Blood Curse

19 Home

The carriage lurched away from Raven’s house, the four black horses cantering over cobbles. Ophelia refused to cry. Her days of thinking she was helpless and her situation hopeless were gone. She would fight for what she wanted.

“It did not go well?” Althea asked gently. The lamps burned in the interior of the carriage, bathing the countess’s face in warm gold light, revealing the concern in her friend’s silvery green eyes.

Ophelia sighed. “It went very well . . . up to the point when I told him I was not going to accept that this is the end. I asked him to transform me. He refused. He said he could not ask me to give up my mortality. I wanted to do it. Yet that made no difference. It is like when he took me captive. He was in charge, and I had no say in the matter.”

A smile played on Althea’s lips. “The men we love are often like that. It makes it a little more difficult for women, but we can find a way to change Ravenhunt’s mind.” Althea’s expression grew serious. “Are you certain you do want to be changed?”

“Of course.”

“Listen first, Ophelia. Let me tell you what you will lose as a vampire—and what you will gain.”

She did listen as Althea explained to her that she would have to learn to drink blood, that she would experience the day sleep but could go out in daylight if she protected herself from the sun. She could have to struggle at the beginning to fight the natural urge to hunt for human prey. Her brother Harry and her sister, Lydia, might reject her out of fear—though Althea believed Harry would learn to accept. But they might be hurt that she chose that world over their world. She would have to keep her secret from the mortal world, for there was always the risk of frightened mobs armed with torches and weapons.

“You fought very hard to be normal and be part of the world that was denied to you for so long. Are you certain you want to turn your back on that before you have even experienced it? Ophelia, you have not yet even been to a ball—”

“I don’t care about those things. They will be empty and meaningless without Raven. I want you to change me into a vampire. Please—this is the only way I can be with him.”

But Althea shook her head. “Being turned is an intimate process, and it should be done with someone you wish to spend eternity with. I believe we will be friends for eternity, but I think it must be Ravenhunt who turns you.”

“But he won’t!” she protested. “If I were a vampire, he would have no guilt over turning me. I know how much guilt hurts him. I fear, if I were to convince him to change me, that eventually he would feel guilty about it. Then he would run away.”

“I do not think he would run away from you.”

“I fear he would. He cannot face guilt.” She looked at Althea. “Did your husband change you so you could be with him?”

Althea blushed lightly. “I did it to save him. My story is rather complicated—”

“Please tell it to me. I would love to know . . . unless it is private.”

“Not private from a dear friend, and I believe you will be a very dear friend of mine. Though I do have to admit something to you, and I am not sure if you will be too shocked to like me after you know.”

Ophelia swallowed hard—her new friend was a vampire, and she suspected the confession must be something to do with that. “I used to kill people by touching them. I would not judge you.”

“Not even if I revealed I actually have two husbands?”

She gasped. Then realized she’d misunderstood. “You mean you had a husband before Lord Brookshire—”

“No, I mean that I live in a ménage a trois with Lord Brookshire and his brother, Mr. de Wynter,” Althea said, utterly naturally. “I feel in love with both of them, and they were both cursed to die. It was the power of a love shared between three that saved them. I cannot believe love will not prevail between Ravenhunt and you. We must make him see sense.”

Her wits still reeled from Althea’s explanation. “How?”

“The best method is seduction.”

“I think I could seduce him for eternity and never change his mind,” Ophelia sighed.

“Nonsense. We just have to find the one delicious fantasy for you to offer him that is so tempting he can’t resist it. That will put him in the right frame of mind to understand he has no reason to feel guilty to turn you when it is your choice.”

“Do I ask him about his fantasies?”

“No, we must be more subtle. At my house, we will find the solution.”

Ophelia hoped so. Raven was stubborn, and he had spent his life, after his fiancée had died, living in guilt. It was his prison, and it would be much harder than she’d thought to break him free.

“First, though, you should go to Harry,” Althea said. “He hasn’t seen you for years, and I know he wishes to be with you.”

Ophelia found her brother in the portrait gallery of the Brookshire home, wandering back and forth, his fingers pressed against his forehead.

“What is wrong?” Her heart plummeted, and she forced out the question, “Has something happened to Ravenhunt?”

“Ravenhunt?” Harry jerked his head up, making his blond waves tumble over his brow. “Haven’t seen him. Got to talk to you, Ophelia. I don’t know how to do this.”

There was something terribly wrong. Was it about her? Did he not believe she was now normal? If he couldn’t accept that, he would never accept her as a vampire.

