But the space was silent, and she stepped in farther, lifting her skirt out of the way. The place was a mess, and appeared as if some sort of battle had accompanied the puddle of blood. Something gleamed on the floor and Maia glanced around nervously before stooping to pick it up.
Her heart gave an odd little kick when she recognized it. Corvindale’s button; unmistakeable because it was stamped with the earl’s crest.
So he had been here. That odd feeling settled into something less pleasant and Maia glanced toward the window, which was dark with dirt. If she had more light, she could see…
“Miss?” came a voice from the front.
Tren. Maia turned and hurried back to the half-open door. “Call the constable,” she said. “I think something’s gone wrong.” She came back, snatching up a lamp, and crouched on the floor, searching for something else that might prove that the earl had been there.
When she saw the hairpin, Maia’s heart kicked up again as she reached for it. This was no ordinary hairpin, but one studded with tiny…rubies.
Rubies.
Corvindale hated rubies. They infuriated him.
Maia shook her head. No. Something was wrong. She remembered how he’d been so odd in the carriage when Angelica had been abducted, when they both had been wearing ruby earbobs. It wasn’t that he simply hated them…it was that they had some sort of ill effect on him.
The prickling of certainty, her instinct, lifted the fine hairs on her arms.
With a flash, she recalled the night of the masquerade, and Mirabella’s description of the fight. There was a necklace of rubies on him.
A hairpin with rubies on it. Corvindale’s button. Blood, and signs of struggle.
Maia went cold. It was no coincidence. Something had happened to the earl.
She looked down at the hairpin, recognition tickling the back of her mind. She’d seen this accessory somewhere before. Someone had been wearing it, or something like it. She frowned, concentrating, trying to pull up a picture of her in her mind.
Someone she’d seen recently.
Someone she didn’t know.
But someone she was going to find.
Dimitri smelled, listened, felt…then opened his eyes.
He was in a chair, a large, upholstered one, sprawled as if dumped therein.
His body was still heavy—his arms, legs, nothing moved properly—yet he wasn’t restrained. So to speak.
She was standing over him, wearing rubies, looking down with satisfaction. She appeared exactly the same as she had that night in Vienna. Tall and slender, thick dark hair, lush red lips and cheekbones that cut like right angles. Still lovely, but now there was a flash of permanent anger in her eyes.
“Lerina,” he managed to say, looking around the chamber. It appeared to be some sort of parlor. Not particularly well-kept; it was dusty and some of the furnishings were covered with sheets. The windows were draped and the light was dim. Her scent filled his nostrils, along with other ones: blood, old fabric, dust, worn leather, water. Saltwater. Fish.
They were near the Thames, possibly the wharf.
“Have you missed me, darling?” she asked, lunging closer to pat him on the cheek. The rubies swung and shifted toward him. “We have so much to catch up on.”
He closed his eyes as a wave of pain swept him, then ebbed slightly as she pulled back. “Moldavi, I presume?”
Lerina smiled, showing her fangs. “You are a smart one, Dimitri.”
“Whose body did I find? Wearing…your gown?” he asked, trying to control his unsteady breathing. Now he knew how the secret of his Asthenia had become known.
Being his mistress, Lerina must somehow have figured it out; for he certainly had never told her. Or she and Moldavi together had done so.
She shrugged and the rubies danced. “I haven’t any idea.
Cezar took care of that. Some mortal, most likely. The whole point was to make you believe I’d died in the fire.”
Dimitri pulled himself upright in the chair. Every movement felt as if he were weighted down with leaden pipes while slogging upriver through a heavy current. The pain from his Mark had melded with that from the rubies, stealing his breath and burning his skin. Yet, when he could lift himself above the physical discomfort, his mind worked like an oiled machine. And it was working now.
“Aren’t you going to ask me what I want?” Lerina said, leaning close again.
Her scent filled his nose, along with a renewed rush of pain from the rubies. Dimitri didn’t flinch or blink, holding her gaze steady with his own. “You’ll tell me. Although I’m also…quite certain I already know.”
“Is that so?” Lerina grinned and ran her tongue over the points of her incisors. “I’ve waited more than a century for this, Dimitri, darling.”
“An entire century,” he managed to say. “Did you have nothing better to do?”
Her hand whipped out and caught the side of his face, one of her ruby rings slicing his skin. The blow left his ears ringing, but he didn’t move. Warm blood trickled down his cheek.
Her nostrils flared as she drew in the scent, her attention focused on his cut. Then she seemed to refocus, shaking her head a bit and stepping back with an odd smile.
