Vampire Bites: A Taste of the Drake Chronicles Page 13

  The ball went on as balls do until everyone was flushed from too much drink. Dante and I prowled the outskirts of the dance floor and eventually made our way outside. I shan’t tell you how many couples were in a shocking state in the back gardens. No one noticed us at all.

  However, we noticed a single light burning in the attic.

  It was odd enough to have us investigating. The house was so crowded, the orchestra and the chatter so loud one could hardly hear one’s own thoughts, never mind a scuffle in the farther reaches of the town house. We took the back stairs as fast as we could. The door at the top of the landing was locked. Footsteps tracked through the thick dust at our feet. I couldn’t hear any sound at all but Dante seemed certain we were in the right part of the attic. He snapped the lock with a single sharp twist. The door swung open and we crept inside. We needn’t have bothered with the subterfuge.

  Lord Winterson stood in the middle of the room, hands clasped together. He turned to look at us, nodding graciously. The door shut behind us and when I whirled at the sound, a hugely muscled guard stood there glowering. The back wall was painted with crosses and hung with garlic, as if they were evergreen boughs at Christmas time. I admit I was baffled. This hardly looked like an assassination attempt on Winterson.

  Dante’s nostrils flared as he sniffed the air. “You.”

  Lord Winterson smiled coldly.

  “You,” Dante repeated. “You hired me to kill you?”

  Now I was even more confused.

  “What on earth is this about?” I demanded.

  “Miss Wild, I regret that you have become involved in this matter. I assume you are the one who wrote that touching letter warning me of deceit and violence against my person?”

  “Er … yes.”

  “And yet now you stand with a vampire.”

  “Let her go,” Dante hissed.

  “I don’t understand,” I said crossly. I supposed I ought to have been more frightened but to be honest, I only felt great vexation. As if everyone knew the plot of the story but me. And you know how I feel about being made to look foolish.

  “No, you wouldn’t, would you?” Winterson said dismissively. “I knew there was a vampire in our midst, you see. I hired him to murder me that I might flush him out. But every time I got close, something scared him away. You.” He looked sorrowful. The light glinted off the diamond on his gold Helios-Ra ring. “You had such potential and now you’ve let yourself be seduced.”

  I wanted to hit him over the head with his own walking stick. “Dante has done nothing wrong,” I declared in ringing tones.

  “He’s a vampire, you silly girl.”

  “One who thought he was saving your life.”

  “Nonsense, he would have ended me had he the chance. And now he will be the night’s entertainment, a sad cautionary tale to dazzle the younger generation.” There was a pile of chains in the corner.

  “I bloody well don’t think so,” Dante snapped.

  “But you must die, surely you see that. You’re an abomination, boy.”

  “You’re the abomination,” I said hotly.

  Winterson glanced at his bodyguard. “Gag her.”

  He took one step toward me but I was already leaping into the air. I landed some distance away, hairpin in my hand.

  The bodyguard blinked. “Ladies aren’t supposed to do that.”

  He was stronger than me, which was painfully obvious. He might have crushed my skull like a melon with one hand. But I was faster. I twirled and leaped around him until his breath huffed out and he went red with sweat. “Here now, no more games.”

  On the other end of the attic, Winterson lifted his walking stick and a sharpened stake flipped out of the bottom. Dante danced out of the way. The candle flame fluttered. The return descent of the stick caught Dante’s chest, cutting through his jacket and through the skin below. Blood dripped onto the floorboards. Another blow and he stumbled, falling to his knees so quickly the candle tipped over.

  The flame caught the tattered curtains and ate though the thin fabric. Another row of curtains caught almost immediately and the rotted wood of the windowsill began to smolder. Smoke poured into the room and I coughed. Before long there’d be no air left to breathe at all. I hurled a discarded vase at the glass, shattering it into pieces. Smoke and flames licked outside, kissing the roof. Someone down in the gardens screamed.

  “We have to get out of here!” I yelled.

