Dead After Dark by Sherrilyn Kenyon
A very severe man with a mouth that turned down opened the door. He said nothing, but stared at her in disapproval.
A woman alone could not be either wealthy or of good character in England. "I must see the doctor," she panted.
"He is engaged with Sir Melaphont." The man began to shut the door.
"But there is someone who needs his help!" she pleaded, stopping the door with one delicate hand. She did not wait for another refusal, but pushed past him.
"See here!" he protested.
Twin staircases wound up from the far end of the immense foyer. She couldn't search this entire pile looking for the doctor. She drew her power even as she whirled on the majordomo. The world went red. "Take me to the doctor. Now."
His gaze became vague. He nodded and moved off toward the stairs. She followed. In the broad hallway of the first floor a young man paced. He affected a curl of dark hair that he let hang across a pale brow, but there the likeness to a portrait of Lord Byron she had seen in books stopped. His face was pudgy and petulant.
"Grimshaw!" The boy started forward. "The damned doctor won't let me see my father."
Grimshaw said nothing of course, because he was under Freya's compulsion. He just opened the door and ushered her inside.
"Grimshaw! I say--"
The door shut in the young man's face. The bedroom was huge. A portly man stood with his back toward her, his hand on the wrist of an immense figure only dwarfed by the great, curtained bed in which it lay. The figure emitted wet, gasping sounds and the room smelled of blood. A basin of it sat on the table by the bed. What was this? The doctor turned at her entrance.
"I said no visitors, Grimshaw." The doctor glowered.
Freya willed Grimshaw out of the room. He closed the door behind himself. The younger Melaphont could be heard protesting in the hall.
"Who are you?" the doctor said. He was an austere older man with luxuriant mustachios and iron-gray hair swept back from an intelligent forehead.
"Never mind that. Mr. Drew Carlowe needs your help. He is at Ashland."
"The new owner? It's influenza, I assume."
She nodded. Her glance darted to the figure in the bed. This was Drew's nemesis. He was immensely fat, his jowls dripping down over the collar of his nightshirt. His face looked like it was melting. Still, there were cruel lines about his mouth. She could believe he had lied about Drew and punished him unjustly. Now he was like pale yellow dough, still, his eyes closed. The doctor laid his patient's hand back on the coverlet.
"And I would come if I thought it would do any good, young lady," the doctor was saying. "But there's really no use. Oh, I bleed them, because one must do something. But there is really nothing to be done but make them as comfortable as you can and let the disease run its course."
Freya was stunned. "You . . . you cannot help him?"
The doctor looked at her with sympathy in his eyes. He shook his head.
Freya felt tears of frustration well up. Her throat closed. These humans were at the mercy of some silly disease that wasted one away with fever? And the doctor only bled them. This would weaken them for their fight with the illness. She if anyone knew that the blood was the essence of life. One did not drain it lightly. This whole effort had been useless, and she had left Drew alone. The doctor turned back to his patient. A dreadful gurgling sounded then silence.
Freya was stunned. "He is dead?" It could happen, just like that?
"I'm afraid so," the doctor said. "He was my most important patient, too."
Freya did not wait to hear more, but pushed out of the room, past the petulant son, and out into the night.
5
Freya hadn't slept for days. She'd insisted Drew take broth as she held him in her lap. He had to keep up his strength. Supplies had mysteriously arrived the day after she'd gone to the village, in spite of the fact that she had made no order in Tintagel, where she got her own victuals. The delivery had included a salve which she put on Drew's lips to keep them from cracking, and some apple vinegar she used in the water in which she bathed him. It seemed to cool the intensity of his fever.
If he were vampire he would live forever, barring some bizarre accident of decapitation, or murder by the same means. They wouldn't be a different species any more. Could they become even closer? He would be even more easily aroused than he was as a human, have even more stamina. The prospect would have given her shudders of anticipation if she could feel anything but anxiety.
If she had made him vampire before this happened she might have prevented all this. She couldn't do it now. He was too weak to survive the ravages of ingesting her Companion. It was a difficult transition, until the immunity she gave with her blood could take hold.
But there were so many reasons she couldn't make him vampire, then or now. It was against the Rules of her kind, for one thing. And for another he would never agree to be made a monster like she was. That's what she would be in his eyes if he knew what she was. Vampire. The very word struck fear into the hearts of humans. Yet another reason she couldn't tell him. A gulf had opened between them. Why did she struggle so vainly against it?
In the wee hours of the fourth day, his breathing grew wet and labored. It sounded only too familiar. She brought pillows from other bedrooms and propped him up. That seemed to make his breathing easier. His eyes opened and, as always during these past days, he thanked her. This time he only whispered it before he drifted away.
She sat on the side of his bed and took his hand. "Don't die," she ordered to his closed eyes, as though it was in his power to decide. "Don't die." This time it was a plea. What should she do? What could she do? Nothing. Nothing but wait.
Hours passed. The sun rose. Her kind always felt the exact position of the sun. She sat, listening to Drew's breathing. She was so sorry she had pushed him away when he wanted to know about her. Not that she could tell him she was vampire. But he had trusted her with his story, with his pain, and she had not returned his confidences in full measure.
