Sharon Page - Blood Curse

“No, the baby was not his. He was furious when he learned. I gather he frightened her a great deal, threatening to call off the wedding and let the world know about her betrayal. In despair, she killed herself.”

“He felt guilty afterward. He must—he must have felt like a killer.” It made sense now. He was confused—angry, bitter, wounded, guilty. He must have felt as if he was destined to be a killer forever.” She looked to Guidon. “Do you think he could understand he is not responsible for these deaths?”

“There are others he did commit as a soldier and then as a vampire. Those haunt him now.”

“What can I do?”

“Make him understand he is not a killer. That he can be free.”

“I will try.” She smiled weakly. “How do you know so much about everyone? You’ve helped me so very much but I don’t know a thing about you.”

Guidon looked surprised. “You wish to know about me?”

“Yes,” she insisted.

“I am just a cursed vampire. I mean, I truly do carry a curse, one I’ve had for hundreds of years. Inside, I am a much different man from what you see. And I was in love once. Deeply in love with the woman you know as Mrs. Darkwell.”

It was dawn and the need for the daysleep crippled Raven. He had ensured his house was locked up. Ophelia was safe at her home—where she belonged.

Why did he feel so damned apprehensive? She no longer had her power, so she was safe. He had spread it around the vampire brothels of the stews, knowing the gossip would travel quickly. The slayers—Ophelia’s brother, Brookshire, and de Wynter—were putting out the word through the Royal Society.

Ophelia was safe. She could begin to forget about him. She could begin her normal life.

Tonight, he had nothing to hide. In his bedchamber, he pressed a lever, much like the one that controlled the opening in his roof. A section of wall sprang open, revealing a long, shallow opening. A space filled with a simple black coffin, its lid open and inviting for a vampire.

He needed this. He got his best rest in a coffin. With Ophelia in his home, when he’d tried to hide what he was, he’d used a bed. That had weakened him.

What in hell did he want to be strong for? His eternity of solitude?

Hell, he didn’t know.

But Raven hopped in the coffin.

When he slept in the coffin, he went dormant. He could see, his mind could function, but he could not move again until his body naturally awoke at dusk. Fortunately when he’d pursued Ophelia at the museum, it had been early spring, when dusk came early . . .

When the lid rose open hours later, he saw it happen, but he couldn’t fight. Caught deeply in his daysleep, he couldn’t break out of it. Couldn’t move. Or even shout. His gaze fixed on the face of a man he didn’t know.

How in blazes had someone gotten in?

Why now, damn it?

Raven knew the voice as the man pointed a crossbow at him. “Like shooting fish in a barrel,” the man mocked. “I knew you would follow the trail of crumbs I left. You kept her, took her power, destroyed Jade. You were a good boy, Ravenhunt. You did everything I hired you to do, without even knowing it. All the time, you thought you had won. Yet you were my puppet, doing everything I expected you to do.”

The man threw back his head and laughed.

It was the client who had hired him to kidnap Ophelia.

His blood leaked from two wounds—one in his shoulder and one in his lower thigh. Twin red streams moved sluggishly but relentlessly, spilling out onto the dusty floor of the abandoned church.

Though glassy eyes, Raven saw the pool at his side ooze into a larger circle. His cheek lay in it, his lips bathed in the coppery tang.

In his dormant, day sleep state, he couldn’t move. Nor could he heal.

He still had no idea of the name of his client—but he had stared at the man through eyes that he could not move. The client was tall, possessed stark white hair beneath his beaver hat, but had the face of a man in his early thirties. The client was not one of the men from the Royal Society who had attacked him, or whom he had fought in the laboratory.

Who in hell was he?

Raven could barely hear slow, measured footsteps moving up and down the wood plank floor. Pacing. His senses grew weak as he lost blood.

The client had fired a crossbow bolt through his shoulder and one through his lower thigh. Raven couldn’t even grit his teeth against the pain. Couldn’t move to reach for the two arrows piercing him. Cold crept over him, making his limbs numb and slowing his heart.