  “Go!” Dante yelled back, clutching his seeping wound. It was too near his heart and weakened him. “Don’t wait for me.”

  I ignored him, of course. Men are so silly sometimes.

  Winterson shoved past me and before I realized what he was about to do, he and his bodyguard were safely on the landing. The door shut and I heard the ominous scrape of something being pushed against it to lock us in. Lord Winterson meant for us to die in that attic.

  I had no intention of indulging him. I used a coat tree to break the other windows, coughing the black smoke out of my lungs. Dante pulled himself to the edge of the window and peered out. Guests were pouring out of the doors, panicking in their fine silk slippers and brocade frock coats.

  “I can’t get us out of here in this condition,” he said as I crouched down beside him and tried to breathe clean air.

  “I can get us out.”

  “You can’t carry me, Rosalind,” he said. “But you can heal me.”

  I stared at him.

  “Please,” he whispered.

  My fingers trembled but I held out my wrist for him. He clutched it as if it were fine pastry filled with strawberry cream. His lips were hot on my skin, the bite of fang was quick. The pain soon faded and a kind of pleasure swooned through me. He drank and drank, making greedy sounds. This moment was more dangerous than any power-mad earl with a stake at my heart. Dante could drink me dry, could give into the bloodlust and finish me here. No one would know. I would be part of the ashes of the burned-out house, a scrap of silk and bone for the inspectors to discover.

  “Dante.”

  He swallowed slowly, like a glutton testing a fine wine.

  And then he pulled away.

  Smoke drifted between us, obscuring the blaze of his eyes. And then his arms were around me and he was hurling me through the open window, tossing me up onto the rooftop. I swung through the air, the shock of it compressing my lungs. I landed hard on the roof and slid and might have fallen entirely if he hadn’t followed, gripping my arm hard and lifting me to my feet. The shingles were already hot under our feet. The smoke ate the stars.

  “Hurry,” he urged, and we ran, leaping onto the roof of the next house.

  We finally hired a hack and are even now on our way to the docks and then to Spain perhaps, or the New World. Who can say? I know what you must be thinking. But Dante is a good man. And I love him. There is no place here for us anymore. Neither of us will ever be accepted. Already we are hearing tales of Dante, the earl’s son, who turned vampire and killed a house full of hunters with fire.

  No one will believe us over Lord Winterson. He has told the world that I tried to kill him because I fell in love with a vampire and wanted to prove myself to him. You know this to be untrue. But think of the scandal. I could never remove the stain on myself and it would only harm my family were I to try. We have stopped only to plant an incriminating letter in Lord Winterson’s desk concerning details of the fire. We’ve also sent an anonymous note to the Bow Street Runners. After they are done with him, Winterson shan’t be fit to lead the Helios-Ra. It’s the best I can do. I might be able to return someday but I do not hold out much hope for that. Please tell my family not to worry.

  And truly, I have everything I need. I am wearing a silk dress stained with dirt and soot and I have never felt prettier. I haven’t a penny to my name and I have never felt wealthier.

  Only know that I love you and think of you fondly and often. Do not fear for me.

  Love always,

  Rosalind Cowan

  Th
e fight between Drakes and vampires starts here! Read on for

  Lost Girls, the thrilling story of how Liam Drake met his perfect match.

  1983

  Elisabet rattled the cage, pursing her mouth in distaste. “Is that all?”

  The three girls behind the bars huddled together. One wept and one was silent, eyes wide and wary. She was covered in bloody bites at her throat, elbow, and wrist. The third girl spat on the iron bars.

  “She’ll do,” Elisabet approved, waving at one of the raven-feathered guards. “Bring her. Lady Natasha’s in a mood.”

  *

  Violet Hill was a dangerous place.

  It hadn’t taken long for Helena to scratch beneath the veneer of laid-back hippie to the jagged underbelly, where each step was more treacherous than the last. All towns had a unique personality, one she could have drawn like a storybook character, and Violet Hill was a cranky old woman who could as easily offer you gingerbread as stuff you in the oven and cook you for the main course.

