring to the Magian overlord who cared for Blaise like a favorite pet while he largely left Morshiel to suffer his fate. Sanctuary was Blaise’s protected territory, an inverted skyscraper that burrowed sixty stories beneath London’s busy streets. How he despised his bloody clone for all the favoritism Usan showed him. Hatred rose like a hissing snake rearing in his chest. To calm himself, Morshiel transferred his gaze to the miraculous sight of Isabel touching the magical crystal. It hadn’t taken him long to understand that he couldn’t touch the strange crystal himself. It hadn’t killed him to touch it, as it had the Scourge
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revenants—the creatures he’d made near-immortal over the centuries. He’d forced two revenants to touch it, and then watched dispassionately as they writhed in horror and putrid blisters rose and popped, tearing their skin to shreds. It had wounded his flesh for Morshiel to come into direct contact with the crystal, but he was more powerful than the Scourge, and he had survived. In the end, he’d used one of his human drudges to manipulate the crystal—a mortal man who fell in with his band in return for drugs. That, and the opportunity to keep his worthless life. It pained both him and the revenants to touch Isabel. That simple fact dismayed him. The purpose of his existence had quickly altered within hours, within minutes of casting his gaze upon her. His sole reason for living would be to possess Isabel Lanscourt. Not in the way he did now. He would not rest until he found a way to touch her, to claim her. Anything. He would do anything to make that happen. As a ghost, Shirian could channel Isabel’s energy into him. It was not enough, but even this watered-down version of vitessence was an ecstasy he’d never imagined. He longed to feel Isabel’s vitessence flow into him skin to skin, to bury himself in heaven… He distractedly placed his hands on the satiny skin of Shirian’s shoulders and slid his body down beneath hers until they lay belly to belly, his eyes never leaving the brilliant image of Isabel. “If you don’t look at me this instant, you soulless bastard, I believe I’ll have to scratch the itch on my foot…” His gaze zoomed to Shirian’s face. She regarded him with triumph. If he hadn’t already cast eyes on Isabel, he’d think he gazed upon the loveliest creature in existence. Shirian was also one of the most deadly. She had once confessed to him during a late-night chat that she had conspired during her
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life to have more than three hundred people murdered. Sixteen of that number she’d killed with her own ruby-studded dagger. One of the sixteen had been her newborn son. And that didn’t begin to take into account the number of people she’d murdered by way of madness since she’d been freed from a curse that bound her spirit within her sarcophagus. The director of the museum had ordered that countless relics be relocated to the unused British Museum station tube-tunnels for safety during the Nazi blitz of London during World War II. A clumsy employee had liberated Shirian’s spirit from an Egyptian priest’s curse by tripping as he carried her sarcophagus down some stairs, dropping Shirian’s coffin and jolting the ancient, magical seal that protected the living from her virulent spirit. Shirian had taken her share of human lives since that time. She sulked too much, granted, but there was no doubt in Morshiel’s mind that she was Shirian the Magnificent. Her skin glowed as luminously as her dark eyes. Her breasts heaved as she tried to catch her breath. Morshiel plucked at an erect nipple, spying a blue vein beneath golden-brown skin. “I see your vitessence glow around you like subtle moonlight,” he crooned to her. “I smell your blood.” Her pulse leapt at her throat, making his mouth water. “It is true? I live?” she asked. “We both live. I have a soul and you have a body—as long as we have the woman and crystal to sustain us.” He had shivered at the hollow, ghostly sound of Shirian’s laughter in the past. Now it sounded low and sultry as it vibrated through blood-warmed flesh.
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He joined her in her mirth as he bared his fangs and pushed a tender breast toward his mouth. “Yes, taste life on your tongue, my beautiful prince,” Shirian murmured huskily as she arched her back. She palmed her breast from below, freely offering the miracle of her reborn flesh and blood. He leaned forward, greedy to taste the paradox of ghost’s blood, hungry for her vitessence. Her triumphant moment was interrupted by a fierce cold wind, the tramping paws and pants of wolves, and the furious howl of an attacking beast.
Blaise gave the signal for attack. Aubrey Cane leapt in human form and transformed to a wolf in midair. Most of his faithful followers, the Literati, also shifted into wolves, but he himself remained as a man, his heartluster gripped tightly in his hand. He rarely fought as his wolf-self when his clone was near, and Morshiel was definitely in the vicinity. He sensed his clone’s location behind six Scourge revenants—three canids, two bloodboars and a prowler that guarded the unused portion of tunnel near the British Museum platform. The Scourge were only capable of shapeshifting into these three types of foul, deadly creatures, while their master—Morshiel—could transform into many forms of demon animals. Blaise sensed something else besides his clone, an energy that stunned him and left him wary…disbelieving. The low, melodious hum of the earth singing thrilled his flesh. Nothing could create that much power. What in hell’s farthest reaches had Morshiel done? He grasped the handle of his heartluster—the magical short-sword was the only thing that could weaken and subdue his clone—and charged through the
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melee of snarling wolf-Literati and Scourge revenants. From the periphery of his vision, he noticed that David Kwan had also chosen to fight in his human form. A bloodboar opened its slimy maw from behind David, about to sink its razorsharp teeth into his shoulder as David fought a canid with a scimitar. Blaise slashed with his heartluster in a sideways motion, never pausing to see the effect of his action because he knew he’d just decapitated the bloodboar as sure as he knew the foul scent of revenant blood and decaying flesh in his nose. “Thanks,” David called before he slashed with his scimitar and the canid howled in fury and pain. “Don’t thank me. Fight,” Blaise shouted, not looking back. He broke through the crumbling revenant defenses and strode onto the tube platform. What he saw there confused him. A crystal protruded between the rails of the unused train track, the pointed end of it thrusting up next to the concrete platform. It was enormous, the exposed portion sixteen feet long and three feet wide at the bottom. What truly shocked him was the vision of the woman touching the crystal. She glowed like a captured star. He had a fleeting image of another woman, this one naked. She gave him a quick glance—both haughty and curious at once— before she disappeared. Had she been a ghost? For a split second she’d looked so real. Morshiel sprang up from the platform, his fangs protruding between a snarl. He grasped for his pants, which had been shoved halfway down his thighs, and extracted his heartluster in one fluid motion. Blaise roared and flew at his clone. They crashed together like two opposing tidal waves, rebounding backward before they sprang again, teeth bared in bloodlust. They thrust and parried so rapidly that the sound their heartlusters made blended into a seamless metallic hiss, a sinister background noise for the
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vicious cacophony of growls and shrieks that bounced off the tunnel walls. Morshiel fought with uncommon strength and fervor tonight, shocking Blaise. What had made his clone so strong? Morshiel forced him back against the edge of the platform, a manic, wild expression on his face. The concrete beneath Blaise’s boots crumbled and he lost his balance. Morshiel pushed his heartluster with so much strength that Blaise tottered at the edge of the platform. Blaise halted the blade a mere inch away from his chest, but it took all his strength to hold the block. He was falling…falling. His heart pounded against his breastbone frantically, as if it suspected it was on its last beats. He’d dreamed of a moment just like this countless times over the centuries. What would it be like to die beneath Morshiel’s blade? It was the only thing that could end Blaise’s life, after all. The mandate to control Morshiel had been set into his very blood—a biological order he could not ignore—but his clone was the only one who could grant Blaise relief from this endless, pointless, soulless existence. He met his clone’s eyes in that stretched second and saw not his murderer, but the beneficent angel of death. He longed to embrace him, to be comforted in turn. His gaze flickered ever so briefly to the vision of the luminous woman. Although she stood completely still, her body vibrated with energy. “She’s mine, you freak of nature,” Morshiel grated out between clenched jaws. A white-hot fury erupted in Blaise’s brain. He roared like a cornered lion, the sound drowning out the noise of battle that surrounded them. He let his body move with the momentum of his fall, pushing mightily off the platform away from Morshiel. His feet flew over his head in a somersault, only to strike the far side of the tunnel. He vaulted back toward the platform like a missile, causing
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Morshiel to retreat, a surprised expression on his face. He struck a hammering downward blow on Morshiel’s raised sword hand and plunged his heartluster toward Morshiel’s chest. He grunted at the sensation of the metal tip sinking into flesh. As a Sevliss prince—one of the surviving six—it had been predetermined by forces greater than Blaise that he could not kill his clone, but he could weaken him. Morshiel let out an unearthly shriek. Suddenly he was changing, altering form and rising off the tube platform. Blaise stood and watched as the giant demonbird beat its membranous wings and headed away from the platform down the dark tunnel. Morshiel let out another blood-curdling shriek in his shifter form, calling his followers to him. Blaise leapt onto the platform in time to behead a canid and a prowler in two vicious passes of his heartluster. Dark red, viscous blood flew into the air, but Blaise sidestepped both sprays with the ease of long experience. Revenant blood burned exposed skin like acid. He stared at the man and woman who took the loathsome creatures places, recognizing Morshiel’s soldiers—Anthony Shrivencraft and Amory Doyle. They would not be rejoining their master now. He anxiously counted the remaining Literati—both wolves and men. Aubrey Cane transformed back into his human form, his clothes intact. Blaise wished he could master that trick, but Aubrey was a gifted magician—had been since the moment Blaise first met him three and a half centuries ago. Transforming into human form fully clothed was the least of Aubrey’s manifold skills. Aubrey knelt next to a large pale gray wolf that lay inert on the platform. He touched the blood-matted fur and muttered some words in Latin. The wolf jerked and whined.
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“Mallory will be all right. He got the worst of us all,” Aubrey said as he walked from one wolf to another, assessing and bringing each creature relief like a doctor on a battlefield. He stood and approached Blaise after a moment. Aubrey was one of the few males Blaise knew who matched his height, putting them eye to eye. “We did well, thanks to you. Shrivencraft, Doyle, Allenshare, Mason and Solerin,” he said, referring to the revenants—walking, blood-drinking, sentient corpses—they’d killed. “Morshiel turned Shrivencraft five hundred and thirty-two years ago,” Blaise said flatly, his gaze now glued to the awesome sight of the woman touching the crystal. “He suffers no more,” Aubrey said, following Blaise’s stare. “Who…what is she?” “I don’t know. But whatever she is, Morshiel wants her. So that means I’m taking her.” Aubrey nodded. Blaise had stated the obvious. They would never consider leaving such a powerful creature in Morshiel’s hands. “The amount of vitessence coming off her and that crystal,” Aubrey mumbled. His gray eyes narrowed and glazed as he stared. “It’s not possible.” They both approached the light-infused woman. For the first time, Blaise noticed she wore one long black glove on the arm that hung at her side. He bent to pick up its mate which had been discarded on the concrete platform. He gripped the cheap, synthetic fabric convulsively. His nostrils flared. Her scent filled him. She was so illuminated he had a strange feeling that if he removed the purple evening dress she wore, he’d be able to see inside her, see her very heart
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beating out a rapid, desperate tattoo. His own heart felt as if someone had just reached into his chest and squeezed it without mercy. “The connection is hurting her.” He reached to detach her from the crystal, but Aubrey stopped him with a hand on his forearm. “No. I don’t believe the soulless can touch her without harm.” Blaise understood. If they were the soulless, this woman was the very essence of a rarified soul. Differences repelled. His heart throbbed in pain. He threw his friend’s hand off his forearm. His eyes sprang wide when he grasped her wrist. He had the disoriented thought that the crystal was an electrical conduit, for an enormous shock went through him. The woman’s back arched and she screamed. For the eternal second before he broke the conduit, a rapture filled him unlike anything he’d ever known. It was as if her very soul slammed into his consciousness in one powerful pulse of energy. He blinked. The woman fell limply into his arms, unconscious. He checked her pulse, exhaling in relief when he felt her rapid but strong heartbeat. She will never be able to leave Sanctuary, he thought numbly as he lifted her limp form. Her days of freedom had come to an end the second Morshiel had learned of her existence. From now until the end of her days, this woman would either be hunted or captured. Better that he—Blaise—was the one to hold her captive. He moved his hand subtly on her hip. The dress she wore wasn’t expensive. As the owner of the largest silk factory in Europe, Blaise knew fabrics. He knew the sensation of vitessence better. The dress might be cheap, but that couldn’t begin to disguise the purity and strength of the woman’s soul-energy.
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Michael Lord, one of the Literati, approached, buttoning up the jeans he’d dropped on the platform before he’d transformed. He paused a few feet away, staring at the woman in his arms in opened-mouthed awe. “No, don’t—” Blaise uttered harshly, but too late. Michael strode forward and placed his hand on the woman’s upper arm. He flinched back in pain. Aubrey grabbed Michael’s hand and examined the reddening palm, looking alarmed and interested at once. Fear could never completely diminish Aubrey’s vast scientific curiosity. Blaise craned to see what Aubrey examined. A small blister broke the surface of Michael’s palm. Michael appeared to be in no great pain or distress, merely confused about what had just happened. “He’ll be all right,” Aubrey declared, releasing Michael’s hand. “It’s a small burn, almost as if the woman was radioactive to him. The burn is already healing, given Michael’s nature,” Aubrey said, referring to Michael’s status as one of the Literati. Near immortality and the ability to heal rapidly were only two of the Literati’s inhuman powers. The humans Morshiel embraced might transform into bloodthirsty, foul Scourge revenants. On the rare occasions throughout the centuries when Blaise had embraced a human, however, the man retained the nobility of his human spirit and gained the savage grace of the wolf. “Why did you do that?” Blaise growled at Michael. “She might have destroyed you.” Michael flushed and looked downward, showing him only the crown of his chestnut brown hair. “Don’t blame him too harshly,” Aubrey said. “He did what any of us would do. She beckons like a magnet to Literati blood. She’s like a fountain of vitessence that would never run dry.”
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Blaise’s nostrils flared in anger when he noticed Aubrey’s hungry stare on the female. Maybe Michael’s impulsiveness wasn’t for naught. Better the Literati knew the truth. Nature had given the woman some form of protection from immortal hunger. “Do you think she can harm the Literati from a distance?” he asked Aubrey. Aubrey shook his head. “No, you shouldn’t take my analogy of radioactivity too far. Only touching her will cause cellular damage at the site of contact,” his gaze flickered curiously over Blaise’s hands cupping the woman’s hip and waist, “at least for most of us.” A strange sense of satisfaction tore through Blaise, twining with his bewilderment over the fact that he could touch the woman. He was as soulless as the Literati, whom he had turned immortal to save from the ravages of the bubonic plague. He was as soulless as the revenants Morshiel daily created through murder by excessive blood drinking. He was as damned as Morshiel himself. But he could touch her. “Spread the word among the Literati that it is forbidden to touch her.” Aubrey nodded. “Find out who she is,” Blaise told Michael. “The more information we have, the better. Morshiel won’t rest until he has her once again.” Michael nodded, seeming relieved that Blaise was willing to move past his earlier impulsiveness. Blaise glanced at Aubrey. “Send out a scouting party to see if they can catch Morshiel’s scent. Bring the crystal to Sanctuary. Protect it, Aubrey,” he added under his breath. “It provides more vitessence than blood. It won’t take Morshiel long to recover from his wound and decide to reclaim it.” “And the woman?” Aubrey asked. “She has my protection.”
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Aubrey nodded. Michael gave the woman one last glance of incredulous longing before he stared once again at his reddened palm. “Fool,” Blaise muttered under his breath. He walked down the platform toward the dark tunnel in the distance, refusing to look into his captive’s face. If he did, he’d turn into as much a fool as Michael. If he did, he might never look away.
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Chapter Two
Margaret Turrow, his human housekeeper, turned when he entered the bedroom. “Keep your voice down,” she warned with a glare. Blaise curled the side of his upper lip in a menacing gesture. It didn’t mean anything. It was just a habit. He still snarled at Margaret, even after she’d been in his service twenty-eight years. True, a quarter of a century was nothing to him, but sometimes it seemed he’d known Margaret as long as he’d known Aubrey. The woman deserved his respect, if only for the fact that she’d put up with him for all that time. The Literati had good reason to be wary of Blaise’s dark moods, but Margaret knew for a fact she could do nearly whatever she pleased in Sanctuary and Blaise would only bark at her for her impertinence before he let her do whatever she wanted. Most of the time, anyway. He walked around the four-poster bed where Margaret sat. He hadn’t seen the woman when he entered because the posts were draped in a white diaphanous fabric, blocking his vision. She lay on the amber silk sheets completely nude with the exception of the two elbow-length black gloves. He came to a halt as if he’d just realized he was about to walk off a cliff. “She still hasn’t awakened,” Margaret said as she raised a sponge from a basin of water and squeezed. The sound of the trickling liquid barely penetrated his consciousness. He followed the glistening trail of dampness as it swept along the curve of a hip to a narrow waist, and then along the woman’s ribs. The
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sponge whisked against the smooth skin of a small, perfectly shaped breast before Margaret withdrew it and dipped it again in her bowl of water. The contrast between pale skin and the dark hair between her thighs was electrifying. The pink, relaxed nipples also stood out markedly atop creamy flesh. No wonder Morshiel wanted her so much. It was like staring at life distilled. For a full five seconds Blaise sensed her blood zooming through her veins, thousands upon thousands of rich rivers nourishing sweet flesh. Her heartbeat throbbed in the center of his brain, calling him, pulling him. For a stretched moment, he couldn’t breathe. With extreme effort, he jerked his gaze off her. He blinked in disbelief when he realized his incisors were extended. Sweat had gathered on his upper lip. And he was harder than stone. Thankfully, Margaret was still turned away. “Why the gloves?” he asked. Margaret threw an admonishing glance over her shoulder, still washing the girl’s belly. Apparently he’d spoken too loudly for a sickbed. “She becomes restless when I remove them,” Margaret said. “Worse than restless—agitated—although she still doesn’t awaken. Do you have any idea why that might be?” Blaise kept his gaze on Margaret. He didn’t look at the woman again for the entire meeting. “No idea,” he said. Margaret’s blue eyes sharpened on him. “She is powerful, though. Isn’t she?” He quirked up one brow. “When did you start to sense vitessence?” he asked wryly, referring to the life force that surrounded all living beings. The woman who lay naked on the bed had the most powerful vitessence he’d ever seen in his five hundred and fifty plus years on the planet. Her energy was even more powerful than Elysse’s had been.
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He could see vitessence with his physical eyes, although a human like Margaret could not. This woman’s was a brilliant gold shot through with millions of minute specks of zipping, flickering white light. He saw it now, from the corner of his vision. It beckoned him, taunted him. Like Morshiel, he was a vitessence-parasite. He sustained his physical body by drinking blood or sex juices—bodily fluids infused with the energy of the spirit. As one of the soulless, Blaise possessed no vitessence, but his craving for it was every bit as powerful as his degenerate clone’s. “I don’t have to see her aura to sense she’s special,” Margaret said dismissively. “Is that why you brought her to Sanctuary?” “I brought her here because Morshiel wants her. Perhaps you’ve noticed it’s in my nature to deny Morshiel anything he wants.” Margaret sniffed. “Aubrey says she’ll come to if we just give it time. For now, it’s best for her to rest. What do you plan to do with her?” “Do with her?” Blaise asked roughly. “I don’t plan to do anything with her.” “She’ll be relieved to hear that, I’ll wager,” Margaret said under her breath. “One does not do anything to a prisoner, save keep them imprisoned.” Margaret glanced around sharply. “Prisoner?” “I said it, didn’t I?” he barked. Margaret looked for a moment as if she might argue. This time, his snarl wasn’t meant for show. Margaret’s response was to frown a threat right back at him. “I’ll not keep her behind bars. She’ll have some freedom. I’ll eventually have to take her to Delraven, I suppose,” he growled, referring to his country estate in Scotland. A woman such as she will wreak havoc among the Literati. For now, just see to it that she stays far away from me.”
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“That shouldn’t be too difficult,” Margaret said as she drew the silk sheet over the woman’s body. “No woman in her right mind would seek you out voluntarily with that savage manner of yours…unless she had an invitation to your bed.” A smile tickled at his mouth, but he did not succumb to the fancy. “You work at Sanctuary of your own free will and you have never shared my bed. What does that say about you?” “Most would say I’m a great fool, but I say I’m the greatest of saints,” Margaret muttered under her breath. Her words made him recall that he must contact his brother, Saint Sevliss. He’d video-conferenced with Saint just this morning, and it was because of that communication that Blaise had known something was amiss at the unused British Museum tunnel. How had Saint known about the powerful crystal appearing in London when he resided in Chicago? Something wasn’t right, and it wasn’t just him who thought so. The other Sevliss princes shared his confusion and suspicion. Saint had been strange and elusive in his communications for several weeks now—ever since he’d somehow accomplished the impossible and vanquished his clone, Teslar. He became distracted from his thoughts by the vision of Margaret standing and briskly tucking the blanket around the slender woman. She made a shooing motion, as if he were an annoying flea instead of a six-foot-five-inch, nearly twohundred-pound male. “You hang about a great deal for someone who says he wants to be left alone. Be gone with you. Let her rest in peace. She’ll have enough to deal with upon awakening.”
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Isabel shifted her limbs as she arose from her dreams and found herself swimming in silk. Her lips curved in pleasure. As the daughter of a Pennsylvania coal miner, she had only recently tasted luxury. And this was a delicious luxury— something even her newly born fame hadn’t afforded her as of yet. Funny, she recalled seeing her room at the Ritz before she attended the demonstration at King’s College, but she didn’t recall such decadent sheets on the bed. Her eyelids popped open. For a full ten seconds, she lay there immobile, only her eyes moving around in a wary reconnaissance. She was dreaming. She was definitely dreaming. She lay in the middle of a chamber that was so exquisite, so decadently grand, she might have awakened in one of the Medici’s Renaissance palazzos. She couldn’t tell if it was night or day, the chocolate-brown velvet draperies and amber silk panels were so luxurious and thick. Her gaze skimmed across the hand-painted frescoes on the domed ceiling—the artistry unlike anything she’d ever seen. The eye could get lost in the elaborate details of the plaster moldings. It would be like awakening in a Medici Renaissance palazzo if it weren’t for the modern conveniences, she thought to herself when she saw the enormous carved wood entertainment center and the fully stocked, granite-topped wet bar. I can just imagine what a Snickers would put me back in this hotel. The thought steadied her, made it possible for her to whisk back the amber silk sheets and sit up. She refused to acknowledge the other thought that slunk like a black shadow in the background. This is no hotel you ever checked into. It was difficult to banish that frightening thought when she realized she was naked, save for her black velvet gloves. She’d bought the gloves, along with a
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sophisticated evening dress, for the reception at King’s College. At least whoever had removed her clothes had the common sense to leave her the protection of her gloves. The car wreck a year and a half ago had marked a turning point in her life in more ways than one. She’d been in a coma for six months before she awakened, but when she did, everything was different. Not only could she sense other people’s auras and sometimes read minds—abilities she’d possessed for as long as she had memory—she’d somehow acquired a terrifying new power. With just a touch of her hands and fingertips, Isabel would learn an object’s history through flashes of the identity and feelings of those who had handled the item. Unfortunately, what often came through with the most clarity were violent and traumatic events associated with the object. Touching other people could be worse. Far worse. She had never known the amount of pain, loneliness, lust, hatred, fury and sadness a human being could possibly harbor beneath skin and bone until she’d awakened from that coma. The knowledge had tipped Isabel’s known, familiar world off its axis. Lester Dee, a professor from New York University, had sought her out a year after she’d left the hospital. He’d read an article about her abilities as a psychometrist and tried to locate her for six months. When he found her, she’d been living in a halfway house, malnourished, depressed and straddling the threshold between life and death. Who wanted to live when touching objects, and especially fellow human beings, could be pure agony? She was destined to die alone. Lester had lifted her out of the abyss, helped her find ways to cope with her new ability even as he studied it and shared his findings with her. Lester had been the reason she was making a tour of universities in the United Kingdom. His research articles on her abilities had gained great interest as well as
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controversy in the academic community. She’d always wanted to see England, so she’d been more than happy to accompany Lester so that he could validate his claims. One thing Isabel had learned when it came to anything paranormal— scholars never believed without seeing proof firsthand, and they rarely believed even then. Was Lester in this grand establishment as well? She squinted, trying to locate memories in her brain. It was a little like grasping for a feather in an unfamiliar, pitch-black room. Fear rose in her, causing a bitter taste at the back of her throat. She stood, pausing a moment while she steadied herself with a hand on the mattress. It wasn’t a normal dizziness. Strangely, she felt overly energized, not drained, as if she’d just drunk a potent stimulant. The room spun and then resolved into magnificent grandeur once again. She spied a carved door and staggered toward it. Inside, she discovered a closet that was larger than her apartment bedroom. The closet led to a bathroom, she observed, peering through the door. Only two garments hung on the empty clothes rack in the closet—her purple dress and a soft microfiber robe. She grabbed her dress and hurriedly donned it, eager for even that flimsy bit of armor when she felt so vulnerable. Her heart began to pound uncomfortably in her chest. Now that her dazed disorientation was lifting, panic was quickly rushing in to take its place. Had Lester brought her here? The memory of her mentor’s tatty tweed blazers and generous heart, yet emaciated pocketbook, didn’t make the possibility seem likely.
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She rushed back into the bedroom. The wet-bar was well-stocked with premium liquor and wine. She flipped open drawer after draw and finally found what she wanted. The small, sharp knife in her hand didn’t make her feel any safer, but it steadied her. She opened the bedroom door and stepped warily onto an open landing. Her feet struck cold, hard marble. She rushed down the remainder of the hallway into a vast foyer with a domed ceiling. The ornate balustrade she passed was so white it might have been carved from snow crystals. She didn’t draw a breath as she flew down the grand staircase, her bare feet making her descent eerily silent. She reached the bottom and found herself standing in a circular gallery with multiple doorways leading off it and magnificent tapestries and paintings adorning the walls. She purposely pricked one of her fingertips with the small knife. Pain flashed through her, sharp but quickly gone. No. She wasn’t dreaming. Isabel had grown up in Lettering, Pennsylvania—a gray, meager, mean little town. She’d never seen colors, textures and riches as she did in that moment, let alone dreamed them. Yes, she’d seen true wonders since arriving in England six weeks ago, and her visions while touching objects often revealed wondrous places. But those were other people’s memories, other people’s lives… …and none of them even compared to this. She stilled and raised her knife when she heard male voices in the distance then a woman’s laughter. Her rabid curiosity to understand how she’d ended up in such a wondrous house outweighed her fear at waking up in a strange place with a large black hole in her memory. She eased into the narrow opening in the wood paneled doors and peered cautiously into the room.
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It was a salon, of sorts—large, but made intimate with a roaring fire and multiple seating areas furnished with rich, plush fabrics on the chairs and sofas. Closest to her she saw a man with a patrician, handsome face twisted into dissatisfaction as he looked at something outside of Isabel’s vision. She started when she fully took in his aura. It was…bizarre. Unlike anything she’d ever seen—more like an inverse of an aura, like a film negative. He wore a crisp white shirt and a wool scarf tied artfully around his neck. His straight-legged black pants were modern enough— actually quite chic—as were his highly polished black shoes. He spoke adamantly. “Not that tint for her breast, you fool!” “Now you are a master painter as well, Cane? Being a master of magic and architecture and alchemy and medicine isn’t enough for you, you are now the master of Lorenzo Titurino?” An Italian-accented voice boomed in fury from the part of the room Isabel couldn’t see. A woman laughed. “Well, Aubrey is a Renaissance man, after all, Lorenzo.” Isabel heard a sound of disgust. “Most of the Literati are Renaissance men, my pet, being born in the sixteen hundreds. I myself am considered to be the epitome of a Renaissance artist,” the man said pompously. “Of course, Lorenzo. It’s just that in the modern meaning of the phrase, Aubrey is the ideal Renaissance man.” The woman’s voice went from patient to a purr. The man called Aubrey Cane, whom Isabel could see, smiled slowly, all evidence of pique gone from his face. Isabel had the impression he and the woman were flirting across the space that separated them. “He is talented and knowledgeable in so many areas, you know. He is an architect, a doctor, a poet, a warrior, an athlete.” “A braggart—”
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“A lover,” Aubrey interrupted Titurino lazily. Aubrey stood and started toward the other side of the room, his walk reminding Isabel of a panther on the prowl. “Ah, the famous Renaissance man is hungry, I take it,” Titurino said with disgust. “Must you feast on my Venus?” “I must,” Aubrey replied. She could not see him, but there was a smile in his voice. Isabel heard a loud sigh and a giggle. “I suppose I could use a break—and a snack,” Titurino conceded after a pause. The woman gave a loud sigh of pleasure. Isabel couldn’t refrain from looking into the room a moment longer. Her father always did say she was as curious as a coon. She moved farther into the opening and peered around the door. What she saw nearly made her drop the knife she clutched in her hands. A nude woman reclined on a scarlet, velvet-draped elevated platform, her lush blonde hair a darker shade of her pale gold skin. She lay on her left hip, her upper body braced on her elbow, the other elbow bent over her head. Her breasts thrust forward, an emerald-green silk cloth swooshed behind her from hand to hand, an eye-catching contrast to the crimson velvet and her golden beauty. The pose should have looked awkward, but the woman managed to make the posture seem natural, supple…sensual. Perhaps the last impression was due to the fact that Aubrey Cane stood behind her, his hands slowly caressing a curving hip and full breast, his mouth pressing kisses along the woman’s waist. Venus sighed and shivered visibly. Isabel trembled as well. The scene before her was shockingly erotic and palpably beautiful, but her reaction came from the sublime expression on Aubrey
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Cane’s face as he kissed the woman with lips that seemed so firm, so hungry…so appreciative. The only thing she could think of was that what she witnessed wasn’t even remotely similar to watching a scene of pornography. The woman was exquisite and Aubrey was equally so. Titurino set down his paintbrush near a half-finished canvas and moved behind the woman. Isabel examined the painter fully for the first time. He, too, possessed a strange aura, though not quite as neon-bright as Aubrey’s. He was a large, robustly handsome man, so it surprised Isabel a little at how gentle he was as he gathered the woman’s hair into his large hands, pausing to caress her neck and jaw. Both men touched with a sensitivity that enraptured her. She, of all people, knew the power of touch more than most human beings. Aubrey’s kisses and caresses were becoming hungrier now. Titurino’s Venus moaned, arching her back, and both men slid one hand along her lustrous skin, molding her breasts so that the nipples protruded between strong fingers. Isabel watched breathlessly as Cane’s head lowered and he meticulously detailed the beading crest with a dark red tongue. Heat flashed between her thighs. Her death grip on the knife loosened. She told herself to step back. Nothing had changed. She still didn’t know where she was, and she certainly wasn’t accustomed to playing the voyeur. Something about the lush sensuality of the scene, though, the sheer wanton beauty of it, wouldn’t allow her to move. Titurino gave a low grunt of appreciation as he watched Cane suckle and finesse a nipple, apparently all irritation with his companion now vanishing in the steam of arousal. Cane lifted his head a moment later, giving the woman an apologetic smile when she gave a whimper of protest. “Never fear, lovely. I will not make you suffer long,” Aubrey murmured. With no further ado, he lifted one of her long legs and buried his face between
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her thighs. When the woman cried out in sharp ecstasy, Titurino used his fingertips to caress her spread lips. “Shhhhh,” he growled, the sound rough and soothing at once. The woman captured his large, blunt forefinger and pursed her lips around it. She suckled it with her eyelids closed, her expression rapt. Isabel’s pussy ached in sympathy when she heard the woman’s low, profound purr of pleasure. “I would hate to put such lovely vibrations to waste,” said Titurino. He drew his wet finger from the woman’s mouth, moved to the front of the velvet-draped table and unbuttoned his trousers. Isabel caught a glimpse of a ruddy, thick penis, but then Titurino stepped closer to the woman, his back to Isabel. She watched, spellbound, as Titurino placed his hands on the woman’s head and his trousers fell about his thighs, exposing smooth, olive-skinned, muscular buttocks. The large muscles began to flex as he thrust his cock into the woman’s mouth with small but deliberate movements. Venus moaned. Titurino groaned in reply as her pleasure resonated into his sensitive flesh. A moment later, Isabel heard a muffled feminine cry and saw the woman’s body shudder. Her aura altered before Isabel’s eyes from a pulsating spectrum of pink to red to magenta with shards of gold spiking through it. Cane’s head moved more rapidly. He seemed so avid to experience the woman’s pleasure, to taste it on his tongue, as though he could actually swallow the energy of her bliss, as if it could nourish him. Isabel didn’t realize just how hungry Aubrey was for the woman until he lifted his head and smoothed his hand over the expanse of an inner thigh. His eyelids were heavy from arousal. Two long fangs extended down over his lower lip. He lowered his head, obviously intent on biting flesh.
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“No,” Isabel cried out in shock. The experience had gone from witnessing a scene of tender, potent eroticism to one of nightmare proportions in a second. Titurino’s head whipped around at the sound of her voice. Aubrey looked up slowly. He smiled, his fangs still extended, his nostrils flaring. It struck her like a slap to the face that he’d known she’d watched them all along. How that was possible, she didn’t know, but his calm, knowing expression spoke volumes. She turned and rushed across the grand gallery toward the wide staircase, her only thought to get back to the room where she’d awakened. If she returned to bed and slept, would this strange dream come to an end? Would she wake up from her nap in her Ritz London hotel room, needing to prepare for the reception in her honor to be held at the University of London’s Senate House? You already got ready for that reception, her mind screamed as she leapt up the marble steps. She saw herself putting on makeup and styling her hair in the mirror. Isabel perfectly recalled zipping up the purple dress she’d bought special for the occasion, remembered walking down the hallway toward the elevators, planning to meet Lester in the lobby, then… Nothing. A black spot in her memory. The recollection made her stumble. She put out her hands to block her fall on the marble steps. The knife clattered onto hard stone and she was airborne. Her fall ceased abruptly. She was in someone’s arms…a large, solid someone. “What in the… Put me—” Her agitated sputter came to an abrupt halt when she saw the face of the man who held her. She gaped, suddenly convinced that her bizarre dream had escalated to include being swept into the embrace of intimidating dark angels. Memories collided in her brain, causing a frightening chaos of vision, sound and emotion.
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She cursed and began to struggle like mad in the man’s arms, sent into a frenzy of panic. When she realized he still held her effortlessly, she drove up on his nose with the hard ridge of her palm. He grunted in pained surprise. “What in bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded in a furious, rough voice. “Let go of me,” she grated out. She raised an elbow and cocked it in preparation for a jab. She didn’t have a chance to strike at her captor again, however. He abruptly set her down on a step as if he were dropping a sack of doorknobs. Her teeth struck together like clacking pebbles in her head. She immediately reached for the knife she’d dropped, but he kicked it away from her gloved hand with a negligent tap from a rugged black boot. She scrambled up from the step and backed away from a dark, menacing tower of male brawn. She paused next to the banister and watched him warily, her heart beating so loud in her ears it felt as if her whole world had become the sound of her fear. “I remember you. You-you—” she broke off, panting in rising agitation as she tried to gather her fragmented memories. “You were there…with that…that thing, that crystal—” She broke off in rising confusion, her mouth hanging open. No, that wasn’t who he was. Was it? She swam in confusion. This man…surely she knew this man? Her memories seemed as strange and unlikely as her entire experience since waking up in the luxurious room. She couldn’t pull her gaze from his eyes. They were singular—not green, exactly, but green, amber, gray and brown blended, hundreds of thousands of tiny crystalline dots. The first impression was of dark green until one took a second glance and was drawn into the depths.
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Agate eyes. The eyes were the same as her nightmare’s, but this man possessed hair— beautiful hair, thick, black and glossy. His jaw was shadowed with whiskers. He was tall—much taller than most men. His jean-clad legs seemed impossibly long from her sitting position, his torso was lean and sinewy. He gave the impression of power leashed, strength coiled tight. He arched one raven brow at her words, the subtle expression striking her as surreal on a face that otherwise might have been carved in rock. “I was there, with the crystal,” he said. “You-you kidnapped me. Why?” “I never kidnapped you,” he said in a quiet, seething tone. “Do you think I’d choose to have you here?” He looked away from her, seeming impatient, edgy. “I have brought you to Sanctuary as my prisoner, but it wasn’t me who wanted you.” “But…I saw you. I remember your face, only—” She hesitated as she studied him again with growing wonder. He wore faded jeans and an untucked, dark green cotton T-shirt that ghosted his lean torso. His height and dark, piratical looks would certainly peak interest on a London street, but he could still pass as…normal. He might have, anyway, to most people. People who didn’t have her special sight. “You’re not him,” she mumbled in disbelief. Even though her mind doubted the truth of her words, her spirit knew what she said was true. That other male had possessed no life force. She recalled the pure terror she experienced at witnessing the bizarre anomaly. Nature didn’t allow such monstrosities, did it? The fact that she’d also been drawn to that nightmare creature like a helpless planet to a black void in space horrified her even more.
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This man’s aura, on the other hand, was…extraordinary—dark, yes, but also more meticulously detailed than the most breathtaking tapestry in the gallery surrounding them. What effect would sunlight have on his multi-faceted, complex soul? She had the ability to tune out ephemeral energies and focus on the physical world, and she used that skill now, but with great effort. “The other one,” she muttered. “His head was shaved. He was dressed like a prince. He was—” Cruel. Beyond cruel, really, she added dazedly in her thoughts. He possessed no soul. The man in her memory was unlike anything she’d ever encountered before, a creature who took pleasure in fear and death, who found his greatest joy in robbing human beings of their life force. “Morshiel,” the dark, satirical angel said. “I beg your pardon?” “Morshiel. He kidnapped you. I found you afterward and took you from him.” Isabel reached for the banister, steadying herself when a wave of vertigo swept through her. It was as if her consciousness couldn’t abide such a large doses of strangeness. She hadn’t particularly cared for the callous way in which he’d referred to her as though she were an object, but encroaching dizziness was making it difficult to find the energy to be offended. “You’re his twin.” “No. I’m his clone. My only purpose to exist is to control him. Someday, perhaps, I will defeat him. Until then, I will have no peace.” She just stared at him, bewildered. Here was something else that was different from his twin. His tone was frank, his accent rough. Was it Scottish?
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The grand hall began to blur, the rich tapestries and brilliant hues from the paintings creating a throbbing, Expressionist palette in her vision. “And-and this is your home?” she asked, clutching the banister with a whiteknuckled grip. She lost control. Pain jolted through her as she fell to the hard marble step on one knee, but she held on with a desperate grip. The blackness that had lurked at the corners of her vision for the past several seconds started to cloud it entirely. She clung on to the banister, to her very sanity. A voice resounded in her head before she lost consciousness, quite different from the dark angel’s hard tone, but strangely with the same rough, Scottish accent. “It’s your home now. Welcome to Sanctuary. Let go now. Let go, Lovely.” She followed his command without thought. Blackness engulfed her.
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Chapter Three
She was in the process of picking the lock on her bedroom door when it suddenly opened, banging her in the knee and making her yelp in pain. Isabel scuttled back on the deep pile carpet. For a few seconds, she felt a rush of mortification at the amazed stare the pleasant-faced, gray-haired woman gave her as Isabel knelt there on the floor, barefooted and attired in a rumpled satin evening gown and black velvet gloves. Then she recalled there was hardly a reason to apologize to one of her captors and stood up in a rush, brandishing the sharp metal hors d’oeuvres pick she’d found in a wet-bar drawer. “Tell me how to get out of here,” she demanded. “Do you plan to skewer me like a shrimp, then? It’ll take something larger than that little toothpick to do the job,” the woman said with a friendly type of wry humor. She bustled into the room. For the first time, Isabel noticed she carried an armful of clothes and a large tapestried reticule. She sighed in relief when she deposited her heavy load at the base of the four-poster bed. “I took a guess at your size, but when Lord Delraven saw what I’d chosen, he said I was wrong. He said he’d held you, so he’d know better than anyone. I still can’t get used to the fact that a man like Delraven knows textiles and clothing so well—he’s such a rough sort, you know—but I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised as to his expertise on a woman’s proportions.” Isabel started to edge toward the open door as the woman prattled and began to sort through the clothing she’d brought.
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“There’s no point in running, Miss,” the woman said without turning around. “Sanctuary is a hundred times more secure than a fortress. If you plan an escape, best to find out the lay of the land first, don’t you think?” she asked, looking over her shoulder and smiling. Isabel froze mid-escape, a scowl on her face. “You’ll not only need knowledge, but shoes and food, at the very least. I’m Margaret Turrow, by the way.” Isabel kept the sharp pick extended when the woman approached her, her hand extended in greeting. When Margaret saw she wasn’t going to accept her handshake, she shrugged. “Who is Lord Delraven?” Isabel demanded. “Blaise Sevliss. He is the master of Sanctuary.” “The black-haired man? The one who keeps me prisoner here?” Isabel asked. Intuitively, the idea of the man on the stairs being the master of this bizarre place made complete sense to her. Margaret sighed and went back to the foot of the bed. “It doesn’t sound very nice when you put it that way.” Isabel lowered the pick and hurried toward Margaret. “Delraven himself told me I was being kept prisoner here.” “You saw him? When?” Margaret asked sharply. Isabel glanced at the enormous rumpled bed. How long had she slept after she’d passed out on the staircase? Had he laid her in that bed? “Are you all right, Miss?” Margaret asked. Isabel realized she must have noticed her shiver. “Of course I’m not all right,” she grated out. “I woke up in a strange house with weird people—no, creatures, in it—I haven’t got a clue what happened to me and I’m being told I’m a prisoner. How would you feel?” Margaret grimaced and resumed her task. “I see your point.”
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Isabel watched the stout woman pick up garment after garment, rustling out invisible wrinkles. In the far corners of her awareness, Isabel realized each new piece of clothing was more exquisite than the last. “You’re not like them,” Isabel declared. Margaret’s eyebrows went up before she walked toward the closet. Isabel followed her as she briskly started to hang up the clothing. “I’m mortal, if that’s what you mean. The only mortal on Lord Delraven’s permanent staff.” “You must be so proud,” Isabel replied acidly as she followed the energetic woman back to the foot of the bed. Part of her found the woman’s statement ludicrous, of course. Another part, however—the part that recalled the terrifying absence of a life force of the man who had forced her to touch that crystal, the film negative-type auras of Aubrey Cane and Lorenzo Titurino and the strange, magnificent force surrounding Lord Delraven—accepted what Margaret said without question. “There was another mortal here,” Isabel challenged. “A woman. A man was painting her.” Margaret glanced back, an elegant wool skirt extended in her hand. “Well, mortals frequently come to Sanctuary. They’d have to, wouldn’t they? You really did get out of bed earlier, didn’t you? And you saw Delraven?” A shadow crossed her features. “Oh dear. No wonder he was so tetchy this morning.” “If he doesn’t want me here, why doesn’t he just let me go?” Margaret’s expression softened. She picked up an emerald silk blouse. “He would, if he could. You must understand. You wouldn’t be safe outside of Sanctuary. Morshiel would find you again. No matter where you go.” “Morshiel,” she hissed, once again trailing after Margaret toward the closet. “That…that thing, that monster that kidnapped me?”
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“Yes. I’m afraid Morshiel is every human’s nightmare,” Margaret admitted sadly. “If he’s every human’s nightmare, why is Delraven singling me out? I doubt he’s keeping every citizen of London secure in this house. Why force me to come here? Why should he care if I live or die?” Margaret glanced at her apologetically before marching out of the closet. “Well you’re special, aren’t you, Miss? That’s why Morshiel wants you. Lord Delraven has also brought that strange crystal to Sanctuary. He told me how Morshiel had forced you to touch it. With you as a conduit for the crystal—an amplifier of the earth’s energy—Morshiel would become unthinkably powerful. Delraven says it was a stroke of luck Saint Sevliss had given him a tip about an anomalous surge of electromagnetic energy in the tunnels. There’s no telling what would have happened if Morshiel had been strengthened any more by you and that crystal. Delraven said he was nearly murdered by Morshiel on that platform, his clone had grown so uncommonly strong.” “That would have been a pity,” Isabel said darkly. “Delraven may be a bit rough around the edges, but there’s no one more brilliant, powerful, selfless, kind—yes, kind,” Margaret said, speaking sharply when she heard Isabel snort in disbelief. “Thousands of mortals owe him their lives, though most are ignorant of that fact. Forgive me for my bluntness, Miss, but you don’t know much of anything. Not about his world, you don’t. He has suffered more than we humans could wrap our minds around. He could easily have become as cruel as his clone, but he has endured. His suffering has been so great, the friction and fires of it have made him more human than any mortal I know. You’re a child when it comes to these matters, trust me. I was once in your shoes.” She glanced down in humorous apology at Isabel’s bare feet. “I was just as naïve,” she added gently.
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“I am not naïve.” “Up there, perhaps not,” Margaret said with a shrewd look as she pointed to the ceiling. “Down here, you’re as witless as a baby.” “Down here. What? Are we in the basement?” She glanced curiously toward the heavily draped windows. She’d noticed there was a strange, opaque piece of glass in the panes when she’d tried to escape earlier, but she hadn’t considered she might be underground. “You might say that,” Margaret said breezily as she picked up the last item of clothing and headed toward the closet. Isabel dogged her footsteps. “But then, every room in this building is in the basement, in a manner of speaking. You’re currently about a thousand feet below the earth’s surface, my dear. Sanctuary is an underground highrise—or lowrise, as the case may be. Sixty stories, straight down into the ground. It’s like an inverted pyramid. Sanctuary not only houses Lord Delraven’s home, but his textile factory as well, although Silk takes up the floors just below the surface. The workers there find the access straight off the Tube to be a major employment benefit. We’re a good deal farther underground here in the residence, though.” Margaret ignored Isabel’s stunned expression as she walked out of the closet. She called out a warm greeting when a pale, anxious-looking young man entered the room carrying a tray. “Ah, perfect. Come in, Jessie, come in. Lay out the things over at the table there. Stop gawking. It’s rude. She’s just a woman,” Margaret admonished under her breath when she noticed Jessie gaping at Isabel, his mouth slack. Isabel smoothed her wrinkled dress self-consciously. She must look a mess. Not that she cared how she appeared to these people.
