Sharon Page - Blood Curse

Valde, son of the woman who called herself Mrs. Darkwell, pulled open the door of the crypt that bore the name Black, the family name of the Earls of Darlington.

“Simon,” he whispered as he walked down the steps into the cool, dark depths of the tomb. His voice came out hoarse. His heart ached with great pain.

Stone coffins lay in neat rows within. The air was not dank or musty, for he came here many nights—at least once each week. Valde ducked his head to miss the low threshold, for he stood seven feet tall. Slowly he walked to the coffin he wanted. Unlike those for the earls, this one was simple. There was no effigy of his beloved Simon on the lid.

He touched the lid, running his hand over the marble.

Closing his eyes, he remembered the first time he had stripped off his clothes with the handsome, blond young man he’d loved . . .

It had been after a ritualistic ceremony. He was a demigod, or at least was one quarter god, and he had been determined to learn the secrets of black magic. Simon, an earl’s son, had been drawn to the warlock world, and was also trying to learn the dark arts.

After the ceremony, they had been alone in the field where the chanting and spell-casting had taken place. It was mid-summer, the air sultry and moist. He wore a robe of black silk with nothing beneath. The soft summer breeze was like a naughty caress when it slipped up his robe.

Simon had worn a gentleman’s attire. White shirt, waistcoat, tailcoat, breeches, and boots.

The air had felt charged—as if it might burst into storm. But there was no storm threatening. It had been mutual awareness, mutual desire.

He had known the invitation to touch was there when he’d gazed into Simon’s blue eyes. He cupped the lad’s cheek. Ran his thumb over those full, tempting lips. Velvety and more fascinating than any woman’s, for they were as plump as a female’s but firm and slightly rough because they belonged to a man.

He’d slid his hand around Simon’s strong neck. Drew the lad close to him.

Breathless moment. God, so arousing and breathless.

His mouth had touched Simon’s lips.

It had been like coming to life. Hot desire ran through his body. His staff had gone stiff as a brick, pushing hungrily at his trousers.

Kissing Simon like an eager swain, Valde had recognized the young man of twenty-two was a virgin when it came to the matter of two men making love.

Slowly, he had undone the cravat that held Simon’s shirt points against the golden stubble of his throat and jaw. He’d kissed the exposed neck, loving the scratch of stubble, the scent of cologne on the young man’s dewy skin.

He caressed Lord Simon’s broad chest. One mere pass of his hand had the lad’s nipples pointy and erect. Then he’d undone Simon’s trousers. There had been one murmur of protest from the innocent young man, but he’d silenced that with a passionate kiss.

Then his hand had slid into Simon’s small clothes and had wrapped around a thick, straining, vein-covered cock . . .

Valde touched the coffin, closing his eyes to fight grief.

He could not open the coffin. Simon was not undead. There was no beautiful, un-aged face for him to caress. No perfect vampire or demon lips to kiss.

They had taken the man he had loved and had killed him before he had immortal life.

The damned vampire assassin who had taken Simon, who had been working for one of the evil vampire queens, had left him with a decaying corpse.

He hated them—the vampires and the queens.

Hated the Royal Society, even though that group of vampire slayers believed he was one of them.

He knew what he wanted. He was the bastard son of a demi-goddess, and he was denied the power of a god. For a short time, as a child, he had been possessed of the magical powers of a god, with the ability to change weather, to move things with mere thought, and to make mere mortals fall in love with him and do whatever he asked. But as punishment for being the bastard son of a mortal, all of his power vanished when he reached the age of eight. When he had finally become just old enough to understand that his power could let him rule the mortal world, it was taken away from him.

Then he was taken from his beautiful mother, Mrs. Darkwell, who was the daughter of the goddess Aphrodite.

He knew the gods and goddesses of old legends did exist—but they could interact no longer with the human world. The only time they could intervene was when one of their own came into the mortal world.

Aphrodite’s daughter had done that. She had fallen in love with a mortal.

And he, as her son, had paid the price.

He had been forced to live as a mortal boy, working like a servant on the farm of an angry and brutal mortal man.