  Helena happened to like that in a town.

  And she liked the mountains eating up the sky and casting long shadows over everything. She might climb up to the top and live in one of the abandoned hunter camps once she figured out how not to get eaten by a bear. Tripped-out junkies and drunken frat boys she could handle, but she was pretty sure kicking a bear in the balls wouldn’t be nearly as effective. But it might have been good practice.

  If she’d thought of it earlier.

  Before a fist to the face knocked her back and had her nearly biting off her tongue.

  Cursing and spitting blood, she held up her gloves to protect her face while the spots cleared out of her vision. She knew better than to get distracted. It was sloppy and could get you killed: at home, in back alleys, and in underground clubs like this one.

  Sofia grinned at her, blood smeared on her teeth. Her hair was teased into spikes, like needles. Helena’s own long and straight dark hair was currently tied back so it wouldn’t interfere with the fight. She wore tight shredded jeans and her faded Clash T-shirt. It wasn’t much of a costume, like the spectators preferred, but it was her first fight. If she won she’d have money to get proper sparring gear, which would offer more protection than the tulle and leather Mad Max outfit Sofia was currently wearing. Helena wasn’t into dressing up like a superhero. Blood was a bitch to wash out of spandex.

  She’d started coming to The Vortex because the manager didn’t look too closely at who was buying drinks or washing up at the bathroom sink. And in the back room, affectionately nicknamed the Thunderdome, girls fought in a makeshift ring for a 20 percent cut of the gambling profits.

  Girls without any other options, angry girls, poor girls, lost girls.

  Girls like her.

  Helena waited until Sofia got closer before retaliating with an uppercut. Her jaws clacked together with a vicious snap and she reeled back. Helena would pay for that later.

  The audience clapped and shouted, the hum of violent sound shaking Helena’s bones until she felt disoriented. She stayed light on her toes, always evaluating her exit strategies. It was both instinct and a long habit that had served her well at thirteen and still served her well now at sixteen. People always underestimated you when you were young, even when they knew you. Being underestimated was as effective a weapon as a knife or a fist. And Sofia really ought to know better.

  Helena pretended to be more tired than she was, slumping weakly as if dizzy. She tried to look like the scared sixteen-year-old girl they expected to see, and waited. Sofia preened, tossing her head back with a smug grin at the crowd. She wasn’t much older but she was used to this, knew how to play them, knew how to get them stomping their feet and shouting her name.

  Besides, she and Helena were always butting heads. When Helena had first arrived in town, Sofia had offered her a place in the lost-girls tribe. Helena had only joined them when girls started disappearing, when having a gang at your back was no longer a luxury. Leadership gradually shifted from Sofia to Helena, even though she didn’t want it. Now they made sure the back alleys were safe for the others. Two girls went missing in the last month alone and though the newspapers claimed fatal drug overdoses, Helena knew the truth.

  Vampires.

  So she patrolled with the lost girls. They watched one another’s backs. Helena could turn almost anything into a weapon. Billie was brilliant with a blade, Sofia was naturally vicious, and Portia could run faster than anyone. Iphigenia was too frail to fight, but she was smart and she saw everything.

  Like the vampire circling the ring right now.

  Helena followed Iphigenia’s telling gaze, and swore. “Vamp at two o’clock,” she muttered at Sofia.

  Sofia didn’t look. “Let the others handle it.”

  Ordinarily, Helena would have done just that. She was kind of busy, after all.

  But then she saw the familiar face.

  He was different from the others. There was a stillness inside him that made her think of the girls outside the yoga studio down the street or a cat waiting for a pigeon to land. Money passed hands, men whistled, girls laughed. And he just slipped between them, so softly they barely saw him.

  But she saw him.

  Liam Drake.

  The rat bastard.

  He was pale, not the kind of pale of her underfed brethren who huddled under bridges for warmth, but the kind of pale that reminded her of moonlight or winter fog. He looked to be in his twenties, with dark hair and wicked cheekbones. He circled the fight, glancing at her again when he got close. She could have sworn she could smell him, even through the fumes of smoke and the deep fryer in the kitchen. He was cool night air, rain, and copper. She felt light-headed and couldn’t help but stare at him as if he was pulling her right out of her body.