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Margaret beckoned her toward the table. “You may not have the morning sun to welcome the new day in Sanctuary, but you’ll have the finest breakfast in all of England.” Isabel hesitated. She certainly didn’t want to give the impression she in any way planned to comply with her imprisonment. Jessie removed the metal domed cover and the scent of fried potatoes and eggs reached her nose. Her traitorous stomach growled. Her gaze narrowed on Margaret’s eager face as the woman pulled back a chair, ready to seat her at the table. The older woman was right about one thing—Isabel had no idea how to maneuver around this strange place or what to expect from the man who kept her prisoner, Lord Delraven. She needed information and Margaret could provide it. Are you an actress, or what? a voice in her head asked scathingly. She bit her lower lip in a show of hesitation and glanced entreatingly at Margaret. “You must understand…waking up to find myself in such a strange place— and…and I think I saw…” “What, dear?” Margaret asked, her forehead wrinkled in concern. “Vampires,” Isabel whispered. Jessie shifted on his feet uneasily. “Don’t be frightened. I know it seems strange—I recall how shocked I was when I first discovered Lord Delraven’s and the Literatis’ unusual natures. They’re not vampires like in tales. Or like Morshiel and his revenants are,” she added under her breath. “Delraven and his followers never kill to sustain themselves. Never. It’s anathema to them. They take only enough vitessence for nourishment.” “By sucking blood?”
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“Among other fluids, yes,” Margaret said. She became distracted while she arranged a meticulously folded napkin. “How can you tell me not to be frightened? This is terrifying.” Isabel wasn’t lying, exactly. It was the delivery that made it acting. Margaret’s face collapsed in compassion. “Of course it is, you poor thing.” She came toward Isabel, arms outstretched. “Sanctuary is a lovely place, once you get used to its…er…idiosyncrasies. You’ll see. You’ll feel better once you’ve had your breakfast, and after that I’ll draw a bath for you and you can try on some of your new, lovely clothes. Then perhaps Jessie can give you a tour of Sanctuary. Would that be all right, Jessie?” Margaret asked with a wide smile. Jessie dropped the china sugar bowl he was arranging on the table. “Of course, ma’am. I mean…no.” The young man blushed all the way to the roots of his dark brown hair when he glanced at Isabel. “That is, I would show her around, of course. It would be my pleasure. But Lord Delraven says she’s to remain confined to her quarters,” he added apologetically under his breath. Margaret straightened indignantly. “He did, did he? Never you mind about that. You plan to come and collect her in exactly two hours time. I’ll speak to Delraven. Go on with you.” She waved toward the door, suddenly as imperious as a matron monarch. Jessie didn’t dawdle, but did exactly as he was ordered. “Be seated, dear.” “Only if you join me,” Isabel said in her best meek manner. “I’d be honored. Come now, tuck in. There. Now…what am I to call you?” “Isabel. Isabel Lanscourt,” she said, picking up a heavy silver fork. The next thing she knew, she was eating the most delicious eggs Benedict she’d ever tasted while Margaret Turrow served her tea from a service that wouldn’t have looked at all out of place in Buckingham Palace. Strange sort of prison, Isabel thought as she accepted her steaming cup.
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But a prison, nonetheless. She opened her mouth, determined to get as much information as possible about the mysterious master of Sanctuary, Blaise Delraven. Her jailer.
Blaise Sevliss, Lord Delraven, hung upside down, his feet buckled into metal boots. Aubrey watched contentedly as his friend completed four hundred inverted sit-ups—one hundred more than usual. Blaise stared at some fixed point, his eyes as cold as stone, his expression stoic. Only his lean, bulging muscles and sweat-glistened, olive-toned skin hinted at the turmoil that must be frothing inside him at the moment. Long, ropey muscles contracted and bulged. He released himself from the boots, grabbing the suspended bar and swinging to the floor. As usual, Aubrey found his lack of self-consciousness in regard to his sleek, magnificent male beauty incredible. Blaise’s disregard of aesthetics rankled him, at times, but Aubrey also thought his friend’s insouciance sublime, somehow. Blaise began pacing the moment his feet hit the ground, only pausing to occasionally glance at and touch a series of maps hanging on the wall. A caged animal, Aubrey thought as he watched Blaise from where he sat sprawled on a couch. Aubrey had never ceased to enjoy the sight of Blaise. He relished it now like a connoisseur might sip the rarest of wine. The object of his delicate aesthetic taste currently was wearing nothing but a pair of form-fitting black pants. Blaise must be planning on channeling his agitation over recent events in the work-out facility, for Aubrey knew he wore the simple garment for sparring. His gaze lingered appreciatively on the sight of
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Blaise’s long, well-muscled but exceptionally lean torso as Blaise ran his finger along a line on a map. He’d grown used to the fact that he could not make love to Blaise, but that didn’t prevent Aubrey from desiring him. Blaise epitomized brilliance, loyalty, sex and strength, and those were the things Aubrey held dear to his heart. Although really, they all boiled down to power. That was the quality Aubrey admired most. A Londoner might have immediately recognized the familiar outlines of the Underground on the map where Blaise focused his attention, but then become confused by the addition of a number of anomalous tunnels and unfamiliar labeled landmarks. There was a world beneath the city streets that would amaze a typical Londoner. Sanctuary was the hub of that secret, subterranean world. “Morshiel won’t bother to return to the British Museum tunnel. He knows I wouldn’t leave the crystal there. We’ll increase our guard along the Bakerloo line. My gut tells me that’s where Morshiel and the revenants will strike next,” Blaise said, giving the map a brisk tap with his forefinger. “That quake we experienced weeks ago must have somehow loosened it from the deepest veins of the earth. You and I both know how much vitessence that crystal gives off. Morshiel would do anything to possess it. Surely he’ll send a scouting party to the British Museum at the very least,” Aubrey replied from where he sat on the couch, long limbs akimbo. “No. He won’t.” “How can you know that with a certainty?” Aubrey asked amusedly. Blaise shrugged and turned to stoke the fire. Aubrey’s structure for evacuating smoke underground was the least of the wonders of his friend’s ingenious design of Sanctuary.
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“Morshiel and I came from the same mother cell,” Blaise said flatly as he shoved the poker into the flames. Aubrey made a predictable scoffing sound. “Perhaps, but you are as different as a human is to a raptor.” Blaise glanced over his shoulder. “Which one am I supposed to be in your analogy. Both are deadly beasts, aren’t they?” Aubrey rolled his eyes in exasperation. “You miss my point entirely. I’m just saying that you might not always perfectly intuit Morshiel’s plans just because you’re clones. You’ve had centuries to differentiate yourselves, after all, and have done so markedly. Consider this,” Aubrey said, holding up his hand in a bid for reason when Blaise tossed the poker into its holder with a loud clang and turned to his friend. “What if Morshiel suspects that you might leave the crystal in the tunnel in order to lure him? And he sacrifices a scouting party of revenants because he desires knowledge of the crystal’s whereabouts so greatly?” “No,” Blaise repeated as he paced like a caged lion in front of the fire. “Morshiel knows I would never take even the tiniest risk in the matter. He knows I wouldn’t play games with that crystal. Have you been excavating in the vicinity where the crystal was found, like I asked?” “Yes, the crystal definitely came from that location. It wasn’t relocated there by Morshiel.” Blaise paused. “And is there any indication there could be more of them?” Aubrey shook his head. “It is a single anomaly…a rare miracle. Have you spoken to Saint? Did he tell you how he knew the crystal would be there?” Blaise shook his head. “He somehow sensed the unusual electromagnetic pulse. Or someone did.” “What is it, Blaise?” Aubrey asked, his eyes narrowed. Blaise shrugged. “Something is amiss with Saint. He’s not being honest.”
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“You don’t trust Saint?” Aubrey asked, obviously stunned. Blaise understood why. All of the Sevliss princes were as close as brothers, despite the fact that they were scattered across the globe. Blaise trusted the five other princes more than any other creatures on the planet, for they were more than brothers. In a sense, the six of them were their own unique race. None of them were certain of their origins on this planet. All of them had come to consciousness as they were at present, recalling no childhood. Each of them possessed a Magian overlord, a super-powerful being who had created each prince—to what purpose, none of them understood. One thing was a certainty—the biological mandate set into the princes’ very blood to control their bloodthirsty clones. They could not vanquish their clones, although their clones could murder them at any time. Every time Blaise fought Morshiel, it was a mortal battle. Or at least it used to be a given for them that they could not conquer their clones. It had been a universal reality until Saint eradicated Teslar in some fashion that remained an utter mystery to the remaining princes. “I do trust Saint. I just can’t understand why he’s being so secretive ever since he vanquished Teslar,” he said, frustration tingeing his tone. “We have always shared information on the best ways to control our clones. Now Saint has done the impossible and destroyed Teslar, but he won’t tell us how. It’s incomprehensible, not to mention frustrating as hell,” he muttered roughly under his breath. “Perhaps he’s keeping other secrets as well. Like why you can touch the woman when none of us can?” The logs in the fireplace crackled in the silence that followed. “Perhaps Saint is being prevented from speaking on the matter. Perhaps the Magian are prohibiting it somehow,” Aubrey said thoughtfully.
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“I’m starting to suspect the same thing,” Blaise replied bitterly. Like the rest of his Sevliss brethren, he didn’t appreciate being treated like nothing more than a lab rat for the Magian Council’s incomprehensible aims. He resumed pacing, his thoughts once again on the miraculous discovery of the crystal. “I can’t explain it. Ever since Saint vanquished Teslar, it’s as if…everything is changing among us.” Aubrey leaned back on the couch, his expression thoughtful. “Morphic resonance.” “Excuse me?” Aubrey’s gaze sharpened on him. “Morphic resonance. It’s a theory put forth by a man named Rupert Sheldrake, concerning what he calls a morphic field, which each member of a given species can tap into for knowledge. A monkey learns to wash sand from a yam before she eats it on one island. The race knowledge is translated by means of the morphic field not just to the monkey’s brethren on her island, but to monkeys on a separate island. All of the monkeys begin using the same skill, even though they’ve never had direct physical contact. Most scientists think it’s a bunch of supernatural crock, but as I possess the major advantage of knowledge in regard to energy and the life force in regard to nature,” Aubrey gave a little flourish with his hand, “I happen to differ on the matter. You yourself have said the Sevliss princes are a singular species. Perhaps whatever happened to Saint and Teslar in Chicago can change the other princes, even if Saint is being prohibited from telling exactly what that ‘something’ is.” Blaise thought this over as he paced, but was still left frustrated with his lack of knowledge. “I’m in Saint’s debt for tipping me off about the crystal, even if he isn’t being completely honest with me. Imagine the havoc Morshiel could have created with it. I will never let him have it.”
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“Or the woman?” Blaise glanced sharply at his friend. Aubrey sprawled on the couch, a knowing look in his light gray eyes, comfortable within the bounds of their friendship. Too comfortable. “Don’t speak of her.” Aubrey straightened into a sitting position slowly. “She’s not Elysse, Blaise.” “The crystal gives off enough vitessence that we need not feed off humans anymore,” Blaise said, determined to ignore what Aubrey had just said. “You have never fed to the point of harm. None of the Literati do. Surely you’re not planning to play the martyr and never taste human flesh again.” Blaise put his hand on the mantel and studied his friend. “You’ve grown callous, Aubrey. You’ve become too comfortable with your parasitic nature.” “I am what I am,” Aubrey said, shrugging. “And I am so because you made me that way some three hundred and fifty years ago.” “Perhaps it would have been better for the plague to take you instead of this complacency.” “You don’t believe that. You salvaged nearly three dozen of the brightest intellectual stars of the age by turning the Literati. You wouldn’t allow this mind to grow dim under the influence of such a dirty, meaningless disease. You would regret letting this brain molder in some mass grave beneath Aldgate station. I was meant for much larger things than that.” “Titurino is right. You are a strutting cock.” Aubrey grinned dashingly. “I am what I am,” he repeated. He laughed when he saw Blaise’s expression. His gaze turned speculative. “Have you fed, my friend? I can’t help but notice that your mood is a bit…dark.”
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“I told you, the crystal can sustain us,” he snapped. “Did you think it’s always just been words when I’ve said I despise living as a parasite off human beings for all these centuries?” “We aren’t as yet entirely certain that the crystal can provide sufficient vitessence for long-term survival. I’m running experiments even as we speak, but I would prefer that you weren’t a subject. We need your strength, Blaise.” “Sometimes you are as insufferable as Usan and the Magian Council. My preference is a private matter, not data for one of your bloody experiments,” Blaise said, half exasperated, half amused. When he saw Aubrey open his mouth to argue, he added more firmly. “You have seen well to my needs over the years, Aubrey, and I thank you. I know you’ve done it because you believed it was best, and because you care. If it weren’t for you, I would have found a way long ago to overcome the mandate set into my blood by the Magian to control Morshiel.” “By ending your own life by refusing to feed?” Blaise heard the hint of incredulity in Aubrey’s tone. It was a long-standing disagreement between the two of them. As brilliant as Aubrey was, his friend never could quite comprehend Blaise’s longing to end this never-ending, gray torment called life. Elysse had lit his monochrome world, however briefly. Then she was gone. His need had killed her. No…he was being dishonest. His need hadn’t done it. The truth of what he was had been what destroyed Elysse. Now his world was ablaze again, more brilliant than ever before, and he didn’t know what do…didn’t know how to act. He shrugged off Aubrey’s question. His friend had never seen the expression of horror on Elysse’s face when she understood fully what he was. That vision had been burned into Blaise’s mind’s eye. It would never be banished. Her shame—her disgust—had become Blaise’s own.
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Aubrey sighed when he saw that Blaise would converse on the topic no further. “You say you don’t want me to speak of the woman. Aren’t you going to ask me what Michael discovered about her in his reconnaissance mission? Blaise straightened. “Why didn’t you tell me Michael had reported in?” “I was about to when you forbade me to speak of her.” “Go on,” Blaise grated out. “Her name is Isabel Lanscourt. She’s an American actress.” He stepped toward Aubrey. “And?” “She’s only played minor roles as of yet, but brilliantly. She’s managed to get into some major productions on Broadway. According to critics and general sentiment, she’ll eventually go far. Not too surprising.” Blaise didn’t respond. He knew what Aubrey meant. Talented actors and actresses frequently had a forceful vitessence, although they weren’t typically aware of it. Humans couldn’t see the energy that surrounded all living things, but they reacted to it. For many actors, their powerful vitessences were made evident by their charismatic presences and instinctive ability to read and influence an audience’s energy. Isabel Lanscourt was destined to become a magnificent star. She would have been, anyway. If she hadn’t made the vital mistake of coming to London and having Morshiel take notice of her. She would be destined for greatness if she wasn’t now Blaise’s prisoner. He stifled his regret with the ability of long practice. That the trajectory of such a beautiful creature—the very essence of life—should be cut off in midpath pained him, but there was nothing he could do. Nothing. “Was she about to do a play in London?” he asked Aubrey.
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“No. She was in London for something far more fascinating. Apparently, she was severely injured in a car wreck a year and a half ago. That’s part of the reason she hasn’t yet reached the apex of fame the theatre critics had predicted for her. She spent almost half a year in a coma. Apparently, after she left the hospital, she lived as a recluse in Brooklyn in a rundown boarding house.” “Hasn’t she got any family?” “No. She hasn’t. She was an only child. Her parents were a sort of oddment. A Stanley Kowalski and Mary Cassatt romance, if you take my meaning. Her mother, who apparently was a rather gifted painter, died when she was only two. Her father aspired only to work in the coal mines, and died of lung cancer at age thirty-eight. From all indications, her father’s death was a defining point in Isabel’s life.” “Who will be looking for her?” “A man named Lester Dee arranged her tour here of universities and colleges in the United Kingdom. Isabel gives demonstrations of her power and Dee lectures on the research he’s done on her. He’s already contacted the authorities about Isabel’s disappearance.” “Her power?” Aubrey sat forward, his gray eyes alight with intellectual interest. “Yes—let me get to the meat of things. Isabel Lanscourt is a psychometrist—apparently an incredibly gifted one.” Blaise’s incisors were not extended, but he snarled at Aubrey nonetheless. Unfortunately, Aubrey was every bit as brilliant as he bragged. He had a nasty habit of getting swept up in that brilliance and talking to himself, since only he could comprehend his own meaning. He immediately interpreted Blaise’s familiar annoyance and hastened to explain.
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“Psychometry is a type of psychic ability where an individual can telepathically receive information about an object or person through touch. Ms. Lanscourt can pick up a discarded newspaper and tell you where the trees grew that make up the paper, where it was printed and details about the man who just touched it that would likely make the gent blush. She can touch a weapon and tell you details of how it was manufactured, the people who used it and the violence it wrought. She’s a walking miracle. There was a very talented Russian psychometrist I studied along with the Society for Psychical Research back in the 1890’s, but Ms. Lanscourt’s abilities blow that case away. What’s wrong?” Aubrey interrupted his own enthusiastic explanation when he noticed Blaise’s expression. “She must exist in a living hell.” Aubrey’s expression sobered. “Well, yes…I suppose it must be difficult at times, having all those images and perceptions invade the brain. Rather like a madness, now that I come to think of it. Perhaps that explains her isolation and depression after she left the hospital. Good thing Dee happened upon her, poor girl.” “That’s why she wears the gloves,” Blaise said. Too late, he realized he’d been staring at the painting mounted over the fireplace of a woman wearing a topaz, ermine-bordered gown, a slender diadem resting on her dark brown hair. “Isabel Lanscourt looks nothing like Elysse,” Aubrey observed. “Why do you keep bringing up Elysse?” Blaise blurted out in rising anger. “Because I know you. You’re comparing the two women in your mind. Who wouldn’t?” Blaise stood frozen, both shocked and infuriated at his friend’s audacity. “Are you saying that you’re comparing the two?” he asked in an ominous tone as he stepped toward Aubrey.
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Aubrey stood with the alacrity conferred by his paranormal nature. “I am. All the Literati are, Blaise. It’s not only you who sees Isabel Lanscourt’s grandeur. She’s like a blazing comet in all of our eyes. The fact that we see her for what she is, that we feel her pull, isn’t what’s got you upset right now.” Blaise approached him so that they stood eye to eye. Fury boiled in his veins. Aubrey was an inch away from being beaten to a bloody pulp, and damn his tendency to go easy on him in a brotherly sparring match. He was so mad that Aubrey had the nerve to compare the woman to Elysse out loud that he actually hoped his friend would dig himself a deeper hole. “Go on. Enlighten me,” he prodded. “You’re upset because she’s more powerful than Elysse. You’re pissed at finding yourself a thousand times more attracted to Isabel Lanscourt than you ever were Elysse de Gennere.” For a moment, Blaise experienced a very satisfying fantasy about planting his fist in Aubrey’s face. He conquered the lure of it, but with extreme difficulty. “Get out of here.” “Don’t be such a son of a bitch about this, Blaise.” “I am no one’s son. Now get out of here.” Regret sliced through him when Aubrey moved hastily, obviously taking the ominous threat in his tone seriously. He stumbled and caught hold of himself on the arm of the couch. “I don’t know why I put up with you half the time,” Aubrey said, eyes blazing and his fangs fully extended. Blaise stepped toward him. Aubrey retreated. They were like brothers, but there could only be one alpha in a pack of wolves.
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“I don’t know either. You’re the genius. Let me know when you figure it out,” Blaise said before he walked toward his private quarters, shutting the door behind him with a click of finality. After Aubrey left, Blaise once again wandered out of his bedroom. He felt edgy and restless. After five seconds in his study he was all too eager to avoid Elysse’s portrait, all too desperate to prevent recalling what Aubrey had said. You’re pissed at finding yourself a thousand times more attracted to Isabel Lanscourt than you ever were Elysse. He winced at the memory. He sought out David Kwan in the gym. An hour and a half workout with David didn’t ease his anguish as it should have. Smashing his fists, knees and feet into David hadn’t calmed him, and having David return the favor hadn’t worked either. The image of Isabel Lanscourt’s luminescent face would not be dislodged from his mind even by David’s brutal blows to his skull. After he got out of the shower in his private quarters, he felt weak. He should have visited the apex room where they’d housed the crystal. He needed to feed. His flesh was not nourished moment to moment by a soul. He required vitessence to survive, and he had not tasted blood or a woman’s sweet juices for forty-eight hours now…since before they stormed that unused Tube platform and found the crystal and the female. Isabel Lanscourt. He felt too fatigued to dress completely. Instead, he fastened the brown leather harness that fit snugly around his hips and below his testicles and buttocks. He sheathed his heartluster next to his outer left thigh. Even if he were at death’s door, he would strap on his heartluster. It was as integral to him as his arms or eyes…as much a part of him as his clone.
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Morshiel was a cancer he couldn’t completely cut off his body. They were two parts of the same whole. Aubrey didn’t understand that. No one understood that fact, save for Blaise, Morshiel and Usan, their Magian creator. Blaise fought desperately against his clone just as he battled with his own savage, parasitic nature. He lay on his bed and stared at the frescoed ceiling, seeing nothing but a pair of large, animated, black eyes. One second, the expression in those eyes was dazed, bewildered…soft. The next moment, they might have belonged to a spitting tomcat backed into a corner. After she’d fainted and he’d laid her in her bed earlier, he’d allowed himself five full seconds just to stare at her before he’d resolutely turned and walked out of her suite. Her aura was in constant movement—alive, golden and glorious. Blaise had the ability to tune out vitessence in his visual field in order to focus on the physical body. In Isabel Lanscourt’s case, her body was possibly more distracting than her brilliant life force. Blaise and the other five Sevliss princes in existence were as sensitive to energy fields as a farmer was to his crops. They required vitessence to live, after all. They were also deeply attracted to the corporal body. It was their acute awareness of humans as energy beings that made them so physically adroit— brilliant fighters, keen observers…knowing lovers. He shifted restlessly on the bed when the image of Isabel lying naked on the silken pane flashed into his mind’s eye yet again. Her long hair wasn’t as dark as her eyes, but a lustrous chestnut brown shot through with strands of dark gold. It’d looked like waving silk spread on the amber pillowcase. The vision of her smooth belly and the dark pubic hair between slender, shapely thighs had been
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electrical somehow. He kept having the most brazenly illicit fantasies of filling her with his come, seeing that flawless skin dripping with his essence. It was strange for him to envision such things. He did not typically have intercourse with women. Because of his wolf-nature, his penis grew painfully swollen following ejaculation, locking him to a female for a short period of time. He pleasured women, and they gave him pleasure, but he found intercourse too difficult…too intimate, especially in those moments when he became fused to a female’s body. There was always the possibility that he might have to watch, with no escape possible, as disgust eventually entered a woman’s eyes at the evidence she had just had sex with something inhuman. An animal. He couldn’t banish the image of Isabel from his mind. His cock stiffened next to his thigh. He felt weak, unable to muster the energy to control his rebellious brain. She’d been so helpless lying there, so vulnerable, so beautiful, like a fertile virgin field waiting to be harrowed. His cock wasn’t just erect now, it was a heavy, plaguing ache. His upper lip and abdomen had grown damp with sweat. He felt a strange combination of sharp need and listlessness. He needed to feed, yet he didn’t move. It was as if he thought the vivid image of Isabel Lanscourt that had taken root in his brain could nourish his very body. He barely had the energy to blink his heavy eyelids when his bedroom door opened and a woman with shoulder-length auburn hair entered, shutting the door behind her. She smiled as she approached his inert form. Her grayish-gold vitessence moved sluggishly, reminding Blaise of dawn peaking through a London smog.
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“What do you want?” he asked with great effort. His jaw had grown as heavy as his eyelids. “I would think the question is what you want, my Lord,” the woman said in a husky, knowing voice. She fleetly removed her robe, baring apricot-hued skin and large, firm breasts. “Mr. Cane sent me to you. He said you would be…hungry by now.” Her avid, green-eyed gaze lingered on his swollen erection. She laughed seductively. “I see he was right.” “What’s your name?” he grated out. He’d never seen her before. He never fed from a woman twice. His need was vast. He would harm a human if he took from her too greatly. Besides, she would become attached to him if he saw her more than once. Worse, he might become attached to her, just as he had Elysse. Blaise had vowed never again to need a woman beyond nourishment. Why desire what would eventually be ripped away from you by the inevitability of fate? Of death? “Margarite,” the woman said as she began to make a show of herself, palming her breasts from below and plumping them as she ran her fingertips over the peaking nipples. Aubrey knew Blaise’s tastes and he’d chosen well for him tonight. Aubrey often joked over the fact that playing pimp for Blaise was not the least favorite, even if it was the least respected, of his many professions. His friend had taken on the role centuries ago when he realized that Blaise occasionally fell into a malaise because he resisted the urge to feed. Anger began to trickle into his awareness at the temptation Aubrey had offered him. “Margarite,” he muttered as he watched her finesse her nipples. He doubted the name was real, although the breasts definitely were. The women Aubrey brought him might be nothing more than very expensive whores, but they were typically of the highest quality flesh. Aubrey saw to that.
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“Yes, Lord Delraven?” she whispered, a hint of a smile on her pouting lips. “Get out.” Circling fingertips paused. “What?” He lifted his head off the pillow. “Leave.” The single word had barely come out as a hoarse whisper, but she must have seen something in his expression, because she started back in alarm. Her gaze flickered down over his cock. “But—?” “You heard me. Find Aubrey. He will pay you.” She hesitated. Her gaze remained on his cock. “I do not need pay,” she whispered. She glanced up at him, beseeching. He bared his fangs. She reached for her robe, keeping her wary gaze on him as she bent. When he heard the door click shut behind her, he lay back in mixed regret and relief. When he closed his eyes, Isabel was back to haunt him. The throb in his cock escalated to a sharp ache. He winced and wrapped his hand around the warm, tumescent member. He had never hated anyone or anything before. Passions did not typically rule Blaise Sevliss. Duty did; that and the daily dread of his fate. His hand moved on his cock as he envisioned her exquisite face. He damned Isabel Lanscourt for doing the impossible, and making him feel again.
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Chapter Four
She had witnessed wonders beyond belief in her tour of Sanctuary—an arboretum so vast and so lush that Isabel mentally mocked Margaret Turrow’s ridiculous claim that they were far below the surface of the earth. She’d seen what appeared to be an entire field of the white mulberry. (No, no…they simply could not be underground.) Jessie told her the white mulberry was cultivated in Sanctuary to provide silk for Lord Delraven’s factory. She had stared in wonder at a gravity-defying fountain featuring water that flowed up instead of down. She’d seen a vast aquarium that was the size of a large room and contained colorful fish and creatures she’d never seen or imagined. Jessie had shown her a swimming pool surrounded by lush tropical wildlife and an expensively equipped exercise facility, which was apparently chiefly used to practice combat. There had been men there. Her cheeks had warmed when two sets of males fighting, along with one trio in a third ring, all paused in the midst of stunning displays of athleticism and violence in order to stare at Jessie and her as they passed. Well, not at Jessie, precisely. Just her. She’d felt their gazes on her like burning lasers. They had seen no one else in the large, luxurious rooms, each one more amazing than the last, every one filled with priceless frescoes, tapestries and sculptures. As they had passed a hallway, Isabel had paused and commented on the brightly painted crest at the center of the entrance. “It’s Lord Delraven’s coat of arms,” Jessie said.
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Isabel studied her companion covertly through lowered lashes. She had found him to be a pleasant escort and liked him. There could be little doubt that he was not mortal, given his aura. “How old are you, Jessie?” she asked pleasantly. His cheeks reddened. “I-I am older than you think, Miss.” He glanced at her in surprise when she laughed. “Believe it or not, I know it.” He went rigid when she stepped toward him. “I can see your unusual life force,” she said delicately, not sure what else to call the energy field that surrounded him. “I can see that you aren’t mortal. How old were you when you became so?” “Nineteen, Miss. I was turned at the same time most of the Literati were. I’m not one of the Literati—not really—but I served Aubrey Cane, and he valued me. After my master was turned, he embraced me so that I could continue to serve him.” His Adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. Isabel realized too late she was disturbing him by her nearness and she took a step back. “Embraced you?” “He took my blood, Miss.” “Were you made this way against your will?” Isabel whispered. Jessie blinked. “Against my will? No. It was my greatest wish to continue to serve my master. He was—and is—the greatest genius of the age. Besides, I did not want to submit to the plague.” “The plague?” Jessie nodded earnestly. “The Great Plague of 1665. We had avoided it by evacuating London. Many of the brightest scholars of the age who either lived in London or were visiting there from various countries fled first to Oxford. We feared the plague would follow us there, and it did. My master—Aubrey Cane— became the leader of a select group of men, all of them made outcasts by the
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plague, all of them brilliant in their own right. The group became known as the Literati. We traveled from Oxford to the north, and eventually to Scotland. By a series of circumstances, Delraven befriended Cane and some of the others. We took refuge at Delraven’s estate. The plague was present in the country as well, though, and my master began to show signs of having contracted the illness. So did several other members of the Literati. By that time, Cane understood what Delraven was, and he begged him to make him immortal—to save him from death and a life wasted. Eventually, Delraven agreed, and it is that core group that survives today, each loyal to Lord Delraven and his fight against Morshiel and his band of Scourge revenants—the walking dead. We have had new members join us over the years—brilliant scholars who have been diagnosed with mortal illness. Aubrey occasionally approaches them, and gives them the choice of joining our small army, if they choose it. The Literati have lost many of their number to Morshiel and the Scourge over the years. We shrink in number, while their population grows, so we must fight harder and smarter than ever.” “Are you saying that Lord Delraven was the one to make all the Literati into…vampires?” “We are more than vampires, Miss. That is a term that comes from folklore. We crave vitessence and need it to survive.” “And vitessence is in the blood,” Isabel said slowly, recalling her earlier conversation with Margaret. “It can be found in bodily fluids most associated with human emotion— sweat, tears—” Jessie flushed again when he noticed her narrowed eyelids. “You spoke of the life force earlier, Miss. Humans are energy beings. We need that energy to survive.”
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“And this energy can be found in its most concentrated form in the blood?” Isabel murmured as understanding dawned. Somehow it made intuitive sense to her. Jessie nodded. “We do not take enough to harm the mortal, Miss. We are not like Morshiel and his revenants. They take pleasure from draining a human’s vitessence until death. They drink the very soul. Such taking is considered taboo by us. Lord Delraven has taught us to control our hunger.” Isabel straightened, staring at Delraven’s painted crest, her curiosity for the leader of such a strange, powerful group of creatures mounting by the second. “Delraven said Morshiel was his clone. How did the two come into existence, Jessie?” “I don’t know, Miss. None of us knows, save perhaps Delraven himself, and if he does know, he doesn’t share that secret with us. Perhaps he does with Aubrey Cane. They are as close as brothers. We only know how much Delraven strives to control Morshiel, and we share in his mission. Morshiel is cruel beyond belief. He murders Londoners regularly, and some—a small percentage of his victims—turn Scourge and strengthen Morshiel’s army. If you knew a tiny fraction of Morshiel’s crimes over the centuries, you would also have sympathy for Lord Delraven’s cause.” “Are you saying I would consider Delraven a hero?” she asked with a small smile. “The greatest,” Jessie said without hesitation, her sarcasm going unnoticed. “He is a fierce fighter. He was our maker, and is the strongest of all the Literati. None can best Lord Delraven, save Morshiel—and that is only half the time, and because fate has made the balance between good and evil such a close thing.” Well that was an odd thing to say, Isabel thought as she studied Jessie’s earnest expression. It’d sounded like someone quoting from scripture or something.
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“And how did Delraven acquire his title?” she mused, striving to strike a note between casual interest and dawning respect—an attitude to which she sensed Jessie would respond. “He has done service to several members of the royal family throughout the centuries,” Jessie said proudly. “Of course, each new monarch doesn’t realize he’s the same man, believing instead he is another Delraven ancestor. Once, Lord Delraven saved an Italian princess from kidnap by agents of the Spanish crown. His service in that matter was what earned him his title. The Spaniards thought an alliance between an English prince and an Italian princess, Elysse de Gennere, might prove a threat to the Spaniards.” “What happened?” “Lord Delraven rescued Elysse from her captors, who had actually come under the influence of Morshiel. It had become a personal matter for Delraven.” “Hmmm, very romantic. And did the princess end up marrying the English prince?” Isabel asked, her smile turning wistful. “Or did she instead fall in love with the hero who had saved her from her kidnappers?” “She did—both,” Jessie glanced away, a troubled expression on his youthfulseeming countenance. “There is little doubt she was in love with Lord Delraven, but Elysse de Gennere did her duty and married the crowned prince. She killed herself soon after the royal marriage.” Isabel’s small smile faded. It’d been as if they were discussing a charming fairytale until she fully took in Jessie’s crestfallen expression. It wasn’t a story. Jessie clearly was remembering the untimely death of someone he had known, admired…liked. You don’t know much of anything. Not about his world, you don’t. Isabel blinked, recalling Margaret Turrow’s words. Maybe she had a point.
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She edged toward the corridor with the Delraven crest above it, drawn to it for some reason. She started back in surprise when Jessie moved with preternatural speed, blocking her path. “Ever played sports, Jessie? Basketball, maybe? You’d be a natural for track,” she said, her wry tone disguising her shock at the evidence of this paranormal ability. Jessie didn’t appear interested in her banter, however. “I’m sorry. Lord Delraven’s quarters are off limits.” “Of course,” she said lightly, waving to the corridor to the left of them. “What wonders shall we witness next in Sanctuary, Jessie? Flying pixies? Talking beasts, perhaps?” Jessie’s small smile disappeared and he twisted around. His nostrils flared. Isabel had the distinct impression he was seeing something besides the shadows cast from the flickering torches that lined the hall. She knew she was right a moment later when she caught the dim glimmer of a human aura. A woman’s figure resolved out of the darkness. The female who approached them wore only a satin robe and thin slippers. She was obviously naked beneath the thin fabric. She ran a cool, hard look over Isabel. “Don’t waste your time. He’s in a mood. Doesn’t want female company, he was clear about that.” “He must be a great fool, then.” Isabel let out a small squeak of shock at the deep, seductive male voice that came from just behind her right shoulder. Aubrey Cane’s gray eyes were directly on her when she turned, although he had obviously been responding to the woman in the skimpy robe. He smiled. Isabel gave a sigh of relief when she saw his teeth were straight and even, the incisors she’d witnessed earlier nowhere in evidence. His smile widened, as though he’d perfectly read her thoughts.
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“My Lord,” Jessie said, clearly almost as surprised as Isabel had been by Aubrey’s unexpected presence. “I had not realized…that is…I thought you were organizing the patrols for this evening in the detail room.” “I was. Tunnel patrols are off,” Aubrey said smoothly. “I was wondering, Jessie, if you might escort this lovely young woman to the Angelus Salon.” “Of course.” Isabel started to accompany Jessie, but Aubrey halted her with an upraised hand. “Not you,” he said softly to Isabel. He turned his head, finally removing his stare from Isabel’s face. She was relieved. His eyes—his nearness—disturbed her. “I will meet you in the Angelus Salon in a moment…Margarite, isn’t it?” The auburn-haired woman nodded, her gaze running over Aubrey with a cool gaze that turned warm. She apparently liked what she saw. “We will settle our business then,” Aubrey told Margarite. The woman’s eyes widened slightly, as though Aubrey had just given her a secret, intimate caress, although Isabel could clearly see they were many feet apart. Margarite’s lips curved and she thrust her breasts against thin fabric, displaying the areolas of her nipples to full advantage. Aubrey Cane didn’t glance downward. His smile seemed to indicate appreciation of Margarite’s gesture, nonetheless. He relatched his gaze upon Isabel when Jessie led Margarite away. “My name is Aubrey Cane. Are you enjoying your stay at Sanctuary, Isabel?” “How do you know my name?” He laughed. Isabel almost felt as though she could reach out and touch his charm, it was so thick and tangible. Even so, Aubrey Cane made her wary. Perhaps her skittishness was associated with the fact that she’d watched him making love earlier, and that he’d known of her voyeurism.
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“All the Literati know your name, Isabel. You are our resident celebrity.” “I’m your resident prisoner,” she corrected acerbically. Irritation swelled in her when she recognized the truth of her statement, making her bold. “Which reminds me, I need to go find my jailer. I’m pretty much ready to wake up from this nightmare, and they say the best way to do that is just to confront the monster head on, if you know what I mean. Have a good evening, Mr. Cane.” She nodded once briskly and headed down the corridor with the crest above it. Aubrey was suddenly in front of her, blocking her path. She’d expected it, but a chill went through her, nonetheless. She’d never seen him move. It was as if he’d just coalesced in the air in front of her. He took a step toward her and looked down at her with a heavy lidded stare. She swallowed with effort and forced herself to stand her ground. He looked hungry. “Do you plan on biting me?” she asked, her fear barely covered by her paper-thin act of bravado. “I wish,” he replied quietly. His light eyes roved over her face. “Or perhaps you do.” “Don’t kid yourself.” He laughed again, his amusement striking her as too rich to be feigned. “Let me pass. I will speak to Lord Delraven.” Aubrey’s smile faded as he studied her. “Unfortunately, Blaise has left specific instructions that you are the last person he wants to see.” “And you follow his every command, is that it? Hail Lord Delraven, the King of the Vampires. I suppose when he orders you to clean his toilet, you ask him if he’d like it done with a sponge or your tongue,” she said irritably. “I’m not his servant. I happen to be his closest friend.” “Then he’ll understand when you tell him what happened.”
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He smiled wolfishly and stepped even nearer to her. “And what did happen, Isabel? Please tell me, because I’m spinning from your nearness and don’t know up from down at the moment.” She rolled her eyes, even though she had to admit, he truly did look a little like he’d been hit over the head. She felt her power over him in that moment as clearly as she saw his face and the shadowed corridor. “It was all a misunderstanding, a miscommunication between you and Jessie,” she said smoothly. “Both of you thought I was being escorted by the other, and I slipped away in order to escape.” “Let me touch you, and I will let you pass,” he whispered. She blinked, sure for a moment she’d misunderstood his request, he’d made it with such restrained intensity. “Touch me?” she asked, bewildered. “Why? Where?” He didn’t seem capable of speech. His nostrils flared as though he was breathing her…absorbing her, even though they weren’t touching anywhere. Yet. He lifted his hand and held it an inch over her shoulder. “If you promise to let me go?” she clarified suspiciously. She could not shake the feeling she was dreaming—Alice dropped down the rabbit hole. These men were so strange, yet so compelling. “I will let you pass, but you will never escape Sanctuary,” he said. “Just let me go,” she said through clenched teeth. He nodded, his gaze fixed on his hand above her shoulder. “Give me permission,” he said roughly. “Yes. All right.” She felt the pressure of his hand. Suddenly he was hissing and stepping back, a snarl marring his handsome features. “What the—?”
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“I grant you your wish,” he grated out, his white teeth clenched. “Go.” “But what happened to your hand?” she asked, bewildered. He glanced down at his reddened palm. “It is nothing. It is pain. I will overcome it.” Isabel glanced back warily over her shoulder as she passed him in the opposite direction of Delraven’s suite. A wild desire to escape had overcome her in those tense moments, a frantic need. She had no idea what had just happened, had no idea why touching her had made him recoil. Aubrey looked up from his palm. She felt his stare on her as she began to run. It frightened her to consider it too closely, but there was a certainty inside her that what he’d said was true. She’d never just walk out of this fortress on her own. She raced down gloomy hallways and up stairs, opening doors that led to luxurious salons and bedrooms, and once, a large laboratory, all of them empty. An hour and a half later, she’d still found no exit and encountered no one to either help or hinder her. It was almost as if the residents of Sanctuary followed her movements and took care not to be seen. She felt like a rat being observed in a maze. Fear and desperation built in her until it reached a crescendo. She did her best to retrace her steps, feeling a grim sense of satisfaction course through her when she once again saw the corridor with the Delraven crest. Aubrey was long gone, probably paying that woman—Margarite—in equal parts money and pleasure. She must be becoming as mad as this waking dream to be running toward an enigma like Blaise Sevliss, Lord Delraven. She reminded herself that like Aubrey, Titurino, Jessie and the group of men called the Literati, Delraven was a paranormal creature…something not human. But Delraven was different somehow, more than that… He wasn’t just inhuman, he was beyond human.
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She should be scared out of her mind to confront him and demand her freedom. Instead, it confused her to realize it was excitement unlike she’d ever before experienced that twined with fear in her veins. Why did she feel so drawn to him? At the end of the hall she encountered a pair of closed mahogany doors. She opened them and cautiously entered a study featuring bookcase-lined walls and deep leather couches and chairs. Several maps lined the walls. Some appeared to be detailed maps of London, while others showed overlapping straight, thick lines intersecting squiggly, broken ones. The fire in the hearth had dwindled to glowing embers and was the only source of light besides a dim lamp on a desk. She moved into the room, her footsteps muted by a dense carpet, highly aware of her heartbeat throbbing in her ears contrasting with the thick silence. “Lord Delraven?” she called in a threadbare whisper. Her attempt was halfhearted. She could perfectly sense he wasn’t in the room. Just as she knew precisely where he was. From where had this unusual prescience in regard to Delraven come? Was this a new ability she’d acquired when she’d been rendered unconscious by her kidnapper? Margaret had mentioned Delraven touching her. She’d said Delraven had held her. Had his essence somehow transferred to her in some inexplicable fashion? Her hand shook slightly when she extended it toward the handle on an adjoining door. The door swung open with a low-pitched whine. He lay on the bed, naked save for a leather harness of sorts that looped around his hips and thighs. It left his genitals fully exposed. For a full ten seconds, both of them remained unmoving. He made a sound—a small noise like a choking, hoarse gasp. She glanced rapidly from his erect cock to his face. His unusual dark green eyes seemed to smolder more than the burning embers in the study fire. When she saw the sweat
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that glazed his long, muscled body and the strange, desperate expression on his bold features, she raced into the room. It suddenly struck her that every fiber of his flesh was straining to move, but couldn’t. “You’re ill,” she said, her gaze flickering around the room. Do creatures such as he become ill? The question came automatically into her brain, but she quickly dismissed it in the face of the obvious. Blaise Sevliss was sick, in pain, or both. “Tell me what to do,” she insisted. Anxiety grew in her when she saw him strain to speak, but his lips didn’t even part. His eyes flickered over to a credenza next to the door where a pitcher and glasses rested. Isabel hurried over to the table where she poured a tall glass of cool water. “Let me hold up your head,” she said quietly when she approached him again and saw that even more sweat had beaded on his brow. He obviously was trying to raise himself and was weakened even by that effort. She sat on the corner of the bed, her knee bent close to his shoulder, and lifted his head. He drained the water more rapidly than she would have expected, given his nearly paralyzed state. When he was done, he looked up at her. The message in his eyes was like a complicated, coded language. It bewildered and scared her, but she didn’t move away from him. She glanced down at her gloved hand. His wavy, thick hair gleamed next to the black velvet, more lustrous by far than the inexpensive fabric of the glove. She wanted to feel it twining through her fingers. It shocked her, this sudden desire. She’d recoiled at the thought of touching another being for so long now. She tried not to recall the vision of his beautifully shaped, erect phallus highlighted by snug straps of leather. How could he be so ill and debilitated when his cock was so hard?
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For a stretched moment, they just stared at one another. She felt strange— torpid and warm, and yet energized and prickly as well, as though the nerves were singing out a plea to be touched. After a moment, she forced herself to inhale. The desperation she’d seen in his rigid face was fading, slowly being replaced by a stony, fierce expression. “Are you better now?” she asked as she turned to set the glass on a bedside table. When he didn’t speak, she tried to gather herself. What was it that she was doing here? Why had she come? It was so difficult to think, when her vision was so full of him, when he crowded her senses and flooded her brain. It felt a like a sensual assault. “You shouldn’t have come,” he said. “I-I had to. I needed to speak with you. You must let me go.” “You shouldn’t have come,” he repeated. Her forehead crinkled in confusion when she heard the bleakness of his tone. Suddenly, without her knowing how it had happened, she lay on the bed, her head on the pillow where his had just been. He leaned down over her, his large hands holding her shoulders. She saw that his incisors had lengthened. For some reason, she wanted to weep when she saw the wild desperation on his rigid features. Such a living portrait of pain. He leaned down and sank his teeth into her neck.
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Chapter Five
She wanted to scream, whether in fear or shock or ecstasy, she didn’t know. There was pain, but a distilled, voluptuous bliss twined through it, leaving her immobilized. Her eyes opened wide, as though she were being shown the secrets of the universe and couldn’t quite comprehend the miracle of the vision. A tension swelled in her sex. It hurt where his teeth pierced her neck, but his lips moved around the puncture wounds, the movement striking her as decadently erotic. She felt the heat of his mouth penetrate her. Somehow, the sharp pain he wrought mingled with nerve and flesh until it transformed into a potent, sharp need for release. She struggled weakly against him, not because she wanted this bizarre, electrical experience to stop—no, she would have begged him to continue—but distantly, she was mortified that she was about to climax explosively beneath a stranger… …her captor. That the act shouldn’t feel like the height of intimacy, but did, confused and panicked her. The movements he made while he fed—the subtle suckling actions of his jaw and the convulsions of his throat as he swallowed her blood—came to a halt when he felt her weak struggle. His hold on her shoulders became more firm. She cried out shakily when he withdrew his teeth from her flesh. “Shhhh,” he quieted. “Do not fight me.”
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She came at the sensation of his teeth sliding back into her flesh. Orgasm ripped through her, pain edging vast waves of pleasure. It was as if those crashing surges of sharp climax whisked away the familiar landmarks of her known world.
The next conscious thought she had was of movement and stability at once. She cracked open her eyes and saw she was in a torch-lit, domed corridor. Through a hazed consciousness, she saw angels and gods cavorting above her, some leered down at her mockingly, others reached to touch her, to comfort. But they may retract their healing, beneficent fingertips. She required no comfort. She felt numb. No, that wasn’t right. She didn’t feel numb, but alive. She buzzed with life; she was drunk on it. She rolled her head on a hard object and looked up. This angel was real—a dark, fierce one. The cavorting angels overhead were faded caricatures compared to him. His gaze remained fixed ahead, like a cold, straight blade lodged in stone. She realized the hardness behind her head was his biceps, and that he carried her down a long corridor. “Hey,” she said. Her lips felt heavy and odd, as if the already sensitive flesh had sprouted billions of new nerve-endings. Perhaps her voice resounded only in her mind, because his gaze didn’t waver. “Hey.” Still, he didn’t acknowledge her. “I know you can hear me. I know you’re aware of me,” she finished softly. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. She didn’t know what had made her say it, but it suddenly struck her that she’d spoken the truth. Despite his averted
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gaze, he might as well have been carrying a ticking bomb, he was so focused on her. He carried her into a room. He kicked the heavy door shut and shifted his hand beneath her. The furtive snick of the lock sliding home made her shiver with excitement. A sideways glance informed her they were in the bedroom where she’d breakfasted with Margaret Turrow—had that just been today? It felt as if it might have been weeks ago, months… He laid her on the bed. “What are you—” She broke off when he began to unbutton her blouse. A bedside lamp was the only source of light in the room. It cast his face in shadow and gold. Her heart swelled in her breast. Her eyes dampened. He removed the blouse and tossed it aside. He slid his open hands along her sides and she shivered in concentrated pleasure. Her skin seemed to take on a life of its own, thrilling at his touch. The sadness she saw on his rigid features and gleaming eyes, the torment, the wild, desperate longing, confused her…angered her. He removed the lacey confection of a bra Margaret had brought her in the velvet reticule along with dozens of items of expensive lingerie. She trembled uncontrollably at the sensation of palms caressing the tender skin at the sides of her bare breasts. “Don’t do me any favors,” she said with difficulty through a throat that had tightened with emotion. “What do you mean?” he asked, his cold tone bizarrely at odds with the smoldering heat in his eyes when he plumped her small breasts in his hands. She cried out in sharp arousal when he casually pinched both nipples at once. Desire sluiced through her, making her struggle to recall what she had meant to say.
