Blood Wicked (3 page)

“What is a succubus exactly?” Julian puffed his cheroot. “The old vampires on the council never told me.”

“A woman who can drain your soul while she’s fucking you.”

The lad stared, still holding the lit match. “Blast!” He waved out the flame as it burned his finger.

Heath shook his head at the naive shock on Julian’s youthful, good-looking face. “You should be careful whom you drop your trousers for.”

“What would a succubus want with us, Blackmoor? We’ve got no souls to drain.”

It was a good point. He had no idea what happened when a succubus made love to a vampire. The council would know. They filled themselves on rules and legend and lore. “Let’s make our way to another brothel. This one is a scene of one of the crimes—” He stopped. A soft sound floated to his preternatural hearing.

A second gasp of fear rippled from the shadows of an alley. A street flare threw light upon a sign. Derwent Lane was the name bestowed upon the narrow space that could barely let two people pass by each other. The light annoyed Heath; it prevented him from seeing as well as he could into the dark length of the alley.

The sound had come from a woman. A subdued, frightened cry of pain.

He doubted it would be the woman he was looking for; he’d scoured London for a week searching for her. He would hardly stumble upon her so fortuitously. But becoming the undead did not mean a man left his honor behind.

Heath stepped into the opening of the alley.

“Come ‘ere, love.” The harsh, raspy male voice broke in on Vivienne Dare’s tumbling thoughts as she hurried down stinking Derwent Lane, rushing further into the depths of Whitechapel.

She looked up just as a brute of a man stepped out of a doorway and blocked her path. He was huge, large enough to fill the narrow lane. A leather apron splattered with dark stains covered him. He crossed his arms over a massive barrel chest and leered as his piglike eyes swept over her. “Ye smell pretty, lass. How much for a quick swive against the alley wall here?”

The stench of blood and butchered meat hung around him. It turned her stomach. But what frightened her most was his size. Vivienne knew what a man that big could do.

She felt for the pistol in her pocket and wrapped her hand around the smooth handle. She wore a long cloak with the hood pulled low. A tangled gray wig hid her blond hair. She had drawn wrinkles on her face with kohl. She should look like a wizened crone.

But the butcher seemed to know otherwise, despite the shadows, her makeup, and her stooped walk.

This kept happening to her, no matter how she disguised herself. Five times already, on her journeys to the apothecary, five different, large, dangerous strangers had pursued her. Each time she’d had to fight for her life. But she’d never faced a man
this
big.

He licked his lips, moving toward her. His apelike arms swung at his sides. “Come on, dearie.” Smirking, he ran his hands over the front of his apron, mimicking the shape of an erection. “I’ve got a long pole and it’s all for you. Now be a good girl. I don’t want to have to hurt ye.”

But he did. Want to. She knew it. She could see it in his lecherous, mocking grin. In the wild excitement lighting up his small, ugly eyes.

Just stay calm, girl, and
think.

She had escaped this world. Had pulled her way out of the slums and into Mayfair’s glittering ballrooms with her wits, not simply her tits. She had become London’s most exclusive—and
expensive—courtesan. Then she had walked away from that world. For her daughter’s sake. For
Sarah’s
sake.

She had vowed she would never let a brute touch her—or hurt her—again.

And she did not have time to waste. She pulled out the pistol, extended her arm, and took a bead on the stained apron. “Step aside and let me pass.”

His eyes took on a wild, hungry, fanatical gleam. “Put that toy away and let me ‘ave at ye.”

Toy. Was he mad? Dear God, she had thought this would make him retreat. She did not want to shoot him. But she couldn’t lose time, precious time Sarah might not have—

The ape of a man lunged for her in her moment of distraction. Her finger was nowhere near the trigger, so the pistol was pulled from her hand with more ease than taking off a glove. All because she couldn’t kill him. Now he would rape and kill her. And Sarah would never get the medicine and she wouldn’t live through the night—

No.

Vivienne slammed her fists against his wall of a chest. They bounced off, but it gave her momentum to hit him again. Her gun flew from his grasp and clattered across the cobbles. She kicked at him, driving her sturdy boots into his shin.