He was certain he was in no imminent danger of anything more than Lerina’s nonstop chatter and further displays of temper. Moldavi had to be behind this, and Dimitri presumed the man would want to have a moment of glory in front of his victim before otherwise dispatching him—or whatever his plan was.
“Since you won’t ask me, I’ll tell you all,” Lerina announced.
“Just the basics, please. No need to…embroider the details.” He was finding it more difficult to remain easy and keep his voice strong.
Annoyance flared in her eyes, a bright glow ringing blue irises. “Very well,” she said, mercifully stepping back. Her hand fluttered as she posed for what promised to be a dramatic soliloquy.
“Cezar ensured that I was made Dracule,” she said, as if it were some great pronouncement. When he gave no discernable reaction—he would have rolled his eyes if he’d had the energy—her mouth tightened and then she continued, “I wanted you to sire me, Dimitri. We would have lived very happily together for eternity. But you refused.”
“Thank the Fates,” he muttered.
Her face darkened again. “You always were a testy, cutting person,” she said. “Attractive as you are in…other ways. It’s no wonder Meg left you after she got what she wanted. But I would have stayed. All you needed was to make me immortal, and I would have loved you forever.”
Dimitri ignored the stab of surprise and pain at her easy mention of Meg. More than a hundred thirty years and the memory of his foolish love could still twist his belly. Because of the foolishness, not so much the love.
“Cezar heard it from Meg, and then he told me the entire story. About how you pulled her out of the fire and as you both were lying there, dying, you asked for help. You’d give anything for you both to survive. Such a romantic sentiment, Dimitri, darling.”
He resisted the urge to close his eyes against the image.
But the memory, though vague, hadn’t fully left him. What he’d believed to be his deepest desire had been answered that night, in the midst of pain-filled, swirling half dreams, by a visit from Lucifer. He’d hardly known what he’d agreed to. He hadn’t realized until later that the miracle was not a miracle at all.
“Did you try to pull me out of the fire in Vienna, Dimitri?” she asked with exaggerated coyness. “Or did you not love me enough?”
He declined to answer, allowing a blaze in his eyes to give her his response. As if he would have stood by watching anyone perish. Especially since fire was merely uncomfortable to a Dracule, and not at all life-threatening.
“You probably would have…and then dropped me like a hot potato, no?” She was wandering in front of him, pacing back and forth. “Did you think I hadn’t seen the signs? Why do you think I went with Cezar that night? I knew it would either make you realize how much you loved me—pah!—or I would have found a new protector. And we both know how that ended.”
Again, he remained silent.
“So you saved Meg’s life, helped her to become a Dracule…and then she left you. Once she realized the power of her immortality and the liaison with Lucifer, she left you.”
Dimitri concentrated very hard and managed a negligent shrug. “And you wonder why…I wouldn’t make the same mistake…twice.”
“Your poor broken heart. Has she ruined you for every other woman? It would seem so.” She smoothed her hands over the generous bodice of her gown as if to remind him of what she offered. He grimaced.
“Meg’s dead, Dimitri. Did you know that?” Lerina leaned toward him again, bringing those shimmering, lethal rubies along with a scent of bitterness. “Cezar killed her himself.”
The rumor he’d long believed was true, then. A rush of relief surged through him, overshadowing a surprising dearth of pain, and was followed by a flicker of sorrow. He supposed he had loved her, in a youthful, clumsy way, even if she hadn’t loved him. Or at least, loved him enough. Now, she was with Luce in hell. Never to leave.
Thanks, in part, to him. He closed his eyes.
“Poor darling,” Lerina said, her voice bringing him back.
Her eyes shifted, focusing on the wound on his face. Before he could brace himself, she bent forward, rubies and all, and, grabbing his shoulders, pressed her lips to the oozing cut. The necklaces swung against him and Dimitri jolted as they slammed into his chest and throat, burning through his shirt like a dozen white-hot pokers. He gasped in spite of himself, in spite of the hot, wet mouth covering his cheek.
She sucked and licked the blood from his skin, her tongue making sensual circles over his flesh as he tried to keep his breath even. Then Lerina slid her blood-soaked lips to his, covering his mouth with her own, breathing his own bloodscent into him.
He used every effort to wade through the pain and tear his face away from her, but Lerina’s hands held him tightly, and the rubies were potent. Her fingers dug into the back of his skull, pulling his hair, her incisors sharp and sleek as she mauled his lips.