  She almost forgot to react when Sofia suddenly ran at her.

  Her eye was nearly poked out by hair spray–stiffened hair. She straight-armed Sofia, ramming the heel of her hand into her chest. She let the momentum of the hit pull her forward and swept her leg behind the other girl’s knees. Breathless, Sofia fell backward, landing hard. Her head struck the floor. She blinked dizzily and didn’t even try to sit up.

  The crowd hesitated, then erupted into cheers and insults. Sofia cursed her viciously and the girls waiting to fight on the other side of the ropes glared at her, but Helena didn’t care. No rules. Grady, the ref, was clear about that before they’d climbed into the ring. She wanted to lean on her knees to catch her breath and steady her shaking arms, but she wouldn’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing even a moment of weakness. Billie caught her eye and grinned. Behind her, Liam paused in the audience. He winked at her before melting into the shadows toward the exit. Warmth flooded Helena’s belly and made her cheeks red and she wasn’t entirely sure why.

  “Good job, kid.” Grady held her arm up for a victory lap. She barely heard him. She didn’t want drunken accolades or threats, she just wanted to follow Liam Drake.

  And kick his ass.

  She yanked her arm free and jumped the ropes, shoving through the grumbling until she was able to push through the back door and dart up the grimy concrete steps to the alley behind the club. A group of guys smoked in a huddle. A girl was throwing up behind a Dumpster, and an older man gave her an oily smile. She considered kneecapping him on principle but she didn’t want to lose Liam. He was already down the alley and turning the corner. She knew from experience that he moved faster than lightning when he wanted to.

  There was something between them, a recognition she hadn’t felt since before her brother died in that car crash. It was annoying. Even back then her mother hadn’t cared what happened to Helena, but Sebastian had cared. He had always been there to play peacemaker, to see that Helena got enough to eat and new clothes for school. And then he drank too much beer and drove his car into a tree. She didn’t let the memory slow her down; she never did. It didn’t do any good.

  And it would let her quarry get away.

  She h
urried down the alley, mice dodging under the Dumpsters and the wind pushing litter against her ankles. The music from The Vortex thrummed faintly through the cool night air. Her cheek throbbed, a bruise already forming. There’d be another bruise on her left elbow, and her right wrist would hurt for the rest of the week. Sofia was stronger than she looked.

  She popped around the corner, stopping at a dead end, full of pop cans and cigarette butts. There were brick walls and a startled cat.

  But no gray-eyed Liam.

  “Bloody coward,” she muttered. He thought he could ditch her. While she hadn’t thought they’d get married and have lots of fat babies together, they’d fought feral Hel-Blar together near one of the abandoned factories. Before that he’d been kind, watching her with a glint in his eye that made her toes curl. Afterward, a scorching kiss in the darkness.

  And now nothing.

  She raised her voice. “I know you’re out there, Liam Drake.”

  No response. The alley stretched back to The Vortex, and went off to the right into a rabbit warren of narrow, unlit passageways. Inexplicable disappointment made her mouth taste like lemons.

  “Stupid,” she muttered at herself. There was no one waiting for her, no moment with a devastatingly handsome young man. And she didn’t want that kind of thing from Liam anyway. She knew better. Girls like her didn’t hear poetry and compliments.

  Girls like her heard screams in the dark.

  Typically their own.

  Cass was so grounded even her grandchildren would be grounded.

  She and her grandmother went into the rougher parts of Violet Hill, which was really only a single downtown block near the warehouses, and handed out coffee and sandwiches to the homeless. Everyone knew Posy Macalister. She clomped around in denim overalls and construction boots and terrified everyone but the street kids. They understood she was the one to go to when they were too wary to try the shelters or Children’s Aid. Posy believed in people taking care of one another, even though she claimed that people in general were dumb as dirt.