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“You look like you don’t want to do this. Don’t, then. I’m not going to beg you.” “Beg?” he glanced up from where he’d been watching himself finesse her breasts with adroit fingertips. He looked confused. “You’re saying you want me to stop?” “Not exactly. No…I’m not staying that,” she whispered. “Good. Because I’ve tasted you, there’s no going back. I will have you now.” He stood abruptly and began to lift her skirt. Beneath it, she wore the ivory panties that matched the bra and a pair of thigh-high stockings. She didn’t typically dress in skirts and hose, but she had no choice but to wear the clothing Margaret had brought her, unless she wanted to walk around Sanctuary in her rumpled evening dress. It had disturbed her a little to admit it, considering she was being kept prisoner at Sanctuary, but donning the pretty, delicate lingerie had pleased her for some reason, stroked her feminine pride. She whimpered in uncontrollable pleasure when he ran his hands along her hips and pulled down her panties. His touch electrified her. She lay there on the bed, a whirlwind of feeling, angry and bewildered by what was happening to her, but primarily drunk with desire. He spread her legs and pinned her with his stare. His nostrils flared. She craved his touch like an addict, and he gave her what she needed, stroking her naked thighs and ribs and breasts until she trembled uncontrollably. Her limbs felt heavy and useless. She was paralyzed by desire as she lay there, unable to pull her eyes off his transfixed expression as he learned her body with his hands. In the end, she did beg. Again and again. “Please,” she moaned, her head thrashing on the pillow, unable to take the torture a moment longer. He paused, her breasts in his hands. He’d been
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molding them to his palms and lifting up before releasing them abruptly, appearing fascinated by their tendency to pertly spring back into place. His wicked fingertips had turned the nipples into hard, pointed crests. She gritted her teeth when he touched them, they were so sensitive. She begged him to touch them again when he focused his attention elsewhere. She sighed shakily when he released her, hating the absence of his touch. Her pussy was molten now, liquid and hot, a volatile explosion brewing in its depths. He stood. She watched, her breath caught in her lungs, as he rapidly undressed. The flex and ripple of muscle over bone held her spellbound when he removed his shirt. Every nerve, every cell in her body strained toward him when he liberated the long, thick pillar of his cock from his jeans. He still wore the strange leather harness instead of underwear. Her mouth opened in surprise when he turned as he kicked off his pants and she saw the sheath that rode down his right hip and upper thigh. A supple strap wrapped around his leg, holding it in place. She wanted to ask him about the weapon, but her tongue had grown as heavy as her limbs. Her heart seemed to have swelled to two times its normal size. It throbbed against her sternum as if it were running out of room. His male beauty was breathtaking, but intimidating, as well. Lord Delraven’s body wasn’t one to be petted and coddled by a woman’s touch. It was the tool of a warrior, hard and grown accustomed to labor and pain. He paused next to the bed. She ripped her eyes off the potently erotic vision of his cock and heavy balls surrounded by leather and met his gaze. “Take off your gloves,” he said. A sliver of panic pierced her. She shook her head on the pillow. He didn’t know the protection the gloves afforded her and her consciousness felt too thick with arousal and need to explain such a complicated thing.
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His face hardened at her refusal. He knelt on the bed and peeled back the velvet from a forearm and hand. She grimaced when her hand fell to the bed, foreign images and sensations impinging upon her. She could only partially interpret them, they were so strange and alien—the sweetness of the mulberry leaf, the friction in the gland before it secreted the sticky residue, soft, quick hands touching and spinning and stretching— He gripped the upper part of her forearm and lifted her hand. The invading images abruptly ceased. Sweat beaded on her brow. She glanced up at him. “Silk,” she whispered, referring to the luxurious fabric covering the bed. “It came from a living thing. I can feel its origins.” He surprised her by nodding once, as if he perfectly understood her. He quickly removed her other glove, carefully holding her hands in the air and touching only her forearms. She murmured in surprise when he drew her hands above her head and efficiently tied her wrists together with the long, stretchy glove. He carefully laid her hands on the pillow, palms and fingertips facing upwards. She stared up at him, her skirt rucked up around her waist, her thighs spread, the cool air in the room kissing her hot, moist sex, her wrists restrained above her head. “Why did you do that?” she asked. She saw his throat convulse. For a strained few seconds, she thought he wasn’t going to reply. “I wanted to see your hands naked while I was inside you.” Her eyes sprang wide when he knelt on the bed and straddled her. He looked awesome in his power in that moment. It frightened her a little. Distantly, she recalled she was his prisoner here in Sanctuary. She’d gone to him to beg for her freedom, and now he was about to fuck her like some kind of warrior claiming the spills of war.
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But the hazy thought wasn’t enough to quiet the heavy ache in her pussy. She needed him, whether she liked it or not. She craved him. He stared point blank at the juncture of her thighs. He would laugh if she told him to stop. Not that she could imagine Blaise Sevliss laughing. Not that she even remotely wanted him to stop. She licked her lower lip nervously as she watched him situate their bodies so that he could penetrate her. He pushed on the back of her thighs matter-of-factly, rolling her hips back in preparation to receive his length. It would hurt to have him in her. He was large, and she was small. But she wanted it anyway. She whimpered in rising desperation as she watched him slide his palm along the back of the thick shaft of his penis. He arrowed the plum-sized head into her slit. “Oh,” she cried out in shock when he thrust firmly. Her body resisted him, but he continued to press, refusing to be denied. The pressure was almost unbearable. “I don’t think—” “I’m sorry. I cannot stop it,” he grated out, his voice cracking. She focused on him. His face and long, muscled torso were damp with sweat. He looked savage and hard, but with her special sense when it came to him, she recognized the power of his need. It frightened him. Seeing his fear—a desperation that was like an open wound—erased her own. He placed his hands on the carved headboard, bracing himself. She bit her lip to stop herself from crying out when he plunged into her to the hilt. He paused, his balls pressed against her delicate, moist tissues. His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath. He circled his hips subtly, the stimulation on her clit making her moan. She clenched around his cock.
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She saw his white teeth flash in a snarl. She wasn’t surprised to see his incisors were extended as he began to fuck her—it seemed as though she’d expected it, somewhere in the distant recesses of her mind. His thrusts were precise, thorough and more powerful than she’d ever experienced. She was at his mercy. His face remained stark and hard as he pumped. It would have hurt her, to see his impassive expression, if she didn’t also sense his endless need and his turmoil as he fought that need… …his pain that he knew he could not win. She bit her lower lip to stifle a scream. Her body stretched to accommodate his penis—it seemed to be growing even larger as he thrust into her again and again. The bed began to shake and rattle against the wall with the strength of his possession. He created an almost unbearable friction in her. She felt inundated with swelling sensation, besieged with it. Much as when his teeth had penetrated her flesh, she experienced intense pleasure spiced with the edge of pain. He grunted and rode her harder, his face rigid, his features glazed with a sheen of sweat. A cry escaped her throat when he altered the angle of his driving cock. He pounded into her until she clenched her eyes shut and mewled. She pumped her hips against him, increasing the already unbearable friction, her body a coiled spring. She felt him jerk viciously inside her. Her eyelids flew open. Wonder coursed through her in equal measure when she felt him coming deep inside her. His face twisted in what must have been pleasure so piercing it resembled pain. The deep, guttural growl he made was the sound of a wounded beast. He continued to stab his penis into her with short, hard thrusts even as he endured his bliss. She blinked sweat out of her eyes, disoriented. It shocked her a little that he’d come so rapidly. He seemed like such a powerful creature…such a powerful lover. Seeing his vulnerability made her want to weep.
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She lay there, panting, trying to find a measure of reality to grasp onto in the bizarre, electrified moment. He lowered his hands off the carved headboard and placed them next to the pillow where her head lay. He hunched over her, his neck bent, gasping wildly for air. The fact that he wasn’t entirely human struck her anew when she noticed how quickly he recovered. Within ten seconds, he went from desperately trying to catch his breath to calm, even breathing. And his cock remained enormous and throbbing inside her. She cried out brokenly several seconds later when he reached between them and spread her labia wide, exposing the sensitive kernel of flesh of her clit. He removed his hand and ground his pelvis down on her, rotating his hips, stimulating her. She gritted her teeth together at the pressure of being so filled by his cock while he massaged her clit. Orgasm loomed, the suddenness of its approach, the magnitude of it, stunning her. She hadn’t fully recovered from her climax when he began fucking her again. Her palms began to tingle. She opened her eyelids and saw he gazed at her bare, restrained hands with a fixed, blazing stare. He didn’t speak, just thrust into her with lancing precision, a blade plunging into a shuddering sheath. Yet she felt the intensity of his longing, knew instinctually how much he hungered for her touch. A fever overcame him. It enveloped Isabel as well, and together they existed at the center of an inferno. Again and again he took her, not understanding his need, but acknowledging he was ruled by it. His hunger never disappeared, but sometime close to dawn, he told himself it had at least eased. He untied Isabel’s hands and took great care in replacing her gloves. “Come to bed,” Isabel said after her hands were covered, her voice roughened by passion spent many times over.
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He hesitated where he stood next to the bed. She looked up at him so trustingly. Elysse had once regarded him thus, until she’d fully understood what he was. Then disgust—and worse, fear—had entered her clear, blue eyes. She’d been destroyed by that knowledge, ending her own life because she couldn’t bear the idea of having lain with him. “What is it?” Isabel asked, and he realized his doubt and disbelief over what had occurred between them had entered his expression. Before she could ask him any more questions, before she had the opportunity to become repulsed, he placed his hand on her temple. “I’m sorry,” he whispered roughly, not allowing himself to look into the wells of her dark, velvety eyes. He used his power to will her to forget everything that had occurred since she’d first entered his quarters earlier that evening.
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Chapter Six
The next morning, Isabel recalled nothing about the night before. It only struck her as strange for a brief moment that she was not anxious about this. Her consciousness seemed to bounce and skitter off the vacant spot in her memory like a drop of water on a spot of oil. She rose to the sound of water running in the distance and the smell of coffee, cinnamon and fresh-baked rolls. Her mouth watered. She pulled the covers around her breasts, sat up and stretched. “I’ve started you a nice, hot bath, dear,” Margaret Turrow said as she stepped into the room and marched over to the table where she’d laid out the breakfast things. “And I’ve made you fresh cinnamon rolls.” “You didn’t have to do that,” Isabel mumbled. She placed her hand on her throat in surprise. Her voice had sounded rough and hoarse, as though she were getting a cold. Margaret glanced around, coffee carafe in her hand. “Are you getting ill?” “No,” Isabel said honestly as she got out of bed. “I feel good. Really good,” she added under her breath as she examined the brown silk nightgown she wore. Confusion flickered through her. She couldn’t recall putting it on last night. “Here’s your robe, dear,” Margaret said, grabbing the silk confection at the foot of the bed. “Lord Delraven was right again, I see. He chose this gown special for you. You look scrumptious in this chocolate-brown color.” Heat inexplicably flooded her cheeks at the sound of Delraven’s name. She suddenly became highly conscious of how sticky things felt between her thighs.
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For a moment, she felt disoriented, but then she suppressed the dizzy feeling and focused on the mundane details of the room and the woman bustling toward her. “That’s all right, Margaret,” she said with a weak smile when the little woman held up the robe. “I think I’ll just have some coffee and get in the bath.” “I’ll get it, dear,” Margaret insisted when Isabel headed toward the table and the carafe of coffee. Isabel gave a small laugh. “You don’t have to wait on me, Margaret.” “On the contrary, I do,” Margaret said as she poured the black, aromatic fluid into an elegant white porcelain cup. She glanced up as she handed over the coffee and noticed Isabel’s wry expression. “But of course I want this particular duty, as well.” “I’m a duty?” Margaret poured a splash of fresh cream into her coffee. “Lord Delraven wants me to see to you personally, and I told him I was glad to do it. He probably thinks you’ll grow lonely here, without the company of another mortal.” “You make it sound like I’m going to spend the rest my life in this weird place,” Isabel said sharply. She waited for panic to rise in her—why wouldn’t she grow anxious at the idea of being kept a prisoner for her whole life because of the bizarre whim of a paranormal creature?—but nothing happened. She remained calm, an actress portraying panic rather than actually feeling it. When had this change been wrought? Why did the opposite—the idea of leaving Sanctuary—suddenly disorient her? Margaret’s blue eyes flickered over her before she set down the creamer. “There’s no telling what the future will bring, but you’re here now. May as well make the most of it. You’re free to access almost all of Sanctuary, which—trust me, Miss—contains a lifetime of interesting amusements. Lord Delraven told me
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before he left this morning to tell you that you may have run of the place, although he did ask that I accompany you until you become used to the premises. One can easily get lost here and wander for hours. Jessie told me he never got a chance to show you Delraven’s library, which is truly spectacular. Perhaps today you could pick out a book or two and relax poolside. At your word, I’ll send for a masseuse and you could get a nice massage—” “Massage,” Isabel repeated incredulously. She broke into laughter at Margaret’s wide-eyed look of innocence. “Margaret, you’re priceless. You mention that my captor is offering to treat me to a spa experience so nonchalantly.” She continued to laugh under her breath as she walked toward the bathroom, sipping her coffee. “There’s lotion, shampoo and conditioner beneath the sink, dear, and bath salts next to the tub. I put your towels on the warmer.” Isabel paused and glanced around. Margaret’s face was completely serious, but the sparkle in her eyes hinted that she was every bit as aware of the humor and strangeness of the situation as Isabel was.
After she bathed and dressed, Margaret and she spent a lovely day. Isabel had suspended her sense of judgment as best she could and found herself truly enjoying Margaret’s company. They’d wandered around a library that seemed as vast and impressive to her as the Library of Congress. Afterward, Margaret mysteriously told her she wanted her to see something. The older woman led her to a pair of ornately carved, white-painted doors and opened them. Isabel squinted, trying to see in the pitch blackness. Suddenly the room was illuminated. She gasped in stunned pleasure.
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It wasn’t a room at all—it was a theatre. A perfect, majestic little theatre. “It’s a miniature of the Gielgud,” she said hollowly, referring to the London theatre designed in the ornate, Louis XVI style. She’d attended a play for the first time at the Gielgud with Lester Dee just days ago. She stared in wonder at the ornate gilt and wood carvings, not really believing what she was saying. Margaret looked pleased. “You’ve been to the Gielgud? Yes, Delraven had it modeled after that theatre. He loves to attend plays.” “He does?” Isabel asked, still vibrating in pleasure at the discovery of this latest miracle housed within Sanctuary. “Oh yes,” Margaret enthused. “Lord Delraven is a great patron of the arts. He told me to tell you that as his guest, you may choose any play that you like and perform whatever part you choose. He will provide the cast, crew and director.” Isabel laughed. Surely Margaret was joking. “Come, dear,” Margaret said, waving excitedly for her to follow her down the aisle between rows of scarlet velvet chairs. “The theatre contains its own library, filled with scripts from every century and every part of the world. You’re going to think you died and went to heaven.” “Have I?” Isabel whispered, not moving. Margaret heard her and came to a halt. She blinked when she took in Isabel’s slain expression. “Delraven meant it to be a pleasure for you, Miss. He said he could think of no one better to bring the theatre to life again. Was he wrong? He told me you were an actress. He must have thought you would enjoy—” “Of course I would enjoy it,” she said through a constricted throat. Isabel swallowed thickly and tried to get a hold of herself. The perfect theatre was magnificent—she felt as if she stood in the middle of a priceless jewel. But it was
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Margaret’s admission that Lord Delraven himself had suggested this treat especially for her that had truly left her speechless. “Why…why didn’t he make this generous offer in person?” she asked in a thin voice. “Lord Delraven?” Margaret clarified as she walked toward her. “Oh, he’s very busy. He has a vast number of business and personal concerns.” “Oh yes, I see.” She couldn’t quite put her finger on how Margaret’s words made her feel. Or she could, but the hurt that swept through her at that moment made no sense whatsoever, so Isabel chose to interpret the emotion as bewilderment. Why should she care if the man who was holding her prisoner refused to offer the magnificent gift personally? But even to herself, her disregard sounded hollow. She did care that Delraven kept his distance from her. After they’d toured the small theatre, they’d had lunch poolside surrounded by exotic palms and colorful flowers. The ceiling of the pool was made of hazed glass. Once again, Isabel doubted that she was underground. She would have guessed that above the glass was a pale blue sky with puffy white clouds that occasionally sailed across the radiant orb of the sun. She’d seen no one all day save Margaret, but again, Isabel had the impression of being observed—not by malicious eyes, but watchful, intense ones. Once, she’d seen a large shape rush through the shadows of the thick foliage surrounding the pool, and amazed herself further by suppressing the exclamation and questions that sprang to her tongue. Later that afternoon Isabel paused and examined herself in her suite’s bathroom mirror. She’d taken off her cover-up and wore only gold hoops in her ears, a new pair of gloves—these made of a gold, thin synthetic that hugged her
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hands tightly—and a darling scrap of an emerald green bikini that was offered to her by a straight-faced Margaret that morning. Isabel surprised herself by putting it and the accompanying silk cover-up on without comment. Why shouldn’t she dress as decadently as she chose? This was all just a great cosmic joke…a dream. Wasn’t it? Those clouds seemingly floating across a brilliant sun earlier while they were poolside and supposedly hundreds of feet belowground seemed just as unlikely as Isabel Lanscourt agreeing to wear this revealing bikini. Her fingers trailed along her neck. She checked for the tenth time that day, but no—there was nothing visible that could explain the slight soreness she felt there. Her pussy ached too, but in a pleasant, arousing sort of way. Or at least it was pleasant when she didn’t let herself think on the “whys” of the soreness too greatly. She showered, washed her hair and dried off with the thick, absorbent towels provided for her—these were made of some synthetic that did not disrupt her consciousness with unwelcome, bombarding sensations. Instead, only a few whispery images struck her mind’s eye of some sort of chugging machinery, and then quickly, a hint of a bored, blonde female who smoked unfiltered Benny Hennies maneuvering fabric beneath a bobbing needle. The weak perceptions vanished as quickly as they’d come, as they often did when her fingers and palms touched new synthetics. She walked into the closet naked. Margaret had laid out two dozen different gloves for her on a long shelf in the closet. On a whim, she chose a pair of tight, black, wrist-length gloves with a metallic sheen. When she glanced into her empty suite and saw that Margaret
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had started a fire, she dressed in a light, amber silk gown that fell to her thighs, and a matching robe. In the bureau, she discovered that Margaret had added to her store of lingerie. Her fingertips ran over exquisite silks and laces, only to settle on a tiny thong that matched the amber of her gown. She slid it over her thighs and yanked up gently on her sex, wincing slightly at the delicious ache wrought by the pressure of the fabric. She’d felt so prickly all day, so aroused, as if her nerves had been awakened and primed in preparation for sensual pleasure. Margaret had placed shoes and slippers along the shelves—why should she be surprised they were all in the correct size? Perhaps she was growing used to these bizarre coincidences, becoming accustomed to the world of a dream. She passed up the slippers, however, and padded into the bedroom, barefoot. A large black wolf sat like a sentinel to the right of the fireplace. Isabel shrieked and lunged for the closet, meaning to slam the door shut and block herself from the animal. “He’s quite tame, most of the time,” she heard Margaret say calmly from behind her. She whipped around a foot away from the closet and stared at the little woman in amazement. “It’s a wolf,” she said stupidly, pointing at the animal, which stood preternaturally still. The flames from the hearth caused its eyes to gleam and flicker against the backdrop of dark, sleek fur. “Yes, I realize that,” Margaret commented wryly as she smoothed a snowy white tablecloth over the small table. “His name is Royal. I’m baking a cake, and I won’t be able to join you for dinner, so I brought him along. I thought you’d like some company.” Isabel stepped closer into the room, her gaze wary on the wolf. “He’s a pet, then?”
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“A pet?” Margaret asked, glancing up from her task of laying out a place setting. “Of course not, he’s just Royal. Come, dear, sit down. I have Coq au vin for you, and a nice salad.” Steam puffed up when Margaret lifted a domed metal cover. Isabel approached the table and sat, her attention drawn by the mouth-watering fragrance of chicken, subtle spices and wine. The wolf’s eyes remained fixed on her. “Are you sure he’s safe?” Isabel asked as she picked up a heavy silver fork. “Quite so. Now, are you all right serving yourself if I run off to the kitchen?” “Believe it or not, Margaret, I’m quite used to feeding myself. I’m also used to eating alone, so you can take your friend over there with you when you go,” she said with a small smile. She lifted the cloth from a basket and inhaled the scent of fresh-baked rolls. She groaned. “Lord Delraven better release me by tomorrow, or I’m bound to gain fifty pounds on your cooking.” Margaret looked pleased. “Well you could use a little meat on your bones. Now, when you finish with your dinner, just put the tray in the hallway near the door, and I’ll send someone to pick it up later.” Isabel paused when she saw Margaret hadn’t moved from her position. Her brows quirked in bewilderment when she noticed Margaret looking at the wolf and nodding her head toward the door in a pointed gesture. The wolf remained unmoving. “Oh, just leave him,” Isabel said, shaking her head bemusedly. She groaned again when she put the fork in her mouth and the savory chicken practically melted on her tongue. “Make that sixty pounds,” she muttered, her eyes closed in gustatory ecstasy. Margaret chuckled and bustled out of the room.
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She’d eaten nearly half of her meal when she glanced down and jumped in alarm, dropping her knife to the china plate with a clatter. The wolf never flinched, but stared up at her, sitting on his haunches just a foot away from her chair. She’d never seen it move from its position near the fireplace. She saw her own startled expression in the depths of the wolf’s unusual eyes. “Are you hungry?” she whispered. She picked up her plate and placed the remainder of the chicken on the carpet next to her chair. “There you go.” The wolf lowered its head, sniffed, straightened and looked at her. “You must not have very good taste if that doesn’t appeal to you.” She ate a mouthful of salad. They engaged in a staring match while Isabel chewed. Doubts began to rise in her under the animal’s steady stare. Was Margaret entirely certain the creature was safe? He was an unusually large wolf, after all. She pushed back her plate and turned in her chair. She lifted her hands, and then placed them hesitantly in her lap. She’d been tempted by the texture and gleam of the wolf’s thick fur. She’d touched dogs and cats before with naked hands. Unlike touching humans, the experience was usually a positive one for her. Something made her wary about petting the wolf, though, despite her strong desire to do so. Perhaps something told her that touching a domestic animal and a wild one was two different things. Maybe the wolf sensed her ambivalence because it made a whining sound when she stood from the table and walked toward the sitting area before the fireplace. “What is it?” she asked the wolf as she plopped down in the corner of the deep, cushy sofa. She brought up her legs and placed her cheek on a velvet
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pillow. The large wolf followed her, spun around when he reached her knees and sat down on his haunches, facing her. Isabel laughed. “You’re an intense one, aren’t you?” Her smile faded after a moment. She jerked her gaze off the wolf’s eyes with effort and stared into the flames. “So how did you end up here, Royal?” she mumbled to herself, growing deliciously relaxed following the good meal and the heat from the flames. “Are you a captive in Sanctuary, as well?” The wolf’s front paws both shifted forward an inch before he stilled. He gave a low, plaintive growl. She lay there quietly, her limbs feeling heavy, her skin growing warm from the emanating flames. The arousal she’d been experiencing to various degrees all day long seemed to swell now that she had nothing to distract her from it. She lifted her gown and robe to her belly and lowered her panties to her thighs. She sensed the wolf watching her, but she didn’t acknowledge its attention as she removed her right-hand glove, careful not to touch the rich fabric of the couch. Her cream was thick between her labia when she inserted the ridge of her forefinger there and stirred. She laid her head back on the pillow, swimming in sensual lassitude. The silence hung thick around her, broken only by the occasional pop from a burning log or the wet sounds her fingers made in her abundant juices as she pleasured herself. In her mind’s eye, a fantasy lover with a shadowed face and burning eyes stared down at her while he fucked her. She was restrained, helpless to prevent his forceful possession. His cock plunged deep in her, deeper than she’d ever experienced in her life. He thrust into virgin territory like a conqueror staking his claim.
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She struggled beneath him, not because she wanted to escape, but because his lovemaking was so intense, so powerful, it overwhelmed her. Shhhh. Do not fight me. You are my prisoner, and I will have you whenever I choose. Now, take your pleasure, lovely. Climax shuddered through her, delicious and sweet. She panted in the aftermath. Sweat glazed her body. She stared at the flames, her eyelids heavy. Just before she succumbed to sleep she had the presence of mind to pull on her glove, jerk up her panties and lower her gown, in case Margaret returned. Afterward, she curled up on the soft couch and sank into slumber. She became aware of two things at once, as though the two phenomena were somehow one—a warm tongue licked and laved her fingers, and her sex ached with longing. In her sleep-addled brain, it was as though the mouth on her fingers was stimulating her pussy, as well. It felt so good, it took her a moment to realize her bare hands were being touched and she experienced only a dark, rich pleasure. How could that be? She struggled in the dream—although it really didn’t feel like a dream. It didn’t feel like waking consciousness either, though. Her fears and doubts were erased completely at the erotic sensation of a sharp incisor gently scraping against the fleshy pad of her forefinger. She whimpered and felt the tooth again, only to be followed by the sensation of being submersed in a warm, sucking mouth. She twisted her hips and climaxed, the quality of her orgasm sharp and tight, making her crave more. She lay on her belly, her bare breasts and ribs pressed against the plush velvet fabric, her nipples hard and painfully erect. He was behind her—she sensed him perfectly. She wanted desperately to turn around and see her lover’s
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face, but her neck felt so heavy…and her hands—she pulled on her wrists—they were restrained at her lower back. Her clit twanged in sharp arousal and wild anticipation when she felt his weight press down on the cushions behind her. Her fire-warmed skin thrilled to the sensation of his hands on her hips and bottom, molding her flesh to his large hands. He spread his hands on her buttocks and parted them. She wiggled in his hold, resisting the power of his gaze. His palm swatting her ass cheek sounded like a cracking whip in the still room. She increased her struggling, but he held her easily. He spanked her again. She heard him chuckle behind her, the sound both sinister and gently amused at once. “I can read your mind,” he said in a roughly accented voice. He matter-offactly lifted her bottom off the couch with his forearm and swatted her again, making the tender flesh sting. “I’m only doing it because you like it.” The smack of skin against skin stole her breath. She went entirely still when he flexed his arms, lifting her lower body farther, swinging her hips slightly off the front edge of the couch. He held the entire weight of her lower body in his grasp. Her eyes went wide when he held her in place with his forearm. He lifted one foot onto the couch—she could feel his hard, muscular leg next to her hip and outer thigh. Oh my God, she thought, eyes going wide, when she felt his cock probing her pussy. He began thrusting, using the power of his arms to take her weight, demanding entry. She cried out in mounting excitement when he pressed the first four inches or so of his length into her, fixing himself in her flesh. He placed both hands on her hips and slid her pussy along the length of the shaft as he flexed forward. The skin of his pelvis slapped against her bottom, his balls kissed
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her wet tissues, yet he cushioned the weight of his thrust with his powerful hold on her lower body. The last thing she heard before an orgasmic rush of blood pounded in her ears was his grunt of primal satisfaction. He howled in pleasure as he erupted yet again at Isabel’s farthest reaches. He couldn’t seem to stop fucking her. It was as if he were determined to make up for all the centuries of abstinence in regard to sexual intercourse in two nights. Just when he thought he couldn’t come another time, he grew hard for her again. He’d filled her with his semen, just as he had last night. Truth be told, it was as if he was in heat…as if he was mating. That made no sense, however. The Sevliss princes were soulless. They were sterile. They did not take mates. They could not. He had not forgotten Isabel as they’d searched the tunnels this morning for some sign of Morshiel, although he’d successfully set aside the electric memories in order to see to his task. Even his failure at catching the scent of Morshiel and the Scourge had not diminished his need. Last night had been a grave error, but he’d been so weak…and suddenly, she’d been there. So beautiful, so powerful. He couldn’t do the impossible, like Aubrey. He couldn’t change the direction of gravity with his magic, or grow fields of the exotic mulberry underground. He was nothing but a beast in human clothes. Once he’d tasted Isabel Lanscourt, there had been no going back. The truth might be wrenching, it might be sad, it might be infuriating… …but it was the truth, nonetheless. He wished the wolf aspects of his human form wouldn’t make it so that his cock grew so swollen after climax. He longed to draw out of her tight, sweet
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hold. He wished he could see himself spilling the last of his seed on her smooth, satiny skin. He longed to see it on her belly, too, and her breasts and her lips. Savage that he was, he couldn’t help but crave to mark her again and again, put his scent all over her, fill her to overflowing with his seed. He panted for air, standing next to the couch, her hips and buttocks clutched in his hands, his cock still erupting inside her, vast waves of pleasure ebbing, but slowly. Silence settled around them. After a few minutes, she stirred and mumbled. Regret lanced through him, but there was nothing he could do. He knew his cock was stretching her, knew he was too large for her delicate body, but he could not withdraw. He would not have left her, even if his penis had not grown swollen in its post-climactic state, locking him to her. Words of comfort eluded him. What could he say that would soothe in these circumstances? He’d taken her blood, knowing what she was. He’d mingled their essences, knowing what he was. It was ludicrous for him to want to comfort her, given what he’d allowed to happen. He’d taken her prisoner, and now he’d taken her as his own. There could be no baser crime in the human world. The knowledge that what was between him and Isabel Lanscourt was something ruled by a different order and morality than the human variety didn’t help alleviate his guilt. He kept her in place with one hand and stroked her with the other, his touch the only way he could think to soothe her. His fingertips thrilled to every new patch of sleek, perspiration-glazed skin. She stilled beneath his touch, and he knew she was hyperaware of his hand…knew it because their minds, their very senses, were one in those taut moments in which he comforted her. He untied her hands when his erection had eased, and drew out of her.
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“Be careful. Don’t touch anything,” he murmured as he eased her down on her side on the couch, her hands now in an abbreviated praying position in front of her. Neither of them spoke as he gently, carefully replaced the gloves. When he’d finished, she scooted back on the couch and turned on her side, staring up at him with heavy eyelids, her lustrous hair spilling around her shoulders. The dying fire cast her skin in pale gold. Her vitessence danced like a million minute fireflies around her. She burned in his eyes; her satiated smile was like watching a brilliant sunset. “Delraven.” “Call me Blaise.” “Blaise,” she murmured, and something powerful stirred in him. Their minds were joined. She’d known he’d meant it literally. He’d longed to hear his name on her tongue. She held out her arms. “Come to me,” she mouthed. He swayed on his feet, hesitating. Her beckoning arms did not waver. He felt ridiculously enormous and ungainly when he sat down on the couch next to her. She was delicate curves and soft, pale skin, a luminous female beacon, while he was huge and hard and dark in comparison to her. He froze when she touched his chest and stroked him. “Stop it. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” she said, the wry hint in her voice warning him that she’d read his mind. Again. She glanced up at him, her brow quirked up in amusement. Their gazes held, and he had the sensation of melting into her. “What’s happening, Blaise?” she whispered. “I don’t know,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. Her small smile faded. For a brief, panicked moment, he was sure he was going to see her expression morph into disgust and fear as her pleasure faded,
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and the truth of what he was struck her consciousness. He swiftly placed his hand on her temple, preparing to spare her of her memories of him and what he’d just done to her…to spare himself from seeing that horrific realization in her eyes. “Don’t do that…don’t be afraid, not of me,” she said, anguish overcoming her features. Her soft plea was like the edge of Morshiel’s heartluster piercing his chest. He cupped her temple and willed her to forget.
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Chapter Seven
A week later, Aubrey came upon David Kwan where he stood beneath Lord Delraven’s crest and the torch-lit corridor to his private quarters. “Cleopatra requests your presence, Menas.” Kwan looked about sixteen years old instead of three hundred and fifty when he broke into a grin. Isabel Lanscourt had this very effect on the Literati. Kwan possessed one of the most brilliant minds in the field of physics Aubrey had ever known, but he’d turned into a lovesick puppy in the past week as several of them helped Isabel with her production of Antony and Cleopatra during their free time. Blaise had hired a small troop of classically trained Shakespearean actors along with a crew, but a few of the Literati had also succeeded in auditioning for parts. Aubrey had become thoroughly amused as he watched battle-hardened warriors and scholars of the highest degree pose and gesture on the stage. Never mind the amusement Aubrey got out of watching them scramble to grant Isabel Lanscourt’s every wish. “Are they rehearsing Act II?” David asked excitedly, even as he glanced back at Delraven’s corridor and a tinge of regret shadowed his features. “You may go to the theatre, David. I will take watch here.” “But Lord Delraven said that—” “I know who Delraven has set a guard for, and I assure you that Ms. Lanscourt will not breach his hallowed sanctuary.” David hesitated. The Literati were actually quite militaristic in their duty and command. When Lord Delraven gave an order, it was typically followed without
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the slightest alteration. Delraven didn’t always explain his tactics to them, but in their battles against Scourge revenants or any other intrigues in which the Literati took part, Delraven had never failed to provide the smartest, safest strategies for combat and operation. Aubrey also possessed the respect of a long-time leader, however, and he had Delraven’s trust. The Literati had seen proof of that time and again. “Go on, David,” he urged gently. “You can trust me to your duty.” David looked relieved. “Thanks, Aubrey. Thanks a lot.” Aubrey checked his watch and tucked it back into his velvet vest pocket. He wagered about five minutes, if that. The costume designer Blaise had hired had been taking her final measurements, and she’d planned to shower afterward. He sensed her presence—he smelled her blood—a full twenty seconds before he saw her. Isabel started when she saw him standing there, but then approached. For the second time that evening, he took note of her slightly hollowed out, flushed cheeks. She’d lost weight in the eight days she’d spent at Sanctuary, even if her color was good—excellent, in fact. Her cheeks and full lips were flushed dark pink with blood and her velvety eyes shone like dark beacons. Her chestnut hair was unusually glossy and full. Her small breasts were even more pronounced than usual, rising above the taut lines of her torso. She wore a bra, but there was little padding. He could see the areolas of her nipples pressing against the fabric and couldn’t help but wonder if they were as pink and flushed as her lips. If she’d lost weight, it’d done nothing to diminish her beauty. It only enhanced it. He’d speak to Margaret about her eating habits, though. It wouldn’t do for her to become ill. “Aubrey. I-I hadn’t expected to see you here.” He smiled, allowing his gaze to drop over the vision of her. The wrist-length white gloves she wore looked out of place with the jeans and form-fitting scarlet
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T-shirt. He knew that Michael Lord, who maintained a network of contacts with the police on the surface world, had managed to clandestinely procure her purse and suitcase. Aubrey had been touched by her happiness upon receiving her familiar belongings and hadn’t seen fit to correct her in her belief that it had been his idea to get the things. In fact, her belongings had been retrieved under Blaise’s direction. The man was uncommonly concerned about her, even if he did carefully avoid her. Aubrey preferred to see her in the sophisticated silks provided to her by Blaise, or even in her elaborate theatrical costumes. Nevertheless, he acknowledged her beauty at the moment, shower-fresh and clean-scrubbed as it was. Some day, he would drape her in richer robes than even the costume she’d removed just minutes ago. One day, she would be the queen of his underground kingdom. He would make that bitch-demon Shirian, whom he regularly summoned and with whom he communed, serve her. He hid a smile at the fantasy. Fortunately, he made a habit of making his fantasies reality. “I’m sure you hadn’t meant to see me here,” he replied pleasantly. She caught the hint of sarcasm in his tone. Her gaze sharpened on him. “How did you know I was planning to try and see Lord Delraven?” she asked. Aubrey shrugged. “I saw the glint in your eyes when you were talking to Titurino about the perfect person to play Marc Antony.” He arched his brows when she gave him an innocent look. “Are you going to try and deny it? You’re carrying a script in your hand, Isabel.” She glanced down and blushed. He laughed. “You are a fool to attempt to persuade him to join your play. Even if you were to gain an audience with Blaise, it would be a lost cause. Blaise loves to
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watch a play, but he’d feel himself a fool strutting about on a stage.” He stepped closer, holding her stare. “I, on the other hand, would make an ideal conqueror and even better lover.” She gave him a glacial glance. “For Cleopatra,” he added. Her scowl faded and she laughed. He chuckled along with her. He’d carefully cultivated her friendship in the past week. “You’re impossible, do you know that?” she remonstrated as she glanced down the crested corridor distractedly. “Unfortunately, you’re probably also right. You might have to be my Marc Antony. I can’t seem to get close to Delraven.” “May I ask, why this fever to see Blaise?” She looked troubled. “What is it, Isabel?” he asked, suddenly sober upon sensing her unrest. She gave him a flickering glance. “I-I don’t know.” She hesitated and looked around, as if looking for eavesdroppers. “Can I trust you, Aubrey?” “No one more.” She bit at her lower lip with small, white teeth, the gesture mesmerizing him. He became hyperaware of her small breasts pressed tightly against the cotton fabric of the T-shirt, the swelling of her lungs with air, the seductive throb of the pulse at her white throat. He blinked and looked away from the glory of her. The spell of her overcame him a lot—too much, in fact. It had been torture for him to court her this past week, to talk with her and spend time with her and gain her trust. “It’s…it’s very odd about Lord Delraven,” she began haltingly. “Even though I’ve seen him only briefly, and he seems to be avoiding me, I feel as if…” “Yes?” he prompted when she faded off.
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“I feel as if I know him somehow. I-I have dreamed of him…or something,” she whispered. He followed the trail of extra color that stained her cheeks with focused attention. Jealousy flared in his breast. He’d experienced the feeling only once before to any great degree—centuries ago when Elysse de Gennere got a similar look of longing in her eye when she spoke of Blaise, and when Blaise’s did the same. And the feeling of jealousy burned much greater at the present moment. Aubrey sensed Isabel wasn’t being completely honest, so he pressed with his ascendancy, urging her to open up and tell him her secret. For there was a secret here. “Lord Delraven is a singular creature, Isabel,” he murmured, using the power of his voice to hypnotize. “Not even he fully understands the origins of his power. It’s not surprising he has an effect on you, even from a distance. Many of the mortal women who have come to Sanctuary over the years have experienced his pull. He has had interactions with humans over the centuries— humans on the surface, that is,” he clarified, pointing upward, “and his magnetic aura has never failed to have an effect on men and women alike.” “Are you trying to tell me I am experiencing what any mortal would in his presence?” “I am saying that your obsession to see Delraven isn’t that unusual. You are behaving as most would—man or woman. It is why Delraven is so careful about not taking a lover on a long-term basis. Women become obsessed with him. You’re no different.” Her chin went up after a few seconds and she met his stare levelly. “You’re wrong,” she said quietly. “Do you know how I know that?” “How?”
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“Because for one, he puts you here as his guard against me. He’s afraid of me. I know he is.” “Perhaps he’s afraid for you.” “No,” she said, her voice like steel draped in velvet. “Something is happening that I don’t understand. I think he doesn’t understand either, just as you don’t, Aubrey. Not even with all your wisdom. I must talk to him. Will you help me, or not?” She was magnificent in that moment. The real Cleopatra had nothing on Isabel Lanscourt. “Do you want to plea for your freedom?” he asked quietly. “Yes.” Their eyes met. “No…” she admitted. Disappointment mixed with his jealousy as he tried to read her chaotic thoughts. She didn’t know the secret either, although she sensed its outlines in her mind and spirit. That secret was torturing her, he realized with a sense of amazement. “I don’t know what I want. I just know I need to speak with Lord Delraven. Will you let me pass? As you did that first night, Aubrey?” He stepped nearer, so only a scant few inches separated the tips of her breasts from his ribs. “You recall what I required as payment for passage on that night?” Her eyes darted to meet his. “But…it harmed you.” He arched his eyebrows. “Has no one told you I’m a magician, Isabel?” he asked in a low, seductive tone. “I can make miracles happen, given enough time. Let me touch you.” She avoided his stare. “You will let me pass then?” “Of course,” he murmured.
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His cock throbbed with excitement as he raised his hand. His fingertips ghosted a breast. For a split second, he knew only the pleasure of firm, succulent flesh. Pain struck him at the same moment that she jerked away from him. She regarded him with sparking dark eyes, and he knew she was angry at his boldness. Nevertheless, he held up his hand and smiled. His spells had been working. His fingers were reddened, but no blisters rose to the surface. In time, he would touch her whenever he chose. He would make it happen. He laughed softly as he watched her rush past him into the crested corridor.
Delraven sat behind a large mahogany table, a long swath of silk heaped before him. She could tell by the way his eyes were trained directly on her when she opened the door to his quarters that he’d sensed her approach, but perhaps hadn’t had sufficient time to try and escape her. “I tricked your guard to get in here,” she said when she noticed his nostrils flare with what she assumed was anger. He didn’t speak, but remained motionless, the silk poised in his hands. The silence was so thick that the sound of the door closing behind her went off like a firecracker in her brain. She entered and studied the room, trying to act as if it was the most natural thing in the world for her to walk in unexpectedly on Blaise Sevliss, Lord Delraven. She suddenly wished that her newest and closest companion, Royal, was there with her to help calm her nerves. Once Margaret had learned that she took comfort in the black wolf’s company, Royal could frequently be found sitting next to the fireplace when she exited the bathroom following her evening shower, her silent, peaceful, watchful companion. He was
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often there while she ate her solitary dinners in her suite, and afterward, while she read a book, curled up before the roaring fire. But he wasn’t now. The only other occupant of the room was the male behind the table who watched her with an enigmatic, brooding stare that sent her skin to tingling. She found herself in a large den, luxurious, but obviously a room for work, not show, Isabel observed as her gaze ran over stacks of books with dozens of pieces of paper sticking out of them as place markers and the maps lining the wall. Her focus tightened on the pile of opalescent cream silk he held, the flames from the fire causing the liquid jewel of fabric to shimmer and beckon, it’s luster every bit as rich as that of a precious pearl. “It’s beautiful,” she murmured as she approached. The metal lamp with an extendable arm that was clamped to the edge of the table looked starkly utilitarian next to the luxurious pile of silk. It cast its light directly on the patch of fabric he held. She touched the folds with gloved fingertips and experienced a longing to feel the sensual fabric with naked hands. “Is it from your factory?” “Yes.” “What are you doing to it?” “I’m examining it,” he said after a pause. “Searching for flaws.” A strange feeling came over her—was it shyness? As a twenty-nine-year-old actress, it wasn’t a sensation she’d experienced often. She kept her head lowered, pretending to study the fabric she fingered, even if every cell in her body did seem hyperaware of the male sitting across the table from her. “And do you do this for all the swaths of silk you sell?” she asked. Her breath caught when his hands began to move again, stroking the fabric slowly. She kept her face lowered, her long hair draped over her cheek, watching as his long fingers moved in the rich folds.
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“No. This is for a royal occasion. When an order comes from Buckingham, I go over every millimeter of multiple swaths myself, searching for flaws. It takes me weeks on end,” he said, his low voice richer and more compelling than the gleaming silk. “Surely flaws are inherent to the process, part of the beauty of the finished product?” She glanced up when he didn’t respond. Her eyes widened when they met his. She jerked her gaze off him, blushing furiously. Her heart began to thump in her ears. Dear God, what was wrong with her? She hadn’t been prepared to look directly into his bold-featured face or intense eyes. “You are right, in part,” he said, his fingers still moving in the silk. “But too many flaws ruin the light-play on the fabric, taking away the luminosity. I have tried to train various members of the Literati for the task. They have more acute vision than humans.” “And?” she asked, a smile tickling at her mouth. “You are not satisfied with their work compared to your own?” Her fingers stilled when he didn’t immediately speak. “I can be a bit of a perfectionist,” he said. “It’s very heavy for a dress, isn’t it?” “For a dress, yes,” he murmured. “But this isn’t for a dress. It’s for a royal marriage.” Her hands tingled in the gloves, as though his stroking fingers gave off a charge and it came to her through the conduit of the lush fabric. “Silk is a good generator of electricity,” he said. She glanced up, cautious this time, but unable to resist looking into his face. Had he read her thoughts? His small smile seemed to indicate he had. She glanced away uneasily. “If the fabric isn’t for a dress, what is it for?”
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“It is for the royal bed. This will be made into sheets, Isabel.” The fabric fell through her fingers heedlessly at the sound of him saying her name in his hoarse, accented voice. It had struck a chord of memory in her. She searched wildly to retrieve the memory, but the ephemeral threads had disappeared. For a moment, her lungs seemed collapsed, unable to fill with air. She abruptly turned away from him, overwhelmed by longing. “What are you carrying?” he asked from behind her as she walked toward the hearth. She glanced around, her brow furrowed in confusion. She blinked in shock when she saw he stood just feet away. He’d come to her with paranormal quickness. What was he talking about? She noticed he looked at her hand. She clutched at the rolled-up script. Remembering why she’d sought him out gave her a renewed sense of purpose, flimsy though her excuse for seeing him was. “I’ve come to ask you to be in the play.” “I am no actor.” “None of the Literati are, except for Titurino, who tells me he used to tread the boards in Rome long ago, to make money for his paints,” she said with a smile. She sobered when she noticed his fire-lit eyes. He was dressed as casually as she, in jeans and a simple gray T-shirt, but he looked elegant somehow…a noble savage. “Thank you, for sponsoring the play for my benefit. I haven’t had a chance to tell you.” “I thought it would please you, and help to occupy your time. When you are ready, say the word and I will bring you an audience, as well. You may choose whoever you’d like to attend.” “Lester Dee?” she asked smoothly, referring to the professor who had brought her to England.