She turned her head. She had neglected to close the heavy drapes on one of the windows. The sky was reddening over the tangled gardens that looked east. She rose to twitch them shut, then sat heavily in a chair.
She woke with a start. How long had she slept? Hours. She jerked upright and went to Drew. His breathing was definitely easier. She placed a hand on his pale forehead. It felt . . . cool.
She sucked in a breath. He opened his eyes. They were clear. Exhausted but clear.
"Welcome back," she whispered.
Drew reclined on the divan in the drawing room. The windows were thrown open to the dusk. Freya put down a tray with tea and preserved fruit and scones. He watched her as from a distance. Everything seemed distant these days. Influenza had left him weak and strangely lethargic in his mind. He lived in the moment, as Freya would say. Hell, he was just glad he had moments.
"Is this not a pleasant room?" Freya asked, as she poured and handed him a cup. "I must say living here is much easier with an army of servants."
"An army?" He smiled. How could one not smile when one looked at beautiful Freya?
"Well, six. Mr. Enley sent two granddaughters to set the house to rights and a cousin as cook, and a nephew to take care of the stables. And the two young men--are they his family? No, I think not. They are beginning to cut back the overgrown gardens."
"I thought the house felt more alive," he murmured. He didn't correct her about Henley's name. "I seem to be keeping backward hours, sleeping all the day."
She blushed. "You keep my hours. I . . . I have a sensitivity to light."
Well, at least she was saying something about herself. He had not pressed her further about what she was. Such considerations seemed far away. Or was he afraid to drive her away?
"I noticed," he remarked. "Why has Henley had a change of heart? He was a proponent of the 'ghost who drinks blood' theory. I shouldn't think he'd send his relatives to serve here."
"I told him I was not a ghost when I went to the
"You went to the village?" He found himself mildly curious. That was a new sensation. It must come with leaving his bed for the first time.
"I tried to find you a doctor."
"That was good of you." How she had exerted herself to care for him. He would never have asked it. In fact, he had never been so dependent upon anyone as he had been on her in the last days. She who had never wanted a houseguest, especially a needy one, had been exceedingly generous and tender. She hadn't even allowed the new servants to relieve her. "I expect the doctor was busy and couldn't come."
She turned her eyes away as though concealing something. "He said he could do nothing but bleed you in any case, and I knew that would do more harm than good."
He nodded and sipped his tea. Old Henley didn't seem the type to just accept a strange woman with an Eastern European accent showing up. But he must have. He had sent half his extended family to help out. "Do you need money to pay the servants? I shall write a letter to my banker in London."
"I have no need of your money, Drew. I pay them in gold." She sounded haughty. Then she screwed up her face and shook her head. "I am sorry. A foolish arrogance, when I use my father's money and live in my father's house. He left gold in . . . storage here, against need." She sat abruptly back in her chair. "I suppose I will never be independent of him."
Drew was not independent himself. He'd been dependent physically on Freya. He wasn't independent of her psychologically, either. He couldn't imagine waking and not seeing her calm, almost black eyes rise from her book.
He'd forgotten all about his obsession with Melaphont.
The thought was like a cutlass tearing the shroud of distance that enveloped him. What was he doing, lolling here and thinking of Freya when Melaphont no doubt strode around his precious house, directing the building of his new wing with his chest puffed out? Did the villain ever think of the boy he had wrongly ruined? No. But he would.
Drew set down his teacup too bluntly. It sloshed tea onto the table. "It's time to get back to my purpose. I've an idea how to make Elias Melaphont regret the day he sentenced me."
"Had you thought that by ruining him, you would also ruin his son?"
Drew blinked. "He has a son?" He set his lips. "Then maybe that is the way to get to him." He threw off his blanket and pushed himself off the divan. His legs were so cursed weak. He sat down again abruptly.
"You mustn't worry about Sir Melaphont now," Freya soothed. "Have you overtired yourself? I'll help you to your room."
"Damn it, Freya," he fumed. "I can't lie here when that worm is up there gloating."
Freya went still. It was as though she was gathering her courage. "He isn't gloating."
Drew frowned. "How do you know?"
"He is dead. Of the influenza. I saw him die."
Drew felt as though he'd been punched in the gut. "Don't make jokes about this, Freya."
She raised her brows. She was right. She didn't joke.
"The bloody man went and died before I could give him back his own?" Drew heard his own voice crack. Not fair! Not fair in a long line of things that were not fair. "Then I'll have my revenge on his son."
"No you won't, Drew, not when you think about it. That poor creature has suffered enough, with that man for a father."
The air went out of him, along with something else. It was as if the energy he'd expended in that flash of vengeful rage had used up whatever he had left. He looked away. "You're right." His life stretched ahead, without purpose. He took in the heavy wood furniture in the Tudor style that littered the room, now gleaming with wax instead of dust. Why was he here? It wasn't his house. It had no meaning now that Melaphont was dead. It had only been a means to an end, like Emily.
He staggered out the salon door toward the stairs. Freya moved to help him but he pushed her hand away. "Leave me alone," he growled, and pulled himself up the stairs by the banister.