With his arms and legs bound, Raven lay on the floor between two pews in the abandoned church they had used for meetings. Guilt ate at him for the way he’d taken Ophelia prisoner at first. She must have been terrified out of her wits. Now he knew what she’d felt like.

Right now he was paying for every evil he’d ever committed. He knew why he was here. Bait for Ophelia.

He was going to keep her away. He would be destroyed if she didn’t come, but he didn’t care. Sacrificing himself for her was his destiny. It would pay for everything he’d done.

The man was a lunatic. The client knew she had given up her power, but he still wanted her.

But Raven could stop Ophelia from coming here. Dormancy did not mean he couldn’t speak through thought. Ophelia, I’ve been taken prisoner to use as bait for you—to lure you into a trap.

In his thoughts, he heard her gasp of horror. Raven? Raven, where are you?

I can’t tell you. You cannot come here. The man who has me is the client who paid me to kidnap you. No matter what he says, don’t come for me.

If I don’t, he’ll destroy you, won’t he?

Angel, this is what I want. To pay the final price, but to know you’re safe.

Where are you? I could send Lord Brookshire and Mr. de Wynter. You can still be rescued. You don’t have to die.

Felie, I don’t trust you. You’ll come here. I don’t know what he wants from you. I told him your power is gone, but this lunatic doesn’t care.

“Talking to her by thought, aren’t you?” Boots landed heavily on the floor in front of his face. The words were snarled at him. “That is exactly what I want you to do. Tell her to stay away. Command her to. She won’t listen. When my demand arrives at her home, she will go to Brookshire, gather up an army of Royal Society men, and come here.”

Felie, do not come here. It’s a trap. Let me do one good thing in my damned existence. Let me save you.

But she was gone. He sensed dark emptiness in his head. She wasn’t going to answer him.

She was going to come for him. How in hell did he fight the daysleep?

He needed Guidon.

“Ravenhunt, you want her to come here,” the client said smugly. His voice vibrated through the room like the notes of an organ. “What you do not understand is that she gave her power to you, but it has not really left her. It is dormant. Waiting. It is growing inside her like a live thing. Eventually it will grow strong enough to control her. The power will force her to use it, and she will become evil as it grows stronger. She is doomed to die anyway. I can take her power, but that still will not free her from it. She must be destroyed. It would be a blessing for her if I kill her before she can hurt anyone else.”

Raven’s gut clenched. He couldn’t let her be consumed by her power and turned into something evil.

In front of him, the client gave a sweeping bow. “You should thank me. The power is a part of her, you see, intrinsically combined within her body. She cannot escape her destiny to be a monster that destroys mortals with her touch, unless she is destroyed. Just as for you, destruction is the only way out. Unfortunately,” came the mocking voice, “she has a soul and you do not. You will not even be reunited in an afterlife.”

Guidon, damn it, I need to get free of the day sleep. I need to learn about Ophelia. Is it true that her power is still there?

He waited, shouting Guidon’s name over and over, until finally the vampire answered, It is not evening, Ravenhunt. Stop shouting. You’ve woken me.

He repeated his question impatiently.

The vampire answered. It is true. And you cannot escape the dormancy of your day sleep.

Like hell, I can’t. Love was supposed to save her. I intend to make sure it does.

In his head, Raven heard a scream. Not a woman’s—a desperate cry in a male voice.

Guidon?

They’ve come for me . . . a crossbow bolt . . . damnation, I am not going to die now, Guidon sputtered.

Summoning every ounce of strength he had left, Raven tried to turn his head, tried to lift it out of the pool of blood that drenched his cheek. Nothing happened.

He loved Ophelia. He was not going to let her die because he was a bloody vampire who could not move until sunset.

In his thoughts, he roared in fury. Pain screamed through his body. His cheek rose a bit from the floor, then fell back with a splattering squish.

But he fought and finally dragged his legs ahead, forced his arms to move.

Nothing would stop him protecting Ophelia.

Ophelia was traveling in Harry’s carriage. Althea, Lord Brookshire, and de Wynter followed, along with two more vehicles filled with slayers from the Royal Society.

Guidon, she called. I need your help.