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He kept his face impassive. “If that is your wish. We can come to terms on the matter.” She smiled. “The Queen?” “That one I can answer for more confidently. Consider it done.” She shook her head slowly. “The funny thing is, I believe you. I would believe anything of you, at this point.” “I’m sorry to have to keep you here,” he said. She swallowed and examined the smooth mahogany mantel of the fireplace. “I’m not as angry about that as I once was. Why is that, do you suppose?” “I don’t know.” She jerked her head up and pinned him with her stare. “You do know,” she whispered feelingly. He regarded her, a silent enigma, every bit as eerily still as Royal became at times as he watched her. Her cheek felt hot when she turned it back to the flames. What had caused that outburst of emotion? She couldn’t understand what was happening to her. At times, she was filled with energy and purpose, almost manic-like…desperate. At others, a strange malaise overcame her, and all she wanted to do was sleep. The one thing that had remained a constant since coming to Sanctuary was her odd desire to seek out Lord Delraven. She inhaled unevenly, trying to gather herself. “Will you be my Marc Antony?” she asked throatily. Dread filtered into her awareness as she waited for his refusal. Of course he wouldn’t do it, a man such as him. Still…she’d felt compelled to ask him. “Would you like something to drink?” he asked instead of answering her. “Water? Wine?” She shook her head, raising her eyes to the painting above the carved mantel.
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“Who is she?” she asked after a moment, referring to the beautiful woman in the portrait wearing topaz silk and ermine, and what appeared to be diamonds sewn into the fabric of her dress. A small, delicate diadem sparkled in her light brown hair. Her blue eyes were so clear, her gaze so intelligent, it was as if she actually looked directly at them over the span of centuries. “Her name is Elysse de Gennere. She was a princess once…long ago.” “Was she the one you saved from agents of the Spanish crown? The one who ended up marrying the English prince and—” She stopped herself abruptly when she recalled the sad ending to the story. She continued to stare at Elysse de Gennere, although all her attention was on Blaise behind her. Emotion once again swelled thick in her throat and chest. “Yes. She is the one.” “Did you make that dress for her?” “Yes.” “Did you love her?” she asked softly. “The soulless cannot love.” She turned slowly. The vision of him filled her. “The soulless do not feel torment, either. You do.” When he said nothing, she stepped toward him. “Who told you that you have no soul?” “Usan. The Magian who watches over me.” “Magian?” He inhaled and walked over to his desk where he picked up a small obsidian sculpture of a horse in full gallop. He studied it intently, as if he’d never seen it in his life. “We know very little about the Magian, my brothers and I. They form a council of sorts and monitor our lives. For the most part, they are invisible to us.
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They tell us little about our purpose. They watch us, though…study us. They are similar to us in genetic make-up, but they possess souls. They were our creators.” “You know the man who created you?” she asked, stunned by this strange news. He hesitated, but then set down the horse with a brisk bang. “I’m a monster,” he said quietly in a richly accented voice. “Don’t be ridiculous.” “I’m not like you. I came into consciousness in this form,” he said, sweeping his hand before him. “If I was ever a child, I don’t recall it. Usan was there, in the beginning, but he speaks in riddles—or refuses to give me answers point blank. I was not left unsupervised and at the mercy of my parasitic nature, as were some of my brothers. Usan taught me how to control my hunger from the beginning. I am thankful to him for that, if nothing else. Adrian, Isaac and Saint suffered unbearably with the knowledge of their unregulated bloodlust, left as they were to survive without understanding how to control their nature.” “You are different. You have control.” His eyes flickered in the shadowed room and a shiver coursed through her. “I have failed in controlling myself in the past. It is unwise to consider me anything close to human, Isabel.” “I know that,” she defended. “I’m not that much of a fool. I can see with my own eyes that you’re different, and even if I couldn’t, I’d truly be an idiot if I lived in Sanctuary for eight days and didn’t know I lived among…supernatural creatures. Because you are different does not equate with being a monster.” She stepped toward him, her stance aggressive because she could see clearly he underestimated her opinion on the matter. “What proof have you that you’re a monster?” she demanded. “Morshiel and I were created in a laboratory by Usan,” he stated flatly.
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“That is no proof of monstrosity. Haven’t you heard of test-tube babies?” He gave her a dark look. “Test-tube babies possess one hundred percent human DNA. I don’t, although I do possess some,” he added under his breath. “Usan is a great scientist—or alchemist, as he calls himself. It is a sort of scientist and magician, melded, in the far-off land from where he comes. Usan fashioned me from a human with certain inhuman abilities, along with elements of his own DNA. And Usan is not from this planet.” “Oh, I see. So you’re a monster because you have alien genes?” she asked without missing a beat. Her cheeks were burning hot now, but she couldn’t have said whether they did so because of anger or passion. It was as if she’d been blinded somehow emotionally when it came to him. She felt—she felt greatly— but she couldn’t comprehend her intense emotions. “Don’t you think that’s a bit of a backward attitude?” she challenged. For some reason, she felt it was of utmost importance to assure him that she wasn’t disgusted by his revelation. “Backward?” he growled. His stunned look gave her a small measure of satisfaction in the midst of her bewilderment. She sensed it wasn’t easy to unsettle Blaise Sevliss. “Yes. Surely you’re not so provincial as to think you’re a monster because you have alien genes. Hardly anybody in this day and age truly believes Earth possesses the only life in the universe,” she said more blithely than she felt. “So—where do Usan and the Magian come from? And what are they doing here?” He shook his head slowly, still looking a bit flummoxed. “I don’t know. I’ve told you what Usan has revealed to me over the years. The Magian tell my brothers and I little.”
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“When you mention brothers, do you mean there are more than Morshiel and you?” “No, Morshiel is my clone. He’s no brother to me,” Blaise replied. He must have heard the harshness of his tone because he quieted when he continued. “I refer to the five others, whom the Magian have designated Sevliss princes. We are spread out in cities across the globe. Once, there were seven of us, before Shin was killed by his clone. Each of us is watched over by a different Magian. We speculate about our overlords, but as I’ve said, we know little. We are nothing to them in power. They are elusive. We cannot locate them. They must contact us, and they do so infrequently. It is Usan who set the mandate in my blood to control Morshiel. I keep my clone in check because I must. I could as easily stop trying to control Morshiel’s bloodlust as I could cease to take vitessence and end my existence.” A silence stretched between them. Isabel shut her eyes briefly and felt the burn. She’d heard his misery, she’d felt it in her bones, in her throbbing heart. She walked toward him and looked up into his face. “Wouldn’t you, even without the mandate?” “What do you mean? Wouldn’t I what?” “Even if this mandate didn’t exist in your blood, wouldn’t you try and control Morshiel?” “You may as well ask me how a human would behave if the sun ceased to rise every day. I have no idea. This is my reality.” She reached to touch him on the arm, her awareness of his suffering, his loneliness, making her forget he was Lord Delraven, a man she barely knew. And yet…she did know him. She did. It pained her when he moved back, avoiding her touch, but then the ache was gone. She blinked and glanced around the room, feeling slightly disoriented.
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She recalled all the details of their former conversation, but as bizarre as the topic had been, it didn’t overwhelm her. The news he’d given her was not common, of course, but given the already strange circumstances, it seemed…digestible. “I’m afraid my answer remains the same, Isabel. I will not play Marc Antony.” She lowered her head, trying to hide her disappointment. “It’s all right. I hadn’t really expected that you would.” “But since you have gone to the trouble of tricking my guard, and since you hold the script in your hands…” “Yes?” she asked breathlessly, looking up when he paused. He wore a small smile. The sight of it nearly devastated her. Her frozen heart began to beat again erratically. “I would be honored to practice your lines with you…if you think it would help matters.” “It would help me tremendously, Lord Delraven.” “I thought I had asked you to call me Blaise.” She laughed as she tried to flatten out the rolled script, suddenly feeling ridiculously lighthearted. “Not that I recall. You have not let me near you since I’ve arrived.” “Well, do. Please,” he said after a pregnant pause. “Here, give me the script. I have heard from Margaret that you speak the lines like you were born knowing them. I will look like a fool attempting them with you,” he grumbled under his breath. “You won’t. And Blaise?” “Yes?” he asked, his gaze meeting hers. “You should not believe everything Usan tells you. You do have a soul.”
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He opened his mouth—to contradict her, she was sure. He seemed to reconsider, however, reminding her of an adult who realized he was being idiotic for arguing with a child. Never mind. She would teach him. Eventually. If he continued to allow her near him, that is. She wouldn’t think of what would happen if he didn’t. She couldn’t bear to consider the possibility at the moment. He opened the script. “Where shall we start?” he asked, looking a bit anxious at the prospect. She smiled. “At the beginning, of course. She inhaled, as if she breathed the role into her from the fire-warmed air. It didn’t work. She was still Isabel Lanscourt, utterly captivated by the beautiful, hard male creature that stood before her. “If it be love indeed, tell me how much,” she began. “There’s beggary in the love that can be reckon’d,” he replied haltingly. She stepped toward him. “I’ll set a bourn how far to be beloved,” she said, imperious and soft at once, a queen relishing being conquered. He glanced up from the page and met her stare, firelight leaping in his eyes. “Then must though needs find out new heaven, new earth,” he said, his voice a rough caress.
Isabel lost track of time as they brought words to life—words written by a hand that had long ago become dust, but whose voice was as immortal as any in history. Blaise was as wrong in saying he wasn’t an actor as he was in saying he possessed no soul. Even though he made it clear he was merely reading the lines to help her practice, she was stirred by his deep, rough, resonant voice.
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She glanced around in disappointment when the spell was broken by a knock at the door. “Here you are! I thought I’d lost you,” Margaret said when she opened the door and saw Isabel standing there. She glanced anxiously at Blaise and back to Isabel. “How in the world did you get in here?” “I have my ways.” She gave a sunny smile, which Blaise returned with a wry glance. Her buoyant heart slipped a little, however, when he closed the script with an air of finality and handed it to her. “I have little doubt of it. But I can be distracted—however pleasantly—from work for only so long.” “Keep it. I will need to practice again tomorrow,” she added when he arched two raven-dark brows. “Surely you should practice with whoever has the part,” he said, walking behind his desk and sitting down. He tossed the script onto the blotter. “The director hasn’t assigned the part yet,” she said. “And who is the director?” Blaise asked. “Isabel is,” Margaret said from across the room where she was fussily fluffing a pillow on the couch. “You told Margaret I may choose the cast and crew, and I’m a woman of many talents,” Isabel told Blaise when he gave her a questioning look. Then, it happened. Blaise Sevliss, Lord Delraven, smiled. If she hadn’t been utterly his prisoner before, Isabel became it completely in that moment. “I have little doubt of that, either,” he said. “So I can return tomorrow? To practice the lines until I decide on someone for the part of Marc Antony? It’s a very big decision, you know.” Something fluttered in her belly when he frowned and hesitated as he picked up his pen.
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“Very well. But leave me now,” he said gruffly. He began writing and didn’t look up, but Isabel refused to allow her mood to be dampened. She’d been uncertain of her mission in seeking out Lord Delraven today, but there could be little doubt she’d succeeded in it, nonetheless. She winked at a dumbfoundedlooking Margaret before she followed her out of the room.
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Chapter Eight
Isabel paced nervously in front of the fireplace when they finished the scene. “Why do you become so agitated after rehearsing your lines?” Blaise asked, his eyes glued to her profile. A light sheen of sweat shone on her forehead and cheeks, and her lips were flushed dark pink. He was toning out her vitessence from his sight at the moment, finding he became too easily overwhelmed by her vibrant aura. Besides, the physical manifestation of her soul was enough to enthrall him. “It’s this scene that has me worked up. I can’t seem to get it right,” she replied edgily. “You get it perfectly.” She paused in her pacing and blinked, meeting his stare. “Would you like some wine to calm yourself?” he asked. “Yes, please.” Her gloved hand brushed against his when he handed her the glass a moment later. She went still before she brought the goblet to her lips, watching him over the rim. He watched her for a few stretched seconds, their gazes locked. His body responded to her of its own accord, as it always did. He was a fool to allow these afternoons spent in her presence, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself any more than he could prevent going to her bed at night. This was magic beyond his rendering…beyond his understanding. In the midst of preparing himself to resist Isabel’s enthrallment of his senses, something occurred which truly distracted him.
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“What is it?” Isabel asked, sensing his diverted attention. “It’s Saint,” he said brusquely, hearing his brother request a meeting in his mind by means of telepathic communication. He moved over to his desk, set down his wine and pressed some buttons on his computer. Once, he and his brothers had communicated solely through telepathy, but even the Sevliss princes were not immune to modern technology. “Saint is one of the Sevliss…the one you speak of who lives in Chicago?” Isabel asked. “That’s right,” Blaise replied. “Would you like me to leave while you speak to him?” He met her stare. “No,” he replied honestly before he could censor himself. She smiled. Difficult not to be foolish, when her smile was his reward. A few seconds later, Saint’s image filled his computer screen. He sat within a familiar den at Whitby, hundreds of books lining the wall behind him. Saint’s sharp blue eyes immediately landed on Isabel, who stood next to where Blaise sat on the chair. “This is Isabel Lanscourt, the woman I’ve told you about,” Blaise said. “Isabel, meet Saint Sevliss.” “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Isabel said. Blaise glanced into her face when he heard her breathlessness. She stared raptly at Saint’s image on the screen. He supposed most women would look at Saint in just such a fashion, but he didn’t relish seeing Isabel do it. “The pleasure is mine,” Saint returned, nodding his head, his gaze glued to Isabel just as hers was to him. His face was somber, but his blue eyes gleamed with admiration. “The rumor of your beauty preceded you, but it was vastly underestimated.”
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Isabel laughed. “If it came from Blaise, I’m surprised it was mentioned at all.” Saint looked faintly amused by this. Blaise cleared his throat loudly. “What is it, Saint?” he asked. “I have news. I hope you will understand the importance of it,” Saint said, pinning Blaise with his stare. “Why don’t you just tell me the importance of it?” he demanded, frustrated by yet another example of Saint’s new tendency for puzzle-speak. He was becoming as much of an enigma to Blaise as the Magian themselves. “I will just give you the news,” Saint replied, his mouth set in a grim line. “One of my finest Iniskium warriors—Isi—is going to be flying into London tomorrow evening.” “What? Don’t be ridiculous,” Blaise said with a bark of laughter. What Saint stated was impossible. As an Iniskium warrior, Isi was one of Saint’s followers, similar to how the Literati were tied to Blaise. Saint and Blaise had both embraced their bands of followers, making them what they were, sharing with them their unique power. The Magian had used their magic, however, to restrict each prince to a given territory. Blaise had never seen Saint, Issac, Adrian, Celino or Galen in person, even if he did know them intimately. The same was true of each princes’ followers. They could not leave the princes’ territory, bound as they were by Magian magic. So Saint saying that Isi was coming to London made as much sense as the sun starting to revolve around the earth. “Are you out of your bloody mind?” Blaise accused when Saint regarded him with a bland expression. “I’m not mad. Isi is coming to London.” He quickly relayed the details of Isi’s flight. “Will you take him into Sanctuary?”
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“Of course, but tell me what’s happening, Saint,” Blaise roared, suddenly sick of his brother’s uncooperativeness. “First, you contact me and predict the presence of that powerful crystal. Next, you speak as if you already knew Isabel would be there in that tunnel.” He sensed Isabel stirring next to him, but he was too irritated to pause. “Now you’re telling me that an Iniskium warrior, bound to the central regions of the United States of America, is going to be flying into London! What impossibilities will you tell me next?” “That is all,” Saint snapped, seeming just as irritated as Blaise. He shifted restlessly in his chair, as if he desired action and was being forced to sit still. “Kavya is keeping you from talking, isn’t he?” Blaise demanded, referring to Saint’s Magian overlord. Saint gave him a frustrated glance and looked away. “I knew it. Damn that Magian. Is Usan behind your silence as well?” Saint just shook his head, wearing a profound expression of frustration. Blaise released the caught air in his lungs. “Bloody hell,” he mumbled. “I see they have their spell on your throat and mind.” “I’m sending you Isi. Take him in, Blaise. Trust me, and hear what he says,” Saint said in a gravelly voice. His unusual, slanted blue eyes seemed to send out a plea for understanding. A woman’s hand suddenly appeared on Saint’s shoulder, massaging him, but before Blaise could see who soothed his brother, the screen went blank. He blinked. Who had the woman been? He had never known Saint to invite a female into his working den at Whitby. He had never seen or sensed anyone with him when they communicated in the past— He rose out of his shock with a jolt when Isabel placed her hand on his shoulder, just as the woman had to Saint on the screen. “Are you all right, Blaise?”
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He looked up at her, caught off guard by the bizarre communication with Saint and now her stirring touch. He stood abruptly and moved before the fire, where he began to pace. When he noticed Isabel still stood where he’d left her, and the bewildered expression on her face, he tried to convey his unrest to her as best he could in words. He sighed in residual frustration several minutes later. “My only consolation is that if Isi truly can travel outside the bounds of Saint’s territory, then Saint will have sent him to speak to me. Perhaps Isi will provide me with some of the secrets of why our world is changing…why that crystal appeared—” “And why I was with it?” Isabel asked in a low, throaty voice. He paused in his pacing, his mouth still open. Isabel had stepped nearer to him. He became hyperaware of the pulse at her throat. “Perhaps,” he replied warily. She took another step closer. He felt her gaze on his cheek like a touch. “You’re upset,” she said quietly. He raised his eyebrows slightly in a “Who wouldn’t be upset?” gesture. She inhaled, as if for courage, and he couldn’t stop his gaze from flickering down over her shapely breasts. “Aubrey told me yesterday that you tend to starve yourself at times, weaken yourself by not taking vitessence.” He blinked as a shock jolted through him for the second time in minutes. Damn Aubrey. He’d been very specific with the Literati about how much they revealed to Isabel. He’d made it clear, for instance, that he didn’t want Isabel to understand their shape-shifting nature, recollecting all too well how repulsed Elysse was by his wolf-self. It had been a different century, and legends and fears associated with the werewolf had clung heavily in the Italian countryside where Elysse had grown up.
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He hadn’t specifically told Aubrey not to tell Isabel about his moments of despair, but he’d thought such a personal thing would remain an obvious secret between friends. “You have been spending a great deal of time with me every day for the past week,” Isabel continued, her lovely voice vibrating with emotion. “Do you never feel the desire, the urge to take my blood? It might help to calm you right now, give you strength…” His mouth went dry as a bone. He stared at her mutely. He felt cornered, defeated by a foe against whom he had no training. How could she ask him such a question? He hungered for her essence each and every second of his existence. He quenched himself at night on her. Or he tried to, anyway. It never worked. He always wanted more. He knew he was foul for doing it, but it was ridiculous to think he could do otherwise. He was soulless…an animal. Human beings called him a vampire. He could not prevent himself. He’d stopped trying. But these afternoons with Isabel were part of her every day, conscious existence. She was aware when he took her at night, as well, but he’d always end their impassioned joining by hiding those memories deep within her unconscious. It was the only thing he could do to save her from her anguish—to protect himself from the eventual certainty of her disgust and horror. He must steal her memories of his savage, unquenchable need for her. He must make her forget how much she wanted him, in turn, or she would become ashamed…afraid. He couldn’t bear that possibility. He knew he was a fool for allowing himself to spend time with her during these stolen afternoons. One day, he would lose control and take her blood here in his study as they talked and exchanged glances and laughed. If it weren’t for his thorough possession of her every night, he would have done so already.
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“Aubrey needs to learn to keep his mouth shut,” he told her shortly before he set his half-drained wineglass on the mantel. “He’s just concerned for you.” “He’s just an interfering idiot. I don’t care if he is a genius. Besides,” he added, altering his tone when he saw her startled expression at his harshness. “I take sustenance from the crystal.” He avoided her stare. He took nourishment from her as well, during their heated, abandoned moments of repeated intercourse. He was overly cautious, but he had taken her blood on his nightly visits. To drink it was nirvana. One swallow could enliven him for days. He longed to taste her sex juices, to lick the sweat in the valley of her breasts, to taste her tears of joy, as well. But he would not allow himself. He had already lost control, taking her repeatedly under the influence of some kind of rapturous mating spell. To make love to Isabel—to truly make love with her, commune with her—would be the ultimate act of losing himself. It was the hardest thing in the world to join with her, and then make her forget those moments of bliss. If he made love to her, he feared he would never be able to break the connection between them. It would kill him to have to make her forget these quiet, intimate, seemingly innocent afternoons together. That would somehow be even worse— “Blaise?” He blinked and met her stare. Her eyes were like shiny ebony mirrors, the gold flames of the fire reflecting in them, beckoning him. Her white throat convulsed when she swallowed. “You have not answered me.” Her persistence made him desperate. “Do you need your ego stroked, Isabel? I had not realized you were such a stereotypical actress. Very well. If it pleases you to know it, yes. I feel the urge,” he bit out between clenched teeth.
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She backed away from him, her eyes huge in her pale face. He muttered an ancient curse upon seeing her fear of him. “You shouldn’t come here anymore,” he said, looking away from her. “Does it pain you so much, being with me?” she whispered. The answer stuck in his throat. If he told her the agony he experienced in her presence, the ecstasy, she would leave. His selfishness—his cowardice—knew no bounds, because he couldn’t bear the thought of losing these moments here in his study, talking to her, seeing the play of light on her delicate features, allowing the richness of her voice to caress him with every word, every sigh…absorbing her beauty. It didn’t strike him until that moment that he had been making love to her during these afternoons. Perhaps it was already too late. She set down her wineglass. “I didn’t mean to upset you further,” she said in a low voice. “I was only…concerned for you. You seemed so upset by Saint’s news. I wanted to offer—” “Don’t,” he said sharply, cutting her off. “Don’t you dare,” he added quietly. He knew full well what she’d been about to offer him. His need for her already cut at him. To hear her offer herself at that moment would have been too much for him to bear. Her eyes flickered up to the portrait of Elysse. “I know what it is to be lonely. I still fear that I’ll die alone.” He went still. “What are you talking about?” “I’m just trying to tell you, I know you’re afraid. I know why. Because you lost her,” she nodded at the painting over the mantel, “you’re afraid to get too close to me. I’m trying to tell you—I know what that’s like. I, too, have lived in fear of another’s touch.” She held up her gloved hands. “I, too, know what it’s like to lose someone, and feel like you’ve lost your whole world.”
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“Who?” he asked, taking a step toward her. “My father,” she said in a hushed voice, lowering her head. “He was my whole world. I was only seventeen when he died. I felt like I’d been cast adrift in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. I was so afraid.” She inhaled raggedly and met his stare. Tears shone in her soulful eyes. “After the accident, it caused me so much pain to touch other human beings. I became wary of them. I became convinced I would die alone. We’re not all that different, you and me. We’re both afraid to love.” He looked away from the torment—the promise—in her eyes. “I told you. The soulless cannot love.” His voice sounded hollow and stupid in the fire-warmed air. “I’ll go now,” she said after a moment. He said nothing until she opened the door to his study. “Isabel?” he called, unable to stop himself. She turned. “You will be back tomorrow?” he asked, even though his words rang like a command in his ears. “Of course,” she replied, her voice as soft as a soothing caress on raised wolf fur. He waited until the urge to go after her eased. Once he was able to clear his brain from the intoxication Isabel always wrought, he called out with his mind telepathically. “Come to me in my study, Aubrey. I have news from Saint and need your advice.”
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Chapter Nine
Later that night, Aubrey stared at Morshiel across the ornate Louis XIV boxwood table. They sat in a makeshift suite of luxury in an underground cavern running below the Tube line—a network of caves which had remained secret and uncharted by Blaise and the Literati. Aubrey found the domicile as bizarre as its chief occupant. He’d studied Morshiel for centuries, but he’d never quite grasped his character. How was it possible for decadence and beauty and decay and sheer charisma to blend so seamlessly? Aubrey kept telling himself he was far superior to Morshiel in strength, intelligence and moral fortitude, but then he’d fall under the mesmeric power of Morshiel’s compelling eyes… …and he’d have to remind himself of his superiority all over again. “I’m still not sure I understand what’s brought you here,” Morshiel said, his tone implying he really could care less one way or another. “I would think it was obvious,” Aubrey said. “I want the woman. I’m willing to do whatever it takes in order to have her. She is power personified.” Morshiel gave a viperfish smile. “And you’re willing to betray my clone in order to have her? Yes, I see that I state the obvious. What will I get from the deal?” “Nothing much. Just the service of the most brilliant mind in the history of western civilization. Me, in other words.” He smiled into Morshiel’s laughing eyes. “Then there is the crystal, Blaise’s demise and the full and complete power
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of Sanctuary, the underworld, all of London, if you choose it.” Aubrey quirked up one brow in a subtle challenge. Morshiel pointed his finger significantly at Aubrey and began to laugh. “I like you.” “He lies, Morshiel,” a harsh whisper cut through Morshiel’s mirth, originating from everywhere and nowhere at once. Morshiel made a hissing sound. “Quiet.” Aubrey followed the direction of Morshiel’s sharp gaze and saw the demon—or ghost, as Morshiel called her—hovering like a dark blue and gray mist before a large, elaborately carved armoire. Morshiel looked back at Aubrey, his gaze warm. Aubrey had been surprised to learn Blaise’s clone never retracted his fangs, even in the midst of polite conversation. Aubrey found that habit both unspeakably crude and exciting at once. Blaise had taught them to control their primal instincts. It had always been the Literati’s prime directive. To see a creature that mirrored Blaise almost perfectly, yet who flaunted his bestial nature, was stimulating, for some reason. Perhaps the fact that Morshiel dressed the part of a refined aristocrat only added to his enigmatic charisma. Morshiel picked up a bronze pitcher. Aubrey’s nose had told him the contents of the pitcher was human blood even before he saw the thick, crimson liquid flowing into the goblet. His refined senses also told him the blood all originated from one human. The amount in the pitcher suggested that human was definitely no longer in the world of the living. Morshiel offered him a cup. Aubrey nodded his head in thanks but didn’t drink. “You must forgive Shirian her rudeness,” Morshiel said affably as he sat back in his chair, a picture of confident male ease. Aubrey would have thought that the absence of gleaming, waving black hair would diminish Morshiel’s
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appearance in comparison to Blaise, but he was mistaken. Morshiel’s face was so compelling that the lack of hair only made Aubrey twice as aware of the power of his unusual eyes. Morshiel was dressed—inexplicably—as a seventeenth century French courtier. The velvets, lace and rich brocades pleased Aubrey’s sensual nature. Blaise was such a beautiful man to behold, and Morshiel was his twin, after all. It had always pained him to see Blaise treat his appearance with such disregard. Morshiel, on the other hand, seemed all too aware of his raw masculinity and abundant good looks. His clear lack of vitessence was repulsive, on the other hand. Aubrey had been mortal once, however, and he recalled all too well what it was to admire a creature’s beauty with no obvious evidence of either the grossness or refinement of the soul. Aubrey shrugged and toyed with his heavy goblet. “Shirian comes by her suspicion honestly, at least. Blaise is your mortal enemy, I am his sworn friend, and Shirian is an Egyptian princess who was fed the milk of subterfuge as a newborn,” Aubrey said, repeating what Morshiel had told him minutes ago about the other presence in the underground chamber with them. In truth, he knew for a fact that Shirian’s lust for power was nurtured in the very womb of her witch mother, but he didn’t betray his intimate knowledge of the cunning demon to Morshiel. He’d summoned and communed with the demon on multiple prior occasions, although he had not yet successfully been able to subjugate her entirely to his will. In fact, he’d only located the secret chamber with Shirian’s help. Her dramatics at the present moment in regard to pretending suspicion and animosity toward him for Morshiel’s sake amused Aubrey. He held many cards that neither Blaise nor Morshiel were meant to see.
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“I would be shocked if Shirian didn’t warn you against me. I assume she only echoes your doubts, but you’re too much of a gentleman to put it so bluntly,” Aubrey finished. If a smile could be lethal, Morshiel’s was. Aubrey blinked. He’d come prepared for Morshiel’s power, but he’d underestimated him. It kept creeping up on him unaware. “I’m glad you recognize it,” Morshiel said. “You seem a gentleman yourself. How is it that you put up with my clone? He’s a savage.” “They say opposites attract.” It wasn’t until Aubrey saw the gleam of interest in Morshiel’s eyes that he realized he’d been flirting. “If you are so attracted to my clone, why seek to betray him? “I’ve never before had a reason to betray Blaise. I don’t do it easily now. But I’m a scientist as well as a magician. I’ve been investigating the Sevliss princes and their clones in depth for over three centuries now.” He paused, fiddling with his goblet, deep in thought. “I have reason to believe that a great change is on the horizon for you and Blaise—a magnificent opportunity for you and me. My magic has hinted at it; the appearance of the crystal heralds the change…as does Isabel Lanscourt. The stars are aligning, so to speak. The time has come to act.” He paused dramatically, noting that he had Morshiel’s full, focused attention. “Despite my fascination with the Sevliss princes and their clones, Blaise keeps what he knows rather close to the chest, I’m afraid,” Aubrey continued. “I long to travel, to meet the other princes and their clones in person, but I am bound by some unknown magic to stay in the general vicinity of Britain. It appears Blaise’s territory is my own, as well. Perhaps you are familiar with this dictate?”
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Morshiel waved his hand irritably, stirring the lace at his wrist. “It is the same with the Scourge and me. That is Usan’s work, curse his magic.” Aubrey’s eyes narrowed. “Usan…the Magian? One of the beings that watches over Blaise and you?” “Usan doesn’t watch over me,” Morshiel spat. It was beyond bizarre to see a mirror-image of Blaise’s usual stoic face twisted in a bitter pique. “He adores and protects Blaise. He left me to rot in these tunnels ages ago.” “It’s all so strange,” Aubrey broached the forbidden topic cautiously. He always had difficulty understanding if Blaise avoided speaking of his origins because he kept them secret on purpose, or whether he didn’t know any more than Aubrey did. Still, Blaise had revealed some things over the centuries. “Blaise has told me that Usan and the Magian are beings from another planet. And that you and Blaise, and the other princes and clones, share some of that alien DNA, in addition to that of humans and shapeshifters.” Morshiel drank deeply from his goblet, turning his smirk blood-red. “And you find this hard to believe?” “No, not in the way you’re imagining. I know intelligences from other places, other dimensions of reality, exist. I am a magician, after all. Magicians can channel demons and what some would call the lower orders of angels, creatures of wisdom who may tell us of other existences besides our own on this small, insignificant planet.” He nodded his head in the direction of Shirian, his eyes remaining on Morshiel. “If a ghost exists, why not beings from other realities…from other worlds?” Morshiel latched a hungry gaze on Aubrey as he leaned his elbows on the table. “You can channel these spirits? Commune with them?” Aubrey gave a negligent nod.
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“That must make you very powerful,” Morshiel admitted after a pause, his expression sullenly respectful. “It makes me very humble. We cannot begin to imagine the vastness of the universe. But whatever power I have, I am offering for your service. Tell me, have you ever met Usan?” “Twice, but that was centuries ago. He was in my early memories, but he has neglected me since. He gave me my heartluster and told me that Blaise would never rest until he vanquished me,” Morshiel said. His face looked hard and cold as he touched his outer thigh, stroking the sheathed weapon like a lover. His gaze leapt to Aubrey’s. “Do you see that senile fool frequently with Blaise, then?” “I have never seen him, but from the hints Blaise has dropped over the years, I believe he visits Blaise every dozen years or so,” Aubrey admitted. Morshiel made a disgusted noise and lifted his goblet. “I have no doubt Usan watches over Blaise’s every move, worships his every footstep. He has made Blaise master of Sanctuary and barred me from its treasures.” “Usan may have warded Sanctuary against you and the revenants, but I made Sanctuary an unrivaled treasure,” Aubrey said, holding Morshiel’s eyes. “I did, along with all of its grandeur and miracles…never Usan. Never Blaise.” “He thinks a great deal of himself,” the air around them hissed in Shirian’s mocking, sultry voice. “It’s not a crime for the great to think well of themselves,” Morshiel replied, his gaze never wavering from Aubrey’s. “All right. Let’s say I agree not to take off your head this second. Let’s say I agree to work with you. What do you have in mind? What do we do next?” Aubrey smiled to hide the flash of fear that went through him. “We kidnap an Iniskium warrior from Chicago. A man named Isi.”
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“One of Saint’s followers?” Morshiel asked, leaning forward in interest. “But how will we ever accomplish that?” “I told you that change is on the horizon. Saint somehow knew about the crystal. He is the one who warned Blaise about its presence in the British Museum tunnel. Now that Saint has vanquished Teslar—” “There has been no definitive proof of that,” Morshiel interrupted him. Fear spiked through Aubrey, seemingly of its own accord at the mere hint of Morshiel’s ice-cold aggression. He nodded calmly, understanding that the rumors of Teslar’s demise must not have sat well with Morshiel. Teslar was Morshiel’s equal, after all. “Nevertheless, some change has occurred. How else could Isi travel outside the Magian-sanctioned territory where he’s always been confined? I can’t be sure, but I believe Saint wants to communicate something to Blaise, but has been forbidden to do so by his Magian overlord, Kavya. Perhaps Saint is sending Isi to Blaise as an envoy. I believe Isi carries knowledge—secrets that are relevant to Teslar’s destruction and the appearance of the crystal.” Morshiel regarded him hungrily. “If this Isi possesses that knowledge, then he’ll know how to prevent what happened to Teslar from happening to me. You’re right. We must obtain him so that we can learn Saint’s secrets. We must do it before Blaise does.” “I will hand Isi to you this very night. If you agree to my terms, that is.” “It is I who will set the terms of this agreement,” Morshiel said in a hard tone before he took a drink. He grimaced suddenly and glanced own at his cup in annoyance. “If I agree to accept you as an ally, why shouldn’t our first move be for you to get me inside of Sanctuary?” “I have thought of that,” Aubrey said honestly. “But as you know, Usan wards it against you with his magic.”
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“You claim to be a great magician, though,” Morshiel said with a narrowed gaze. “It is not a claim. It is the truth. And you are right to ask me about the wards and Sanctuary. I do believe—given time—I can weaken the boundaries sufficiently to get you inside. However, this matter with Isi is something we can—and should—move on immediately.” Morshiel scowled, deep in thought, and lifted his goblet. “This blood is stale. All the vitessence has faded. Bring me blood in living flesh.” Aubrey started at the abrupt bellow. Apparently Morshiel’s revenants were not far from the tapestry-draped walls of the underground residence. A foullooking male creature with sallow, greasy-looking skin, filmy eyes and bared fangs shoved a mortal woman in front of him. She fell to the floor at his rough treatment, whimpering as she raised her upper body with her hands. She glanced around the room, her wild eyes partially covered by mussed, auburn hair. The woman was beyond frightened, she had entered the stage of shock where all she could do was shake and stare at the horrors around her in an uncomprehending fog. “You brought me this mortal as a sacrifice. You said she was an offering to show me that you came in peace when you entered my private tunnels. You— my enemy’s greatest ally,” Morshiel drawled. “I’m offering to become your greatest ally,” Aubrey said, slouching back in his chair. “She is prime flesh—a prostitute for which I paid the equivalent of an average Londoner’s annual salary for one night. Her name is Margarite. I hope you enjoy her.” “You will be the one to enjoy her…here, in front of me and my revenants.” Aubrey watched, unmoving, as five more revenants tramped into the room. He
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recognized four of them by name and had fought innumerable battles against all of them, over the centuries. Several of them bore scars from his ravening claws and teeth. He’d once been the lover of one of the monsters. Rosetta Vanderpool leered at him. Though she was one of the walking dead, her skin was as white and her breasts as plump as the day he’d feasted on them with mortal lips. Only her fangs and the film over her once brilliant sapphire eyes betrayed her status as a revenant. He knew from experience that she shifted into one of the most vicious forms a revenant could take—a prowler. “I wish to see your skills at pleasure,” Morshiel instructed in a bored tone. “Then I want you to drain the whore. But leave the last drop for me, won’t you?” Terror broke through Margarite’s shock. She shrieked and scurried on hands and knees toward the exit. Rosetta Vanderpool walked in front of her and gave a negligent but brutal kick with a pointed-toe boot. Margarite fell to the carpet again, clutching her cheek and whimpering in pain. Aubrey’s bored posture as he watched the cruel treatment belied the ice-cold tingles of panic spiking through his flesh. Morshiel and the six other revenants in the room would tear off all his limbs and leave him in a helpless state for days, weeks—who knew how long?—before they finally took off his head and ended his misery. Despite his betrayal here today, Aubrey had always admired Blaise’s fortitude in refusing to take life, and had followed his dictates without fail. “A test, is it?” Aubrey asked. “Yes,” Morshiel said warmly, as though pleased by Aubrey’s perceptiveness. “I know that my clone forbids murder among the Literati, a practice I’ve always considered heathen…a blatant betrayal of our kind. Show me firsthand where your loyalties lie. Show me.” Candlelight gleamed in the depths of his agate-like eyes.
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Aubrey shrugged, stood and approached the woman cowering on the carpeted floor. Compassion swept through him when he saw the absolute terror reflected in her eyes. He must calm her, first and foremost. Only Blaise’s ability for ascendancy—the power to influence and control a mortal—was stronger than Aubrey’s among the Literati. “Shhhh, do not be afraid,” he crooned. He pressed with his ascendancy, reached into the woman’s mind, taking her back just hours before to the moment when he met her in the Angelus Salon and whispered hotly in her ear, causing her to swoon in his arms. He knelt and put his hands on her forearms. “Do not let nightmares overcome you, Margarite.” He gently helped the woman to her feet, glad to feel the trembling in her flesh cease. “You are safe here with me, within Sanctuary. Look around you. Is not all well?” Margarite tore her now worshipful gaze off his face. Her stare ran over Morshiel, who looked like an amused spectator at the theater, and swept across the half-dozen nightmare creatures who watched her with manic-like, ravenous stares. Aubrey made it so that all she saw was the luxurious, fire-lit interior of the Angelus Salon—and him, of course. She smiled and went up on her toes. She kissed him, not like a seasoned prostitute, but like a child who thanks a protective parent for awakening them from a bad dream. Aubrey put his hands on her waist and deepened the kiss until she was fully his slave. She plastered her body against his and writhed. Behind him, Aubrey heard Morshiel chuckle appreciatively. “Impressive,” Morshiel said. “Enough,” Rosetta Vanderpool said loudly. “Make him show us blood. Make him eviscerate the whore.”
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“Now, now, Rosetta, where are your manners? You’re as bad as a drudge in need of a fix,” Morshiel remonstrated. “You are witnessing prodigious skill. Watch and learn.” Aubrey had to use all of his focus to maintain his ascendancy when he himself was frightened. One thing he knew for certain—it was either him or the woman. The least he could do was make her death as pleasant as possible. He whispered to her as he slid the robe off her body, baring naked flesh. He praised her beauty, her vibrancy, her warm, vitessence-rich flesh. He meant every word. She went to the worn velvet couch obediently enough when he requested it. He came down over her, worshipping her with his mouth, losing himself in fragrant, blood-rich skin, trying to force himself to ignore Morshiel, the walking corpses and the vaporous demon who surrounded the couch in a circle and watched his display with hungry gazes. He tried to ignore them, but it was difficult. He parted the woman’s firm thighs and tasted her nectar on his tongue. His eyes closed of their own accord as her taste permeated his senses. This…yes, this always made him forget. Aubrey adored the taste of pussy, loved to play in it with his sensitive tongue, relished drowning his consciousness in the rich, musky cream of womanhood. He tickled the woman’s delicate folds with the tip of his tongue and agitated her with firm lips and a gentle suck until she squirmed and moaned and he had to restrain her with his hands at her hips. She shuddered and the energy of her climax poured into him. He once again recalled his situation as he raised his head, but sluggishly, as if through the haze of a dream. Before he sank his teeth into one of Margarite’s firm breasts, he glanced up at Rosetta Vanderpool and snarled a taunt. Rosetta was nothing more than a breathing, eating corpse, while he—Aubrey—would
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continue to feast on ripe, succulent flesh and feel the vibrancy of life for an eternity. He blessed Blaise for the incomparable gift he’d given him. The pain of betraying his first and only love was like a squirming, living sliver beneath his skin. He could withstand the pain of it, however. Margarite mewled with pleasure as she experienced yet another climax, her body writhing beneath him. He heard a sound behind him—a growl of arousal deep in Morshiel’s throat. Despite Aubrey’s fear, his cock throbbed in desire. Before he sank his fangs into Margarite’s carotid artery, he saw a flash of fear in her eyes. He hesitated, but then he felt Morshiel’s hand on his shoulder, stroking him in a reassuring gesture, the caress of a lover. He clamped his jaw and pierced warm, juicy flesh. For the first time in his immortal life, Aubrey drank his fill. For the first time in his life—either mortal or immortal—he understood what he was. The woman beneath him ceased to struggle. She lay still, her eyes staring at the top of the tunnel, unseeing. His head spun, drunk as he was with vitessence and power. He felt hands on his shoulders, urging him to stand. He stumbled like a drunkard, and then stood eye to eye with Morshiel. Morshiel kissed him on the mouth, wetting his lips with the blood of his prey. “Now you are my brother,” Morshiel whispered. He licked his lips before he kissed Aubrey again.
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Chapter Ten
Blaise headed toward his quarters after visiting the crystal room and absorbing its vitessence, calming himself. Aubrey had volunteered last night to pick up Isi at the airport, and Blaise wanted to be ready to greet the Iniskium warrior when he arrived. He was eager to learn whatever it was Saint wanted him to hear. He paused in the torch-lit corridor before he reached the doors to his quarters, sensing there was only a single occupant in his study—and that occupant was agitated. “Where’ve you been?” Aubrey asked, springing up from the sofa when Blaise barged into the room. “Why? What’s wrong?” he demanded, taking in Aubrey’s disheveled clothing and anxious expression. “Morshiel and six of his revenants ambushed Isi and me as we were leaving the airport terminal. They took Isi.” “Do you mean they took him on purpose? How could they know about him arriving in London?” “I don’t know,” Aubrey said, looking bewildered. “We both fought—Isi is a fine warrior—but there were too many of them, and Morshiel besides.” A look of profound frustration entered Aubrey’s face and he struck his fist on the mahogany table. “Unless it had nothing to do with Isi, and they were just attacking me…us. Perhaps they merely took Isi to try and blackmail us.”
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“No,” Blaise said, his thoughts racing. “Morshiel has never behaved this way before. He rarely ventures above ground. Both his and the revenants’ powers are decreased considerably the farther they are from the underground regions and the earth’s soul. This wasn’t a random attack. They went specifically to kidnap Isi before he reached Sanctuary’s protected boundaries. But how could Morshiel have known Saint sent Isi to me? Never mind,” Blaise said distractedly when he noticed Aubrey’s bemused expression. “We’ll put together a patrol and go into the tunnels. Perhaps we’ll get lucky and pick up Morshiel’s scent.” He strode toward the door, Aubrey following behind him. He dreaded having to contact Saint about this, but he did so, nonetheless, reaching out telepathically to his Sevliss brother in order to break the alarming news.
Isabel lay on the couch and watched Blaise as he studied the maps lining the wall. He’d been restless when she entered his study that afternoon. He would try to converse with her, but then his gaze would wander back to the maps on the wall. Isabel had finally given up trying to speak to him and curled up on the couch before the fire. “I’m sorry,” he told her gruffly, glancing back at her after several minutes of silence. “It’s all right. I know you’re thinking about that man Morshiel kidnapped— Isi. Nothing has been discovered since the attack three days ago? Nothing at all?” Blaise shook his head, his back to her as he faced the maps again. She sensed the level of tension in his body. Ever since she’d asked him if he did not feel the urge to take her blood, he’d seemed more uncomfortable around her. Or maybe it was just his worry about Isi’s disappearance that had him so tense? They’d
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reached a comfort level, spending time together here in his study during these cozy afternoons. She regretted losing that closeness in their friendship. She wished it to be more than friendship. Wished it with all her being. Everything about him fascinated her—his gruff exterior that contrasted so poignantly with his quiet patience with her, her sure knowledge of his grief, and her admiration of his courage for persevering despite his suffering. She regretted that he would not act on the strong sexual charge that connected them like a live wire. She had the most overwhelming urge to touch him, to make love to him. The fact that he wasn’t entirely human didn’t seem to be dampening her desire in the least. She experienced none of the awkwardness she might with any other man from her past before the ice had been broken following sex. She felt closer to Blaise at times than any of her previous lovers, even though they’d never been intimate. Of course, it was ridiculous to consider Blaise in the same manner she would mortal men. Still…he wanted her. She could see the desire in his eyes as clearly as she saw the nose on his face. She stood from the couch and approached him from behind. He turned with preternatural speed when she reached out to touch him on the shoulder. He faded back, avoiding her hand. “Do you think I have the plague or something?” she asked, insulted. “Of course not.” “I know you are worried about Isi,” she said feelingly. “But are you also withdrawing from me because of what I said the other day? About whether or not you ever wanted to take my blood?” “I am not withdrawing from you. You are here with me, aren’t you?” “Yes, but—”
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“Do you have any idea how guilty I feel about Isi? Saint is like a brother to me. Isi became my responsibility once he entered the territory of the United Kingdom. I have failed both of them,” he muttered under his breath, staring at the complex depiction of underground tunnels. Isabel had already understood from their discussions that the maps contained not only the generally known tunnels, but secret ones as well. She glanced at Blaise’s rigid profile, sensing his frustration, feeling the weight of his worry. If only there was something she could do to help him… “Lester Dee mentioned something to me once about a psychic who could locate objects just by using a map,” she said. Blaise turned to her slowly, his gaze turning sharp as a razor. “Are you saying you could possibly locate Isi on these maps by using your power?” “I don’t know for sure. I’ve never tried it before,” she admitted, hoping she wasn’t building up his expectations too far. “Will you have to touch the maps?” “Yes.” “Won’t it hurt you?” “It won’t be anything I can’t handle. I have to touch things for Lester’s research, after all.” “I would deeply appreciate it if you would try,” he said after a moment. “If it pains you too much, I will know it. I’ll stop it.” She smiled. “I have never told you that it can cause distress to touch objects. Why are you so worried?” He glanced away. “I have heard from Michael Lord, who researched your history and your power, that it can be painful for you. Besides…you wear the gloves, so it must be unpleasant.” “It’ll be all right,” she murmured, touched by his concern.
