1
1954, Eastern U.S. coastline
SINCE Elisa was gazing out the west-facing window of the private plane, she had first glimpse of the string of islands. Outlined in white foam, they were like flecks of green and brown jewels amid a vast expanse of deep blue sea. The islands were shaped like a question mark, a symbol that became even more pronounced as the plane dropped out of the filmy white cloud cover. The sudden flash of sunset made her squint and start back, despite its rose and gold beauty. She steeled herself against the heave of anxiety that flopped on an empty stomach. Well, not empty. A cold, tight knot she couldn’t loosen had become her belly’s permanent companion these days, like a dour, stillborn fetus, its potential terminated before it was realized.
Stop it. Pushing that away, she focused on the islands. This was a new place. A new start. She tried to make herself feel that, drawing a deep breath, letting it out. She’d started over countless times, hadn’t she? Ever since she was a child, born to an Irish prostitute in Perth. She’d been thrown on the streets to beg, steal and fend for herself practically before she could walk. Pulled in by a copper with a kinder heart than most, he’d found her work in a household as a cook’s helper, where she’d earned herself up from that to a housemaid. When she got pretty, she rucked up her skirts for the man of the house if her job was on the line. Getting rooted was nowhere near as bad as hunger or facing the dangers of the streets.
Things changed again, though, when an unusual dinner guest, a woman with sad but oddly still eyes, had paid a considerable sum to take her into her employ on her Western Australia sheep station. Elisa hadn’t known Lady Constance was a vampire. Not then. She’d sent Elisa to school, taught her how to dress and take care of her hair and nails properly. Even how to speak like a proper lady, eradicating the colorful common vernacular that might have kept her relegated to a lower rank in a household. By the time she learned the nature of her current Mistress, Elisa was so grateful for her kindnesses it didn’t really matter. Vampires were just another part of an unpredictable life.
The purpose of all those preparations had become clear the day Lady Constance brought Elisa to her room and explained her circumstances. “My daughter will come soon. When she does, you will repay my kindness by giving her your absolute loyalty.” The next morning, the sad-eyed woman had walked into the sun, disintegrating into ash while her consort, Lord Ian, slept on undisturbed. After he heard the news, Elisa remembered he’d drummed his fingers once on the table in irritation, then asked his human servant to season his breakfast blood with the cranberry-flavored sherry. He’d moved that servant into Lady Constance’s room before the wind had carried away the lingering remains of her ashes.
The arrival of her daughter, Lady Daniela, had put an end to all that. Elisa tightened her chin, vicarious satisfaction in the recollection. The female vampire had decapitated Ian at the dining table—that was a mess to clean up, for sure—and within a month had taken over as Region Master of the northwest territory with the help of her bushman servant, the quiet, handsome and altogether likable Devlin. Lady Danny made Elisa her second-marked servant right away, teaching her things about herself and her own sensuality that those previous ham-handed, clumsy employers never had, making Elisa feel strangely empowered. Until that fateful night.
Closing her eyes, she tried to shake away the horrific images before her mind could fill with them. She guessed she’d always been a simple soul, with a sturdy cheerfulness to prepare her for the life God had seen fit to give her. No matter her lot, there were always things to be thankful for. Particularly since Lady Danny had taken over. For a while, she’d been able to laugh with the other staff over nonsense, enjoy the cook’s dry humor, take secret glimpses at a new stockman who had a handsome smile and arse. Stretch out in her soft bed after a hard day’s work, knowing that in Lady Danny’s house, no one would be creeping in to bother her.
She’d pulled herself out of the muck that others had thrown upon her often enough, but she’d never experienced the bog of her own mind. Blood and screams were pushing in at the corners of such memories even now. In desperation, she groped for one of her best, though she’d never shared it with anyone, not even Willis.
He might not have called her a fool for it, but others would, and she didn’t want the memory sullied by the truth. It had been in her second employer’s home. He was far wealthier than Mr. Collins, her first employer. One of her tasks was laying out the dining room for grand dinners. Usually, she was all alone in the room, and that one day, the silence of it had caught her. After she’d finished the job, she’d gone to the door, turned to survey her handiwork. Dust motes had moved lazily in the sunbeams pouring through the tall windows, drenching her corner of the room. The mahogany sheen of the table, the beautiful gold-edged dishes, the sparkle of the wineglasses, the polish of the silver—it was all like that because of her, because she’d cleaned and arranged it.
When they sat down to eat that night, they might or might not notice how lovely and perfect it all was, but she did, and knowing she’d helped make it so gave her a swelling contentment. Hard work didn’t bother her none, and truth, this was really what she most liked doing. Making small corners of the world lovely to give pleasure to others, take care of them. Lately, she’d decided that Heaven would be having the mind wiped of everything but such simple memories.
Of course, with Danny, maybe she’d gotten too used to life being soft, which made it easier for something terrible to knock her off her feet. Like having the man she loved torn to pieces ten feet away and then being raped by the vampire who did it. Victor had been soaked in Willis’s blood, had it dripping from his fangs before he’d stabbed them into her flesh, punctured her with sharp talons, rutted upon her . . .