Lover Mine

FORTY-THREE

T he infiltration into the mansion next door posed no problem at all.

After regarding the activity of the manse, and finding nothing to suggest movement within the walls, Darius declared that he and Tohrment would go in... and in they went. Dematerializing from the ring of woods that separated the two estates, they re- formed beside the kitchen wing—whereupon they simply walked right in through a stout wooden- framed door.

Indeed, the biggest obstacle to breaching the exterior was overcoming the crushing feeling of dread.

With every step and every breath, Darius had to force himself to go forward, his instincts screaming that he was in the wrong place. And yet he refused to turn back. He was out of other practical roads on which to traverse, and though Sampsone’s daughter might well not be here, with no other leads, he had to do something or go mad.

“This house feels haunted,” Tohrment muttered as they both looked around the servants’ common room.

Darius nodded. “But recollect that any ghosts rest solely in your mind, and are not among whoever tallies under this roof. Come, we must locate any subterranean quarters. If the humans have taken her, they must needs keep her underground.”

As they made their way silently past the massive kitchen hearth and the curing meats that hung from hooks, it was so very clearly a human house. All was quiet up above and all around; in contrast to a vampire manse, where this would be an active time of preparation for Last Meal.

Alas, that this household was made up of the other race was no confirmation the female was not held herein—and could perhaps recommend that conclusion. Although vampires knew for certain of the existence of mankind, there was naught but myths of vampires abounding on the human cultural periphery—because that was how those with fangs survived with greater ease. Still, from time to time there were inevitable and bona fide contacts between those who chose to remain hidden and those with prying eyes, and these infrequent brushes with one another explained humans’ scary stories and fantastical whimsies of anything from “bean-sidhe” to “witches” to “ghosts” to “bloodsuckers.” Indeed, the human mind appeared to suffer from a crippling need to fabricate in the absence of concrete proof. Which made sense, given that race’s self-referential understanding of the world and their place in it: Anything that didn’t fit was forced into the superstructure, even if that meant creating “paranormal” elements.

And what a coup for a wealthy household to capture physical evidence of such ephemeral superstitions.

Especially lovely, defenseless evidence.

There was no telling what had been observed by this household over time. What oddities had been witnessed in their neighbors. What racial differences had been unexpectedly exposed and noted by virtue of the two estates being brothers in landscape.

Darius cursed under his breath and thought that this was why vampires should not live so close among humans. Separation was best. Congregation and separation.

He and Tohrment covered the first floor of the mansion by dematerializing from room to room, shifting as the shadows thrown in the moonlight did, passing around the carved furnishings and tapestries without sound or substance.

The biggest concern, and why they did not traverse the stone floors on foot? Sleeping dogs. Many of the manses had them for guards, and that was a complication they could well do without. Hopefully, if there were some within the household, they were curled at the feet of the master’s bed.

And would the same be true for any personal guard.

However, they had fortune on their side. No dogs. No guard. At least, not that they saw, heard, or scented—and they were able to locate the passage that led underground.

Both of them produced candles and lit the wicks, the flames flickering over the hurried, careless workmanship of the rough- hewn steps, and the uneven walls—all of which seemed to indicate that the family never made this sojourn below, only the servants.

More proof this was not a vampire household. Underground quarters were among the most lavish in such homes.

Down on the lower level, the stone beneath their feet yielded to packed earth and the air grew heavy with cold dampness. As they progressed farther under the great mansion, they found storage rooms filled with caskets of wine and mead and bins of salted meats and baskets of potatoes and onions.

At the far end, Darius expected to find a second set of stairs that they could take back up out of the earth. Instead, they just came to a termination of the subterranean hall. No door. Just a wall.

He looked around to see if there were tracks on the ground or fissures in the stones indicating a hidden panel or section. There were none.

In order to be certain, he and Tohrment ran their hands over the walling surface and over the floor.

“There were many windows on the upper stories,” Tohrment murmured. “But perhaps if they kept her above, they could have drawn the drapes. Or mayhap there are windowless interior rooms?”

As the pair of them faced the dead end they’d hit, that sense of dread, of being in an incorrect place, swelled in Darius’s chest until breath was short and sweat formed under his arms and down his spine. He had a feeling Tohrment was suffering from a similar bout of anxious trepidation, for the male shifted his weight back and forth, back and forth.

Darius shook his head. “Verily, she appears to be elsewhere—”

“Very true, vampire.”

Darius and Tohrment wheeled around while unsheathing their daggers.

Looking at what had taken them by surprise, Darius thought... Well, that explains the dread.

The white-robed figure blocking the way out was not human and was not vampire.

It was a symphath.