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He stepped back, looking hesitant. She worked her glove off her right hand. She paused with her fingertips a few inches above one of the well-worn maps. “Is there anything you can tell me that might guide me?” she asked Blaise. “Maybe. Morshiel tends to form hideouts in tunnels he and the revenants have managed to burrow over the centuries that are above or below the Tube. Sometimes they encounter natural caverns where they hide out for years without our knowledge. Other times they camp out in manmade structures, like the old brick-lined sewers or openings around the ancient structures left by the Romans. Morshiel forces his revenants to relocate his headquarters and belongings frequently. They live like outlaw gypsies, with the bizarre additional fact that Morshiel is bloody rich. His power is limited in the surface world, but it’s still significant. He can influence humans to lavish him with money and expensive items. He spends outrageously on luxurious furniture and priceless treasure. In his delusional mind, he makes the sewers a kingdom. He believes himself to be a sort of unfairly banished monarch. You’ve never seen anything like it. Infiltrating one of his abandoned hidey-holes is like discovering the Rat Prince’s palace,” he said dryly. He waved at the maps. “We have discovered many of his old hideouts, and added them to the maps, but there are many more we know nothing about. The only thing I can say for certain is that he doesn’t ever stay for any extended period of time in the Tube tunnels. He hunts there for human prey, but he doesn’t stay there for long.” “Above or below the Tube,” Isabel clarified under her breath. “I will have to concentrate on Morshiel. I have an image of him in my mind. I have never seen Isi, and I need a point of focus.” Blaise didn’t seem pleased about that, but he nodded. She touched the map.
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It happened quicker than she’d expected—quicker than when she touched most objects for Lester’s research. Perhaps it was because the maps had become a distilled form of knowledge, given Blaise’s long history and regular focus on them. A train roared through her mind followed immediately by a swarm of human consciousness, tramping feet, people rushing to make their train, worrying about being late—a veritable sea of surging thoughts and feelings. “No, no, leave it…please,” she said shakily when she felt Blaise’s hand on her forearm, trying to pull away her hand. Had she cried out? The effort it took her to move her consciousness a layer lower than the Tube line caused a sweat to break out on her brow. She inhaled raggedly, catching her breath. There was peace in these lower strata of the earth. Peace and the sound of music. It was unlike anything she’d ever heard. “I hear…I hear singing,” she whispered. “It’s so beautiful.” “You hear the sound of the earth’s soul,” Blaise said. The sound of his voice steadied her. She shifted her fingers on the map and her consciousness moved too, as though she stood in Blaise’s study and flew at preternatural speed beneath the earth at once. Blaise shifted his hand slightly on her arm and fear leapt in her breast. “Don’t let go of me. Please. You’re keeping me anchored,” she said in a strangled voice. His grasp on her tightened. She inhaled with effort. “It helps.” “I’ve got you,” he reassured, his low, gruff voice near her ear. And she did feel him there with her as her mind zipped through soil and rock as though it were a dense sort of air. She moved her fingers more rapidly on the map, starting to feel claustrophobic in the absolute darkness, reaching and reaching, but never finding anything on which to fasten her awareness.
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“Help me,” she whispered to Blaise. “Think of Morshiel.” She gasped. He was giving her his thoughts, helping her find her target. Impressions bombarded her consciousness. His thoughts of Morshiel were startlingly sharp and precise. Before she had time to wonder at the difference in Blaise’s consciousness from that of a human’s, it was as if they dove headlong into an open space. Everything came to a jerking halt, rattling her. Morshiel stood naked, wearing only a leather harness around his hips and thighs, a sheathed blade at his right outer thigh, his long legs spread slightly, his buttocks exposed. She had the vague impression of two people kneeling before him, giving him oral sex. She had no time to take in much of anything else because suddenly Morshiel turned and looked directly at her with a viper-like stare. Blaise lifted her hand from the map and she flew from the underground chamber. She stood there for several seconds next to the map, dazed and panting. It took her a moment to orient herself again, the experience of flying beneath the earth and Morshiel’s sharp stare had been so real. “He’s below the Jubilee line. I know the approximate area,” Blaise said. She looked up at him. He stared at the spot below where her fingers had just been resting. It surprised her to see that sweat had gathered on his brow, as well. He really had been side by side with her, sharing in the experience. A feeling of closeness to him—of a deep connection—swelled in her breast. “He saw me,” she said. He glanced at her anxiously. “I know. I have to go. Perhaps he’ll understand his location has been discovered. If he does, he’ll pull out before we get there.”
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“Let me go with you,” she said when he started to leave. “I’ll be able to guide you with my touch once you get in the general area…help you find the entrance to his location.” “No.” “But—” He surprised her by abruptly turning, reaching out and touching her face in a caress. “I would never allow it. Never. You are far, far too valuable, Isabel. Far too precious.” He blinked, as if he’d been surprised by his gruff outburst, before he turned and hurried out of the room. She stood motionless, staring after him for a full minute, still feeling the heat and imprint from his fingers on her cheek.
Aubrey had quickly learned that the sweetest treat of playing the role of traitor was Morshiel’s cock. It was an uncommonly beautiful cock, and the things Morshiel could do with it were sufficient alone to commit a lifetime of betrayal. Presently, he was being given the privilege of sucking that cock—and it was a privilege, for Morshiel was selective about whom he chose for the pleasure. He shared this delightful duty with an uncommonly pretty mortal woman. When Morshiel and the several Scourge had attacked Aubrey and Isi last night just a few feet away from Aubrey’s parked livery service, Aubrey had put up the show of a fight for Isi’s sake. Once Morshiel had knocked Isi unconscious, his mood had become almost boyishly ebullient. They’d been in the process of stuffing Isi’s bleeding body into the back of the car when an unsuspecting woman had stepped around a stone column and seen them.
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“Take her,” Morshiel commanded one of his revenants in a careless tone as he opened the passenger door of the car. He’d noticed Aubrey’s uncomprehending glance. “She looks a tasty treat.” Aubrey doubted the brown-haired female, whose name was Chesa, had long to live, but at least Morshiel had used his ascendancy to calm and arouse her. She appeared to be completely happy as she pistoned her mouth up and down Morshiel’s large, glistening member. Aubrey enjoyed watching the lusty display, and just when his longing overwhelmed him, Morshiel would chuckle and transfer his cock to him. He did so now. Aubrey moaned in satisfaction at the feeling of Morshiel grabbing a handful of his hair before he thrust into his mouth. He was rougher with Aubrey than he was Chesa, bucking his hips and forcing his cockhead into Aubrey’s straining throat. “That’s right. Show Chesa how a man gives head,” Morshiel ordered in a tone of dark satisfaction. “Show her how you like to get it.” Aubrey knew how he liked it, so he gave it that way in return, making a meal out of prime cock, using his teeth occasionally in a subtle scrape that sent Morshiel to growl in a mixture of warning and bliss. He sucked until his jaws ached for it, enjoying being used to give Morshiel pleasure. He was triumphant when he felt his member swell even larger in his mouth, thirsty for come. Not because Morshiel’s semen was vitessence-rich, but because it was the tangible symbol of his satisfaction…of his power. Suddenly, however, Morshiel held his head fast with his grip on his hair. His cock slid from Aubrey’s vacuuming mouth, but before it did, he felt a shock go through Morshiel’s body. “What is it?” Aubrey asked sharply when he saw Morshiel turn his head. “Someone was here.”
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“What?” Aubrey asked, confused. “I just saw…the woman.” “Isabel?” Aubrey asked. He wasn’t sure how he knew to whom Morshiel referred. Perhaps it was the tinge of pure awe in Morshiel’s tone. Aubrey started to stand, alarmed and curious, but Morshiel turned quickly and pushed him back to his knees. His cock hung at an angle from his body, the swollen shaft and heavy head pulling it downward. Morshiel slid his hand along the back of it. When the woman moaned and opened red, puffy lips, he slid his cock between them. “Morshiel? What are you doing? What did you mean you saw Isabel?” Aubrey asked, his mind spinning. Morshiel seemed too intent on his pleasure to answer, though. He glanced around Morshiel’s flexing hip and saw only the empty chamber. Had Morshiel been hallucinating his fantasies into reality? Surely he had been, for how could Isabel be here, in this secret chamber? His attention fractured as a shudder went through Morshiel’s body. The woman gave a little stifled shriek, her eyes going wide, as Morshiel began to erupt. He held her long hair at her nape in a restraint and partially withdrew the convulsing member. “Open wide,” Morshiel said in a quiet command. All thoughts of alarm at Morshiel’s strange behavior were erased from Aubrey’s brain as he watched him ejaculate on the woman’s tongue. When Chesa struggled to swallow the emissions, Morshiel tightened his grip and stretched her neck back. He shuddered and another thick dollop of semen spilled into the pool. Morshiel withdrew his cock, but kept his hold on the female. Without thinking or waiting for permission, Aubrey leaned over and covered the woman’s mouth with his own. He kissed her deeply, sharing the spills of their joint conquest. His intensely carnal nature made him appreciate the
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woman’s human warmth and flavor twining with the essence of Morshiel like few others could. He felt Morshiel’s hand in his hair as well, pushing him toward the woman. The dark chuckle above them added spice to an already exciting moment. By the time Morshiel tugged on his hair, Aubrey had completely lost himself in the sensual experience. He blinked dazedly as Morshiel abruptly released him and strode away, his long, naked body magnificent to behold. “We have to leave,” Morshiel said as he whisked on a pair of pants. “Blaise is coming.” “What? Are you mad?” Aubrey asked as he stood. “I’m not mad,” Morshiel barked. “I told you I saw the woman.” “But I thought you’d imagined it. Why did you continue to…” he waved vaguely at Chesa, who still knelt naked on the oriental carpet, her eyes shiny and dazed from arousal. “I was about to come,” Morshiel said, staring at Aubrey like he was stupid for even asking the question. Aubrey had the wherewithal to shut his gaping mouth. What right did he have to accuse Morshiel for his selfish foolishness? He’d been just as greedy. He rose and quickly dressed, intent on getting to the chamber where Isi was being kept. If they were to relocate, Aubrey’s sole focus was to make sure their captive went safely along with them. In addition to assuring that Blaise never caught him in Morshiel’s lair, of course. “Let me understand you correctly,” he said to Morshiel as he approached him. “You say you ‘saw’ Isabel. She wasn’t in her physical form, though?”
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Morshiel shook his head, scowling. “No. But it wasn’t like a dream, either. It didn’t hit me until after I’d finished coming that she seemed conscious. It was more like she was doing a remote viewing or something.” “She is powerful,” Aubrey murmured, thinking. “If she was conscious of what she saw—” “She might tell Blaise. We need to get out of here,” Morshiel finished grimly. He barked for a revenant servant as he started to leave the chamber. “Wait…Morshiel,” Aubrey called. Morshiel spun around, impatient. “Do you want Blaise to find you here, fool?” he snapped. “No. But what do we do with Chesa? We can’t just leave her here.” Annoyance flickered across Morshiel’s handsome features. “You,” he shouted when a hideous male revenant entered. This particular Scourge possessed a fogged, manic-like gaze, multiple tattoos of blood-dripping blades, long, bushy black hair, and unusually long, sharp incisors protruding over meaty lips. Morshiel pointed at Chesa, who had started to rise from her kneeling position, fear glazing her delicate features at the sight of the Scourge revenant. “Dinner if you want it, but make quick work of her. My clone is coming. If you linger too long over your meal, Blaise will take your head off, and good riddance to you if you allow it,” Morshiel said in a clipped tone as he strode out of the chamber. “I’ll retrieve our prisoner,” Aubrey called after Morshiel, referring to Isi who remained heavily sedated. Aubrey had managed to get a great deal of information out of Isi, not by torture, which he found to be crude and ineffective. Instead, he’d used a mixture of drugs concocted in his laboratory and his own very powerful brand of telepathic control. He knew of only a handful of beings— human or otherwise—who could have resisted his mind invasion.
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When Aubrey mentioned Isi, Morshiel paused, shrugged impatiently and stalked away, obviously intent on escape. Aubrey wasn’t surprised. He’d shared only a small portion of the valuable information Isi had imparted with Morshiel. Morshiel obviously didn’t have much faith in the value of Aubrey’s plans. Those truths were nuggets of pure gold, and they were Aubrey’s treasure. He started to follow Morshiel, noticing the Scourge revenant had latched a crazed, hungry gaze on Chesa. The sound of Chesa screaming behind him was abruptly silenced by a loud, harsh growl. Aubrey paused, wincing in regret. The woman’s taste still lingered in his mouth. But so did Morshiel’s, and there was little doubt which flavor signified power. He left the chamber, intent on retrieving Isi and fleeing for his life.
Blaise rallied every Literati available at Sanctuary for the attack beneath the Jubilee line. Whoever didn’t immediately respond to his telepathic command was left behind, however. Absolute haste was required if they were going to have a chance of saving Isi. Unfortunately Blaise could think of no other way to access the portion of the Jubilee tunnel he sought without using the public entrance. He paused before a flight of steps, eighteen of the Literati crowding around him. “It’s rush hour. The platform is going to be packed,” he murmured softly as dozens of harried-looking people rushed past the group of them, some casting annoyed glances their way, others curious ones. They likely made an odd assemblage, nineteen men blocking the steps, their warrior status sensed if not seen by some perceptive humans. “Plan to use your ascendancy to cloak us from the crowd’s awareness. We can’t wait for the eastbound train to leave and the platform to be cleared. We need to move immediately. Morshiel is close. I sense
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him below. When we reach the platform, all of you wait while I scout the tunnel for the entrance I’m looking for. As soon as I find it, I’ll signal for you to follow.” The men nodded. A moment later, they strode into the ultramodern Southwark underground tube station. Blaise concentrated hard on encouraging the hoard of people’s gazes to bounce right off their group, making it so the image of them didn’t stick in human consciousness. They passed the waiting crowd without incident. No one uttered a word of surprise when Blaise leapt down into the dark tunnel. “I’m guessing you have about two minutes before the train comes,” David Kwan said quietly, kneeling on the platform. Blaise nodded and ran down the tunnel, intent on finding the elusive entrance to Morshiel’s hidey-hole. It took him longer than he liked to locate the circular opening at the base of the tunnel. In the distance, he heard the train approaching. He sent a terse telepathic command and concentrated on opening the inch-thick metal door. “Twenty seconds,” David said calmly from beside him a moment later. They were long used to working in the tunnel and avoiding oncoming trains. Blaise jerked up the grate with a grunt. It’d been soldered shut. In the distance, he heard the voice on the train loudspeaker announcing the stop. “Down,” Blaise growled. Literati after Literati dropped into the dark hole. He could tell by the sound of boots hitting metal that the men were grabbing on to a ladder. Blaise went last, scooting the grate back into place a second before the train roared over his head, thundering over them like an angry god. He reached, gauging the width of the hole in the darkness. The tunnel stretched behind him, the length of a man’s body.
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He descended a crude ladder consisting of metal rings spaced approximately two and a half feet apart. It was easy for the Literati to navigate, with their unusual strength and agility, but it would have been awkward and dangerous for a human. Adrenaline surged into his veins. “The Scourge fashioned this tunnel and ladder,” he told all of the Literati at once with his mind. “Be ready, because they aren’t going to be far off when we reach the bottom of this—” He broke off immediately when the scent of sulfur, blood and death entered his nose. “They’re here,” he told the Literati before he shoved himself back to the wall farthest from the ladder and dropped, free-falling two hundred feet past the backs of his men. He thrust out his feet at the last second, grinding the toes of his boots into the sides of the very bottom of the vertical tunnel, holding himself at a standstill, his legs nearly in splits. He gripped the handle of his heartluster in his hand. A prowler was just below him. He saw its ugly head go around. It had caught his scent and was trying to ascertain his direction. Any second it would release a shriek of warning to its peers. He landed with a jarring thud on a dirt-packed floor in a cavern. The prowler had moved aside as he’d dropped. Before he had a chance to consider his surroundings, the prowler—a revenant in the form of a large, hairless, cat-like creature—pounced. Its claws ripped into his chest, causing a sensation like acid burning away at skin. Blaise barely had time to place his hands on either side of the feline skull and prevent five-inch incisors from ripping off his face. For a few seconds, they remained almost motionless in a mortal struggle, straining sinew against flexing beast-muscle. Hot, foul breath brushed against his face. Blaise stared directly into the prowler’s yellow and black eyes and engaged in a mental
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battle as much as a physical one. After what seemed like hours to Blaise, but was probably only five or ten seconds, he gritted his teeth and used all of his strength to heave the beast off him. It let out a bloody bawl, the sound bouncing eerily off the tunnel walls. The unholy sound was cut off abruptly when Blaise slashed upward in one fluid motion. The prowler’s head fell to the dirt floor with a thud. “More are coming. The prowler’s shriek warned them,” he told Grady Ellison, who had just leapt into the chamber in wolf-form. “Cover me while I look for Isi.” A sluggish underground stream trickled several feet to the left of him. In the distance, two smoking torches attached to metal brackets lit a narrow tunnel. He saw the shadowed forms of fleeing revenants. He glanced back as two bloodboars and three canids charged into the chamber from the opposite end. He recognized Morshiel’s rear guard. Twice the number of Literati had already descended, however, each of them transformed into their wolf-selves. They could fend for themselves admirably, Blaise decided as he charged down the tunnel toward the fleeing figures. He heard shrieks and growls and the sound of bodies thudding against the tunnel walls echoing behind him. He instinctively reached with his mind, sensing the lay of the land and sentient creatures in the near vicinity. When he became aware of a very fragile, weakened consciousness, he aimed in that direction in the tunnels. Revenants scrambled ahead of him. They obviously had been ordered to retreat by Morshiel, but they also were aware of Blaise approaching. They knew an encounter with him meant almost certain death. The tunnel narrowed, enough that he had to duck his head. It became so skinny at one point that there was a scrum as the revenants all tried to squeeze into an opening, none of them wanting to be last. He ran as fast as he could,
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slowly eating up the space between himself and the escaping Scourge. Undoubtedly Morshiel was in the lead. If he could just reach the end of the line, it was conceivable he could fight the revenants one by one, for the tunnel width allowed only enough space for one-to-one combat. He had the definite advantage. “You’re about to die, you cursed beasts,” he roared as he pursued. The tunnels were very old. The ceiling and walls crumbled. Dust was rising beneath scurrying, frantic paws and pounding human feet. It burned in his lungs, and the air grew murky, making vision difficult. He blinked dirt out of his eyes. Someone ahead carried a lantern, which created a dim, bobbing light on the earthen wall. He sensed several revenants were ahead of him—perhaps several dozen—but he only could see the one who had lost the scramble at the entrance, a canid with pumping, ropey muscles running for its life. He clearly sensed the subtle scent of wolf amongst the stench of Scourge revenant. It must be Isi. Adrenaline flooded his muscles, increasing his strength. He was close enough to reach the canid. He clasped his hand around the bunching thigh muscle of the revenant and yanked. It barked viciously in a show of fury, but it couldn’t completely turn in the tight tunnel. The snapping, lethal fangs never reached Blaise. His heartluster plunged into the belly as if it were made of soft butter. The fierce growl of the canid morphed into a panicked yelp as it fell heavily to the ground. Blaise leapt over the body, never losing a second, snarling as he grabbed and caught the next revenant around the lower leg. The dry, rough skin told him it was a prowler. The sleek, foul beasts were more flexible in the narrow tunnel than the canids. Blaise paid for getting closer to Isi with a tear of vicious claws from shoulder to hand. The revenant let out wild death-shriek before he took off its head, the sound bouncing eerily off the narrow tunnel and sending a dire warning to all ahead.
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Even though he’d cut down the canid and prowler as quickly as possible, he’d lost valuable seconds. The light was growing dimmer, but he could make out the shadow of the next fleer in line. It was someone in human form—a tall male, because he needed to hunch over in the passage as much as Blaise. He appeared to be carrying a large, bulky item. Was it Morshiel? Somehow, Blaise didn’t think so, although he did sense his clone was close. Very close. They were escaping, but Blaise thought he could overcome the tall man. Whatever he carried was slowing him down. He plunged ahead. He came to an abrupt halt when he almost tripped over a form crumpled at the bottom of the tunnel. The man he’d been chasing had dropped his burden, sacrificing it for speed and escape. The only source of light faded away. He knelt warily and felt with his hands in the now pitch-darkness. It was a man. Blood smeared on Blaise’s hand. He lifted it to his nose. He caught the scent of wolf with his keen sense of smell. Isi. A minute later, he came face to face with Michael Lord leading a contingent of Literati into the tunnel. “Go back,” Blaise said. “They’ve escaped. I have Isi.” When they reached the large chamber with the underground river, he did a quick survey of the two beheaded bodies on the ground, satisfied to see neither was a Literati. He glanced down at the man he held. Isi was dark and youngish looking, although it was hard to fully see his features with so much blood smeared across his face, neck and chest. Blaise wished for Isi’s sake that Aubrey, with his prodigious skill for healing, had been one of the attacking Literati party. Isi’s
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throat had been cut nearly clean through from front to back. He was holding his severed neck together with his surrounding arm, pressing his hand down desperately against the gushing wound. The incomplete beheading would have instantly killed a human, but given Isi’s paranormal nature, he had not yet succumbed to death. “I have to get him to Sanctuary,” he told Michael. “But there’s an unconscious canid in the tunnel over there that needs to lose his head. Do a thorough survey of all the chambers. And be careful.” Michael nodded and started with the other Literati toward the narrow, dusty passage. Blaise headed in the other direction, intent on getting Isi to safety.
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Chapter Eleven
Later that night, he retired to his quarters, feeling exhausted. Aubrey had arrived at Sanctuary and told Blaise Isi stood a fifty-fifty chance for survival. Although his neck hadn’t been completely severed, his throat and a portion of his spinal cord had. His superhuman powers of healing were working to knit the wound, but it was a close thing. He was alive, but barely. According to Aubrey, the only thing they could do was wait. Isabel had discovered Blaise’s whereabouts soon after he’d arrived. Her face had gone white as snow when she’d seen him. “It’s from Isi,” he said, divining that her look of horror came from believing he was covered in his own blood. “You found him,” she said, peering into the guest suite where Isi lay. “Yes, thanks to you.” He’d wanted her to leave—the Iniskium warrior’s wound was gruesome— but Isabel refused to budge. Like him, she’d watched tensely as Margaret and Aubrey labored over an unresponsive Isi. She hadn’t said anything, but she hadn’t needed to. She’d stood next to him, one hand at his back, the other on his forearm. He’d taken great comfort in her presence. A short while ago, he’d noticed how pale and drawn she looked, and refused to take no for an answer when he said she needed to rest. “I’m so relieved you’re safe. Come in with me,” she said when he’d escorted her to her bedroom suite. “I can’t, Isabel.”
Silken Rapture
“You can,” she whispered. He glanced down at his blood-soaked clothing. “I’m not fit for your company.” She smiled. “You’re always fit for my company, Blaise.” He swallowed thickly and forced himself to look away from temptation. “I need to clean up,” he said in a cracking voice before he walked away. He showered to get the stench of revenant blood and saliva off him. He’d longed to accept Isabel’s offer—he could always make her forget later, couldn’t he? It wasn’t different than any other occasion when he went to her room, and she believed it was the first night that they consummated their passion. But he was covered in blood and gore. He reeked of revenant stench. He couldn’t bear to soil her further than he already had. His wounds had almost completely healed, although the scratches on his chest were still pink with new skin, and smarted. After he showered, he lay in bed and almost immediately fell into a deep sleep. Usan had once told him that the Magian did not dream, for they had long ago learned to decode the unconscious world and make it conscious. Blaise had formed a picture in his mind of the Magian as beings that were closer to angels than humans, and that was one of the many reasons he believed himself cursed. What fool would mix the essences of angel, beast and man? Morshiel was right to call him a freak of nature. It was no wonder he didn’t tear himself limb from limb in a fit of insanity, as mixed as his blood was. Blaise often dreamed, and his visions were a mixture of his wolf and human nature. A Native American shaman who was visiting England had once told him wolves communed with their mates in the dream world, and those visions were always true. The wolf also dreamed of the hunt and the many potential futures of his prey’s actions. Not all of the things dreamed about the hunt would come true,
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but one of them would. Wisdom was required to discern which possible futures were most likely to manifest. Men dreamed of their hopes, but mostly their fears. That night, Blaise couldn’t decide if human or wolf was ruling him. He dreamed he entered Elysse’s mausoleum—a cold, gray place he’d visited many times to mourn, a place that seemed as familiar to him as his inner world. He knelt by her stone tomb and tried to pray. For him, it was always trying, for he was sure the words were as meaningless as dry dust coming from a soulless throat…a soulless heart. But he did try, fumbling the words. He saw to his amazement that he could see directly through the lid of the thick, gray granite tomb. Elysse looked at him with eyes the color of the sky on a clear, summer day. They were like searchlights, her eyes. She flinched and uttered the familiar, dreaded words. “You are damned,” she whispered through bloodless lips. She turned her head on her stone pillow. He followed her gaze and saw that a twin tomb had been placed next to her, and he—Blaise—lay in this one, his cheeks hollowed out, his skin cracking to dust and his hair inexplicably gray. He was diminishing before his very eyes—decaying, shrinking…dissolving into nothingness. Horror surged up from his belly and clutched at his heart. “No,” a woman said, her voice as rich and stirring as Elysse’s had been cold and flat. “It’s not death, but life.” He turned and saw that Elysse no longer lay in the tomb. Isabel had taken her place. She lay nude, her skin smooth and electrically vibrant, her long, chestnut hair like living silk, her dark eyes a mystery coded into flesh. She put out her hand to him. He eagerly reached for her, pausing when he noticed her other hand extended.
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Morshiel was there, kneeling next to him, his hand clasped in Isabel’s. She took Blaise’s outstretched hand, joining the three of them, and a shock went through him. He awoke choking, gasping for air, dying. Yes. This was dying. Before he could comprehend his thoughts, he stumbled out of his bed and rushed into a pair of pants. He winced as he inserted his tumescent cock down the left pant leg and fastened the fly over the fullness of his testicles. It didn’t surprise him that he’d awakened erect and throbbing with need. He’d done so since Isabel entered Sanctuary. Since he’d taken her, mated with her, he always rose from sleep ready to claim her. What confused him utterly was why the dream of Isabel beckoning both Morshiel and him would arouse him so desperately. He didn’t have the time or energy to consider that puzzle now, however. He could only think of one thing— awakening Isabel from sleep. She’d be soft and warm, and she would greet him with outstretched arms, for he was her dream, and her sleeping-self waited for him, wanted him… He froze when he heard a sound in the outer chamber. He turned his head, listening with the acute senses of wolf and Magian combined. Even though his study was dark save for the dying fire, when he slipped through the opened door, he knew precisely where she stood. She didn’t look up when he switched on the dim lamp on his desk. She wore a black nightgown, her alabaster shoulders naked save for the thin straps. In the periphery of his vision, he noticed her feet were bare. She must have awakened and fled her room in a hurry, heedless of robe and slippers. Her long hair half covered her face as she looked down at the pile of wedding silk. Her hands were naked. He stepped forward when he saw the tears on her cheek.
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“Don’t,” he said gruffly, alarmed to see her reach out to touch the silk—her hands ungloved. He hated to see the anguish on her face when she inadvertently touched something during their frantic matings, especially since he was the one to demand she remove the protection of her gloves. He extended his hand to stop her, but too late. She stiffened and whimpered when her naked fingers delved into the opalescent silk. “Isabel, don’t.” “I want to,” she said, lifting her head. Her eyes remained closed as her fingers moved in the fabric. Tears began to stream down her face. He couldn’t stand the sight. He grabbed her wrists and forced her to turn. “What are you doing?” he asked harshly. She opened her eyes and looked up at him. “You need not search the silk anymore. I can tell you where every flaw is in the fabric.” “Bloody hell, I don’t care about the silk. It’s nothing to me.” “You’re wrong,” she whispered. A tear slipped between her pink, trembling lips. “You have gone over the fabric so many times with your hands, searching for flaws, your essence has become grafted to it. So much sadness. So much courage. I dreamed of touching it with bare hands, and I had to come. I want to touch it again.” Despite her pressured words, she didn’t turn toward the silk but instead pressed closer to him, stirring his senses into a frothing boil. “Isabel—” “I want to touch you.” He groaned in rising misery. When he’d first taken her, he’d wanted nothing more than her touch on his bare skin. But he’d been a fool then, not understanding what it would mean to have her touch him, to know him so
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intimately. Still, the sweet words uttered from a sweeter mouth tempted him beyond reason. He captured her wrists in one hand and leaned down, seizing her lips in a searing kiss. It was the first time. The first time he’d kissed her. He hadn’t allowed himself the sheer luxury before. It was the first time he’d tangled his tongue with hers, the first time he’d permitted himself to drown in her taste. A human being couldn’t comprehend what a kiss meant to a creature such as he. He didn’t want to stop. Ever. Which is why he’d set the sanction upon himself. He opened one hand along her lower spine, his fingers reaching and delving into the taut curves of satin-covered buttocks. She moaned and arched into him, the sensation making his mind go black for a moment. He pushed against her, willing her to move back with him toward the table. He grabbed for the silk roughly and brought it up around her, draping her in it. The weight of the fabric pulled on her long hair. Her head fell back, exposing her white throat. His cock leapt next to his thigh and his incisors extended. “I had to come,” she whispered, her eyes opened into gleaming slits. “If you had not come, I would have come to you,” he said before he kissed her again, trying to slake his monumental thirst. She shivered in his arms when he ran his lips over the column of her throat. He lifted her and the silk, the dense fabric the heavier weight of the two, and carried her before the dying fire. He knelt, laying her on the carpet. She stared up at him, cocooned in priceless silk, and held up her arms. He knew the inevitable moment had arrived when he would touch her everywhere, feel every inch of her smooth skin beneath his lips, teeth and
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tongue. He longed for it, hungered for it, as he’d never longed for anything in his soulless existence. He couldn’t stand for the moment to be marred by her look of horror if she fully absorbed his cursed essence with her sensitive fingertips, though. He held her stare as he lifted her gown. As always, the sight of her pale, taut belly, gently curving hips and small, thrusting breasts excited him beyond measure. He lifted her arms and carefully manipulated the satin over her vulnerable hands. She watched him with wide eyes as he twisted the flimsy fabric of the gown into a slender rope. “Put your wrists together above your head.” “No,” she whispered. He merely said Isabel and she raised her hands into a position that was familiar to her, even if she didn’t recall. She stared up at him, her hands clutched together loosely above her head, protecting the inner flesh of her palms and fingers. Often, when he was moving inside her, he’d tell her to open her palms so that he could see the tender, sensitive flesh. The vision never ceased to send a jolt of arousal though him. At the moment, her gaze struck him as trusting, and yet unhappy at once. “I do it for you, Isabel.” “You’re not listening when I say I want to touch you.” “You don’t know what you want,” he said gruffly as he bound her wrists together with the twisted fabric. She moaned when her hands were tied, arching her back and thrusting her pink nipples toward him. He knew she enjoyed being restrained, even if she protested at the moment, and that pleased him. Everything about her pleased him. He quickly shucked off the jeans he’d just donned and fingered the band of leather around his waist, hesitating. He glanced up and saw her stare fixed on his
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cock. His penis flicked upward, as if her gaze was a hot stroke along its length. For the first time in his long, long life, he removed his heartluster and the harness in order to lie with a woman. So what if he was vulnerable during those ecstatic moments. His vulnerability was a given when it came to Isabel. He straddled her thighs and placed his hands beneath the thick silk. He watched her face closely as he ran the exquisite fabric over her smooth skin. She moaned in pleasure. “The royals have lost their prize,” he murmured, his gaze glued to the erotic vision of her nipples deepening in color and growing erect—such succulent, delicious fruit. He molded the silk to her hips, his hands holding her and stroking her at once. “The sheets were meant for our joining—no one else’s.” “Yes.” He met her heavy-lidded stare. She looked sublime to him in that moment, her skin smooth and gleaming next to the rich fabric, restrained and as helpless as he was to stop this deluge of desire. “Ask me to touch you, Isabel. Ask me.” “Make love to me, Blaise.” He slid his hands beneath her ribcage and lifted her at the same moment he leaned down. She arched into him, her long, dark hair spreading against the drape of pale silk. He took her breast into his mouth and suckled the sweet morsel, his hunger exponentially strong because of his forced abstinence in tasting her flesh. Heat rushed into his groin, swelling his cock until it ached against stretched skin. It would be a delicious agony to taste her everywhere. He flicked the turgid nipple with his lashing tongue, mesmerized by the hint of the flavor of her blood rushing just beneath the surface. He fondled her other
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small breast as he suckled, gently pinching and stroking one while he feasted on the other. Her moans and ragged pleas finally penetrated the thick fog of his arousal. He found himself hesitant to leave the breast in his mouth, so he paused and shaped her nipple lovingly between caressing lips. When he finally raised his head, her color had grown even richer. The nipple stood distended and stiff against the soft, pale curves of her breast. She made a desperate, gasping sound and he felt the tension in her bowed body. He gently ran his incisors over the soft flesh at the side of her breast and down over her ribs. When she began to shudder as she broke in climax, he held her with both hands, relishing every tremble, absorbing her essence. He nursed her through her orgasm, applying just enough pressure with teeth and tongue to heighten and lengthen her pleasure to its fullest. When she’d quieted, he set her back upon the floor and lay on his belly over her, his torso between her spread thighs. He spent the next half hour drowning himself in the sensation of her hips, waist and belly against his fingertips and tongue. He could never say why, but the pale harbor of her stomach had always enraptured him for some reason. His restraint had failed tonight, but now that he had failed in his control, he planned to relish every moment of his downfall. She told him what caresses she liked best and where she liked them the most. Not with words, but with the tension of her body and the tone of her sighs, whimpers and pleas. For most women, the scraping edge of his fangs caused intense pleasure, but Isabel was unusually susceptible, climaxing almost immediately at the caress. She’d already come multiple times, and her moans sounded increasingly frantic and dazed. So he refrained from using his teeth, instead utilizing his tongue and lips and fingers to excite her flesh.
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Everything blended for him into a symphony of sensation. He was lost. She was a goddess, the very essence of life sculpted in flesh, and he worshipped at her altar. This time, it was not her pleas and desperate moans that brought him out of his trance, but the flaring ache of his cock. Blood pounded along its length. He burned from the inside out. He’d been so hypnotized by the mysteries of Isabel’s flesh, he hadn’t kept track of his own body’s need for release. He was bursting, ready to erupt. He raised himself, straddling her at the hips, panting shallowly. Her eyes went wide when she glanced down and saw the state of him. His cock felt tight and heavy in his hand. He stroked the length once, and then twice, shivering as ripples of pleasure coursed through him. “I’m sorry,” he managed between gritted teeth as he began to come…to explode. Semen arced and landed on her belly. He groaned gutturally, in the grip of ecstasy. He shifted, shooting his seed onto her heaving breasts and the delicate cage of bone that protected her precious, fluttering heart. Still, his orgasm slammed through him in wave after powerful wave, and he pumped and pumped, his muscles coiled tight, trying to vanquish this clawing need, and desperate at the same time to have it go on and on and on… He fell down over her, holding himself up with his arms, panting. He seemed to require more air than his lungs could supply, and he sucked madly, trying to regain his equilibrium after being thoroughly shaken by the talon-sharp clutches of desire. Seconds later, he lifted his head and focused on her. She stared up at him with huge eyes, her reddened lips parted, her cheeks flushed with blood. His incisors ached dully with a need to pierce her, just as his cock pulsed out a mandate to penetrate her, to fuck her deep and hard.
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He thought of what he’d just done, however, and did neither of those things. Instead, he carefully began to use the silk to dry her of his semen. It lay on her thick from neck to the top of her pubic hair. He’d often fantasized about coating her in his essence. The primal, bestial part of him seemed as deeply pleased as his refined Magian temperament by the blatant evidence of his possession. When he’d finished, he gently slid her along the silk several inches, removing her from the semen-wet fabric. “Now your essence will truly be infused into the silk,” she murmured throatily. He glanced up, his gaze snagging on her curving lips. “I would have it infused into the miracle of your flesh,” he said, his voice quiet, but rough from need. “Then make it so.” So like Isabel, he thought, to challenge him in a whisper.
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Chapter Twelve
Their stares remained locked as he worked his cockhead into her, fusing their flesh. Her cheeks flamed hot in arousal even as her body stretched to accommodate him. He pushed gently, but firmly. She whimpered when he slid home. He held himself off her with his hands, his knees bracing him, only their lower bellies and pelvises pressing tightly, skin sealed to skin. She longed to have him come down completely over her. He was a large man, and she was small, but she craved it nonetheless, the feeling of his weight pinning her down, of tasting the sweat on his skin…of absorbing him completely as they mated. She told him what she wanted in a shaking voice, but his arm, shoulder and chest muscles remained tense and bulging as he held himself off her. He began to fuck her, drawing his penis half its length out of her, stroking her deliberately, firmly. A cry escaped her throat at the intense pressure. She closed her eyes and turned her head, overwhelmed by the mounting friction. Every nerve in her body burned, demanding stimulation. She moved her head, the sensation of silk against her heated cheek mounting her arousal. Her mouth opened, the corner of her lips slipping against the liquid softness, kissing it. He fucked her harder now, their perspiration-damp skin smacking against each other rhythmically. She moaned. He paused briefly, placing his hand on her neck and turning her face upward. She opened her heavy eyelids. He stared down at her, his eyes wild, his face rigid, his incisors fully extended.
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“Come down over me,” she pleaded as he began to fuck her again, this time even more forcefully. His cock plunged into her without mercy. It hurt a little, but her clamoring nerves loved even that sensation spicing her pleasure. She’d become a glutton on sensation, craving him… “You tempt me beyond reason,” he growled as he pounded into her, the friction so taut, his possession so intense that it was as if he tried to ignite a fire between their straining bodies. His hand on her jaw moved. He plunged his thumb between her lips. She suckled him hotly, her eyes fixed on him in a plea. His mouth shaped into a snarl as he watched her. Her desperation mounted. She twisted her hands, struggling with the restraint at her wrists. Her hips pumped beneath him, matching his strokes, meeting the demands of his need. He was so focused on the image of his thick thumb plunging between her lips he didn’t notice when she broke free of her bonds. Both of their gazes sprung wide when she placed her bare hands on his shoulders. She had craved sensation, and now it slammed into her—he slammed into her, his fierce spirit, his loneliness, his longing…his suffering. “Isabel,” he shouted. She brought his rigid face into focus and realized she’d been screaming. She stopped, panting for air. The waves of sensation and emotion still pummeled into her consciousness, but they were lessening in intensity. Or else…her spirit was becoming accustomed to his melding with her own. “Drop your hands,” he demanded. He looked ominous at that moment, his lip curling over one sharp incisor, his eyes wild. She shook her head, unable to speak. She pulled him toward her. “No…” he moaned miserably. She continued to urge him, though, and he came down over her.
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Somehow she knew, in that moment, that her loving hands were more powerful than his vast, paranormal strength. The sensation of his weight on her, the scent of his skin, of his arousal, steadied her in the sea of his torment. He placed his face in the nook between her neck and shoulder, giving her the impression he hid himself in shame. “Shhh,” she crooned. She placed one hand on the back of his head, shivers racking her at the exquisite feeling of his hair sliding between her fingers. She placed her other palm on the smooth skin that gloved the dense muscle of a buttock. She moved beneath him, sliding her pussy along the shaft of his cock, reminding him there was no room between them for shame. His growl near her ear sent another rush of convulsions through her body. He flexed his hips, fucking her with small, electric strokes, grinding down on her sex until the tiny shivers that shook her mounted to a full-fledged orgasm. She tightened around him as she came. She heard his low, rough groan near her ear. When she came back to herself, he was fucking her in earnest again. He took her breath, his possession was so primal. His weight crushed her, but she wanted it…loved it. They lay heart to throbbing heart, their bellies flush, his head next to hers, his breath hot on her throat. She filled her palm with the pounding muscle of an ass cheek, urging him on, begging him without words to take his fill. She stretched her throat. “I am yours to take,” she gasped as he drove into her. She cried out at the feeling of his teeth piercing her. Their bodies both went rigid. His cock swelled in her and jerked. Pain spiked through waves of pleasure. She stared up at the ceiling, blinded by the feeling of him coming deep inside her while his lips moved against her skin as he took her blood. His shudders became hers as she joined him in a mindless moment of communal bliss.
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His muscles went lax and he collapsed. The air in her lungs whooshed out of her. He mumbled something and tried to raise himself, but she pushed down gently on his head. “Don’t move,” she whispered. “You just took me by surprise, that’s all. I love your weight on me.” His grunt sounded doubtful, but he seemed too exhausted to argue with her. He pressed her to the thick carpet and soft silk. She scraped her nails against his scalp and caressed his back, feeling him shiver in her arms. “I don’t know how these things work, exactly, in your world,” she murmured. “I know I’m only a mortal woman, but that doesn’t make my experience any less valid. I won’t lie about it. I don’t know how, and I don’t know why, but I have fallen in love with you, Blaise.” His ragged breathing ceased for a moment, but then resumed as she stroked him, trying to ease the unrest her words had wrought. She fell asleep to the lulling sensation of his breath evening against her neck. He lifted his head and watched her as she slept. He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that, motionless, studying every curve, every plane, every nuance of her face. They were still locked together. He felt her heart beating steadily along the shaft of his embedded cock. His own heart followed her lead, until they gently pulsed together as one. Her lips moved as she murmured something in her sleep. Her mouth curved into a sleepy smile. He lowered his head and kissed her lips fleetingly, wondering at the miracle of her. She had touched him with her knowing hands…and she smiled. She’d said she loved him. Women had said it frequently to him over the centuries, usually in the aftermath of pleasure. He understood his nature gave
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him this power over humans, the ability to inspire obsessive love. It had never really meant anything to him. He wanted it to mean something with Isabel. She was different, wasn’t she? Was it even possible, that he could be loved by a miracle such as her? He placed his mouth on the small wounds on her neck, closing his eyes in quiet rapture as he licked her, tasting her singular flavor before his essence healed her. The wound closed beneath his laving tongue. He carefully withdrew from the tight embrace of her body, grimacing at the lack of her warmth. He turned her in his arms. She nestled against him, her cheek against his chest. He watched over her until his inner clock told him it was dawn. As the minutes and hours passed, something began to grip at his heart like cold fingers. The mindless, rapturous moments of their lovemaking seemed to grow more and more distant, more ephemeral, even as he tried to keep them fixed and vibrant in his memory. It was like trying to hold on tight to a dream. The fragments melted through his grasping hands. Was he experiencing some hint of the misery he subjected Isabel to, night after night when he made her forget? Blaise had no experience with faith…with believing in the impossible. “Isabel,” he mouthed. She moved restlessly in his arms as if she’d heard an apology he couldn’t bring himself to speak aloud. His hand hovered over her temple for suspended seconds before he touched her. He closed his eyes tightly, willing her to forget. When he’d swept her mind clean of what had occurred between them that night, and sent her into a profound level of sleep, he released her. He wiped his cheeks as he sat up and stared at his fingers in numb bewilderment. They were wet with tears stained pink with blood. It had happened to him once before, that he’d shed tears mixed with the blood of his victim.
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He rose and lifted Isabel’s sleeping form off the ivory silk.
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Chapter Thirteen
Time stretched for Isabel, hazy and full and sweet. She languished on the soft sofa in her bedroom suite, a copy of Antony and Cleopatra dangling from her limp fingertips. Royal watched her from his post next to the crackling fire, his head tilted. “What’s this?” Margaret’s voice penetrated her lassitude. “You haven’t eaten hardly a thing. How long is this going to continue, young lady?” Isabel blinked her heavy eyelids and tried to sit up, but her limbs felt so heavy she fell back to the cushions. “This can’t go on. Her appetite has decreased daily since she’s come to Sanctuary, and this lethargy has gone on for well over a week. She’s ill,” Margaret said, sounding angry. Isabel couldn’t quite grasp on her thoughts, couldn’t quite focus on them. It felt as though she were trying to grab a will-o-wisp in a dense fog. Even through her haze, it struck her distantly that it was strange that Margaret sounded as if she was angrily accusing someone of Isabel’s tiredness, even though there was no one else in the room but her and Royal, and no one was responsible for her laziness but herself. “It’s okay, Margaret. I’m not sick. I’m just sleepy,” she murmured. Her eyelids closed. She was so comfortable. It was too difficult to stay in the waking world. She only wanted to escape to her dreams…to her beautiful dreams. “You must do something,” Margaret said fiercely.
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“I don’t feel li’ doin’ anything but sleeping and seeing ’im again,” she mumbled. She drifted. Someone pushed up on her shoulders. Her eyelids felt like two bricks rested on them, they were so heavy when she tried to lift them. She saw a blurred image of the elaborate, carved mantel and a cheery fire flickering in the hearth. Once again, her dreams beckoned. Her muscles went lax. “Don’t you dare go back to sleep,” Margaret said loudly near her right ear. Isabel blinked and turned her head. Even that felt as if it took more energy than swimming in warm, thick honey. “Here.” She looked downward, her eyes crossing when she felt a cup press to her lower lip. She sputtered, nearly choking, when Margaret poured a great quantity of black tea into her lax mouth. “It’s hot!” she shouted, back arching like a scalded cat’s. She glared at the plump, gray-haired woman sitting next to her, her mouth gaping open. She wouldn’t have guessed Margaret had such a nasty streak in her. “That’s better,” Margaret said grimly. “Here. Drink some more.” “I will not. You practically burned off my tongue,” Isabel complained. She pinched the tip of her scorched tongue beneath her gloved thumb and forefinger to exhibit her point. Her eyes went wide in shock. “Bwaise,” she slurred. Blaise stood there next to the couch, seeming tall as an oak from the perspective of her sitting position. For some reason, it didn’t strike her as strange at all that he wore only a pair of jeans. She saw a thin, supple strap of leather just above the low-riding waistline. She glanced up guiltily into his face when she realized she’d been gawking in fascination, gripping her tongue like an idiot the whole time.