What he wanted was power.

He wanted his chance to rule.

Valde wanted revenge.

And he knew there was a woman who had the power to kill with just her touch. If he had that power, he could have all the vengeance he wanted.

He knew where she was—with that damned vampire assassin. The one who had taken Simon from him.

It was going to be a pleasure to begin his reign of terror—starting with the destruction of the vampire Ravenhunt.

Twilight had settled on London, blanketing the town with a purple-gray gloom. Raven walked through the streets, using his preternatural powers to move so quickly he was invisible to mortals. He walked in the center of the road, dodging carriages. Horses whinnied and reared as they sensed him pass. Nervous coachmen steadied them, and when these men saw nothing in the road, they crossed themselves.

Raven reached the house that had once been his: a huge home of golden stone on Grosvenor Square that spanned half the block. His cousin lived here now. His cousin was mortal. When Raven had left the world to believe him dead, his cousin Anthony had inherited the title of Marquis of Ravenhunt.

Some vampires who were peers attempted to live normal lives. They kept their titles, lived in their mansions, and tried to act like humans. He knew of many. The Earl of Brookshire was a vampire earl who also worked for the Royal Society. So was the Earl of Blackmoor. The Duke of Greystone was a vampire and a dragon hunter.

There was only one thing Raven missed of the mortal world. Tonight he was going to go and see her. His heart ached already at the anticipation of laying eyes on her for the first time in a week.

With lightning speed, he crossed the lawns, strode over the flagstones of the terrace, and reached the side of the house. He needed to remain clothed so he could not shift shape and fly.

His heart rate, normally so slow as to be almost undetectable, sped to a thunder.

It was these moments that made an eternity of hell bearable. This was the only reason he did not walk out into the light and destroy himself.

He did not destroy himself because he had a girl to protect. His sister, Frederica. Even though he could never let her see him, he could watch over her and keep her safe.

At first, given his black-hearted disposition and his natural enjoyment of violence, he had enjoyed being a vampire. He’d reveled in the power. But having so much power quickly became boring. His prey was too easily hunted.

At least, when he’d been a mortal solider, he had stood a good chance of getting blown off the face of the earth with a well-placed pistol shot or a cannon ball. The risk of death made it more fun.

He’d gone looking for death.

Unfortunately the moment it had almost been handed to him, it had been snatched from his grasp by a vampire queen who had wanted him to be her lover for eternity.

As he approached the house, Raven took a breath. The sooty smell of hundreds of burning candles touched his nostrils. He detected hundreds of blends of perfume, along with the heady smells of bouquets of flowers and a lavish supper.

Over all those smells, he was flooded by an overwhelming coppery-smelling wave—the aroma of blood given off by hundreds of mortals.

His fangs shot out.

Hades, they were more unruly than his cock—always lengthening at the wrong time.

“Calm yourself,” he muttered to them. “You will not be feeding here tonight. We are here for another purpose entirely.”

Likely he should feel something—some anger, some regret, some bitterness—to be reduced to climbing the wall of his former home instead of walking in the front door.

The stone blocks of the house wall cut into his bare hands, but each wound healed instantly. Hoisting himself over a railing, he landed lightly on the terrace on the upper floor. Below was the ballroom, but he entered the window of his sister Frederica’s bedchamber.

Her scent lingered. Light, lavender, sweet as a meadow of flowers.

Her bed was turned down, ready for her to slide into it at dawn, exhausted after a night of dancing. His portrait hung across from her bed. That gave him a good dose of guilt. His sister missed him. She wanted his picture where she could see him every day.

Frederica thought him dead.

This was her second London Season. His cousin Anthony, the marquis, was her guardian and overseeing her introduction to Society now that she was eighteen. She would soon find a husband.

Raven wanted to ensure the gentleman she accepted was worthy of her. He could do that by standing in the shadows, learning whom she became engaged to, then hunting down the truth about the man.

Frederica’s silken pillow, her folded nightdress, her brush and perfumes on the vanity—all the signs of her happy mortal existence—brought up too much guilt and pain.