Was it to be a choice between Raven and her family?

She approached Harry. Her hand hovered near his shoulder. She could touch him. It was all right.

But she was afraid to. It had been years since she’d seen him. Her disappearance had wounded him. They had raced to save Frederica and Raven, and she had touched him then, without even thinking about it. But now, in the aftermath, would he want her touch?

“What do you think is wrong?” Harry moaned like a petulant boy. He clasped her hand. Now she had her answer. Now she knew hesitation was foolish. She had to simply do things. Stop holding back and hiding.

She squeezed his hand with reassurance. “What is it you have to do?”

“Propose marriage,” Harry muttered. Then he winced. “How to do it? I know I go down on one knee. I have a ring. I fetched it from home. What do I say to her? Women want something beautiful.”

She smiled. Relief and happiness burst in her heart. “Tell her the truth,” she urged, her voice filled with delight. “Tell her that you love her. What could be more beautiful?”

But Harry didn’t look reassured. Deep lines crossed his brow. “I’ve known men who have proposed. Was never as simple as that. Half of them were turned down.” His face blanched. “What if she says no?”

“She will not say no.”

He grinned, and he didn’t look quite so ashen. “Sisterly prejudice.”

Those words deeply touched her heart. She wanted Raven to have this much happiness.

She looked squarely into her brother’s eyes. “I would say yes, if a gentleman I loved told me he felt the same way.”

“Does she love me? How does a bloke know?”

“She must love you,” Ophelia declared.

“I have to impress her. Should I bring roses? Orchids? What about an orchestra? I should have an orchestra play a waltz. Or I should have a trio of violinists. I should write poetry.” He smacked his forehead. “I write execrable poetry.”

“She doesn’t want any of those things, I assure you.”

“Ladies do.”

“Not all ladies. Any woman who is not satisfied by a gentleman’s honest and humble proposal is not worthy of him.” She hugged him. “I promise you she will not say no. How could any lady?”

“All right, but what if she does?”

“If she does, then I will eat my bonnet.”

Suddenly, his expression was wary. And worried. “You don’t. Do you?”

“What?”

“Eat bonnets.”

“Of course not.” But her earlier buoyant feeling receded like a swift moving tide. “Ask her,” she said softly. “Please. I want you to be happy.”

He embraced her. “Would you have a word with her first?”

“I would, but you do not need it. You came to her rescue, you saved her. Honestly Harry, you don’t need more than that. Any woman loves the man who came to her rescue.”

She watched her brother run down the corridor to propose marriage, and her heart soared for him and ached for Raven with her every breath.

“He looks like a very happy man,” a deep voice spoke behind her.

She whirled. Mr. de Wynter stood behind her. Apparently he had just come from his bath. He wore breeches and boots, but a loose shirt open at the neck, and his hair was damp, and hung past his shoulders. He gave her a playful bow. “Forgive me for listening in, but I was deeply touched by how you lifted his confidence. Very sage advice, Lady Ophelia.”

She blushed. She kept thinking this man was Althea’s lover, along with her husband.

He looked stricken. “My most sincere apologies. I’ve embarrassed you, when I am the one completely in the wrong.”

She shook her head. “You are not in the wrong at all. I was just—” She felt the heat leave her cheeks. Strangely, it didn’t seem that shocking anymore that Althea should have two husbands. This world of vampires was beginning to feel more natural to her. “You did not embarrass me.”

“Actually I came in search of you, Lady Ophelia. Before he left us, Ravenhunt warned us to protect you from rogue members of the Royal Society. I think he did not entirely trust Brookshire and me, because we are long-standing members of the Society, but he does trust your brother. He told us there was rot in our organization, and that members of it want to hurt you. I believe his plan is to hunt them down, make them pay for taking your prisoner.”

She could not believe it. In everything that had happened, she’d forgotten that threat. “Hunt them down? Isn’t that dangerous?”

“Extremely.”

She credited de Wynter with being blunt. “They wanted my power and that was why they kidnapped me. But I don’t have any power now. It is over, isn’t it?” She could understand he wanted revenge, but he must just forget about it. It was done with.

“They should pay for what they did to you—and what they attempted to do.”

“Why? It’s done with! Why should he risk his life for that?”

“He should not be tackling them alone,” de Wynter said. “If there are such men in the Royal Society, we have to deal with them. Do you feel well enough to tell Brookshire and myself about these rebels? Describe them, tell us what happened. Then we can hunt them. Althea will be there. I know speaking of such things can be emotional and horrific, especially after the ordeal you experienced.”