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When she met his agate-like eyes, it was as though he’d just shouted a message to her across a wide chasm. Her legs collapsed beneath her when she stood abruptly, her arms outstretched toward him. The room was suddenly sweeping past her vision, and she felt stable and in motion at once. “Here…put her in the bed,” she heard Margaret say from a great distance. “I will have a human doctor brought to her,” he said. “Blaise,” she mouthed soundlessly when she heard the deep voice and familiar, rough accent. Her mind couldn’t quite grip on anything solid. The soft mattress and luxurious bedclothes gave beneath her, beckoning her into sleep…but she did not want to sleep. Not now. He was here…in the waking world. She clutched at a hard, rounded shoulder muscle, but her fingers fell away, uselessly. “You have been taking her blood,” Margaret said accusingly. “Yes,” came his bleak reply. “But I don’t think that’s what’s weakening her.” “What do you mean?” “She’s a miracle. I have drunk from her—I could not stop myself. I never took too much, and she is so strong, her vitessence is almost immediately replenished. I’m seeing her life force right now as we speak. Her vitessence is as strong as ever…stronger.” “Then what’s wrong with her?” Margaret demanded. Isabel waited for the deep voice she craved, and when it did not come immediately, she drifted. “Delraven?” Margaret prompted. Isabel shifted her head on the pillow, willing herself to rise into consciousness.
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“I have…I have used my ascendancy to make her forget. I have never done it before to someone for nights…weeks. It must be having a negative effect on her. I didn’t mean to hurt her.” This time, Isabel clearly heard the anxiety in his voice and longed to comfort him. “I will leave for Delraven,” he said after a pause, his voice as barren and bleak as a desert at midnight. “You must,” Margaret said. “This cannot go on.” Don’t go. Don’t go. She was too weak to shape the words with her mouth. The plea reverberated around her skull, the message trapped. It was she who was helpless, she who was trapped. She pried her eyes open, the effort costing her more energy than she ever recalled expending. He glanced up and met her stare, his eyes wells of pain. He had heard her silent, desperate pleas. “I’m harming you, lovely. I’m killing you. My need is too great. I must leave Sanctuary.” “No!” She screamed it through a rising sea of hurt and confusion. Everything swirled and struck, her desires and fears and fragments of memories pummeling her spirit like hurled projectiles. She couldn’t grasp what was happening to her. She was so alone. Only one thought possessed her, the sole plea that she clung onto like a raft tossed in a stormy ocean. “Don’t go. Don’t go, Blaise. You are my other half now.” “No, lovely. You will die if I stay with you.” “I will die without you.” “No. Never. You must sleep now. You have to rest.” She fell into unconsciousness with his hand on her cheek and her heart clenching in pain.
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Blaise glanced around quickly at the sound of Margaret Turrow gasping in shock. “My word…how in the world did you get there?” she asked the man who stood next to Isabel’s bed. Blaise dropped his hand from Isabel’s cheek and stood, his shock at seeing Usan for the first time in fifteen years nearly as great as Margaret’s. He watched, stunned, as the formidable Magian stepped forward and touched Isabel’s neck with long fingers. “She is a strong one,” he told Blaise before he withdrew his hand. As always, the Magian’s sunny smile struck Blaise as bizarre, contrasting as it did with a handsome, austere face. Two lethal-looking incisors extending longer than the rest of his straight, white teeth. Other than the fangs, Usan possessed human-like features, but his crystalline blue eyes conveyed an intelligence that immediately struck even Blaise as otherworldly. “She is resting easy,” Usan said, seeming satisfied. “What are you doing here?” Blaise asked, still numb from the realization he’d just made about Isabel. He’d been harming her by forcing her to forget their moments together—first their matings, and recently, their rapturous lovemaking. Now he must leave her— “I thought it was time,” Usan said simply as he gestured toward Isabel. His hand lingered over her belly. He touched her. Blaise reached with lightning speed, grabbing Usan’s hand. “What does that mean?” he asked roughly, his incisors now extended in anger. “Do you know something about Isabel that I don’t? Do you sense an illness in her? Is she going to be all right?” “She’s going to be fine,” Usan assured. Blaise released him when he jerked on his hand. Usan glanced over at Margaret, who was still staring at him in
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open-mouthed amazement, and gave a small bow, his unusual burnt orange robes billowing around his legs. “Greetings. I’m Usan, and you must be Margaret Turrow. Blaise values your loyal service, honesty and even your occasional insubordination.” Margaret’s gaze flickered over to Blaise, her eyes even wider with wonder. “Lord Delraven told you that?” “No, but his mind is an open book to me,” Usan said, smiling. “Then you’re singular in all existence. He’s a puzzle in the dark to most of us,” Margaret muttered. Usan chuckled. “What do you want?” Blaise growled, Usan’s demonstration of omniscience in front of Margaret scraping his already raw nerves. He could not say that he loved Usan, for the soulless did not love, but he’d grown accustomed to the Magian’s enigmatic character. Usan regularly withheld information from him, and then inexplicably spilled a precious kernel of knowledge out of nowhere. He might want to throttle Usan at times, but he also valued him as a link to his origins and his past. Usan was the closest thing Blaise had to an ancestor. “I came to speak with you about Isabel,” Usan said mildly. “What do you know of her?” Blaise demanded, his tone so sharp that Margaret started. “I know many things.” The Magian’s eyes sent a chill through him when he met his gaze. Usan stepped back and held out his hand toward the door. “Shall we adjourn to your quarters?” Blaise swallowed and glanced back at Isabel sleeping on the bed. “I have told you Isabel would be fine. Have I ever lied to you?” Usan asked quietly. Blaise leveled a cold stare.
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“Isn’t silence the biggest lie of all, Old Man?” he grated out bitterly, before he headed for the door.
“You cannot leave Sanctuary, Blaise,” Usan said a half an hour later. Blaise paused in the process of wearing a hole in the carpet before the fireplace with his pacing feet. He felt as if an animal were in him, rearing and clawing, demanding release. He kept picturing Isabel’s malaise, her piercing hurt when her confused mind understood they were about to be separated. How could he have known he was harming her by making her forget their nights spent pressed together, skin to skin? “Are you forbidding me?” he challenged Usan, his frothing anguish and bewilderment requiring a target for release. “No. I have never forbidden you anything. You possess free will, Blaise. If you did not, my research would mean nothing.” “Damn your bloody research,” he bellowed. “You say you don’t lie to me, but look what you do now? The mandate you have set in my blood to control Morshiel prevents me from any sort of free will, and you know it!” Usan’s nonchalant shrug infuriated him farther. “Come on,” Blaise said. “What? Where are we going?” Usan asked. “To fight,” Blaise bit out. “Right here. Right now. I don’t know why I haven’t ever wanted to knock your head straight to the earth’s soul before.” “Oh, but you have,” Usan said, seeming unaffected by his surge of aggression. “After Elysse died you wanted to fight me, don’t you recall?” His tone gentled when Blaise continued to glare at him. “Besides, Isabel is not dead. She’s not Elysse, either, but something much more powerful, as we both know.”
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He settled back on the couch and smoothed his robes contentedly, the fringe on his odd hat brushing his classically sculpted cheek. Blaise often referred to him as “Old Man” although Usan possessed no features of advanced age. His skin was vibrant and smooth, and not a single strand of gray ran through the jet black of his hair. A human might have guessed he and Usan were the same age, but Blaise instinctively understood the truth. The male who sat before him was more ancient than he could fathom. Blaise unclenched his fists and began to pace again. Pounding in Usan’s face would accomplish nothing, and it might even prevent him from attaining one of the meager little morsels of truth Usan occasionally tossed his way like a human threw scraps from the table at a dog. He hungered for facts—some guideposts in this new confusing territory he’d entered with Isabel. He wasn’t too proud to refuse Usan’s leavings. “If you understand about Isabel, then you know why I must go,” Blaise said gruffly. “Because you have mated with her, you must leave?” Usan asked, bewildered. “The Sevliss aren’t meant to take mates. You have told me this yourself. We are sterile. We cannot…love.” Usan gave a little apologetic smile. “I wasn’t lying. The truth changes over time, Blaise. Nature is not a fixed process. Thank the Empress for that.” “I am harming her.” Usan sighed. “The harm you cause her is from your habit of making her forget the moments of mating, not the mating itself. The body, spirit and mind suffer when they are forced not to recognize one another. You cut off a portion of her very soul by making her forget your mating, by forcing her to forget her intimate knowledge of you. It is depleting her vibrancy, but not to the point of
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harm. Not yet, anyway. But her soul longs to be with you so much, that she forces herself into unconsciousness, where she knows she will find both you and her buried memories of you.” Blaise blanched at the news. How could he have known? He noticed Usan studying him and resisted another urge to lash out. These were not the particular truths he wanted to hear at the moment. “I can’t seem to stay away from her, as much as I know I should,” he mumbled. “She has a brilliant soul…breathtaking,” Usan said. “If I can’t stay away from her, then I must leave Sanctuary, mustn’t I?” “What if I told you that I will remove the wards of magic that protect Sanctuary if you go to Delraven? Isabel and the Literati will have no protection against Morshiel and the Scourge.” Blaise froze, stunned. “You would do that, just to spite me?” “I have no use or time for spite,” Usan said, his voice suddenly ringing with power, his countenance that of a different creature. “If it came to protection between you and Isabel, I might choose her. Do you mock me for that?” “No,” Blaise replied quickly. He was still angry, but his curiosity was mounting. Usan was behaving strangely, even for him. “I would choose the same. But because I would have you protect her before me does not equate to you automatically agreeing. You have never granted my wishes in the past so readily. Why would you now? Why do you care what happens to Isabel?” “You know what she is. Does it surprise you?” “No,” Blaise growled before he began pacing again. He suddenly knew for a fact that whatever secret Saint held involved the mystery of what was happening between Isabel and him.
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“Is Saint being prevented from speaking to the rest of the princes about how he conquered Teslar?” “Yes.” Blaise blinked, surprised by Usan’s quick, forthright answer. “Why?” he demanded. “Kavya has forbidden him to speak openly to the rest of you, upon the request of the rest of the Magian council.” “You make it your sole duty to vex me, Old Man.” Usan looked politely interested. “You know, I’ve never heard it put quite so succinctly. To vex, to agitate, to prod—” Blaise made a sound of profound frustration, causing Usan to blink and rise from his intellectual musings. “You will thank me someday for it, Blaise.” Blaise bared his teeth. Usan sat forward, his elbows resting on his knees. He pinned Blaise with his eerily focused stare. “Perhaps today is the day,” he said thoughtfully. He seemed to come to a decision and smiled. “All right. You crave a truth? I will give you one. Isabel is pregnant. She is going to have a child.” His ears rang in the silence that followed. For a moment, he thought Usan had used his magic to conjure an invisible hand to wrap around his throat. “Isabel is pregnant?” he said after he’d managed to suck in a thin stream of air. “That’s right.” “You…you are certain of it?” “One hundred percent certain, yes. She’s only a few weeks along, but trust me. We alchemists know two things very, very well—genes and vitessence.
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Isabel is going to have a baby,” Usan said with a satisfied smile as he arranged his robes in his lap. Blaise turned toward the fire, seeing nothing, impervious to the heat on his skin. A few weeks along? Had she taken a lover while she was in London? A thought struck him and he made a choking sound of rising horror. He reached for the mantel to steady himself. The Literati, the Scourge, Morshiel and himself were all sterile. If Isabel was pregnant, then— “One of Morshiel’s drudges,” he said in a choked voice. “Those fucking humans who follow him in exchange for drugs and Morshiel’s leavings. One of them must have raped Isabel on the night Morshiel kidnapped her—” Usan made an exasperated sound behind him. “Today is not the day, then,” he said under his breath, sounding a little weary. “Today is not the day for what?” Blaise roared, spinning around. “Stop speaking in riddles. If you know the details of Isabel’s pregnancy, tell me. I won’t tell her if the truth would upset her, but I want to know.” “You want the truth?” Usan asked, his tone suddenly just as commanding as Blaise’s. He stood. “You are the father, Blaise. You are.” He blinked and flinched back as though Usan had just struck him. “I am? Don’t be ridiculous. You said—” “That you were sterile, yes I know. But haven’t I also taught you that one of the glories of nature is that it never stays the same? Change is the only constant in the universe.” “But…the soulless cannot procreate,” he muttered. Usan’s only response was to quirk his eyebrows in a query. Blaise just stared. His brain seemed to have become disabled, as if the information was so powerful it caused a circuit overload. Suddenly, one clear thought streamed through his consciousness.
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Isi. Maybe it was easier to accept the truth—whatever that truth was—from a peer versus Usan. Isi was the link to Saint, and to valuable information. Isi had showed some improvement in the last few days, and even had spoken a few words in a thin, raspy voice. Aubrey advised against using any type of telepathy on him in order to gain information, saying Isi was too vulnerable at the present time. But in time, Isi would heal. He’d be able to tell Blaise some of the secrets Saint wanted him to understand. Somehow, Blaise had come to believe Saint possessed the answers he needed for this conundrum with Isabel. Isi held the key— “Isi?” Usan asked, sitting up straighter. Too late, Blaise realized he’d been so thunderstruck by Usan’s news, he hadn’t taken care to guard his thoughts from the Magian. “Are you referring to Isi, who is one of Saint’s Iniskium warriors?” Blaise did a double-take when he noticed the shock on the Magian’s face. He had never seen Usan look surprised at anything. Never. “Isi is here…in London?” Usan demanded. Blaise knew it was too late to deny it. Usan had already claimed the truth from his mind. “I’m shocked you didn’t know before,” he said. “I forbid you to see him. Morshiel and the revenants nearly murdered him. He’s been recovering, but slowly. Usan,” Blaise bellowed when Usan turned and headed toward the door. “It should have been impossible for Isi to come to London,” Usan said, pausing. “The change in Saint’s nature has made the impossible possible, it seems. The princes’ followers have never before been able to leave their sire’s territory. Nature has taken yet another unforeseen path. I will not place an obstacle in this particular alteration.” “What do you mean?” Blaise shouted.
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He was destined to continue to be frustrated, however. The Magian strode swiftly toward the exit, his strange robes billowing out behind him. As he grew closer to the door, he faded from view. Blaise was left standing there alone. The Old Man really did make it his mission to bewilder and infuriate him at every turn. In the midst of his chaotic thoughts, he sensed Isabel awaken in her bed. He paused, his face turned toward her even though walls and a great distance separated them. Isabel is pregnant. You are the father, Blaise. A sweat broke out on his brow. Do not believe it, he warned himself. Humans would have said miracles abounded in Blaise’s world, but for him, life was an endless, gray duty. Isabel had lit up his world with her presence, showed him a whole new spectrum of color, infusing his world with life. Her presence was all the miracle a being like him could ever hope for. The fact that she wanted to touch him, that she curled into his arms like a contented kitten when he went to her, still remained a matter of pure amazement to him. He sat down on the couch, and placed his forehead in his hand. His body seemed to strain toward Isabel while his mind kept recalling in vivid detail the malaise that consumed her, the illness he had caused. Usan was right about one thing—he could not leave her now. He would continue to try and comprehend these inexplicable events, but he must endeavor to stay away from Isabel until he was more certain of what was happening. He would go to her only as Royal, for she still had not made the heinous realization that he and the animal were one. As for Usan’s claim in regard to her pregnancy, the news tore at his consciousness.
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Miracles didn’t exist, and certainly not for creatures such as he. Recalling the stunned look on Usan’s face caused a worm of sick anxiety to squirm in his gut. If Usan was worried, Blaise had a thousandfold reason to be.
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Chapter Fourteen
Aubrey had recommended to Blaise that the crystal be stored in the apex of Sanctuary—at the very tip of the pyramid, where the power from the earth was the strongest. The apex room had always been a comfortable retreat where the Literati liked to go to relax and meditate. He often went near dawn, when the rest of the Literati slept. That, and the magical ward he placed on the door, assured his privacy while he performed his rituals. It wasn’t a church, of course, but considering how aware the Literati were of the earth’s sublime soul, it made sense that this room, which burrowed down farther than any other, would be held in special regard. Now that the crystal was housed in the apex room, it made the location a hundred times more powerful. Aubrey chanted the ancient words and inhaled the pungent scent of incense into his nose. Summoning a demon was always tricky magic, but tonight the challenge was exponentially greater. It was the first time he’d attempted the spell within Sanctuary’s magical protection. He opened his eyes, breaking his deep trance when he finally felt her presence beside him. “I’ve been watching you,” Shirian’s voice whispered in his ear. He smiled, despite her taunting tone. A thrill of excitement coursed through him. He’d done it. His spells had allowed Shirian to enter Sanctuary. First the demon, soon the clone. “I know it,” Aubrey said calmly. He glanced to the left and saw the vague outline of Shirian’s form hovering in a blue mist.
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“I saw you on your knees with that human whore—Chesa you called her,” Shirian hissed. “You played the submissive very well. I wouldn’t have thought it, given our previous chats. I thought you were too powerful to go down on your knees.” “Only the ignorant believe there is weakness in occasional subservience. There is power in submitting. I find pleasure in it, sometimes as much as bending another to my will.” “You’ll never convince me of such nonsense.” The sound of her mocking laughter raised his hackles, although he took care to ensure she didn’t see his annoyance. “You have taunted me enough, Shirian. I know what you came here for. Touch the crystal.” Her laughter faded. Distantly, like an echo, he heard her soft pants of anticipation. She manifested into flesh before his very eyes. He knew she was evil to the core, but he couldn’t help but be awed by her beauty. She kept one hand on the crystal, and turned toward him, her long, coal black hair swishing around her hips. She’d taken form naked. He salivated as his gaze ran over her comely form. “I can smell your blood,” he murmured, a small smile shaping his mouth. “Yes,” she whispered. “It is a miracle, this crystal.” Her lips curved when she noticed his gaze on her full, thrusting breasts. “I was called the Jewel of the Nile.” “You are, indeed, beautiful.” Her red lips slanted into a cruel smile. With her free hand, she reached between her thighs. She was clean-shaven. Whether that was because she’d pictured herself that way before she’d taken form, or because that’s how she looked when her spirit had resided in flesh, he did not know.
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She parted her labia, showing him her fleshy gem. “I would have you kneel before me,” she purred. He moved quickly, so quickly that Shirian gasped in surprise when he had her turned. He forced her to bend over. He’d pulled one arm behind her back in a painful restraint and pushed her head downward with a grip at her neck. She was so intent on maintaining contact with the crystal, her resistance was minimal. “I am the master of you, demon,” Aubrey grated out between clenched teeth. “One word from me, and you will be smoke once again, wandering the tunnels. He grabbed a portion of thick hair at her nape and jerked her head up. “Go ahead. Mock me again, and I’ll say the word. Or take your hand off the crystal. You always have that way out, Shirian.” She made a strangled sound when he stretched her throat, but as he suspected, she didn’t try to speak. Shirian coveted flesh. She was too smart to forsake the opportunity to exist in it. And such lovely flesh it was, Aubrey thought as he stroked her bare bottom. He kept her hair bunched in his hand, her head drawn back at an awkward angle. “I will show you who is master between us, Shirian.” He drew his hand back and struck a buttock. Hard. She whimpered and fell forward slightly. “Put both of your hands on the crystal and brace yourself,” he said briskly, releasing his restraint on her wrist. “Or you can break contact, if you like. If you are mist, I cannot punish you. I’ll leave it up to you.” Her hair covered her face, but he imagined she gritted her teeth in fury beneath the obscuring black veil. He smiled when she slowly raised her free
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hand and braced herself. He brought his hand back and struck her buttocks, again and again. “Was the Jewel of the Nile ever punished before?” he taunted her as he cracked his palm against succulent flesh. “I expect an answer,” he said, smacking her hard. “What’s that? No? Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me. Perhaps if you had been, you wouldn’t have become such a selfish—heartless—bitch.” He ground out a word every time he landed his palm on flesh. She made a sound of deep frustration and he laughed. “You really believed you could rule me, didn’t you?” he muttered, amazed at her audacity. He glanced down, appreciating the sight of her smooth bottom blushing pink. He knew he was laying it on thick, but Shirian wasn’t a human. She was a demon, and he would see her submit. The more he forced her to, the more power he would have over her. In the world of magic, power could be banked like money. One could never have too much of it. Subjugation of a demon was never easy, and sometimes he chose to do it sexually. Given the circumstances, it was the perfect way to bend Shirian to his will. “Perhaps you could have ruled me, if you didn’t love this beautiful flesh so much, Shirian. As things stand, however, you are mine to do with as I please. Don’t move.” He straightened and headed toward an upholstered chair and ottoman. She turned her head, trying to see him through her thick hair. “What are you doing?” she asked, sounding furious and bewildered. “You’re punishment for your insolence isn’t over yet.” He shoved the cushioned ottoman along the polished wood floor with his foot. “I want your knees hugging that stool, your ass in the air, your head down. You can touch the crystal at the base.”
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“No,” she snarled. “Do you want me to say the word, Shirian? Funny thing about magic. If you piss me off enough, I will think the incantation so strongly, I won’t have to say it aloud. You will just find yourself in the tunnels again, powerless vapor. And know that if you do not submit to me, I will never summon you past the boundaries of Sanctuary and into the crystal room again. You will never again find yourself clothed in this beautiful flesh. Never.” She scurried to take the position he commanded. He helped her, since she needed to maintain contact with the crystal with at least one hand. A moment later, he stood back and inspected her. She knelt, her legs spread widely, her knees squeezing the opposite corners of the ottoman. Her torso slanted down, her hands bracing her against the bottom of the crystal and the floor. She was spread so thoroughly that her clit, pink pussy and anus were all exposed to his appreciative gaze. He saw how her ribs contracted and expanded, and knew that the position was not a comfortable one for her to hold. He stroked her bottom, reminding her of his power. The globes of her cheeks were warm and firm. “Will you just get this over with?” she snarled. “Certainly. If you wish.” He moved away from her and gathered a few items. He’d come prepared for this ritual, and had carried more than his instruments of magic to the crystal room. Although, in these circumstances, these items were as much instruments of magical demon control as the athame, a chalice or censers and incense. He tied a rubber fastener at the tops of her thighs, just beneath her buttocks. It bit into her tender flesh, but he was careful not to fasten it too tight. The restraint limited her movement, and increased her discomfort, but beyond that, he enjoyed how much it plumped her buttocks from below.
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“Ouch. That hurts,” Shirian mumbled. “Then you must learn to endure it, Shirian. I have told you there is power in submitting. When we are through with your lesson, you will begin to equate submitting, and yes, a small measure of pain, with power. If you do submit, I will allow you longer and longer periods in flesh. If you are very compliant, I may even find a way for you to remain clothed in flesh for days at a time— almost permanently.” She made an angry, rebellious sound in her throat, but for a split second before she had, he’d sensed her peaked interest. He responded by picking up the paddle and whacking her ass. He continued for several minutes to paddle her, his strokes firm and unrelenting, if not cruel. He guessed that the humiliation was enough to conquer Shirian, and excessive pain was not typically his primary means of subjugation. He knew he’d been correct in his estimation when she tearfully begged him to stop a while later. “Your spanking will be finished when you ask me politely to fuck you in the ass,” he told her before he paddled her again. He sensed how tense she became at his words, but he didn’t waver before he smacked her ass yet again. “I am the Queen and Pharaoh of Egypt. I do not take it in the ass.” “You were once the Queen and Pharaoh of Egypt. Once. Long, long ago. You once didn’t take it in the ass. You were one of the only women in Egyptian history to hold both titles at once. I’ve heard about your ceremonies of subjugation. You wore a strap-on dildo and forced the leader of vanquished enemies to bend over so that you could show his watching troops who his new master was. Traditionally, the pharaohs allowed the fallen leader the choice of death or submission, and many chose death. But when Shirian the Magnificent came to power, she disposed of the choice. They all bent over for you, didn’t
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they, Bitch?” He emphasized the last by grabbing one of her plump buttocks and giving it a stinging downward slap with the paddle. “But that was once, Shirian. Now you are nothing but a nasty, petulant little demon.” She cursed him viciously in ancient Egyptian. “You can always let go of the crystal,” he mocked softly. She made a choking, tearful sound, but her hands on the crystal did not waver. He stepped back and inspected her spread pussy. He smiled. “Despite your protests, you’re getting very creamy, Shirian.” He shoved two fingers into her slit, causing a wet sound as he stirred in her tissues, forcing her to not only feel, but hear her submission. She moaned brokenly. “That’s right,” he said soothingly as he began to finger-fuck her. “There’s no shame in it. Tell me you’d like my cock in your ass. Tell me you’d like me to use you for my pleasure.” “No. Never,” she groaned even as she began to shift her hips to get better friction against his fingers. He withdrew and began to paddle her ass again. She growled in rising frustration. When her buttocks felt tight and hot beneath his stroking fingertips, he paused. “I can see it will take more to convince you,” he murmured as he set down the paddle. He picked up a slender butt plug and lubricated it. He heard her groan and glanced up to see she’d turned her head and was watching him with one wide, dark eye. He merely smiled before he pressed the rubber instrument against her anus. She moaned loudly when he started to push it in.
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“Don’t be dramatic. It’s not very large,” he murmured humorously. His amusement slowly faded as he watched himself push the tool fully into her rectum. He could tell by the level of pressure that was required that she was very tight. He did not perform this ceremony for his own pleasure, but for the purpose of power. It would, however, be a delight to fuck the demon-bitch’s virgin ass. Her moans sounded a little desperate. He glanced down and inspected her flagrantly exposed sex. Sure enough, her labia, clit and slit glistened with arousal. “You know what you have to do, Shirian,” he crooned before he applied light pressure on the butt plug and landed a brisk spank on a cheek. For a moment, she did not speak. She appeared to be holding her breath. “It will be just this one time?” she asked brokenly. He caressed her hot bottom. “I sincerely doubt it. You are surely destined to be punished.” A long pause ensued. “All right,” she sniffed finally. “All right, what?” Another pregnant pause. “You can do it,” she whispered. “I told you…ask for it.” She made a strangled sound of distilled frustration. “How did you know?” she blurted out tearfully. “How did I know what?” “That I would make them—the fallen leaders—ask for it.” He chuckled and began to unfasten his pants. “I would expect nothing less of you, Shirian. But now, you will be the one to do the asking.” He shucked off his
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pants and underwear and picked up a bottle of lubricant. “Go on,” he said as he poured a quantity of the fluid on his cock and began to rub it everywhere. He was hard as stone. “Fuck me in the ass,” she said so quietly he almost didn’t hear her. “Louder,” he ordered as he moved behind her. He lowered over her body, trying to find the right angle for penetration. He ended up with one foot remaining on the floor, the knee of the other leg poised on the ottoman to give him added balance and strength. Unable to resist the temptation spread before him, he flicked Shirian’s swollen clit in a quick tease. She gasped. “Fuck me in the ass, you bastard,” she hissed. “You’ll have to be more polite than that, demon,” he said as he untied the strap beneath her buttocks. He removed the dildo, but kept open the tiny hole with his thumb and forefinger. “Fuck me…please,” she said. “With pleasure,” he assured. He pressed the tip of his cock to the opening. “It will not be pleasant for you at first. If you work past your discomfort—if you truly submit—you might find pleasure, Shirian. But I doubt it, this first time.” “Fuck you,” he heard her say in his head, and knew her emotion had been so strong at the moment, he’d read her mind. He laughed softly. “On the contrary,” he murmured before he grasped her naked hips and thrust his cock into her ass. Their groans twined. He hadn’t meant to make a sound, but the feeling of piercing the tight opening and her incredible heat, had taken him by surprise. As if to make up for his temporary vulnerability, he began to immediately fuck her, never giving her time to become accustomed to having
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a large, hard cock penetrating virgin territory. His pelvis began to slap against her reddened ass in a relentless rhythm. She moaned in discomfort. “Does it hurt?” he asked as he continued. “No,” she grated out between clenched teeth. “Liar. I’m not giving it to you half as hard as you deserve. I’m not giving it to you a quarter as hard as what you gave those poor men who bent over for you before their troops. If you disobey me in the future, Shirian, if you as much as hint at our acquaintance to Morshiel, I will know it. I will call an audience here to watch your humiliation, and you will know firsthand what you forced those men to endure.” She whimpered, and he knew she’d believed him. She should. He tightened his hold on her, squeezing her buttocks around his pillaging cock. Normally in a sexual subjugation, he would focus elsewhere, making sure the lesson was learned well by his subject. But it was a trial with Shirian to remain on task. She was so beautiful, and her ass was so tight… “Flesh becomes you,” he grated out as he slammed his cock into her again and again. “Your blood is hot. I feel it all around me.” She turned her head slightly at that. He saw her full, parted lips beneath a swath of pitch-black hair. “You may drink it,” she said, sounding hopeful. His cock lurched in her tight clasp. “Silence,” he shouted, tempted more than he’d wanted by her offer. It would be dangerous, to drink demon-blood. “You are learning a lesson. This isn’t about your pleasure.”
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He continued to fuck her relentlessly, using every ounce of his restraint to stretch the moment and not climax. When he finally heard the sound of her soft weeping, he held her hips and jerked her back against his cock at the same moment that he thrust forward with force, keeping his cock high and hard in her. “Say the words, Shirian,” he barked. “I, Shirian the Magnificent,” she began in a quavering voice, “called Great of Praises, Great Royal Wife, once Queen and Pharaoh of the kingdom of Egypt, submit to you…Aubrey Cane.” He withdrew with a gasp, gritting his teeth in agony. He released his mental restraint. The boiling pressure in his balls ignited. He exploded in a hot, glorious rush. He breathed deeply, striving to focus and calm his mind, even as he continued to ejaculate on Shirian’s reddened, smooth ass. He could not afford to lose himself in pleasure. Not with a demon. By the time the shudders of orgasm had stopped racking his body, he was perfectly calm. He stepped away and reached for his clothing, quickly donning it. Given the wolf-characteristics conferred to him by Blaise, his cock was uncomfortably swollen in its post-climactic state. It’d been why he’d come outside of Shirian. The last thing he wanted was to be locked to a demon— vulnerable—after he’d only just forced her first submission. “You may get up, Shirian,” he said quietly. He helped her to stand and shoved aside the ottoman. She immediately turned and faced him, one hand still maintaining contact with the crystal. Her beautiful face was wet with tears. Hatred and uncertainty blazed in her black eyes in equal measure. “You said there would be pleasure if I submitted,” she spat. “You are a clumsy lover.” He smiled. It would be a never-ending challenge to control her, but control her he would.
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“I said there might be. You have much to learn in regard to submission. Besides, we both know that I wasn’t making love to you just now, Shirian. I was completing another step in my plan.” Her nostrils flared. “That’s what I am? A step in your plan?” He chuckled and stepped aside to retrieve a towel. “Yes. I need you in order to rule this underground kingdom. I need you to help me destroy Morshiel and kill Blaise.” “No one can kill Blaise excerpt for Morshiel. No one can vanquish Morshiel, except for perhaps those bloody Magian bastards, and they don’t appear to be in any hurry to do it. Even if you contrive to give Morshiel victory over Blaise, Morshiel will still live.” “So it would seem, given traditional logic,” he said as he approached her with the towel. “Let me dry you.” “No. I will do it,” Shirian said, grabbing for the towel. “Turn around,” he ordered, his voice ringing with power. Her submission earlier carried magical weight. She had no choice but to turn, presenting her backside to him. “Fortunately, I think outside the box, Shirian. I do not bleat the weak logic that says Morshiel and Blaise cannot both be defeated because it has never been done before. I have searched for a way to make it happen, and thanks to recent events in Chicago, I now am ready to complete my plan.” “But—” “Quiet,” he commanded, when she started to turn. He pushed against her spine and she reluctantly presented her backside to him again. He resumed drying his abundant emissions from her bottom. “Just believe me when I say I have found a way to vanquish both of them. With your demon-power and my magic, we are going to see both Morshiel and Blaise conquered… right
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here…inside Sanctuary, in this very room. Will you look forward to seeing that?” he murmured as he urged her to turn. Her face was a portrait of greed and malice combined. “You can truly make it happen?” she whispered, awe spicing her tone. He pushed on her shoulders, forcing her to her knees. He began to unfasten his pants again, removing his still painfully erect member. Her dark eyes went wide in panic, but he caught her chin when she tried to turn her head away. “I have made you submit, Shirian,” he said, pushing the crown of his cock between her lush lips. She recoiled, but he firmly pushed her head forward. “Suck, demon. Make me come again.” She was compelled to comply by the words, and he felt her vacuum him into her warm, wet depths. He watched her fellate him and smiled. “Your submission is proof enough that I can make anything happen if I set my mind to it,” he said, before he closed his eyes and savored the pleasure of victory.
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Chapter Fifteen
Isabel picked up the script for Antony and Cleopatra and walked listlessly over to the fire. It was difficult to keep track of dates within Sanctuary—it was as if time stood still there. Best she could tell, it’d been twenty-five days since she’d awakened, disoriented and distressed, in this luxurious room. She had not seen Blaise now for nine days—ever since she’d awakened from her strange bout of illness. She was much more confident about estimating that period of time. Misery was like a weight, making time much more measurable. She approached the fire, wishing Royal was there, as he so often was in the evenings. His silent, watchful presence and intelligent gaze gave her the only comfort she took since Blaise had made himself scarce. Margaret and Aubrey had told her that Blaise had business on the surface world, but she wasn’t entirely sure she believed them. There was something in the way they grew tense whenever the topic arose that made her suspect Blaise was avoiding her again, as he had in the beginning. She extended her hand, meaning to toss the script for Antony and Cleopatra in the flames, but she hesitated. Why had he gone? She’d asked for him the moment she’d awakened from her illness. Margaret refused to meet her eyes when she’d told Isabel with a false sort of cheery briskness that Blaise was in the midst of a time-consuming business affair. According to Margaret, he was gone from Sanctuary for extended periods of time, and she didn’t know when he’d return to his regular schedule. He’d left her.
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Her feelings about him were so confused, it disoriented Isabel to try to focus on them. It was as if every time she grasped for the details of her rich, sensual dreams of him, her mind slid off a slippery target. She recalled her afternoons with him in his office, their rehearsals together of the play, their conversations. But there was more. She knew there was. She knew him in a much, much more profound, intimate sense. She knew him as a lover. It frustrated and depressed her not to be able to hold fast to those ephemeral fragments of emotion, sensation and memory. Even if it weren’t for Margaret’s uncomfortable acknowledgement that Blaise had left Sanctuary, she would have eventually realized he was gone. She knew it from the achy emptiness inside her, as if she’d been hollowed out and left raw on the inside. “What are you doing?” She glanced up. Margaret stood just inside the open door, holding a silver tray. Isabel stared blankly at the script in her extended hand. Margaret set down the tray brusquely and hurried to her side. She put one hand on Isabel’s wrist, the other on her shoulder. “You don’t want to do that, dear,” Margaret said, and Isabel knew the older woman understood she’d been about to burn the script—a tangible object that reminded her constantly of her afternoons spent with Blaise Sevliss… …of falling in love with him. “I’ve told you many times you need something useful to keep you active, interested. As long as you take it easy in rehearsals, Aubrey said taking part in the play will increase your strength after your illness.” When Isabel didn’t respond to the familiar lecture, Margaret whisked off the domed lid, revealing steaming eggs Benedict. “Some activity, along with plenty of good food, and
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you’ll be one hundred percent in no time. Come now, tuck in. It’s your favorite, or at least it used to be,” Margaret added under her breath as she poured some coffee from a carafe. Isabel inhaled the food and—surprisingly—felt a twinge of hunger. “Are the sets almost finished, Margaret?” she asked, picking up her fork. “Yes, I just spoke to Jessie this morning. He says Titurino has finished some truly magnificent sets. All they require is their lead actress.” Isabel chewed her food thoughtfully. Her depression upon awakening and discovering that Blaise had left Sanctuary was nearly as deep and dark as her melancholy had been following her accident. It suddenly struck her that she’d promised herself she’d never allow her spirits to sink so low again, and look what she’d done. She’d allowed depression to suck her vitality again, all because of a man. Well, not just any man. Blaise was hardly that. Still no man, no matter how spectacular that man was, should have so much power over her that she gave up on herself. She had come to understand that she was still being kept at Sanctuary for her own safety. She had nowhere else to go, and Margaret was right. She should try to do something purposeful with her time. Blaise had given her a rare opportunity to put on a potentially awesome production of a part she’d always wanted to perform. At least it would give her something to distract herself from this empty feeling inside her. “All right,” she said quietly, picking up a chilled glass of milk. She took several large gulps, making Margaret nod approvingly. “I’ll go down to the theatre when I’ve finished breakfast. Would you mind letting Aubrey and the rest of the cast and crew know, Margaret?” “Of course,” said Margaret, beaming. “They’ll be thrilled.” Isabel glanced up when she noticed the older woman’s hesitation.
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“What’s wrong, Margaret?” “Perhaps you can convene with the others at the theatre later this morning? You have a visitor right now. He’s waiting outside the door.” Isabel blinked in surprise and swallowed her food in a rush. “Who is it?” Margaret bit at her lower lip nervously. “Well…he’s an extraordinary type of man—well, if you’d call him man. He sought me out this morning and asked if I’d introduce you to him. I do hope Lord Delraven will approve of me allowing it, but he’s not the type of person you easily deny,” Margaret muttered under her breath fretfully. She must have noticed Isabel’s amazed expression. “His name is Usan…and well,” she gestured awkwardly toward the door. “It’d probably be best if you just saw for yourself.” Isabel stood and turned toward the door, her brow crinkled. She froze. Standing before her was the most singular man she’d ever seen in her life. He had coal black, wavy hair and piercing blue eyes. He wore the strangest clothes—a long, billowing, dark orange robe and a circular hat that looked like a saucer with an orange, fabric-snake coiling in it. “Who are you?” she mumbled, taking a step toward him, utterly flabbergasted by what she was sensing from the man. Her answer came to her in a rush of images. A dark green and brown planet, and cities with towers that reached to the heavens. Memorials and statues— tributes to a great, mighty nation and its heroes—crumbling and falling into decay. Seven males wearing robes identical to Usan’s standing before a goldenhaired female sitting on a throne, their heads bent, eyes closed, faces solemn at being charged with their near impossible task. The vision of what was surely Earth from space, and then Usan’s hands—chemical residues permanently staining his fingernails—opening what looked like a giant metal waffle press.
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Inside, Isabel made out two human forms. She squinted and through a thick, pinkish tinted gel she saw— She gasped. “Yes, Blaise and Morshiel,” Usan said in her mind. “I know it must seem strange to you—a metal womb. Humans go about the matter of procreation with so much ease and elegance, the Magian’s alchemical process must seem quite crude to you.” “Why did you make two of them?” Isabel blurted out in her mind, hardly aware she used telepathy. The ability had always been there, but she’d just required an expert telepath for the function to be fully activated. “Polarity is required for consciousness…for the creation of a soul. Duality is the first friction that makes choice a possibility. You humans are familiar with this concept. Heaven and hell, God and Lucifer, good and evil…” “Light and dark,” Isabel added. Usan smiled and Isabel started at the sight of two lethal incisors set within a truly charming smile. “Yes, sharp things, aren’t they? Reminders of our sin.” Her brow furrowed. She couldn’t fully wrap her mind about what he meant. “Blaise believes he is a parasite,” she mused. “What do you believe, Isabel?” “A parasite takes from a host, and usually harms them. A parasite cannot participate in a mutual exchange or offer its host any benefits on a long-term basis. Such sharing is the basis of relationship and communion. Blaise can give as well as take, so by definition, he is not a parasite.” Usan’s grin widened. It shocked Isabel that he seemed as pleased as a child being shown a delightful new toy when she also sensed a wisdom so vast, she couldn’t fathom how far it stretched. “Well said,” he praised, stepping forward, hand outstretched in greeting. “You would have made a fine Exhalted Sinalt—one of the female wise ones that advise 210
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the Empress of Magia.” He clasped her wrist in both of his hands and—much to Isabel’s shock—began to remove one glove. “No! Don’t—” But it was too late. Her naked hand rested in Usan’s grip. Her body went rigid. Images and sensations didn’t bombard her consciousness, as she expected. Instead they began to enter her awareness in a sort of focused, distilled stream that she could actually receive without losing herself or becoming disoriented. “As you know from the science of computer technology, knowledge can be distilled. I have the ability to give you telepathic information in a very concentrated form,” she heard Usan say in her mind. “Your hands—your ability for receiving information—is a known gift on Magia, if not a common one. Your hands are like the port on a computer. I am like a drive, filling with you with knowledge. A small part of you will remember this information when I let go, but most of the knowledge will only come to you if a situation requires it.” “What is going on? How dare you! Let go of her this instant!” Isabel heard Margaret exclaim. She started to tell Margaret that everything was fine, but suddenly Usan released her. “It’s all right. We’re finished,” he said. “Finished with what?” Margaret asked indignantly. “Margaret,” Isabel said weakly. “Have you been standing there this whole time?” “Whole time?” Margaret asked. “What do you mean? I brought your breakfast and then he walked in here, took off your glove and grabbed your hand! You went so rigid, I thought you were having a fit.” Usan blinked meekly
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when Margaret gave him one last accusatory glare before she snatched Isabel’s glove from him and handed it back to Isabel. “Of all the nerve,” Margaret mumbled under her breath. “Oh…I thought…” Isabel glanced at her breakfast and saw a thin vapor of steam rising off her eggs. It really had been a matter of seconds since Usan had walked into her suite. It felt as if hours had passed. “Amazing.” “I could say the same of you,” Usan said in her head. “I want to talk to you about Blaise,” Isabel stated as she waved Usan over to a chair at the table. “Yes, I rather thought you would,” Usan said as he went to sit down. “He is very stubborn,” Isabel murmured. “Yes, I have noticed that about him.” Margaret picked up the carafe and warmed Isabel’s coffee. Isabel inspected Usan where he sat calmly across the table from her. “He gets it from you. You are his father,” she said quietly. Margaret let out a little squeak of surprise and nearly dropped the carafe on the table. Usan smiled in a friendly manner. “Dear Margaret, I value your individuality and spirit probably more than you know. I would not have appeared in front of you, if I did not. But would it be all right if I speak to your charge privately for a few moments? I promise I will keep her safe, for I know as much as you how precious she is.” Margaret looked defiant and then uncertain when she glanced at Isabel. “It’ll be all right, Margaret,” Isabel assured. “I’m fine.” “Well, I’ll be right outside the door if you should need me,” Margaret said, casting one final suspicious glance at Usan.
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Usan chuckled after the door closed. “Delightful woman. But yes, to answer your question about Blaise’s relationship to me, he carries my genes, so I suppose you are right about me being a father to him. We have different ways of thinking about paternity on Magia.” Isabel speared a nugget of fried potato on her fork, suddenly feeling ravenous. Usan’s arrival had been just what she needed to energize her, focus her. Her entire world had shifted, yet again. Vast horizons spread out before her. Anything was possible. Anything. “You are proud of Blaise, despite your offhand manner,” she said before devouring the potato. “I suppose some of humanity’s values have rubbed off on me a tad bit over the past few centuries,” Usan admitted, making it sound as if he’d picked up a few native customs while on vacation. She pointed her fork at him and gave him a severe glance. “You shouldn’t have told him he doesn’t have a soul. That was cruel of you. Of course, he possesses a soul.” “I told him that centuries ago. It’s not my fault he insists upon clinging to that truth. I’ve told him repeatedly that the only constant in nature is change, but he refuses to believe it in this case. He can’t fathom that his suffering has done the impossible. The friction of his pain has created a unique, powerful soul. My experiment has been a success.” Shocked coursed through her. “Your experiment… Wait…you cannot mean…” “Our entire purpose in coming to this glorious, soul-infused planet was to create souls in the beings we’d made in our laboratories. The combination of the Earth’s spirit, our creation’s suffering, in addition to singular females, such as
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yourself,” he nodded toward her with a small smile, “have made the impossible…possible.” “But why?” Isabel exclaimed. She saw the outlines of the truth from the information exchange they’d shared earlier. Instinctively she knew, however, that hearing him speak out loud these strange, otherworldly truths would help her to assimilate the knowledge. “Why would you undertake such an experiment? Why would you go to so much trouble over seven males?” “We had to show the Empress that it could be done,” Usan replied sadly. “You live on such a vibrant, vitessence-rich planet that you don’t realize there are places in the universe that have become barren, soulless. We Magia have raped our fair homeland over the years—industrialization, chemical and nuclear pollution, the robbing of Magian’s once bountiful resources. Taking, always taking, and never giving back, never respecting the gift of our unique world until the riches ran out. You humans are much as we were millennia ago, mistakenly believing that the earth’s energy is something that will always be there for the taking, not recognizing that the planet itself possesses a soul that no matter how mighty, how rich, can be depleted over time, extinguished, until the planet’s song is forever silenced. We were like children let loose in a room full of powerful weapons, willful and ignorant of the consequences of our actions.” “Does Magia still exist?” Isabel asked, spellbound not only by Usan’s story, but his palpable sadness and regret while telling it. “Yes, yes, it is there. A shell of what it once was. My race lives for a very, very long time, so it is still populated, but we have been unable to create our own progeny for thirty millennia and more.” “The Magia are sterile?” Isabel asked intently. “In the biological sense, yes. We could create life, but only in the laboratory. We Magia are excellent alchemists. Our skills for science and magic are
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embedded in our very genes. But around four millennia ago, our clones began to alter. We had not realized, you see, that Magia itself played a role in the development of a sentient being. When we’d strangled out the last vestiges of the planet’s soul, we deprived ourselves of the ability to make new life.” “You could no longer make the clones in the laboratory?” Isabel asked. “The clones still breathed, and walked and talked, but they were…different. Magians began to notice the difference. They became horrified by that difference. The Magian clones were lacking in a soul. They were called the Sevliss. We studied the phenomenon for a very, very long time, my brethren and I.” “Your brethren? The others who watch over Saint and Blaise and the others?” Usan nodded. “Yes. We are called the Council of Seven. We are leaders of sorts, on Magia, due to our special skills at alchemy. The Empress charged the Council with the monumental task of discovering how to create souls in our progeny.” Usan paused and lowered his head soberly. “We have had many unsuccessful trials. It was not until we came here, to your beautiful blue planet, that we first tasted success.” Isabel shook her head, made temporarily speechless in her amazement. “And your…” She began hesitantly, pointing at her incisors in order to refer to his sharp fangs as politely as possible. “Are the Magians drinkers of vitessence-rich fluids, as well?” “Originally, no. When my race finally killed off fair Magia’s soul,” he said bitterly, “we were forced to combine our DNA with that of other creatures that could absorb vitessence in the manner of food. It was the only way we could maintain life. It seems strange, doesn’t it? That we willfully made ourselves into parasites? Such is the price we pay for our past sins.”