“Shit! Whore!” he shouted. And his fist came at her like a brick and snapped her head back so sharply, she fell against the wall. Tears sprang to her eyes. She’d never known pain like this.

And his fist was coming again—

She slithered down the wall and his hand smashed into solid brick. He howled in sheer fury. He was going to kill her and he might not pause long enough to swive her.

Vivienne darted to the side, but he caught her stupid cape and hauled her back. Her wig plopped to the ground, and he leered at her.

“Ye’re a pretty one. My, my, this is going to be fun—” Silver
flashed. He’d whipped a knife out of a pocket on his apron. The tip of it pressed against her cheek. And bit in.

She lifted her knee and drove it into him. Drove it into his male parts and the knife cut into her as he jerked downward with pain. His other hand dropped to cradle his wounded balls. And his eyes went wild with fury.

The blade slid down her face, opening a slash that leaked hot, wet blood. Stinging pain rushed from her cheek. Her legs wobbled, but she hit at his arm to push the knife away.

Suddenly her attacker took flight.

He soared through the air, down Derwent Lane, and landed with a thud in the unfathomable dark. His knife had gone with him.

And she was staring at the bricks across from her, frozen in place, even as she knew another man was now standing beside her. A man who had just picked up her attacker, who must have weighed fifteen stone, and threw him down the alley. And the man who had rescued her was not even breathing heavily.

Her knees threatened to dissolve like sugar in water.

“So I save your life, and you won’t even look at me? Not even to reward me with a pretty smile?” His voice was soft, deep, cultured, gentle—the sort of voice a rich peer used when he wanted to coax a woman into his bed. Far different than the harsh, clipped, cold tones they used when they wanted to shove her out.

It was a tone of voice Vivienne knew too well. And right now, it made her shake. She kept her face away from him in the shadows, her gloved hand at the gash in her cheek. She had to play sweet and demure and rescued, but she had to get away. “Th—thank you. Thank you for saving me. I apologize there will be no smile. And no payment. But I must go—”

“I don’t expect payment, little one.” His hand braced against the wall near her head. “Rescue is a service I perform free of charge. Or obligation.”

Suddenly she felt a spurt of dizziness, and her vision blurred. It vanished almost instantly, leaving her blinking, trying to get control of her thoughts.

The man stared at her as though she had two heads. He reached for her chin but she jerked her head away. “Who are you?” he growled.
“What
are you?”

He was blocking her way out. She looked down the alley to the butcher, who was still sprawled on the ground. Not moving.

“Struck his head rather hard,” her savior remarked. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a tall, glossy beaver hat. Crisp cravat cinching a stark white collar. Many-tiered great coat. He exuded wealth and the casual arrogance that went along with it. “If he’s fortunate, he’ll wake up in a few hours with a bad headache. If he’s not fortunate, he won’t wake up at all.”

She swallowed hard.

“Now, tell me what you are—”

She twisted away and ran down the narrow lane toward the inert body, guessing he wouldn’t expect this. Not for her to run toward the man who had tried to attack her. She tried to jump over the fallen body, but couldn’t. Her boot landed on his arm and she lost her balance and fell forward.

A strong hand wrapped around her wrist and she was pulled hard against his male body. Sandalwood. Leather. Horse. Man. She smelled all those things in the dizzying moment she was clamped against her rescuer’s chest, her face buried against him. “How?” she gasped.

“I’m a vampire, little one. I can move with great speed when I want to. And when it is necessary, I can fly. But you must know that. You’ve blocked your thoughts to me.”

“I
what?
Y—you’re mad,” she cried, her voice muffled. Dazed, shocked, she reared back and looked up at the elegant beaver hat, the snow-white collar points.

He was smiling at her, smiling as though she was a tasty morsel he intended to devour. Suddenly the smile vanished. His gloved hands closed roughly around her arms. “What did you do to my brother?” he barked at her. “And where the hell is he now?”

“W—who?” she gasped.

Silver eyes. His eyes were a strange, reflective silver, and they dilated as he took in the sight of her face. She could taste the blood from the cut, tracking slowly along her lips. His lips were beautiful, she noticed madly. Perfectly shaped. His lower lip was very full, and his face was exotic and sensuous and filled with fury and suspicion.