“No, I want this done. I want it to all end,” she declared.

De Wynter elegantly offered his arm. With his fair hair, darkly lashed silver-blue eyes, tall and well-built form, he was a most handsome man. But his looks did not affect her. All she could think of was a dark-haired man who had walked away from her. Who believed he could not have her, when all she wanted to do was give herself to him.

A wild holler of joy sounded down the corridor. Harry! He sounded as he had when he’d been a young boy. Footsteps raced, and he charged around the corner.

She knew what answer he’d received even before he yelled, “She said yes!”

“Congratulations,” de Wynter said warmly.

Harry was so happy, and she was so happy for him. But her heart felt empty without Raven. Her brother had been afraid, but he had faced his fears and captured love.

She had to make Raven see that was possible.

Or was he going to try to throw his life away again?

In a drawing room decorated with turquoise watered silk walls, soaring marble columns, and dainty plasterwork of white, Althea and Brookshire waited. Althea patted the settee at her side, and the earl bowed and handed Ophelia a restorative sherry. De Wynter sprawled elegantly in a wing chair. She told them everything about the attack by the men in the street the night Raven rescued her and the laboratory, the doctor, and the men. She described everything she could remember, and did it quickly, filled with worry about Raven.

The earl seemed aware of her anxiousness. “Sebastian, you and I will convene a meeting of the men we know we can trust.” He stood, bowed again. “Do not worry, Lady Ophelia. We will deal with these men.”

She stood. “You do not think Ravenhunt would go after these men alone, do you?”

Brookshire exchanged a glance with his brother. “I am afraid he might, Lady Ophelia.”

“He would,” she said, seeing the answer for herself. “He was a soldier, then he became an assassin. He used fighting and violence to keep his mind occupied so he couldn’t think. Now he has vowed not to be an assassin anymore. He’s refused to turn me. I see now—he doesn’t intend to live alone, existing as a vampire in the world as you do. He needs escape, and he wanted that escape to be destruction. He still wants it.”

“Very astute,” de Wynter said. “But we will ensure it doesn’t happen.”

“But he will just try it again.” Love for her wasn’t enough to stop him. That realization struck like a blow and she sank back on the chair.

Brookshire and de Wynter bowed and left.

She turned to Althea. “What am I going to do?” She quickly told her friend what she had guessed about Raven. “He’s hell-bent on destroying himself.”

“First, you should go home and see your sister. Then we will decide what to do with Ravenhunt,” Althea said firmly.

This was her home. A large mansion marched along part of Brook Street. Dozens of paned windows reflected the pink promise of morning.

Ophelia tilted her head back to drink in the stone front with the beautiful carved window details she’d always admired. She had to close her eyes.

Home—when she’d been a prisoner of Mrs. Darkwell, it was all she’d dreamed of. This should be the most wonderful moment of her life. Her dream sat right in front of her. Her dream of returning home. But she felt empty inside.

The door opened and a footman in livery stepped out. He squawked in surprise as a dervish exploded from the shadowy doorway and shot past him. Her sister rushed down the steps. “Ophelia! We thought you were gone, too! I can’t believe you’re here!”

Tears gathered and fell before she met Lydia halfway across the drive. Lydia had been just a child the last time Ophelia had seen her. Now she was tall, willowy, with her blond hair pinned up. “Lydia, you are so grown-up!” She had no idea what to say—she wanted to be light and happy about this reunion, and not have to tell Lydia about her power or vampires.

Harry had told her he’d kept his vampire slaying a secret from Lydia.

“I’m so sorry you thought I was dead.”

Lydia’s eyes, a remarkable blue-green, searched hers, glittering with tears. “Harry said you were very ill, and you were taken away so you could not make us sick. He said we were told you’d died because we could never see you again.”

She hugged her baby sister tighter. “I’m cured now. I won’t hurt you.”

“Of course you won’t!”

How much loss her family had suffered: their parents and the oldest son. Before that, she had lost Harry and Lydia and they had lost her. Yet despite all the horror and grief, Lydia could hug her tightly and shed tears of happiness. Harry had done an amazing job of ensuring Lydia grew into a normal young woman.

Lydia drew back. “You must come in. There’s tea. It won’t be long until breakfast. Harry says they didn’t look after you well at this place, but you survived in spite of them.”