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They both sat quietly for a moment, Usan lost in his thoughts and Isabel trying to make sense of all she’d learned in the past several minutes. She heard the knock at the door and called out to Margaret. “Come in, Margaret. It’s all right.” “I thought I’d clear if you’re finished,” Margaret said. “Of course. Did you make Blaise suffer intentionally?” Isabel asked a moment later. Margaret paused in her action of clearing dishes, listening. Usan’s blue eyes pierced Isabel from across the table when he heard her quiet intensity and yes…anger. He sighed. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? How sin compounds sin? The answer to your question is yes, Isabel. I know how that must sound to you. You imagine me as being cruel and capricious, and perhaps I was. Suffering was a requirement for my means, one of the main ingredients in my alchemical stew. I was luckier than some of my brethren, for Blaise encountered his main source of suffering of his own free will.” “He fell in love with a woman—Elysse de Gennere.” Usan nodded. “Yes, and unlike you, Elysse spurned him for his unique nature. She ended her life, believing she was tainted by sin for giving herself to Blaise.” “Stupid woman,” Isabel breathed, infuriated at a female long dead because she’d hurt Blaise to his very core. “Do not be so harsh on her,” Usan said, leveling her with his shockingly alert gaze. “Elysse had as much to do with Blaise’s soul as you, or I…or even Morshiel.” Margaret made a little sound of disbelief and distress. Isabel glanced at the older woman and noticed her pale face. She straightened and cleared her throat.
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She was irritated at Usan for allowing Blaise to suffer, but she understood, on some basic level, that Blaise’s suffering was what made him what he was today. As far as she was concerned, Blaise’s suffering had served its purpose. It had been a necessity once for him to feel alone in this universe, damned…tainted. But no more. She must convince him of that. She must, or he would never embrace the future. It was time to face one of the many miracles she’d learned from Usan’s concentrated information stream. After his explanation about Magia’s lost soul, she understood better why Usan thought the news so miraculous. “How will we convince Blaise that the child I carry is his? How can I bring him back to me, and not just as his wolf-self…as Blaise?” Isabel demanded. “Child?” Margaret squawked. “Lord Delraven’s? A baby? And when did you discover Royal was Lord Delraven?” “Usan told me, but I believe I must have known deep down all along,” Isabel shared a quick smile with Usan. “And yes, Margaret. A baby.” She picked up her glass of milk and drained it in one.
Four nights later, Blaise hovered in the shadows of the platform at the Aldgate East Underground station. He watched as the train slowed and four young people clamored through the doors, leaving him alone on the platform. He had completed his business in the surface world and longed to return to Sanctuary, to Isabel’s side, even if it was only in his wolf-form. He’d received the much-awaited news that Isi had sufficiently recovered to talk. Once he understood the secret Isi carried from Saint, he would know better how to act in regard to Isabel.
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He leapt into the tunnel the moment the train roared past him, the zipper of his coat clicking on the metal. Blaise had confessed his transgressions with Isabel to Aubrey, and explained the necessity for keeping a distance between himself and the temptation of Isabel. Like Usan, Aubrey had initially questioned why it was necessary to avoid her. “Why do you not permit yourself some moments of happiness?” Aubrey had challenged. “I cannot consider happiness until I understand what is happening. I cannot endanger Isabel further and claim ignorance as the cause. It is all too strange. If you had seen Usan’s shock when I told him about Isi coming to London, you would understand,” Blaise had replied. “I will not be easy until I speak to Isi.” Blaise followed the tunnel east. Just before he reached the Whitechapel stop, he opened a nearly invisible door carved into the side of the tunnel and ducked behind it. He started to descend down flight after flight of stairs, the sound of his boots hitting metal in the long, nearly pitch black shaft making him feel like the only being left on the planet. His loneliness had become like a toxin in the air he breathed. For the majority of his existence, he hadn’t noticed it because it was all he knew. His loneliness did not kill him, and it was an invisible thing, so he grew accustomed to it. Elysse had entered his world, and for a brief period of time, he’d recognized the gloom of his life. It had altered him forever. With Isabel, the experience had amplified a thousandfold. It’d been as if he basked in the warmest of sunshine and breathed the purest air. For a few short, precious moments, he’d shared in her light, her vibrancy. He’d experienced himself as unique…alive.
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He knew he’d been alive only because it felt like death to be separated from her. He would never forsake those moments, even if it did mean that he now knew the desolation of being without her. He’d reflected upon it much during these past days of enforced isolation. It amazed him to realize he would have changed what had happened with Elysse if he could. But Isabel? No. If time were turned back, he wouldn’t be able to resist her, even knowing what he knew now. He hadn’t just consumed her blood, sweat and sex. He’d been transformed by the preciousness of her existence. Five minutes later he knocked quietly and opened the door to a bedroom suite within Sanctuary. At first, he only saw Aubrey sitting at the edge of the king-sized bed, but then he saw that Isi was sitting up and conscious. “You look much better,” Blaise said, heartened to see Isi’s improved color and alert gaze. “Thanks to the doc here,” Isi replied, nodding at Aubrey. His voice still sounded very rough, but Blaise supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. The man’s throat had been cut clean through, after all. Perhaps he’d always carry a rasp in his voice for the rest of his days. “From what I hear, I would have been a goner if it weren’t for the two of you.” “I only helped your natural powers of healing along a tad,” Aubrey said as he stood and placed two vials of what appeared to be blood in a metallic storage cylinder. “It’s Blaise who is responsible for saving you from Morshiel and sure death.” Isi held out his hand toward Blaise, and Blaise shook it. “Aubrey tells me you’ve been here often to visit, but this is the first time I haven’t been out of it. So I’ll introduce myself and say thanks for saving my life at the same time.”
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“It was nothing,” Blaise returned. “I’m just relieved you’re better. Saint will be so relieved to hear of it, as well.” Isi leaned forward slightly in the bed, his eyes intent. He was a dark-haired man with a bold-featured, handsome face, and shoulders so broad he would have looked a natural playing linebacker for an American football team. He appeared to have been embraced by Saint when he was perhaps in his early twenties. This was the first time he had been well enough for Blaise to sense his personality. Blaise got an impression of a strong, frank, no-nonsense character. “I don’t blame either of you,” Isi said. “This was Morshiel’s doing. Teslar would have done something similar in a second, if he’d had the opportunity. Have you learned anything more about how Morshiel discovered who I was, or that I’d come to London?” “No. I have come up with several possibilities, but none of them make any sense,” Blaise replied, his gaze flickering distractedly around the room and landing on Aubrey. “But then, so many things happening lately don’t seem to belong to any known pattern of our known world.” “Like Saint conquering Teslar, even though he’d been told it was an impossibility to ever really kill him with his heartluster? And the fact that I was able to leave Saint’s territory, even though I’ve been confined to Saint’s world since I served him?” “Yes,” Blaise said, snagging one of the chairs from the table and twirling it around. He drew it up near Isi’s bed. “Can we talk?” “Of course. I’ve been wanting to talk to you. It’s why Saint asked me to come.” “I thought as much,” Blaise murmured. “Isi is well enough for it, but try not to keep him for too long and tire him,” Aubrey said, snapping closed a black bag where he kept his tools of healing.
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“I won’t get tired. Look,” Isi said to Blaise. He opened his shirt. Blaise saw that a pyramid-shaped crystal rested on his chest. “Ingenious,” Blaise murmured, his gaze narrowing on Aubrey. “But as usual, I’m stating the obvious, of course. Aubrey shrugged. “He is still ingesting a small supply of blood from my stores, but the crystal is helping him heal. It was too difficult to bring Isi to the crystal room, so I brought a bit of the crystal to him. I hope it’s all right, that I cut the crystal?” “If it’s helping him,” Blaise replied, settling in his chair. He wasn’t against Aubrey’s decision to alter the crystal. However, he was surprised by the fact that Aubrey hadn’t previously mentioned it to him. “Keep it intact from now on, though, until you and David and the others have studied it more thoroughly. We can’t really know how altering the structure of the crystal will change its resonance, isn’t that correct?” “Yes, but I had good reason to believe the alteration I made,” Aubrey nodded at Isi’s chest, “was worth the risk. It’s made no observable change in the crystal’s energy output.” Blaise studied his friend a moment before he replied. “I’d like to hear more about the results of your research later. David hinted to me that you’ve discovered true miracles to the crystal’s properties, not that we hadn’t already suspected it.” Aubrey nodded briskly. Blaise started to address Isi, but paused when he noticed Aubrey stood next to him, unmoving. “Aubrey, would you mind? I’d like to speak to Isi alone,” Blaise said. Aubrey blinked. “Of course. My apologies. I wasn’t thinking. I need to go to the theatre anyway, so it’s best I was gone. We’re having a full dress rehearsal of Antony and Cleopatra tomorrow night,” he said, his tone altering to that of their
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familiar, brotherly banter. He gathered up his items. “Isabel has been as focused and determined as a general in battle once I told her how you’d managed to fill the royal box for opening night, Blaise.” “Was she pleased?” Blaise asked, studying his hands in his lap. “She was when I told her you were the one to arrange it.” He glanced at Blaise, his eyebrows arched in a small challenge. “You should stop by the theatre tomorrow and watch. Isabel is stunning in the part, although she has never been satisfied with her Marc Antony.” “I thought you’d told me you were playing Marc Antony,” Isi said, puzzled. “I am,” Aubrey said. “Isabel finds me a mediocre substitute, at best.” As usual, Aubrey ignored Blaise’s dark glance and sailed out of the room. Isi gave him a rueful grin. “Thanks. Saint actually did request specifically that I speak to you alone.” Blaise nodded in full understanding. “Now. What’s all this about?” Isi took a sip of water, as though he were preparing his damaged throat before he launched into his story. “It all started when Christina and Saint became closer,” he began. “She and Aidan, her ten-year-old son, had lived on Saint’s property for years in the coach house. We Iniskium knew Saint had special feelings, both for her and the boy. He was very protective of them. But it wasn’t until recently that circumstances altered between Saint and Christina.” “Christina? Who’s Christina?” Blaise asked, sitting forward and placing his elbows on his knees. “Christina Astor. Saint’s mate.” For a stunned moment, Blaise just sat there. “Mate?” he finally repeated. “Why hasn’t Saint ever mentioned Christina to me, or any of the Sevliss?”
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“I think, once again, the Magia have had their hand in that, although I can’t be sure. Maybe the Magia had nothing to do with it, at least in the past, because until a few weeks ago Christina and he weren’t together. I always got the impression Saint sort of kept Christina at a distance. He was aware of her, though. We all were aware of Christina.” “What do you mean?” Blaise asked, even though he suspected the truth already. “I think you know,” Isi said quietly. He glanced around his suite with a narrowed gaze. “I feel something similar here. It’s like being in Christina’s vicinity. Her vitessence never seems to diminish. I’ve never witnessed anything like it. It’s never-ending. Christina…radiates.” Blaise nodded. Creatures such as Isi and him did not exist within the orbit of a woman like Isabel or Christina and remain ignorant of their pull. “So Christina and Saint became involved, even though he’d managed to restrain himself for a decade.” “It seemed that after they did, everything changed. Teslar became aware of Christina, as well.” “Teslar fought for her?” “Yes. I was there. Saint managed to weaken Teslar in the fight, and he fled, but we all knew that after that, Teslar wouldn’t rest until he possessed Christina. Saint insisted that Christina and Aidan stay at Whitby, within Kavya’s protective wards. It was during this time that I noticed they grew closer. You must understand, Saint never told me much at all in regard to his relationship with Christina. You are hearing about my observations. There’s much I don’t know.” “Much that Kavya has forbidden Saint to tell me and my brothers, as well,” he said darkly.
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“Yes. That much I’ve gathered. When we made the chance discovery that our territorial boundaries no longer applied, Saint called me to him. He said that his voice had been bound by Kavya’s magic, but mine had not. He said that he didn’t believe the Magia understood that our territorial boundaries had been broken.” “They didn’t, but they know now,” Blaise admitted regretfully. “Usan read my mind about you being here, in Sanctuary. I’ve never seen him shocked before, but he was at that moment. Don’t worry,” Blaise said when he noticed Isi’s anxious expression. “He promised not to do anything in regard to you being here. I don’t know why—Usan is a never-ending puzzle to me—but he seemed determined to see how events played out without altering the circumstances. If Usan says he won’t interfere in the matter, he won’t. I have never known him to go back on his word. Go on with your story. Saint called you to him…” “He told me he regretted not having told me more in regard to Teslar, but asked me to come to you and tell you everything that I knew about the events leading up to Teslar’s demise.” “How did Teslar die?” Blaise demanded. He couldn’t wait a second longer for the answer to the burning question. Isi shook his head slowly, a hint of frustration in his eyes. “I wish I could say exactly. It happened after Teslar had kidnapped Christina and kept her prisoner in the underground. Saint managed to discover her whereabouts and he took all of the Iniskium with him for an attack. We fought the Scourge while Saint went in search of his clone and Christina. What happened while Saint, Teslar and Christina were together is a mystery. All I know is at that one point, most of the Scourge seemed to lose their vitality. They were easily killed by the Iniskium when they’d fought like rabid beasts just seconds before. We destroyed them utterly on that day. It’s my belief—and Saint has never confirmed or denied
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this—that the Scourge were weakened at the same moment Teslar was destroyed. After the battle was won, Saint confirmed that Teslar was no more.” Blaise sat back in his chair, stunned by the news. “It’s all connected with the woman—Christina. The change was wrought by her,” he murmured, somehow knowing what he said was true. “Yes. I believe so, as well. And Blaise—” Isi shoved back the blanket that covered his torso, suddenly seeming impatient to be involved and active again instead of constrained by his condition. “There’s something else. Something important. In fact, I believe it’s the sole reason Saint chose me to come to you instead of the Iniskium chief, Fardusk.” “What do you mean?” “Saint told me something that to my knowledge, he’s never come right out and said to another Iniskium—even Fardusk. One night, Saint came upon me while I was guarding Christina on the Whitby grounds. He said that Aidan, Christina’s son, was his child.” Blaise slowly became aware of the sound of his heart throbbing in his ears in the ensuing silence. “You are sure? Saint told you he’d impregnated Christina?” Isi flinched back slightly, and Blaise realized he’d stood and bellowed the question. The image of Margaret Turrow’s indignant expression if she’d seen his insensitivity around a sickbed flew into his mind’s eye unbidden. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout. It’s just so important. Are you certain Saint said Aidan was his son?” he asked, carefully modulating the volume of his voice. “Very certain. He must have impregnated Christina years ago, and not understood that Aidan was his until that very night. He seemed filled with the news…as if he’d just discovered it or—” “Had just accepted the truth of it,” Blaise said under his breath.
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Isi’s eyes sharpened on him. “Yes. It was just like that. He seemed filled with the miracle of the knowledge. Blaise? Are you all right?” Blaise blinked and brought the wounded warrior back into focus. “All right?” he asked, his lips feeling numb. It was as if Isi had just asked him the most complex question in the universe. How did one answer such a question when he lived and breathed and everything looked the same, but his entire world had just been turned upsidedown? “Blaise, there’s one other thing that Saint wanted you know…”
An hour later, he stood to leave Isi’s room and paused as sensation flooded him. He closed his eyes briefly. “Blaise? Are you all right?” Isi asked. He glanced at the door, obviously sensing, like Blaise did, who waited for him in the hallway. “Yes. Of course. Thank you for all you’ve done, Isi.” He walked out of the room and shut the door behind him. She stood against the opposite wall of the corridor. She wore a caramel-colored nightgown and matching robe, the sash tied at her waist. Her hair spilled around her shoulders. His nostrils flared as he inhaled her sublime scent. The scent of his mate. Their gazes remained locked as she stepped closer. She removed the dark brown glove from her right hand. He held his breath as she unfastened one button on his shirt and slid her naked hand into the opening, caressing his abdomen, skin to skin. He gritted his teeth against a rush of raw emotion and sensation.
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“You should not have avoided me,” she whispered, her stare blazing and fierce. “You should not have made me forget all those times we were together.” He started beneath her magical touch. “How did you know?” he asked roughly. “Usan told me. Not specifically, but he transmitted a lot of information to me with his touch. It didn’t really come to me until now, seeing you standing there. Why?” she asked, anger now flavoring her tone. “How could you have made love to me all those times, and forced me to forget you? It was killing me, to have you ripped away from me time and again.” He tightened his muscles against the pain. “One night, you came to me when I hadn’t taken nourishment. You were so powerful…so beautiful. I couldn’t resist you. It was a sheer impossibility, given my nature.” “I’m not asking you why you first tasted my blood. I’m not asking you why you first made love to me. I have that part figured out, maybe better than you. I’m asking how you could possibly justify making me forget that we’d been lovers.” The silence rang in his ears. She continued to stroke him. His body thrilled to her touch, making it difficult to concentrate. “I didn’t want you to be horrified by having lain with me. I didn’t want you to regret, having given yourself to an animal again and again.” “You were always a man when you made love to me. And if you refer to your shape-shifting nature, your wolf-self, Royal, was more of a gentleman to me than you were, Blaise.” He blinked in shock. “Usan told you about my ability to shift, as well?” She arched her brows in a dark challenge. “I am not Elysse.” “No. There is no comparison. Not even close,” he admitted quietly, the truth of the words filling him with wonder. He spread his hand over her abdomen.
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She was so small, his fingers stretched from the top of her mons all the way to just below a thrusting breast. Her heartbeat throbbed into his palm. A feral sense of possession tore through him. The sensation of his incisors elongating coincided with the tug of his cock. “You carry my child. You are my mate.” “Do you think you’re telling me something I don’t know?” Her nostrils flared at that. His restraint broke. He lifted her against him and seized her mouth, ravishing her, consuming her singular texture and flavor. “I have missed you,” he said in a choked voice as he moved his lips over her fragrant neck. “I felt broken, not being able to touch you.” “Then there is a simple answer. You should never leave me again.” She raked her nails against his scalp, causing him to shudder in pleasure. He swung her lower body into his arms. He didn’t take his eyes off her luminous face once as he stalked through the corridors of Sanctuary, carrying her. He didn’t want to risk her disappearing if he glanced away for a second. She was so beautiful, a breathing miracle. She was his. The moment Blaise cleared the door to his quarters, Isabel pushed down with her legs, letting him know she wanted to stand. She immediately pressed her body against his and reached for the buttons on his shirt. She tore apart the fabric and pressed her face against smooth, taut skin covering rippling muscle. “I don’t…know…why,” she said in between pressing kisses just below his nipple line. “But I always want to feel you fully pressed against me. I wonder if the hunger for it will ever ease?” His fingers delved into her hair. He held her scalp against him as she kissed and licked and bit gently—a starved waif let loose in the candy store.
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“I used to restrain myself from embracing you fully,” he said from above, his gruff, accented voice vibrating with feeling. “I would not let you fully hold me either, until that night on the silk.” Her head fell back. She met his stare. The memory had come flooding back to her—every graphic, sensual detail—when he’d said the word silk. His hand opened over her jaw and he caressed her. “You just now remembered it,” he more stated than asked. “Yes,” she whispered, awed by the memories. “I should never forgive you for taking such a moment away from me, Blaise Sevliss.” “If you do not forgive me, I will be unable to forgive myself.” Even if he had not said the words, she would have forgiven him. She could not stand the anguish in his eyes. What right did she have to judge him, when he’d suffered so greatly for so long? She placed her hands on his shoulders. When she pulled downward, he spread his hands over her bottom and lifted her. Isabel locked her legs around his waist and held him as tight as she could while they kissed, deep and hot, as if they’d never get enough of one another. When she licked at one of his extended incisors in a delicate, precise tease, he growled and swatted her bottom. “No one has ever dared to do that to me before.” His low, ominous growl as he swept her toward his bedroom thrilled her. Isabel laughed when he barged through the door and tossed her on the silken duvet on his large bed. He looked down at her, his teeth bared. “No one has ever dared to tease the beast?” she whispered, a smile flickering around her lips. He looked so beautiful to her in that moment—his glossy black hair tousled and wild, his chest partially bared, a dangerous glint in his unique eyes, his arousal blatant. She flicked open her sash and drew off her robe. She sat
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up and removed her gown. When she sat before him wearing nothing but a smile, she met his stare. “I dare,” she assured him, running her hand over the soft skin of her hips. She widened her thighs, beckoning him to her. “I dare to tempt the beast because I trust you, Blaise.” His nostrils flared as he targeted her pussy with his gaze. “I don’t know if that’s wise.” She dipped her forefinger into her creamy cleft. “Falling in love has nothing to do with wisdom,” she whispered. He made a sound she thought she’d always remember, as if he were lost…as if he was found. He slid his hands beneath her buttocks and lifted her to him, his movements striking her as frantic and yet shockingly precise at once. His strength awed her. A gasp tore out of her throat at the sensation of his mouth on her. Only her shoulders and head lay on the bed. He held her lower body at his mercy, her thighs in his hands spread wide for his ravishment. She watched him through narrowed slits as he feasted. His closed eyelids made him look so peaceful, as if he were in a zone of focus. And he was, Isabel realized. He was creating magic. His tongue stabbed and agitated her clit then soothed it with firm, delicious strokes. He maintained an eye-crossing suction, not too hard, not too soft, consuming her juices even while he coaxed her to give him more. Her eyes opened wide a moment later when he scraped his incisors against her inner thigh. Pleasure rippled through her. Suddenly, his whole mouth was covering her outer sex and he was sucking gently while his tongue burrowed between her labia. He opened his eyes and met her stare as he briskly waggled his tongue over her clit. The tingling burn ignited. She held on to his head as she screamed and
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exploded. Right at the peak of her climax, she felt him turn his head slightly, causing the top of his incisor to slide across her clit, carefully avoiding contact with the tip. It should have alarmed her, to have something so sharp near such sensitive tissue, but she trusted him. She surrendered, giving herself to the rapture as her orgasm notched up to a higher level. She lost herself for a moment in bliss, knowing nothing but pleasure twining with the essence of her lover. The next thing she knew she was facedown and Blaise’s hands were at her hips, sliding her across the fluid silk. She heard a sound like a hard object sliding across the floor and sensed Blaise moving behind her. “Step on the stool. Your feet don’t reach the floor,” he said, his voice rough with arousal, but also warm with amusement. The sound of his zipper lowering sent an electric tingle through her satiated sex. She whipped her hair out of her face and pushed up with her hands. “No. I want to hold you, Blaise,” she protested. “It’ll be all right. I will hold you, lovely.” He set her feet upon what felt like a wooden stool. It ideally situated her bottom right at the edge of the bed, and she realized distantly he must have known this. The bed seemed made to match his proportions for making love when he stood next to it. He matter-of-factly spread her thighs wide. She moaned loudly at the sensation of his cock probing her entry. She shook like a leaf in a storm as he worked his way into her, challenging, teasing and stroking her flesh the entire time. When he was fully sheathed, he slid his hands beneath her body and pressed his chest to her back. He hugged her to him as he began to fuck her. She keened at the sublimity of the embrace. His cock stroked her as he cradled her, one hand
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holding a breast, the other clasping a shoulder. He moved her with the hand at her shoulder, sliding her along the slippery silk, and up and down on his cock. He whispered to her roughly as she shuddered in bliss. “You are the most beautiful thing in existence—a treasure. I wish more than anything I had the power to make you happy.” “You do,” she moaned through fevered lips. “You have accomplished your goal.” He scraped his teeth down the top of her spine and she shuddered. She heard his harsh moan as she held him at the core of her climax. She cried out, stunned, when she felt him press the tip of his finger into her anus. The caress amplified her orgasm. She writhed beneath him, caught in the grip of pleasure. His growl of arousal vibrated into her hot body. “No,” she murmured in confusion when he slid out of her a moment later. She could tell he hadn’t yet climaxed, and she loved the sensation of being joined so closely to him. “I’m sorry,” he said. She sensed him moving behind her, and again tried to get her hair out of her eyes and turn over on the bed. Again, he placed his hand at the small of her back, stilling her. She gasped when she felt his finger penetrate her anus. It was slick with some sort of slippery substance. She moaned in rising pleasure as he loosened and lubricated her. “I must do this, lovely. To show you are mine. Only mine.” She went still, her eyes going wide when he pressed the crown of his cock against her anus. “I will be very gentle.” “I’m not afraid,” she whispered. She was a little surprised to know what she’d said was true, for Blaise was large, and she didn’t have experience with this delicate maneuver.
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He held one buttock open as he presented his cock to her body. His fingers caressed her gently. “Try and relax, if you can,” he instructed. “It will help if you push back on me. You must be the one to let me in.” Isabel responded immediately, hungry to have him possess her even if there was some discomfort. If Blaise wanted to do this, then she did. Her heart was so full in that moment, she would have done much more to offer him some small measure of the joy he afforded her. He grunted when she pushed so firmly that his cockhead slipped into her body. “Hold still,” he grated out, his tone a little desperate. She held her breath until her lungs burned. She sensed him trying to gather himself behind her. When he grabbed both of her hips with his hands, Isabel determinedly pushed back again. They both gasped raggedly as he slid several more inches into her. It seemed he had lubricated his cock with the slippery, silky substance as well. “That is enough,” he barked. She used one hand to sweep her long hair out of her face. She glanced around at him, one cheek still on the silk duvet. He gave her a wild-eyed glance. “I don’t want to lose control. You’re so precious to me,” he muttered. “I won’t break,” she pleaded in a whisper. His groan seemed to be ripped out of him. He flexed his hips and began to fuck her ass rapidly with the first half of his penis. Now that he was in her, all the pain had faded. There was only raw, dark pleasure. The sensation of having his cock in her ass was exciting to her in a forbidden way. Because of his nature, he could evoke unusually strong, rapid responses from a woman. He could make her climax without ever touching her sex. He could make her lost in a dizzying world of sensation and bliss.
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But this…this was for him. A quick half-glance at his rigid, transported expression told her that. “Do it harder,” she murmured. Every muscle in his body seemed ready to burst from tension. Despite her plea, he continued to be careful of her, fucking her ass with restraint. For some reason, the whole thing made her terribly aroused. She slid her hand beneath her hips and rubbed her hungry clit while she listened to his grunts and growls of satisfaction. A moment later he withdrew. She came in a hot, delicious rush to the sensation of him ejaculating on her skin. “I’m sorry. I had to do it,” he murmured next to her ear a moment later as he held her close on the bed. “I’m not sorry,” she whispered, turning her face and brushing her lips against his. They both lay on their sides, facing one another, his arms surrounding her. “What do you mean, you had to do it?” she asked slowly as she examined his face. “I only meant I wanted you to know I could control my base nature. I can control my animal aggression, Isabel. Always. That’s what I learned tonight. And Isabel?” “Yes?” she whispered, a little awestruck by his solemn manner. “I wanted to prove to you that I have control, because there will come a moment when you must trust me to show even more control than I have tonight.” Something reared in her memory…something Usan had transferred to her through their joined hands. The ephemeral thread quickly sank back into the darkness. “I don’t understand.”
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“Now is not the time for you to understand. It will come, though. Very soon. And when it does, you must make the choice of whether you will trust enough to participate in the ritual or not,” he said, and she realized he’d read her mind. “There is one more thing I must do to claim my soul…to claim you, Isabel. Now I know I can do it, because I could never cause you harm. Never. I care about you too much.” He pushed her head down to his chest and stroked her hair and cheek. A tear leaked from her eye and dropped to his skin, wetting him. His fingertips massaged her scalp, and Isabel felt as if her heart would burst through her chest, it was so full. “Even though my need seems boundless, even though it seems as if my hunger for you will never be satisfied, my greed is exceeded by something greater,” he said, his voice a rough, lyrical anthem in her ear. “I could never harm you, Isabel. Never. Because you are my very soul. That is what I learned tonight.” “Blaise,” she whispered feelingly. He rolled her onto her back and came down over her. “There is one other thing I must ask of you,” he said. “Anything.” “I need you to use your gifted hands to help me find Morshiel. My clone has a major part he must act in this play before I can truly vanquish and rule him.”
Aubrey stood while Morshiel reclined on a velvet couch, the luxurious fabric striking Aubrey as bizarre within the dank, fetid underground tunnel. “He has spoken to Isi,” Aubrey said. “Why didn’t you finish the bloody American once and for all in the tunnels?” Morshiel asked irritably.
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“I tried to kill him, but as you know, the circumstances were harrowing with Blaise closing in on us. Now I’m glad my attempt was unsuccessful. I was able to read more of Isi’s thoughts while he was wounded and draw my own conclusions on what must be done to vanquish Blaise. It served me—it served us—for Isi to live and impart this information to Blaise. I believe Blaise will seek you out very soon.” “And I am to let him find me?” Morshiel asked, sitting forward on the couch, his gaze narrowed. “Yes, by all means,” Aubrey murmured, smiling. “I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before. Why use my magic to get you into Sanctuary, when the way would open to us eventually. The spirits tell me the end is coming, and Blaise senses it, just as you do. The master of Sanctuary must be the one to invite you within its walls. Only he can do so.” “He can. But will he?” Morshiel asked sneeringly. “He shall. And you must cooperate with the ritual that will take place. If you do, you will be the one left standing. Blaise will be dead. And you will rule Sanctuary.” Morshiel sniffed and took a sip from his goblet. What did he have to lose? If Aubrey, the Immortal Genius lied, Morshiel would not be the loser. Blaise could not kill him with his weapon, for Morshiel was truly immortal. He could not resist the opportunity to step within the bounds of Sanctuary. He would let Blaise live—for the time being—if he did seek him out in the tunnels. Why not let him? Risk added spice to the bland, boring experience others called life. He would chance much, much more to obtain the women. Isabel Lanscourt.
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He found it hilarious to consider that Aubrey actually believed he’d ever give him Isabel Lanscourt. How could he possibly consider himself so intelligent? He clearly had no comprehension of what the woman meant to creatures like himself and Blaise. Sometimes he lost himself for hours on end, recalling what it was to be flooded by her sublime energy. The Scourge, and the Literati, and even the Immortal Genius thought they understood Morshiel, but they were all fools. Only he knew that the entire landscape of his life had altered ever since he’d laid eyes on Isabel. He would do anything to possess her…to touch her. His entire existence had been a prelude to the moment he could lay his hand on her, sink his teeth and cock into her vitessence-rich flesh. His grip tightened on the brass goblet until he felt his fingertips dent the metal. Yes, anything. “Very well,” Morshiel murmured in a bored manner. “If Blaise comes to me, I will not take off his head. I need a distraction, and if anything, what you suggest sounds like a bit of fun,” he said before he drained the blood and tossed the goblet away like a piece of lint found on his jacket.
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Chapter Sixteen
Isabel faltered in her line, pausing to stare out at the nearly empty theatre. She peered into the dark shadows clinging to the rear seats. Margaret Turrow, who sat in the front row, twisted around, as if to see where Isabel looked so intently. She knew what had caused the surge of awareness. Blaise. His presence at the theatre confused her. Last night, Isabel had located the general vicinity of Morshiel on the map, just as Blaise had asked. She’d been wary about giving Blaise the information, disturbed by his intensity on the matter, but she’d had no choice. As before, his mind had been melded with hers as they traveled the regions of the underground. Afterward, Blaise had distractedly promised to attend her performance for opening night. She’d begged him to attend the dress rehearsal, but he’d resisted her coaxing, saying there was something crucial that must take place on the night of the rehearsal. He’d changed his mind, though. She clearly sensed him standing back there, even if she could not see him. A sudden imperative feeling overcame her. “Isabel? Where are you going? It’s dress rehearsal!” Titurino, who had been admirably playing the “Clown”, boomed out from behind her. She ran toward stage right. Rachel, the talented costume designer Blaise had hired for the production from the surface world, stood backstage, a stunned expression on her face. Isabel plopped the elaborate headdress she wore into Rachel’s outstretched
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hands as she rushed past her. She ignored all the shouted questions and amazed faces, hurrying down a flight of stairs and bursting through a swinging door onto the audience floor. “Isabel? What’s wrong?” she heard Margaret call from somewhere to the left of her, but Isabel kept moving toward the back of the theatre at a brisk pace. Once she reached the overhang of the balcony, she paused and peered into the shadows. “Blaise? I know you’re here,” she called in a tremulous voice. “What is it? What’s wrong?” “He’s gone,” someone said from behind her. She spun around, her white pleated dress twirling around her hips and thighs, her fist gripped tightly around the prop she carried. “Aubrey? But he was here. I sensed him perfectly. But now—” she broke off, her forehead wrinkling in confusion. She stretched out with her senses and felt nothing. “You’re right. He did leave. But he was here.” “Yes,” Aubrey replied calmly. “I, too, sensed his telepathic message to you.” “Why did he leave?” she asked, feeling bewildered that Blaise would abandon her so quickly after their soul-searing night together. Aubrey gave her a small, compassionate smile. He wore his costume. The simple austerity of a Roman tunic suited his classic good looks. “More than likely he has gone to the crystal room, to nourish himself. That would be my guess.” Her gaze skittered anxiously off Aubrey’s face. Aubrey didn’t understand the full communion she’d shared with Blaise last night. For him, nothing had changed in regard to Blaise’s wariness around her. For her, everything had changed, so Blaise’s behavior struck her as odd, indeed. He hesitated. “I will make excuses for you, Isabel, if you need to go.”
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“Thank you for understanding,” she said in a hushed voice. “Yes. Please give everyone my apologies.” She turned and fled the theatre without a backward glance. She raced through corridors, the flickering torchlight seeming to bring Titurino’s detailed frescoes to life above her head. She found the elevator that led to the apex of Sanctuary. It didn’t occur to her to question her sudden acute anticipation. More inexplicable things had happened to her since coming to Sanctuary than this. She’d ceased to rationalize constantly, and trust her feelings more. She’d been to the apex room once before, with Margaret. She’d been overly wary of the giant crystal. Not only did she sense its immense power—like a mainline for the earth’s energy—she had vague, frightening memories of being forced to touch it by Morshiel’s followers. Wary or no, she would go there tonight. She stepped off the elevator into a carpeted hallway. The silence seemed to have weight, it was so thick. She heard a noise, like the soft growl of an animal, and spun to her left. For several seconds, she just stared, sure she was hallucinating. She was playing the role of Cleopatra. Had she somehow managed to conjure the ancient queen’s spirit? Was this more of Sanctuary’s magic? The black-haired woman who stood before her wore a simple sheath dress, her gleaming, golden-brown skin making the color of it look starkly white by contrast. The only other adornment she wore was a half-dollar-sized crystal that lay flush next to the skin on her chest. Her eyes were like two knives carved from ebony. “He said I was to remain invisible, but I will eviscerate you, in Hathor’s name, for daring to carry the sistrum,” the woman hissed.
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Isabel blinked in shock. She glanced down to where she clutched the prop in her hand—a small percussion instrument. She knew the sistrum played a part in ancient Egyptian religious ceremonies, and that only priestesses were allowed to carry it. “What are you talking about? Who are you?” Isabel demanded. The women sneered. Her downward glance was like splashed vitriol. “You call that the dress of an Egyptian queen? I wore robes spun from pure gold. I wore rubies and emeralds, and it was said the most precious gems in the entire world were invisible next to my beauty. You…you look like a harlot dressing up for a man with a costume kink.” Isabel straightened in rising indignation when the woman began to laugh, as if she thought her joke was the best she’d ever heard. “I don’t have time for you,” Isabel muttered under her breath before she started down the hallway in the direction of the apex room. Apparently, this was not the thing to say to the woman. Isabel turned around at the sound of pure fury behind her. She barely had time to put up her forearms in front of her face, blocking the woman’s oncoming, clawed hands. Isabel grabbed her wrists, halting her in mid-air, but the woman struggled like a wild cat. Isabel’s fear that she would lose her eyes to the woman’s sharp fingernails made her fight back with equal fervor. “You dare to speak to me that way? I am Shirian the Magnificent! You are nothing! Nothing,” she shrieked, shooting spittle into Isabel’s face. She flung her body forward, causing Isabel to stagger before she regained her balance. Isabel struggled to defend herself, shocked to the core by the intensity of a stranger’s hatred. Without pausing to consider her actions, she jabbed her knee upward between the woman’s thighs.
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Air whooshed out of her attacker’s lungs. Her black eyes went wide and she broke free of Isabel’s hold, staggering backward. Isabel read the moment in the woman’s eyes when her shock morphed to unmitigated fury. She flew at Isabel again, howling as she did so, her beautiful face twisted in malice. Isabel did the first thing that popped into her mind. She hauled back with her fist and clocked the woman in the jaw. Her assailant wailed in pain, but kept coming, clawing her fingernails through Isabel’s wig, and finding her real hair coiled beneath it. She scraped skin and yanked brutally. Tears swelled in Isabel’s eyes at the sharp pain. “I don’t care what that fool Morshiel thinks, you’re nothing but a worthless whore,” Shirian grated out between clenched white teeth. Pain made it difficult for her to think, so she automatically mimicked what Shirian was doing. She grabbed at a hank of thick, smooth hair and yanked for all she was worth. “I don’t care what anyone says, you’ve got to be the biggest bitch on the face of the earth,” Isabel replied with difficulty from her stretched throat before she placed one hand on Shirian’s face and pushed back at the same time she jerked at the hair at her nape with all of her might. She landed a kick on the woman’s knee. She barely had time to process Shirian’s cry of outrage when her fingers caught at the leather string around her neck. Isabel felt something give. Suddenly she was stumbling around off balance. “Isabel?” Blaise called to her sharply. She made a sound of dismay when she saw the woman was gone. Had it all been a bizarre waking-dream? She lifted her fist and saw the crystal pendant swinging from the brown leather string. It had really happened. She’d ripped the necklace off the woman’s throat, and then she’d vanished.
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“Isabel? What is it?” She glanced around, disoriented, meeting Blaise’s bewildered stare. He looked up and down the corridor, his stance wary. “We heard a scream. Are you all right?” Blaise prompted. “Blaise?” she asked breathlessly. “Who was that wom—” She stopped abruptly, her mouth hanging open in shock. Another man had just appeared to the right of Blaise’s shoulder, his height and breadth the exact match of her lover’s. Blaise saw where she stared and looked back at the man calmly. “Oh my God. What’s he doing here?” she asked, pointing at a smiling Morshiel. “I can explain, Isabel.” She blinked disbelievingly at Blaise’s even tone. He put out his hand. “Come with me. I’ll tell you about it in the apex room.” She hesitated, confused by everything that had happened since she’d stepped off the elevator. “Come with me, Isabel. Morshiel can’t hurt you. Not as long as I’m here. Trust me. I will always protect you. Always,” he finished quietly. She went toward him, her hand outstretched.
The resonance of the crystal flooded Blaise’s awareness when he opened the door. He entered, Isabel at his side and Morshiel behind him. Morshiel closed the door and locked it. The crystal’s energy pulsed into him. It vibrated the air, creating a subtle song. It seemed to hum at a higher frequency than it had in the past. There was definitely magic in the air tonight. “Blaise, what’s happening?” Isabel asked when he turned toward her.
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She looked beautiful to him in that moment, still wearing her costume and Egyptian-styled gold jewelry. Her gold-streaked chestnut hair had been pulled back close to her head in order to make room for her elaborate headdress, but for some reason, the sleek knot had been torn loose. Long tendrils parenthesized her exquisite face. When Isabel held out her hand to him a moment ago in the hallway, and she’d come to him, so much trust in her dark eyes, Blaise had recalled his dream. The truth had hit him full blast. He recalled Elysse’s mausoleum and Isabel reaching out to him and Morshiel—no, it is not death, but life, she’d said. He’d understood then, better than ever before. That puzzle had been the true part of his dream. Not the dream of a dead woman’s taunts, not the horror of his decaying body. Death was a part of life, after all. It was folly not to embrace it. Sometimes, the thing you fought against most in life was the key to your liberation. He had started to understand the truth last night, when he heard Isi’s story. Understanding had coalesced as he spent the night in Isabel’s arms. He hoped desperately that he was right in what he was about to do. Part of him knew in the deepest sense of the word that he was. Still, fear curled at the edges of his consciousness. He pushed it aside resolutely. “I don’t understand what’s happening,” Isabel murmured as she came into the circle of his arms. He pulled her against his body. Her dress was relatively thin. He felt her heat seep into him. He spread a hand on her hip and rubbed the taut curve. “I thought Morshiel couldn’t come within the bounds of Sanctuary,” she continued, casting a wary look over her shoulder at his clone. “I thought it was protected by Usan’s magic.” “I can enter if the master of Sanctuary invites me inside.”
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Isabel whipped around. Morshiel had spoken telepathically. Blaise had heard him, but apparently so had Isabel. Morshiel watched her with a hot, covetous stare. Isabel stirred in his arms uneasily. Blaise had never seen Morshiel appear so scruffy before. Whiskers shadowed his upper lip and jaw, and the hair on his head had grown enough to look like a short buzz cut. It was strange for Blaise to see him thus—like something familiar, and yet utterly new at once. It was like seeing a new facet in the face that stared back from the mirror. Isabel met his stare again. He did his best to appear calm, even though his heart was throbbing next to his breastbone. “You are the master of Sanctuary,” she said in his mind. “Why would you ask a man who wants to murder you to come within your protected territory?” He couldn’t seem to find the words. There was so much he wanted to tell her about what he’d come to understand last night after speaking with Isi, after making love to her. “What is it?” she whispered. “What’s wrong? What’s happening, Blaise?” He glanced uneasily at Morshiel and back to Isabel’s upturned face. “I must again ask too much of you, I know this. I’m sorry, Isabel. I didn’t fully understand until recently.” He saw her bewilderment slowly morph into disbelief. She went pale and glanced back at Morshiel. Morshiel smiled…a sly smile, the smile of a falling angel. He understood how horrified Isabel was upon seeing him. Morshiel was soulless defined. Evil defined. And yet Isabel was drawn to him against logic, against her very will, like a living, vibrant planet drawn to a massive black hole. He understood this about her, because he now accepted it in himself. Blaise was shocked to see that his clone had retracted his incisors. He’d never seen him do that before.
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“I would do anything to touch you, Isabel. Anything. Even this,” Morshiel said. “Even what?” Isabel asked shakily. “Even submit to my clone, if it is necessary. It is my destiny. Blaise realized this. Now I do as well,” Morshiel said out loud. “It will be a small price to pay for the ecstasy of touching you, of burning in your fires.” She made a sound of fear. “Isabel, listen to me,” Blaise said, turning her in his arms. She had begun to tremble. He placed both of his hands on her delicate jaw. Her wide-eyed, trusting stare cut at him. “Morshiel and I are one. People have always thought I said this symbolically, but I mean it literally. We are separate in the physical world, but we are two sides of the same coin in the spiritual sense. He is my dark half. Usan knew this. He made us separate in order to cause a certain friction within me.” “I know,” she said quietly. “How do you know?” “Usan told me. I know many things, Blaise.” He went very still when she placed her palm on his chest just above his heart. “Do you understand what’s happening here, Isabel?” She inhaled sharply, and Blaise realized it was because Morshiel and he had asked her the question in tandem in her mind. He glanced at his clone quickly. He still hated Morshiel with all of his being, but since last night, something had changed. Part of him pitied Morshiel. He would always feel the need to control what Morshiel represented, but he no longer would fight it from without. He would do so within. And he would win. “I cannot kill Morshiel. I can only try to control him. This was the magical mandate Usan set in my blood years ago,” Blaise explained softly, his mouth just
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inches from Isabel’s lush, trembling lips. “The only way I control him is by accepting fully what he is. I could never do that before, because I could not fully control my own aggressiveness, my animal instincts. Now I can, Isabel.” “But…why now?” “Because you taught me that I can,” he said, tenderly wiping a single tear from her cheek with his thumb, sensing her uniqueness and beauty at that moment in every cell of his being. “It’s like I told you last night. I could never hurt you. Never—because I love you. That is what you taught me. A great lesson, greater than I can ever put into words. Indescribable, really. If I can love, I know I can control the beast within me. It may be hard for you to understand what I’m saying…but I did…not…know this until last night,” he grated out. “I understand,” she whispered. Another tear splashed on his fingers. He tried to smile. “You understand because you’re so special. You gave me a gift unlike any other. Until you, I doubted I could control Morshiel, control myself. Do you see? Only knowing love made it a possibility.” She appeared to be choked with emotion. She nodded. “And now…” He glanced back at Morshiel who stood and watched them, seemingly transfixed. “We must finish this. It is a ritual. A very crucial one.” “Let me touch you, Isabel,” Morshiel said, longing thick in his voice. Isabel turned. Blaise pressed her back against his chest and wrapped her in his arms. His body responded to her closeness, to the full, taut friction inherent to the magical moment. His cock lengthened as he pressed his face against her fragrant hair. “I’m sorry to have to put you through this. You can refuse in a second. All I can say to comfort you is that Morshiel is me—all that is evil and vile and empty in me, yes. But me, nonetheless. I will think no less of you if you cannot accept him. But you are my soul, Isabel. If you cannot accept Morshiel this one time
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then I can never truly accept him…never truly control him from within, as opposed to without,” Blaise told her. He saw that Morshiel stared into her face and sensed their gazes were locked. “I can control him,” he whispered the secret near her ear. He felt her shiver in his arms. “You must trust that I can.” “I do trust you,” he heard her whisper. “I will do it.” Morshiel staggered forward almost clumsily, as if her consent had magically released him from immobility. Perhaps it had. Blaise’s arms tightened around Isabel possessively as Morshiel came toward her, hands outstretched and shaking. He touched Isabel’s bare arms. Blaise allowed it. His clone gasped in ecstasy and began to shake as his hands moved over Isabel’s skin. He pressed close until Isabel was sandwiched between their two large bodies. Blaise moved her head until it rested on his chest, and tilted up her face. He watched, his body humming with a strange, potent brew of magic and arousal, as Morshiel lowered his head and kissed Isabel on the lips. At first, she didn’t respond, but then he felt heat rush beneath his fingertips. Her lips began to move in a feverish rhythm beneath Morshiel’s. “That’s right,” Blaise whispered hotly in her ear before he kissed her there. “You are a miracle to accept me. I love you, Isabel.” Blaise’s words burned Isabel’s spirit as Morshiel’s mouth ignited her flesh. He tasted different than Blaise, but alike as well—more bitter, like the difference between milk and dark chocolate. Blaise cradled her ribs with his hands, caressing her, while Morshiel did the same to her arms and hips. She could feel Morshiel’s cock, thick and heavy, pressing against her belly. An almost exact
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sensation pressed against the base of her spine—Blaise, throbbing and steely hard. It made her dizzy, to feel all that desire, all that hard male strength surrounding her…focused exclusively on her. As if both males read her thoughts at that moment, they pressed closer, sliding their cocks up and down against her. She moaned into Morshiel’s marauding mouth. He caught her tongue gently with his teeth, giving her a rough caress. She shivered in bliss, and Morshiel and Blaise both growled, deep and feral. Blaise’s hands were at her back, and then her dress was lowering to her waist and falling to her ankles. She wore only a pair of panties beneath it. Morshiel broke their electric kiss and pressed his mouth—so hot, so hungry— against her neck. “She is so sweet,” he murmured brokenly. “Yes,” Blaise responded, sounding a little sad. “You may not take her blood, though.” He caressed Isabel’s bare breasts, making her whimper in pleasure. He lifted them in his hands from below. “Here. Feast on these, if you must.” Blaise stepped back slightly, leaning Isabel along the front of his body, holding her tight against him. His cock throbbed against her spine as though it pulsed with electricity. Morshiel’s lips and tongue on the sensitive skin of her breasts was nearly too pleasurable to bear. Sensation bombarded her when Blaise used his fingers to gently pinch both nipples, and Morshiel moved his head back and forth, stimulating the morsels of flesh with lips and tongue and gentle, scraping teeth. When Blaise released his fingers, and Morshiel surrounded her with a firm, hot suck, Isabel exploded in Blaise’s arms. He spoke near her ear as she came and Morshiel continued to suckle her nipple and caress her body.