“My brother,” he growled. “I know you were his lover. And I know you aren’t mortal.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” She shoved at him.

He blinked down at her. His hat hadn’t even wobbled.

He moved her, pressed her back to the brick wall, and leaned in as though preparing to push his mouth onto hers in a kiss. “No!” she jerked her head to the side, turning her stinging, bleeding, cheek to him. She was not going to let him have her mouth.

His tongue came out as his face neared hers. Gently, the tip of it touched the top of her wound. A strange flow of heat began there, flooded her skin, and seemed to flood her brain. He traced the entire length of her cut, setting her skin ablaze in his path. She didn’t understand why. She didn’t
want
his touch.

He stopped where the wound did. On her throat. And he suckled there. Vivienne had to let her head drop back against the wall. Sensation roared up. She felt something she hadn’t felt for years and years. Need. Desire. Hunger.

No
. Sarah needed her. And the thought of Sarah, at home and sick, speared Vivienne like a blade. She fought him and he
let her go. And smiled softly as he settled his hands against the wall on either side of her shoulders, trapping her. “There. All better. You are far too beautiful to be marked up like that.”

She drove her knee up but something stopped her, pushed it down. It had to have been his hand, but she hadn’t seen it move—his hands were still braced beside her head.

Icy fear rippled down her spine. The cut no longer hurt. She put her fingers to her cheek, took them away. There was no blood. But the wound hadn’t scabbed over. Her skin felt perfectly smooth. There was no sign there had even been a cut.

“As perfect as I imagine you were to start with,” he said softly.

“How did you
do
that?”

“Vampire. I can heal. I can move so swiftly you will not see it. Some of the benefits, of which there are, sadly, very few. Now tell me about my brother. You saw what I did to him.” His chin jerked toward the unconscious butcher. “You had better start talking to me.”

His mouth became a harsh line. The silver eyes narrowed, and she knew she was looking at a man who could become very cruel when he wanted to.

She’d seen enough of that to know. She knew men. Other courtesans always had their eye on the prize: they looked at the jewels. Vivienne had always looked at the gentleman’s eyes as she received his gift. What was there? Joy? Pride? Guilt? The look a man got when he was preparing to run? All gifts were bribes. Either to ensure a woman was thoroughly snared, or to buy a man’s way out of trouble. She had survived, flourished, rescued herself because she wasn’t a courtesan who stared at her own face in the mirror. She looked at the man.

That was how she knew when a man was angry. Or when he was stripping off his masks, letting his cruelty show. Preparing to be violent.

“Let me go.
Please
,” she begged, even when she knew how futile it was to beg a man. “I don’t know anything about your brother. I have to get to an apothecary’s. My daughter is sick, she is dying. Please, won’t you just let me go?”

He shook his head, the selfish bastard. “I can’t, my love. Not until I find out the truth.” His gloved hand closed roughly around her arm.

“She’s dying, you bastard!” she shouted at his handsome face. “Dear God, let me go.”

“I’ve discovered God is not very dear, love. And I can’t let you go.”

Sheer panic gripped her. Then boot soles clicked sharply on the cobbles and she saw another man enter the mouth of the alley, framed by the meager light. “She’s telling the truth about her daughter, Heath. I can tell.”

“Can you, Julian?” Her captor’s voice was tight and filled with suspicion.

“I saw it in her thoughts.” The blond man was completely serious even though she knew he must be speaking utter rubbish. No one could read thoughts.

“She is really afraid for her daughter’s life, Heath,” the man called Julian went on. “And she is telling the truth: she is on her way to an apothecary’s.”

“Indeed.” Heath, the man who had her captured, spoke so coldly it made her shiver. “All right, I will escort you to get your medicine, then take you home. After that, we can have a little discussion.” His eyes looked cold as ice shards.

Suddenly his words penetrated. “Go with me! But that’s impossible.”

“No, love. It’s your only choice.”

“Heath—”

“We will help the fair lady with her task, Julian. I believe she needs our protection.”

“And the investigation?”

“Can wait for a little while. I think a sick daughter is more important.”

“You are supposed to be working for the council, not helping some damsel in distress by healing her child.”