That much was true. “Don’t fret, Lydia.” She smiled at the young girl’s wide turquoise eyes. Lydia looked so much like Mama. “I will be very happy with anything. I’m just so happy to be home and to see you again.”

Lydia frowned, looking to the drive, which was now a bluish color as the sun crept higher. “Where are your things?”

“I don’t have any things. All I have is what is on my back.”

“Why?”

“It doesn’t matter, Lydia. Things don’t matter.” They were at Darkwell’s and therefore lost forever. And she didn’t care. Her few dresses and vanity items represented her life as a prisoner.

“Come see your bedroom. We didn’t touch it at all. Father and Mother wouldn’t allow it.”

Her parents had died a year after she had been sent to Mrs. Darkwell’s. Then Simon had become earl and had run the household until his death. Harry had been only seventeen when he had become earl. It was at the same time he became a vampire slayer.

Harry had been forced to grow up so quickly.

All because of her power. She knew how Simon had really died, but her power must have killed their parents. Guilt bit into her. She had robbed Lydia of parents. How could she be happy and normal with her sister knowing that?

How did one fight this horrible guilt? She wanted Ravenhunt to fight it, yet she didn’t know how. She could not just forget it. It was real and it was a pain that wouldn’t go away.

Guilt made the rest of her morning with Lydia strange and awkward. She tried to behave naturally, but inside self-reproach gnawed away at her stomach.

Finally she begged the need to lie down. She went up to the attics.

Years ago, in the old nursery, she had made a small studio for sculpting. Everything remained in place. Wooden-handled sculpting tools sat on a cloth on a small table. Partly finished carvings sat in the light of the windows. There were her clay pieces. They had never been fired; they had just dried out with time. Some had crumbled.

She picked up one of the tools. She’d spent hours using it. Banished away from people because of her supposed illness (really her power), she had come up here. The sculptures acquired by Father over his Grand Tour days had inspired her.

Father had agreed to provide her with tools and materials, even though this was a shocking occupation for a girl.

Ophelia set down the carving tool. She didn’t want to sculpt anything.

Well, what she really wanted to mold and shape was her own future. She wanted to cut away Raven’s guilt, exposing a man who could be happy.

She had picked the one sculpting ambition that would be almost impossible.

Changing a man.

She was supposed to spend the night safely in her old bedroom, but she couldn’t sleep. Ophelia got out of her old bed, in this room that now felt foreign and strange. For years, when a prisoner at Mrs. Darkwell’s, she’d dreamed of being here. Now she felt she didn’t belong here—she belonged with Raven.

Stealthily, she got out of bed. Harry had left her and Lydia here and he’d returned to the Royal Society offices. The house was filled with servants, and that would keep her safe. She knew he, along with Lord Brookshire and Mr. de Wynter, had already circulated the truth throughout the Royal Society: that her power was gone.

She had nothing to fear from them anymore.

She crept to her brother’s room and quickly dressed in some of his clothes. His trousers were rather snug over her hips.

Ophelia pulled on one of Lydia’s velvet cloaks to hide her masculine attire, then had one of the footmen summon her brother’s carriage. The servants had been given no instructions to stop her. She guessed Harry had never thought she would try to sneak out.

She rushed down and clambered into the carriage, giving the address of Guidon’s shop. With the carriage waiting outside, she banged on the now familiar door.

In minutes, she was inside the parlor with Guidon. But he did not give her tea. This time he gave her sherry.

At least, she thought it was sherry. She took a sip, gasped a bit, for even just a drop burned on the way down. “Strong,” she gasped.

Guidon studied her seriously. “It must be, my lady, for it helps you to see everything you wish to know.”

Impulsively, she touched Guidon’s arm. “I want to know about Ravenhunt. Did you know what happened to him before he became a vampire? He was a soldier, I know, but why does he feel such guilt? Why did he run away when his fiancée died? Was it because he loved her so much and then lost her? Does he feel responsible?”

“I should let Ravenhunt tell you, Lady Ophelia. He did reveal the worst to you. The thing that he feared would hurt you. The death of your brother.”

“I don’t remember very much about my brother. I had no idea Simon was a warlock—until I went to Mrs. Darkwell’s, I didn’t know what one was. But I want to know what torments Ravenhunt so.”

Guidon reached out and clasped her hand. Ophelia looked down as he patted her hand, again amazed at how normal it was beginning to feel to touch.