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“That’s right, come for me. Your pleasure is mine, Isabel,” he told her gruffly as she shuddered. Much to her amazement, she felt him tugging at the glove on her right hand. “I want you to touch him, Isabel. Touch his hair.” Morshiel made a strange, strangled sound, her breast still in his mouth. She felt him convulse in pleasure when she slid her fingers through the short hairs on his head. He released her breast and moaned in pleasure against her wet nipple. His eyes rolled back in ecstasy. He looked transfixed, like an animal completely under the spell of a shaman. “You see?” Blaise whispered in her ear. “He is at your mercy. The beast in me will always be at the mercy of your touch, Isabel.” She cried out in wonder. Sensations were bombarding her as well as she stroked Morshiel’s hair. He was darkness—yes—and emptiness. But within the circle of Blaise’s arms, she found she could absorb the essence of him and keep her spirit intact. “I will lay you down now,” Blaise’s voice penetrated her sensual haze a moment later. He gently removed her naked hand from Morshiel’s hair. Morshiel was ravishing her heaving rib cage, detailing each bone with lips and tongue. She cried out in disorientation when she started to go down, until she realized Blaise held her weight. Her upper body was braced against his thighs as he knelt behind her. Her head was in his lap. His cock lay along his left thigh, pressing against his jeans and her jaw. She nuzzled it hungrily, and he caught her face with his hand, stilling her. She had no choice but to look up and watch as Morshiel disrobed rapidly. A few seconds later, she stared up at the awesome sight of him standing at her feet wearing nothing but the leather harness that held his heartluster. He looked impossibly tall towering over her. The leather straps highlighted his shaved balls. They hung full and heavy at the base of the long, thick pillar of his penis.
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“Remove your weapon, and you may have her,” Blaise said sternly from behind her. Morshiel hesitated only for a moment before he glanced at the juncture of Isabel’s naked thighs. His cock leapt several inches into the air. He winced and ran his fisted hand along the shaft before he rapidly unfastened the harness and dropped his heartluster to the floor. To Isabel, it felt like an abdication, but his ecstatic expression made her wonder if Morshiel truly considered it surrender. He knelt and removed Isabel’s panties. His eyes looked wild with excitement as he came back toward her on his knees, spreading her thighs wider as he did so. Her pussy was achy and drenched. She couldn’t remove her gaze from the awesome sight of his cock. She whimpered in anticipation when he took his cock into his hand and started to come down over her. “No. Not like that,” Blaise said suddenly. Morshiel looked annoyed, but he halted abruptly at Blaise’s words, his penis still in his hand. “Turn over, Isabel,” She glanced up. His face, too, looked rigid with arousal. “Please,” he added. Isabel turned willingly with his help. “Come up on your knees,” he instructed. “I will hold you for him. Morshiel—there is a vial of oil there on the table.” Isabel’s eyes went wide at that, but Blaise stroked her soothingly. A delicate fragrance of hyacinth entered her nose. Her sex clenched tight. She looked up at Blaise, feeling both helpless and impossibly aroused, when she felt the tip of Morshiel’s lubricated penis probe her anus, seeking entry. “We both have to be fused with you at once,” Blaise whispered heatedly. “It’s all right,” Isabel replied.
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It felt as if every nerve from clit to anus was stimulated. She burned. She gasped when she felt the thick, mushroom-shaped, lubricated cockhead slip into her ass. Morshiel groaned as if he was in pain. “She’s hot, isn’t she?” Blaise murmured. “Like fire itself. And tight as a brand new, greased lock,” Morshiel mumbled as he began to pulse his cock in and out, in and out, just a few inches back and forth. She gritted her teeth at the pressure. Blaise grunted above her and shifted his hands, firming her in his hold. He sat back on his heels and held her torso. Isabel pressed her cheek just above his waist. “I have her,” Blaise said. “Be very careful, but you can take her.” It wasn’t until that moment that Isabel dazedly realized Blaise had meant that he controlled Morshiel now in a literal sense. Morshiel could only touch her in the way Blaise allowed him. And he’d just given him permission to fuck her in the ass. She whimpered as Morshiel slid his cock into her gently all the way to the hilt. “Shhhh,” Blaise soothed from above her. “Is it too much?” She was too full of thick, throbbing cock to respond, so she merely shook her head, knowing Blaise would feel it because he held her so tight. “Go on.” Isabel’s breath froze in her lungs when she heard Blaise give his permission. Morshiel gave a feral growl, placed his hands upon her hips and began to fuck her, his balls slapping against her ass as he thrust. “Be careful, you bastard,” Blaise snarled. Morshiel paused, his cock partially embedded in her.
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“No. No, Blaise…it’s all right. I can handle it. I can handle him,” Isabel whispered. She felt Blaise’s uncertainty just as much as Morshiel’s hunger, both balanced on a sharp knife’s edge. She licked the sweat gathering on her lip and met Blaise’s stare. He melted into her completely at that moment. His doubts. His fears. His beauty. “Let him. Let him do it hard. I will still be here, in your arms. I will always be here,” she said. His jaw hardened. “I trust you,” she whispered. He never spoke, but it started. Morshiel resumed his relentless pace. His sharp grunts of pleasure and the sound of their skin smacking together rhythmically filled the air. A tension coiled in her muscles. She was completely at the mercy of Morshiel’s lust, but Blaise held her. He was there with her, reassuring her. Morshiel’s primitive possession enlivened nerve pathways in her body. Her cheeks, nipples and the soles of her feet tingled and burned. Her sex felt so hot. She moaned and pressed her cheek tighter against Blaise’s ribs. She could hear his heart thrumming in his ribcage. He caressed her cheek, his tender touch a stark contrast to Morshiel’s savage possession. “He takes you as hard as I wanted to take you last night,” Blaise murmured. “I would not have denied you. I would not deny you anything. You should have taken what you wanted,” she moaned. He brushed her hair back off her face, his caress so sweet it made tears gather in her eyes. “In the future, I will,” he assured her. “After tonight, everything will be different.”
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She couldn’t ask him what he’d meant because sensation bombarded her like a storm. When Morshiel paused with his pulsing cock high inside of her, leaned down and scraped his fangs against her spine, she shook in orgasm. “Oh, she’s hot,” she heard him moan as she came. “Her vitessence is pouring into me.” “Yes,” Blaise murmured. “But do not surrender to her fires yet.” She made a sound of protest when Blaise moved away from her. “Shhh,” he coaxed, rubbing the back of her sweat-dampened neck. “Put your hands down and brace yourself. Let me beneath you, lovely. I want to see your face.” Little ripples of pleasure continued to course through her as they each moved subtly, making room for Blaise’s long body to slide between their legs. He held her stare and she was lost in the depths of his agate eyes. The sound of him unzipping his jeans made her clit twang in almost painful excitement. Suddenly the hard ridge of his finger burrowed between her labia and he was stimulating her directly on target. Her mouth opened as she quickly rose up the slope to another climax. How had he known that another orgasm waited there in her flesh so soon after her former one? “Why do you look surprised?” Blaise asked, his voice rough with arousal and amusement. “My mind is joined with yours. His is joined with mine. We are one.” She gasped and moaned as another climax broke in her flesh. In the distance, she heard Blaise directing Morshiel how he wanted her positioned. Did she hear it with her ears? Or were their voices in her head? Both males held her and slowly began to impale her pussy on Blaise’s cock. She keened. It was unbearable. It was delicious. Her head swam with sensation and emotion, but through her sensual intoxication, she kept her gaze fixed on
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Blaise’s rigid face. Love seemed to stream from his eyes into her. Morshiel moved again, moaning harshly as he fucked her ass. She felt inundated, filled with all that Blaise was, all that he would ever be. “I can feel your soul,” she managed brokenly. “Yes. I can feel it too.” His hands clutched at her hips as climax tore through her like a torrential wave. Blaise’s cock jerked inside her pussy as he came. Morshiel’s howl of release sounded like a man’s dying anguish and living ecstasy blended. The pleasure must have been too much to bear because she seemed to lose consciousness for a period of time. When she came back to herself, she had the strangest sensation that she’d fused with Blaise. His scent pervaded her. His somatic movements were hers—breaths blended, hearts thumped as one. Slowly, her world began to right itself again. She lay draped over him, her bent knees at his hips, her face pressed against the juncture of his neck and shoulder. He felt her stir. His hands moved up and down on her bare back, as if to reassure her. “I love you,” he said quietly. She closed her eyes and snuggled closer to his heat. “I have no idea what just happened,” she mumbled. “But I love you as well. That much I know. Please don’t leave me again.” “I won’t,” he said as he stroked her. “Never again.” Her sublime contentment at his words was shattered by a cold voice. “Now that was a fascinating display.” Her head jerked up. She gasped when she saw Aubrey Cane standing there wearing his Roman tunic, a silver knife grasped in his hand.
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Chapter Seventeen
“What in bloody hell are you doing, Aubrey?” Blaise roared. “Get out of here!” “I think not,” Aubrey murmured, his mouth curved in amusement. “The days of me following your every order are finished, Blaise.” Thank goodness he’d had time to cool inside Isabel. Blaise lifted her off his satiated cock. She looked bewildered. Her cheeks were stained red from arousal, and likely from embarrassment, as well, for being caught in flagrante delicto by Aubrey. She stood next to him. “Get dressed,” he told her, his voice vibrating with anger. He was going to kill Aubrey for this insult. “No. It is I who am going to kill you,” Aubrey said. Blaise blinked. His old friend had apparently been reading his thoughts. He had been thinking the words in angry jest. Aubrey, on the other hand, looked completely serious. The knife glittered in his hand when Aubrey stepped toward him. “Back away, Isabel,” Blaise said. From the corner of his eye, he saw her take several steps back, her dress draped in front of her. “Don’t move,” Aubrey snarled when he tried to sit up. “Are you going to tell me what it is you think you’re doing?” Blaise roared. Aubrey’s smile alarmed him. “I don’t see why not. It couldn’t hurt. Not now. You see…I orchestrated what happened tonight. My magic made it all possible. I arranged for your greatest enemy to enter your sacred territory.”
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Blaise started to rise. The knife flashed. “If you move, I will throw this knife and kill her. I will not miss,” he said, his eyes flashing at Isabel. “What do you want?” Blaise grated out. “I want you dead and Morshiel destroyed. I want to be master of Sanctuary.” “You’ve gone mad,” Blaise mumbled, not entirely believing what he was hearing. “Am I? I’ve already seen half of my plan come to fruition,” Aubrey said smugly. “Morshiel is vanquished.” Isabel made a little sound of distress to the right of him. Blaise glanced at her sideways, keeping Aubrey in his sight. “Where is Morshiel? Where did he go?” Isabel asked shakily. She sounded disoriented. “You don’t know?” Aubrey mocked. “He is within me, Isabel,” Blaise replied. “I told you. I will control him now from within.” He heard her gasp and felt regret. He’d thought she’d understood the magical ceremony they’d just enacted. Apparently, the truth was a little more than she’d bargained for. Aubrey laughed softly at her discomposure. “Shocked, are you? You were the medium…the chalice for an alchemical miracle, Isabel. Blaise has vanquished Morshiel, with your help.” He shifted the knife in his grip. “Now, thanks to you again, Isabel, the mighty Lord Delraven is mortal. It is over. All those centuries of being your second-in-command are behind me now. I have loved you like a brother, but you always were the stronger one. In the end, my brains have triumphed over your power, Blaise.” He stepped closer, the knife poised to plunge downward. “I can kill you now.” “No,” Isabel called sharply, darting forward.
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“Stay back,” Aubrey shouted, slashing the knife in her direction threateningly. Blaise took advantage of Aubrey’s distraction to act. He lunged upward, striking Aubrey’s knife hand. Aubrey snarled and slashed. Pain shot through Blaise, icy and precise. He stared down incredulously at his ripped shirt and saw the bloody arc of the wound on his pectoral. It felt like an icy burn. “Oh my God, Blaise!” Isabel screamed in horror. Blood—shockingly scarlet in color—began to flood the wound. Aubrey laughed when he saw Blaise’s amazement. He had been wounded often, but never had he bled this much, nor was his blood ever so blazingly red. “I told you, fool. You are mortal now. You can die. You will die,” Aubrey added as he stepped forward. “For I am the stronger of the two of us now.” Blaise wanted to reach for his heartluster, but it was as if his body moved through viscous liquid. His limbs seemed heavy and slow. Instead of going on the offensive, which was his customary habit, he barely had time to block Aubrey’s attack with his right arm. He sunk a punch to Aubrey’s liver region. Aubrey grunted and served a vicious blow to his head, knocking Blaise backward. For a second, pain became his whole world. Was this how mortals suffered? He tried to focus as the room spun around him. “Blaise,” Isabel’s sharp voice pierced his vertigo. “Touch the crystal, Isabel. Do as I say,” he yelled as Aubrey rushed him again, his fangs bared. Blaise faded back and Aubrey’s knife skimmed his belly. He utilized the gravity and force inherent to Aubrey’s blow and pushed on the upper portion of the slashing arm, shoving him off balance. He punched the side of his head and Aubrey staggered backward, hissing in fury. Blaise knew he’d only bought some time. What Aubrey had said appeared to be true. He was no longer the stronger of the two. His battle instincts remained intact, but either the wound or his new mortality had weakened him.
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Aubrey leapt, teeth bared, bloody knife plunging. Blaise knew he could not withstand his furious, immortal strength. “Blaise!” Isabel screamed. He reached for her outstretched hand. Energy poured into his body—earth, to the crystal vein, to Isabel and straight into him. White light filled his consciousness. He saw Aubrey flying toward him, but as if in slow motion. He glanced back. Isabel was there with him, her life force radiating even in the midst of the powerful energy surrounding them, her dark eyes speaking volumes. He turned back. Aubrey still was suspended in midattack. He was moving, but slowly…so slowly. Inside the bubble of energy and light, Blaise seemed to move in normal time. When Aubrey neared him, he squeezed Isabel’s hand and reached, closing his other hand around the handle of the silver knife. It all happened in one crashing, abrupt moment. He yanked the knife from Aubrey’s hand and slashed upward, planting the knife high up in Aubrey’s ribcage. The white light blinked out. Aubrey crashed to the floor. He glanced back at Isabel, anxious to see she was safe. She’d broken contact with the crystal. Aubrey wheezed for air. Blaise knelt next to the man who had betrayed him. Dread mixed with his determination. Aubrey had been weakened by the knife embedded in his ribs, but Blaise would have to behead him. It was the equivalent of being told he must be his dearest friend’s executioner. He unsheathed his heartluster. Dark red blood spilled onto Aubrey’s lips as he met Blaise’s stare. “So…you will undo what you did so many years ago when you first made me immortal?” Aubrey asked in a choked voice.
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“You have given me no choice by betraying me,” Blaise replied. “How did you find out what would happen here in the crystal room tonight? How would you know what it would take to vanquish Morshiel?” “I was the one who planned Isi’s abduction. I conspired with Morshiel. I have been waiting for a means to undermine your strength for a century or more,” Aubrey muttered. He coughed and more dark blood spilled around his lips. “Finally, the means came to me. Morshiel took me as his lover, even if you would not. I promised him your death. I used drugs and my ascendancy to gain Saint’s secrets from Isi. I used my magic to lower Usan’s protective wards so that the demon—Shirian—could enter. She assisted me, with her demon-magic. She’s an impulsive bitch, and she attacked Isabel without my permission. Still, she didn’t ruin all. It might have worked. It might have,” he gasped. Aubrey must have noticed Isabel stir behind him. He smiled at her. “Yes, I planned it all,” Aubrey said, his gray eyes flashing in a mixture of defiance and pride. Blaise shook his head slowly. “What? Are you disappointed in me, Blaise?” Aubrey asked in a taunting tone. “Do you think I care?” “I think you care,” Blaise said quietly. Tears filled Aubrey’s light eyes. His jaw trembled. “Did you really believe I would be satisfied with second best? You would not take me as a lover. I wanted to be the one you cherished most, not some ridiculous sidekick. I am too great to share the stage.” “I was not shaking my head because of that. I was doing so because you are wrong to think you engineered everything tonight. I planned tonight’s events. I orchestrated my destiny, Aubrey, not you. I understood that Morshiel’s greed to touch Isabel would be his downfall, because it is my strength, and we are
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opposites. I think Morshiel understood that magic on some level. Even Morshiel comprehended more than you by coming here tonight. You never would believe me when I told you that Morshiel and I were one. He is my dark self, but thanks to the Magian’s magic, I had the chance to gain ascendance over him. I may be mortal now, but I have gained a soul by fusing my dark and light selves. Aubrey stared at him in amazement. “Are you that great of a fool?” he whispered in astonishment. “You planned to become mortal?” Blaise gripped his heartluster and lifted it toward Aubrey’s neck. “I do not want immortality and power over others. I want to live because I choose to, not because I must. I wanted what I thought I could never have—the ability to love. Isabel gifted me with that. She gave me the impossible. I don’t expect you to understand,” he said as he looked into his one-time companion’s bewildered eyes. “How could you comprehend me, when you so willingly gave away the precious soul you once possessed?” “I did not want to die!” Aubrey spat. “You would have died clean, your soul intact.” “Who cares about my soul when my brain would have been riddled and ruined by the plague,” Aubrey hissed. Sadness filled him. “You should know that I did care for you, Aubrey. I’m sorry it wasn’t enough. Goodbye, my friend.” He slashed his arm in an arc. The heartluster tore through Aubrey’s neck. Slowly, by degrees, the soft sound of crying penetrated his grief and anger. He threw down his heartluster and reached for Isabel. She came down next to him. They knelt, holding each other. Isabel’s tears wet his cheek, and his wound burned all the way to his newly found soul. After a while, Blaise helped Isabel rise and dress.
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“I have to leave you, but only for a short time,” Blaise told her. “Why?” Isabel asked. “Isi told me that the Scourge revenants were weakened when Teslar was vanquished. I need to take the Literati into the tunnels, to finish them off. The underground must be cleansed.” “No,” she whispered, looking decimated. “I’m afraid you won’t return.” He touched her cheek. “I will return. I have to do this, Isabel. Please understand.” She nodded after a moment, but her limbs shook. The direct contact with the crystal must have weakened her. Even though he was the one who was wounded, Isabel staggered next to him as they started to leave the room. He put his arms around her and took her weight. Stupid, weak woman, Shirian thought bitterly. She’d watched the scene unfold before her, unable to manifest due to Aubrey’s prohibition against touching the crystal. She could only do so if he commanded it, or if he allowed her to wear the crystal necklace. That damned woman had ripped the crystal from her neck, jerking her out of her physical body. Hatred for Isabel Lanscourt poured through her. Shirian knelt next to Aubrey. He was the only man who had ever mastered her. She could not help but respect him. His essence had become fused to hers. Now he was gone, and she could not touch the crystal without his permission. Never again would she be clothed in beautiful flesh, never again would she feel delicious sensation. She whimpered when she heard Aubrey’s voice in her head. “You are not hearing things. It is me. My brain is still alive, though not for long. Touch the crystal, demon. Touch it, and then touch me.”
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Shirian scurried to do his bidding. The crystal’s energy flooded her, congealing her essence into flesh, immediately stealing the air from her newlyformed lungs. She reached and touched Aubrey’s bare hand. Energy poured through her. Aubrey’s gray eyes opened wide on his decapitated head.
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Epilogue
They stood together in St. James Park beneath a cherry tree in full bloom, their arms around one another, watching as people passed. “They look so happy, don’t they?” Isabel murmured into Blaise’s chest, referring to a young family who walked by—a man, woman and their two school-age children. He grunted in agreement, stroking her shoulder. “Next spring, the baby will be with us here in the park.” “Yes,” Isabel murmured happily. She brushed her fingers over her belly. At three months pregnant, she had yet to feel much of a bulge, but she sensed the child’s presence. “Usan said the baby couldn’t be any healthier than she is.” The sound Blaise made caused her to stare up at his face. A cherry blossom fell on his shoulder, its softness such a contrast to his bold, intimidating male beauty. “You are still angry at Usan?” she whispered. “For using his magic to keep you from telling the other princes about what happened to us…about how you conquered Morshiel?” “Yes. About you and the baby, as well.” His gaze ran over her upturned face and his eyes softened. He stroked her cheek with the pad of his thumb. As always, his touch on her bare skin made her shiver with pleasure. They had discovered that what had occurred in the crystal room when Blaise had vanquished both Morshiel and Aubrey was not a singular event. The two of them together—joined—amplified the power of the crystal. When they both touched the crystal, they could absorb a vast amount of energy. Their abilities for telepathy, telekinesis and mind control were enhanced in both of them. Blaise
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might no longer be immortal, but he was still very powerful. Every day, it seemed, he discovered some new ability, or new strength. Other things had changed since that night in the crystal room. Blaise had acquired the ability to sustain himself on food. He no longer needed to drink her blood or utilize the crystal to survive. He no longer could transform into a wolf, but some of his animal nature remained. His fighting skills, acute instincts and sharpened senses were intact. Her body still thrilled to his touch and the sensation of his teeth on her skin. Thankfully, those unique abilities lingered. But so did the pain from the wound on his chest. He no longer possessed the superhuman ability to heal. Isabel knew that the twinges of pain he still felt were constant reminders of Aubrey’s betrayal. He did not speak of Aubrey often, but every once in a while, she would see the sadness in his eyes, the anger, the bewilderment. The fact that Aubrey’s body inexplicably disappeared from the crystal room on that night only seemed to add to his unrest. Isabel suspected it made it even more difficult for him to come to terms with Aubrey’s betrayal. She placed her palm gently over the scar on his chest now, offering him silent comfort. “You must understand,” he continued after a moment. “The other princes are like brothers to me. I want to strategize with them, share my knowledge— yes—and I’m frustrated that I can’t, but it’s more than that. I want to be able to tell them that I’m happy…that it’s possible for creatures such as us to find joy. We had all been so…dead.” Tears burned in her eyes as she looked up at him. She smiled. “Are you sure you don’t regret giving up your immortality? Even a little?”
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“Regret loving you? Regret the miracle of what has happened between us?” he murmured, turning her in his arms until his groin rested against her belly. “There’s isn’t even a tiny shred of regret. I’m only thankful.” “You deserve to be happy,” she whispered. She sensed something in him, though, even if it wasn’t regret. “What is it, Blaise? Why are you uneasy? Are you thinking of Aubrey?” He shrugged and leaned down to kiss her on the mouth. “No, it’s not that. It’s just…do you ever wonder? What the Magian plan to do with us when all their experimenting is done?” A chill went through her. She shivered and Blaise rubbed her back, sharing his heat with her. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned it,” he said gruffly, landing a kiss on her temple. “Besides, I am aging like any human now. You and I will be old and gray by the time some of my brothers find their soul.” “Neither Saint nor you believe that. Both of you think a chain of events has started that can’t be stopped. Your brothers may undergo their transformation very soon. Besides, I have told you what knowledge I’ve gained in touching the crystal during these past months. That crystal, and its sudden appearance, were both orchestrated by the Magian. Christina has told us that she feels the same is true of the crystal chamber they found in underground Chicago. The Magian Council is planning events behind the curtains of the stage of our lives, Blaise. It’s best we face that.” She could tell by his expression he read her greatest worry at that moment. “It would take a greater force of nature than even Usan and the Magian Council to ever take me away from you and our child, Isabel. Not even the Empress herself could succeed in separating us.” “I dare her to try it,” Isabel shot back.
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His dark brows arched in amusement. She ran her fingers over his lips. Every time she saw it in these past months, Blaise’s smile was a fresh miracle to her. Sunlight filtered through the cherry blossoms and danced on his gleaming black hair and face. “What?” he asked, his grin widening. “When I first saw you, on the stairs in Sanctuary,” she murmured, realizing she’d been staring at him fixedly, “I remember thinking that it would be miraculous to see what sunlight did to your soul. It is a miracle. A more amazing one than I ever imagined.” His expression sobered. She went up on her toes to meet his kiss. The future would come, and they would face it. They would fight for their new, cherished life together. All they could do was live day by day, moment by moment, grateful for each other, and thankful for their soul-filled existence.
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About the Author
Beth Kery loves romance, and the more emotionally laden and sexy the romance the better. She is a national bestselling author of over thirty books and short stories. She also writes under the pen name Bethany Kane. Find out more about Beth and her books at www.bethkery.com, or follow her on Twitter, www.twitter.com/bethkery
or
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http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1015304659. She loves to hear from readers at
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Look for these titles by Beth Kery
Now Available: Take a Stranger No More Holiday Bound Velvet Cataclysm Princes of the Underground Velvet Cataclysm Silken Rapture
In his battle to resist, he found the impossible. His soul.
Velvet Cataclysm © 2010 Beth Kery
Christina Astor’s telepathic ability is an asset in her job as a psychiatric social worker. What’s driving her crazy, though, is her elusive, gorgeous landlord. She senses that Saint Sevliss wants her with an all-consuming hunger that’s somehow…different. Just how different becomes all too clear when his dangerous world collides with hers. For centuries, Saint’s kind have been called vampire and werewolf. Even soulless. But their true nature remains a mystery. Bound by a magical mandate to control his bloodthirsty clone, Teslar, at all costs, Saint will do anything to keep Christina away. She infuses his gray universe with life and color, but his world— and his need—would destroy her. When an attack reveals the true power of Christina’s gift, one thing is certain—Teslar won’t rest in his underground labyrinth until he possesses her, body and soul… Warning: This book contains some violence, smoking hot, explicit scenes and anal sex. In addition, there is a brief M/M sexual interaction and a ménage a trois. Enjoy the following excerpt for Velvet Cataclysm: “You’ve got a lot of nerve, you know that?” She slammed the door shut and swept across the room like a wildfire on the rampage. “It’s you who put this fixed idea in Aidan’s head that we shouldn’t move away from Whitby. Didn’t I tell you to stay away from him?” “You’re wrong. No intervention was required on my part. Aidan is very upset about the idea of leaving Whitby. It’s his home.”
“Wrong. Whitby Manor is your home,” she corrected, pointing accusingly. She stepped back when he stood abruptly, quick as a snake at the strike. “It’s my home because you’re there,” he growled. Christina was set off-balance by his unexpected revelation accompanied by a focused explosion of feeling. The vivid memory of the gazebo made her recover. “Maybe you should have thought of that before you brought your girlfriends to what should have been our first date.” She’d never seen Saint show an emotion as mundane as incredulity until now. “First date? You saw what I am! Saw it with your own eyes, and yet the only thing you consider is that I was unfaithful to your infantile fantasies?” She snarled and picked up a heavy marble paperweight from her desk, fully prepared to hurl it at Saint’s stunned expression of disbelief. A frustrated cry left her lips when he was suddenly beside her, restraining her wrists. He wrapped his arms around her and pushed her back into his chest. “Calm down.” For a few seconds, she was dazed by his resonant, deep voice and the sensation of his body pressed against her. She twisted furiously in his hold, but her body slowly sagged. When she realized she was following Saint’s order without conscious thought, her fury erupted. “God, I hate you! How could you have done that to me?” “I am what I am. If I could change my nature, I would in a second. You gave me no choice but to reveal to you the truth about why your dreams are merely that—the fantasies of a child.” Fury bloomed in her chest, feeling as if it would explode through the skin at any moment. “I told you the other night. I knew you weren’t like everybody else. I didn’t guess you’re…whatever you are…a vampire?”
“Humans have called me that. The truth is a bit more complicated.” “Vampire or not, you’re an asshole. Some things remain consistent across the species. Even the paranormal variety.” She braced her legs and twisted viciously to push herself out of his hold. She might as well have been trying to throw a mountain off her. His strength was effortless, as though she were being restrained by steel instead of flesh. “Let go of me.” “When you calm down.” She tried to ignore the shiver of excitement that raced down her neck when she felt his voice rumbling from his chest to her back and his warm breath brushing her ear. She inhaled his familiar scent. As usual, it started an unstoppable chemical cascade of arousal in her body. Her lack of control over her reaction infuriated her further. “I’m about ready to scream myself hoarse. Do you want to upset Aidan?” “No. Do you?” She twisted her neck around and glared up at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Do you think you’re really doing the best thing by taking him away from Whitby?” “As a matter of fact, I do.” “Who’s making that decision? The loving mother? Or your battered ego?” She went completely still. For a few seconds she thought she’d go stark raving mad if she didn’t get to punch Saint Sevliss’s gorgeous, smug face just once. He stared down at her with those amazing blue eyes while she panted and her breath burned in her lungs. Using every ounce of her willpower, she forced herself to calm. She inhaled slowly several times, trying her best not to notice the sensation of Saint’s arms
enclosing her expanding and contracting ribcage. “Let go of me, please,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster. When she felt him slowly release her, she gave full rein to her fury. She turned, stepped back, cocked her fist and swung. Two weeks of pent-up anger and frustration went into a well-landed right hook to Saint’s angular jaw. His chin swung at the impact of the blow. He slowly turned to face her. What she saw in his eyes made her take a step back in alarm. He halted her retreat by grabbing her upper arms and hauling her next to his body. Anxiety and anguish mixed with Christina’s fury when she stared up at his face. How can he feel so much and show so little? It was as if her punch had popped the lid off a tightly sealed container of frothing, scorching-hot emotion. A tear skipped down her cheek when he shook her. “I didn’t want to hurt you, Christina. I hate myself for having done it. But you gave me no choice, the way you were pursuing me.” His heat seemed to pour into her body. She experienced his inner turmoil clearly, felt his desperation, his need and his pain in equal degrees to her own. It was unbearable, the friction it caused inside of her. Without thinking about her actions, she struggled to get her right arm free from his hold. Much to her surprise, he released her. She grabbed a handful of soft hair at his nape and jerked fiercely. “I would think you’d be glad we were leaving. Wasn’t that little show you staged the other night precisely for that purpose?” She sobbed as tears spurted down her cheek. Despite her unbridled fury, she couldn’t stop staring at Saint’s mouth for some god-awful reason, couldn’t stop from pressing her body against his long, hard length, or rubbing her aching nipples against his ribs.
“I was trying to stop you from getting me into bed. I’m trying to keep you safe from me. Can’t you see that? That doesn’t mean I want you and Aidan to leave Whitby for good.” “Well, I guess your little plan didn’t work too well, did it?” She jerked on his hair one last time for emphasis before she went up on tiptoe and pulled him down closer to her face. She didn’t stop until she felt his warm breath brushing against her lips. “Why in the hell do I need to be kept safe? You must know by now I can read people’s minds, Saint. I have never been afraid of you.” His upper lip curled; his eyes blazed. She cried out in surprise when he wrapped his hands around her waist and lifted her roughly until they were groin to groin, heartbeat to heartbeat. “You should be afraid.” He swooped down and took her mouth in a ravaging kiss. A torrent of emotion and sensation surged through her. Christina dazedly realized Saint was right. A woman should be afraid she might drown in the deep, frothing well of carnal delight that suddenly submersed her entire being. Nevertheless, she craned up for him hungrily, all vestiges of rational thought burned into a mist by her lust and need.
Ensnaring the ultimate bad boy has its risks…and its rewards.
Hot as Hades © 2011 Alisha Rai
It’s not easy being Hades. Constantly guarding his world against other meddling and ambitious deities is stressful work. So when a naked goddess falls directly into his lap, along with the news that he has to shelter her for the indefinite future, he is less than thrilled. Particularly since he can’t help but lust after the beautiful female. The Underworld isn’t the first place Persephone would pick for a vacation— who in their right mind would choose a dark palace over sunshine and flowers? Yet from Hades’s first touch, the dark, sexy ruler fascinates her and has her thinking a fling might be just the thing to while away her confinement. But trust each other? Not a chance. Until the day comes that Persephone must leave…and they realize that trusting each other is the only way they’ll ever meet again. Warning: Contains an arrogant god, a stubborn goddess, horny deity nookie and enough supernatural friction to set the Underworld on fire. Enjoy the following excerpt for Hot as Hades: Persephone preceded him into his office. He shut the door loudly. The click of the lock made her jump. He liked it when she was a little unsure. The hint of vulnerability appealed to him, particularly when she was doing her lady-of-themanor act the rest of the time. Keeping her guessing was a fun game, so instead of rushing to get her naked, he went to his desk and sat in his chair. He took his time making himself
comfortable before crooking his finger at her in a way that he was certain would raise her blood pressure. She didn’t love orders, his Persephone. Indeed, her eyes narrowed, and he waited for her to snort at his imperious, silent command. But a small smile curved her lips, and she sashayed over to stand in front of him, her dress rippling and briefly defining her legs. He raised a brow. “You’re in the mood to obey me?” “I suppose so.” “Why?” Her smile grew wider. “Because you want me to disobey you.” Fuck, but she could read him like a book, and he didn’t like that. He was so contrary, he wanted to reward her earlier kind words and actions by proving her wrong, proving that he was no saint. His dominant, autocratic side stretched out of slumber, not that it ever rested for long. “Take off your dress. With your hands,” he added, so she wouldn’t simply dematerialize it. She raised her hands to the buttons that ran along the front of the dress. Pearl buttons on a pale pink dress—it was his fantasy, his secret kink, innocence on the verge of being despoiled. The little V of skin at her throat widened as she released each button, showing him that glorious unblemished flesh. Every time he saw that skin, his selfish, territorial nature made him want to mark it, to claim it as his. He had to forcibly remind himself that Persephone and her skin’s presence in his life was strictly temporary. A snarl sounded, and he realized by her startled expression that it came from him. She would leave him sooner or later. But for now…now, she was his. Focus on this moment.
And there was so much to focus on, particularly when she shrugged the dress off her shoulders, surprising him with the lacy white corset she wore underneath. The garment propped up her breasts, her nipples peeking out from the lace like confections on a cupcake. It was sensory overload, the erotic snatches of her body almost too much to take in at once. Corset. No panties. Garters. A combination of silken flesh and material. He realized he had been staring at her without speaking when she shifted her weight. “Touch yourself,” he ordered. A flush spread over her exposed breasts. “Where?” Anywhere. Everywhere. “Your tits. Play with them.” He deliberately used the cruder word, wanting to shock her into refusing him, perverse bastard that he was. She didn’t refuse him, though, simply cupped those gloriously full mounds. Her fingers worked the hard nipples, her head falling back with a small moan as she massaged them. His cock grew harder, pressing against the weight of his trousers, but he knew if he allowed himself release, it would be over before it began. Her legs spread wider as she toyed with her breasts. One delicate hand started to trail down her body to the open lips of her pussy. Hades allowed her to get as far as her lower belly before he spoke. “Stop.” She didn’t listen, her fingers tangling in her pubic hair. “Persephone. Stop.” She jerked and stared at him, confused and primed for release. “Come here.” Hades swore the heady scent of sun and flowers clung to her skin, wafting under his nose as she walked closer to him. “Turn around.” She hesitated but turned when he made a twirling gesture. Her ass was full and round, bare but framed by the garter and corset. It made an enticing picture.
Paying no attention to her jump of surprise, he palmed a cheek and roughly massaged the flesh. “I love your ass,” he murmured. “I love your whole body. It’s like it was made for me. Only for me.” It took him a second to realize the import of what he’d bleated aloud. Growling in frustration at himself, he grabbed her hips and spun her around. She teetered, steadying after she grasped his forearms for balance. “Take me out,” he demanded. He spread his legs to give her room to work the buttons on his trousers, which were stretched tight over the bulge of his erection. The slightly bent-over position she was in made her tits hang down like ripe fruit. Unable to resist, he leaned forward and licked the top of those mounds, finding them delicious as usual. She stiffened, her hands stopping their work. He released his hold on the chair’s arms to cradle her breasts and bring them to his mouth. He knew what pleased her. She always liked it when he sucked hard, lashing at the nipple with his tongue, so he did that now, bringing a high-pitched cry from her mouth. “Don’t stop,” he drew away to tell her. “Take me out. Play with me.” She trembled. He loved it when he made her shake with need. It made him feel ten feet tall. “I can’t concentrate,” she said. He released her, giving no heed to her pitiful whimper. “Then I’ll stop distracting you.” “Jerk.” The word lacked heat, and he grinned. He’d come to read her body well, and he knew she needed him badly. “On your knees, female. Maybe that will help you focus.” She shot him a mock-glare. Her fingers resumed their mission as she sank to the subservient position. He had to grit his teeth as those delicate fingers touched and rubbed him through the leather. When she finally managed to get the fly
open, his cock almost ran out to greet her, pushing into her hands. The blessed feel of her warm palm over him made him want to shout for joy and pump into her hand for as long as necessary to get him off. “Persephone…” He shoved his hips up, groaning as her hand slipped up the shaft and back down, the better to feel that softness all around him. “What order would you like to give me now, Lord Hades?” He slit his eyes at her mocking emphasis on Lord. Impertinent baggage. “Make me come.” Her hand jacked him again, and he spread his legs wider, an invitation to continue. Idly, as if she wasn’t kneeling at his feet in a scandalous corset and playing with his naked cock, she tilted her head. “With my hands? Or my mouth?” He swallowed, the thought of Persephone’s lips wrapped around his cock filling his head. He had a particular fondness for blowjobs but had rarely been able to find anyone who was willing to bestow that favor. Because he was bigger and more powerful than most females, he always had the distasteful impression that he was forcing his partner. However, if Persephone chose to grace him with her mouth… He said nothing, and she smiled. “I do remember you saying something about drinking your come.” His cock jerked at the memory, the dirty words he’d roughly muttered while lost in a haze of sexual need. Without any warning, she licked the vein running along the side of his cock. He gasped, and his hands flew to her shoulders, the little lick punching into his stomach. “I guess you like this,” he half-heard her say. Unable to care if her tone held the proper amount of respect for him, he threaded his hands through her hair. “More,” he said, aware that he was pleading.
In a realm of dangerously delicious decadence, three lost souls dare to love…
Eversong
© 2011 Eden Bradley Ever, owner of London’s infamous Midnight Playground, fears the pain of his past and the weight of centuries are pushing him to the edge of insanity. Not even his favorite indulgences—sex, blood, companionship—hold his interest. And he wonders, what’s the point of immortality when life is unbearably empty? Into the void stumbles trouble. Kidnapped, Turned against her will then abandoned by a rogue vampire, Mercy Turned the handsome Deo in a fit of loneliness and despair. Now they stand, frightened and confused, before the Council to be punished for their unintentional crimes. Their fresh innocence, the intensity of their illegal bond, rekindles Ever’s sexual and emotional fire. The trio forges a connection that’s more than simply a cure for Ever’s lassitude. Its brilliance drives the shadows from his soul…until Mercy is threatened, and he must draw on his darkness to fight for her life. And risk losing his happily forever after to madness. Warning: Old love lost, new love gained, and in between some of the hottest threeway vampire sex ever seen in Europe! Includes oral sex, anal sex, m/m/f, with a few spanking and rimming scenes because vampires are a dirty bunch. Enjoy the following excerpt for Eversong: Deo was right behind her, taking her hand once more as they moved toward the front doors of London’s Midnight Playground. The building was grand, with its pale red bricks and soaring arched windows, its turreted façade. Her nerves drawn tight, she focused her gaze on the fine white linen of Ramsey’s shirt
stretched across his wide back as he led the way into the club, past a pair of burly human doormen who nodded respectfully at the older vampire. Inside, the light was dim, burning red and amber as though it were still nighttime. And she realized right away that in some way it was, inside the club. That it had been the same in what little she’d seen of the Madrid club before they’d been taken to Ramsey, secreted away until the car had arrived to bring them here to London. As they moved through another pair of inner doors flanked by another set of human doormen, she could feel the low throb of music coming from somewhere, smelled the metallic scent of human blood. She felt the sexual hum of bodies coming together, blood being drunk. Still, as titillating as the idea was, she was too distracted by worry to allow her mind to indulge in the sensual scents and sounds assaulting her from every direction, as though she were one raw nerve ending. Maybe she was. She hung on tighter to Deo’s strong hand as Ramsey led them down a hallway that seemed to be made all of black marble. She was vaguely aware of those they passed—humans and vampires, all of them gorgeous, unbelievably beautiful. Her heart hammered in her chest. She was overwhelmed by it all. Fear and desire. Stimulation overload. Emotional overload. Her fingers dug into Deo’s hard, silky flesh. “It’ll be all right, Mercy,” he murmured, leaning in to press his lips to her temple. Still, she was glad when they stepped into a quiet elevator. It was paneled in sleek wood, as fine and luxurious as the walls of any mansion might be, making a soft whirring as it rose several floors. Her pulse sped up as the doors opened on to a long hall and Ramsey gestured for them to step out of the elevator. He took them to a pair of doors decorated with two dragon heads, gilded and jeweled.
“Deo…” “Shh, love. Don’t be frightened,” he assured her. “I’m right here. We’ll be fine, I’ll make sure of it.” But she felt in his touch that his heart was beating with the same racing doubt as hers. Would they be punished? Separated? She couldn’t stand to think of that. Being left alone again, as she had been those first days after being Turned. After Gaius had abandoned her. Ramsey turned to her then, his accent a soft rumble of Spanish and a touch of Southern French from his life in New Orleans centuries earlier. “Mercy, you will never have to be alone again. That is our purpose here. One of them, anyway. They will not take you from your companion. I can promise you that.” He smiled, his teeth a stunning flash of white. He really was beautiful, his green eyes brilliant, his dusky skin so sleek. She wanted to touch him, just his cheek, to feel that gorgeous skin. Or maybe more… His smile widened and she knew he felt her desire for him. She couldn’t help it. Lust was barely within her grasp, something she could control only with great effort since her Turning. She nodded, but she couldn’t seem to calm down— desire or nerves—as Ramsey opened the door and led them through. She felt the grandeur of the room more than she saw it. She had a vague impression of the same black-and-white marble-paneled walls she’d seen in the rest of the building. The same ornately gilded mirrors everywhere that caught the misty morning light coming in through high, arched windows. But what really caught her attention was the two vampires. Both of them unbelievably pale, as milk-white as Ramsey was dark, with skin like softly gleaming porcelain. They were tall, one with short, spiky platinum hair, while the other had his smooth, blond locks tied back from a face so exquisite she could barely look at it. The flawless features and eyes that were
black as night and just as deep, just as mysterious. She could read the centuries there. He’d seen more than she could even begin to imagine. Her body surged with a hot, hammering desire so fierce she felt her lips begin to draw back, baring her fangs. She clamped a hand over her mouth, and Deo’s grasp on her hand tightened. “I feel it too,” he whispered. The ancient vampire was watching them, those black eyes taking in every motion, Deo’s whispered words. His nostrils flared the tiniest bit, and she knew he could smell her. Her fear. The damp heat between her thighs. When he smiled, her body wanted to melt, wanted to just sink into the floor. But Deo held on tightly. “I am Ever, the owner of this club,” the ancient one said. Oh yes, he was old. Years and years, more than she could possibly guess. She could feel it. And she could feel the desire rising in him, mirroring hers. Next to her, Deo’s skin was growing warmer by the moment, but whether with his own need or his sense of hers, she couldn’t tell. Her mind was spinning. “Don’t be afraid,” Ever said, stepping from behind an enormous desk to approach them. He stopped and laid a hand on the other vampire’s shoulder. She’d forgotten he was there. Forgotten about Ramsey, who stood on her other side. Forgotten everything but Ever for the moment, and Deo’s hand in hers. “I am Aleron,” the other vampire introduced himself. He was handsome too. Spectacular, really. She’d been too blinded, too stunned by Ever to see him at first. She nodded, ducking her head, her cheeks flaming. What a foolish girl these two amazing beings must think her! “Come,” Ever said. “Sit down. We will talk with you.”
She looked at Deo and he gave a small nod of his head. She felt his nerves, like a small electric current running just beneath his skin. She was grateful for his solid presence beside her as they sat on a couch upholstered in creamy damask. Ramsey and Aleron seated themselves in a pair of velvet chairs, and to her surprise, Ever came to sit next to her. He brushed her shoulder with his fingertips, and she shivered. Need him… She swallowed, wondering if Deo could feel the intensity of her desire for this vampire. She didn’t want him to be hurt by it, but she couldn’t control it. “Beauties, both of them, do you not think so, Aleron?” Ever asked. “Yes. Absolutely. Such beautiful long hair she has…golden and red. The English call it strawberry blonde, I think.” “Yes,” Ever agreed. “And eyes like the sky…the palest blue. The sweetest face.” He paused, brushed her jawline with one fingertip, making her shiver once more. “And Deo, you would have been irresistible as a mortal. Now you are glorious.” He touched Deo’s shoulder briefly, let his hand trail down over his arm. “But I know the two of you appreciate each other’s beauty. And we have important matters to discuss. The other elders of the Council will be here soon. We must decide what is to be done about you.”