Freya sat in her room on the window seat, looking out over the night garden. Things had not changed much after all. Oh, the gardens were being slowly pruned into shape. And the dust covers were gone. She was no longer alone in the house. But the distance from herself she had felt for over a year had come back to nest in her heart, as though it had never left.
It had been two days since she'd seen the horrified look on Drew's face when he heard his nemesis was dead. Last night he'd tried to leave. She'd stopped him, of course. He was too weak to travel and he knew it. But his eyes were dead. He didn't see any reason to go on, now that the vengeance he'd been planning for so long was useless. It was only a matter of time until he went. She didn't want him to go this way, drifting and half-alive like she was.
For a week or two she had felt . . . connected again, interested in living.
It was because of Drew Carlowe. Her tragedy was that she . . . cared for him. The way she had never cared for anyone in her long, long life. Vampires did not fall in love. That's what her father always told her. Especially not with humans who lived for only a flicker of time. Not long enough to love, he said. And Drew would be horrified if he knew what she was. So he would never know. So there could be nothing between them but that lie.
But if she cared for him, she couldn't let him suffer. How to prevent the emptiness from consuming him? She remembered the feeling of wholeness their sexual union had produced. Maybe she could bring him back from the brink. The very thought of leaving herself open to his rejection was alarming. But she had to try.
She rose from the window seat and drifted through the dark room to the doorway. Light leaked from behind the closed room of his door. She turned the knob. The lock was still broken. He sat at his desk, just as she had seen him that other night, writing a letter. Only this time he wasn't naked. He looked up. The pain in his eyes was startling. He quickly masked it with indifference.
"I . . ." He was casting about for a lie. His shoulders slumped. He was deciding to tell her the truth. "I was just writing you a letter."
"Perhaps you should say your message in person."
He looked away. "It was mostly 'thank you.' "
"Was it?" He had lied again. That had her curiosity up.
He nodded. He wasn't going to tell her what it really said. She noted that there were several crumpled drafts around the carpet. Whatever it was, apparently it was not easy to say. Dread suffused her. You have to try, she reminded herself.
She stood behind him and rubbed his shoulders, kneading the knotted muscles there. It wasn't just the shock of attraction that shot through her. Something deeper flashed inside her that she'd never felt with a man before. It warmed her heart as well as her loins. His shoulders relaxed and he rolled his head, giving a satisfied growl. She ran her hands under his shirt collar to the silken skin on the nape of his neck.
Then he was standing. He had her by the shoulders. "I'm so weak," he whispered, angry.
"I . . . I am sorry. I shouldn't have . . . You've been sick. I know that."
"I mean I'm weak to want you so." He took her in his arms and kissed her fiercely as she turned up her mouth to his. Kisses were so intimate. "I shouldn't give in," he said, between kisses. "You don't even care enough to tell me what you are." He was panting now. He dragged her to the bed by one arm. "But I want you, Freya, just once more."
She ripped his shirt getting it off him. He popped buttons on his breeches as she unbuckled her girdle and let her dress drop in a pool at her feet. Naked, he picked her up and laid her on the bed. He was already erect. The lingering effects of influenza were not enough to cool his ardor, apparently. She stroked his cock as she sidled up beside him. One of his hands covered her breast as he held her to him and kissed her thoroughly. Her breasts felt swollen and tender. When he bent to suckle, she arched up into his mouth, moaning.
"Forgive me, my love, but I must feel you around me right now."
She opened to him, nothing loath. She wanted him to plunge himself inside her, pry open her most secret parts and fill them with his strong cock. She wanted to
Wait. What had he called her?
He hung above her, and his eyes were hungry. "My love." It was a figure of speech, no more. He wanted her skills at sex, and she would give them to him, as long as his strength held.
Drew lay back and drew Freya down with him to cradle her in his arms. Not bad for an invalid. He'd brought her to ecstasy three times, and even come twice himself. Now he should be lethargic, but he was consumed by a strange energy, vibrating in sympathy with her energy, as she lolled against his chest, her curtain of hair covering her face. It didn't matter that they hadn't played her Tantric games. He felt just as close to her as he had the first time they made love all night. That's what it was. Making love. It wasn't just sex. Just sex was what he'd had with every other woman.
The letter he'd written her told her that he loved her, though he knew she didn't love him in return. She didn't even trust him enough to tell him what she was. And she was something all right. He remembered her lifting him bodily into bed when he was fainting as he tried to use the chamber pot. She carried him as if he was a child. No ordinary woman could do that. He had told Henley that first night in the tavern that vampires drank blood, not ghosts. Perhaps that was what she was. It was an ugly word. His stomach churned. His head said vampires didn't exist. His heart said it didn't matter to him what she was. She had not hurt him. On the contrary. She had cared for him and set him free in a way he had never imagined possible.
He wouldn't burden her with his presence. A partner who lingered on after he was no longer wanted was annoying. His eyes filled. He lay there, thinking about the emptiness ahead. His revenge on Melaphont was thwarted. But that didn't matter any more. In the last days, Melaphont had seemed to shrink in importance. Drew had been consumed by his past, but now his eyes were on the future, a future without Freya in it.