“Lady Ophelia, I must know . . . was Mrs. Darkwell good to you? Did she take care of you?” Guidon’s tufty eyebrows were drawn in a frown, his bulgy eyes filled with concern.

“I suppose she did, but she kept me like a prisoner. I know she had to protect everyone else, but it hurt me deeply.”

“She must have done it for the best, Lady Ophelia.”

“I don’t know. I think—I think she was afraid of me.” She shrugged, acting as though that had not hurt her. “I suppose I cannot blame her.”

“How did Ravenhunt capture you, my lady, when you were under Mrs. Darkwell’s protection?” Guidon looked at her intently. “It was for your protection, you must understand that. There was a great fear that you would be destroyed, if anyone found out the truth.”

“I understand that. I could kill people. Of course, people would want to kill me.”

“That is all behind you now. Would you tell me how he caught you? It is very important, my lady.”

“I—I liked to sculpt. So I snuck out of Darkwells’ and went to the British Museum to see the statues and the Elgin Marbles. Ravenhunt met me there. I would go close to closing, as I couldn’t sneak out earlier. Once when I got there, he had not come, but he’d left a note for me, inviting me to Lady Cresthaven’s house. That was where he took me.”

Guidon appeared to be jiggling with anxiety on the seat.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Mrs. Darkwell’s restrictions drove you to sneak out of the house, my lady?”

She nodded.

“Indeed.” He rubbed his chin, nodded his head. “It might be enough.”

“Enough for what? What are you talking about?”

“You wished to know more about Ravenhunt,” he said quickly. “About his past and why he carries such guilt.”

She nodded and sipped more of the sherry. It gave her such a jolt, she coughed. Her eyes watered, and she blinked the tears away. Through the film of them, she opened her eyes and saw a tall, blond gentleman across from her.

“Aah!” The cry of shock flew off her lips. But when she blinked again, there was no handsome gentleman. Guidon sat there. He smiled, which for him looked like a grimace. She shook her head. “I am so sorry. My nerves are not as strong as I thought. I’m imagining things.”

She took a deep breath and put the sherry glass down on a small table. “What happened in his past?”

Even as she asked the question, the room seemed to dissolve before her eyes. She could see a lying-in in an elegant bedchamber. The birth was underway. In the middle of the bed, amidst bloody and wet sheets, a sweat-soaked woman cried out in pain. The woman fell back, sobbing as if she could endure no more. Someone cried joyfully, “A boy. My lady, you have been blessed with a son.” More images flashed in front of her, then she gasped. The woman who had given birth lay on the bed with her eyes open and unseeing, her skin ashen, her lips blue.

No. Oh no. The images disappeared, leaving her on the verge of tears. She gained control. “Ravenhunt’s mother died giving birth to him.”

“Yes.” Guidon studied her gravely. “His father never forgave him and held him responsible for his mother’s death. She died of loss of blood after the birth. Internal bleeding that could not be stopped. His sister, Frederica, is his half sister. Yet even though his father remarried, he never stopped hating Ravenhunt for the death.”

“That was not his fault. You cannot mean to say he has always felt guilty for that.”

“He has, my lady. It made him very protective of Frederica, which led to many arguments between them.”

“What of his fiancée?”

“Lady Margaret Calthorne, an earl’s daughter. She was very lovely.”

“She died of an illness.”

“No, Lady Ophelia, that is not the truth. This is very tragic, but you must see it. Close your eyes, then open them and you will be witness to the truth.”

She saw a woman with dark brown curls, with a rounded belly beneath a white shift. Fists suddenly rained down on that tiny bump. Sobbing wildly, the woman beat her own tummy.

Ophelia reached out to stop her.

But the woman didn’t really exist. She could do nothing. She couldn’t stop the savagery with which the blows rained down. Crying with great heaves, the woman stumbled to her writing table and snatched out paper. Then she sat and meticulously wrote a beautiful letter. Ophelia could see the writing, but she could not read it—it was like looking at the image through wavering glass. The young brunette folded it neatly. Tears no longer ran down her face. She wore an aura of calm.

But then the woman stood and she walked gracefully to the open window. Though it was hard for her to move, she managed to put one foot onto the ledge and she grasped the sash—

The image vanished.

“She took her own life,” Guidon said in husky tones, “because she was with child.”

“Why?” Ophelia gasped, horrified. “If she was to marry Ravenhunt, why would she kill herself over a—” She remembered when he’d spoken of love as being something fraught with problems. And she knew. “Oh my, it was not his child, was it?”

“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.