with blood.
It had smiled at me.
I closed my eyes even now, curling my fingers tight. I fought away the horrific images, the memory of fear and terror that rushed over me as I stumbled toward the vampire, stake in hand. I’d never forget the smell. Blood.
Death.
Evil.
I remembered washing my hands over and over, trying to scrub the blood away even as I tried to recall exactly how it got there. I had no clear memory of what had happened: whether I’d killed the vampire as I’d meant to do . . . or remained paralyzed by the sight of Mr. O’Gallegh’s blood spilling everywhere.
Had my mentor, Siri, intervened? Or had the vampire escaped?
That uncertainty and the knowledge of my failure haunted me.
Now, a year after my only encounter with a vampire, I still shuddered over the memory of that night . . . and from the horror I’d witnessed in the museum.
Mina Holmes had approached that awful scene so readily. She’d seemed so fascinated with it, I half expected her to crouch and sniff at the blood with that long, slender nose of hers.
Shame rushed through me, landing like a stone in the pit of my belly. I was the Chosen One of my family, born to hunt vampires, endowed with superhuman strength and speed. And yet at the sight of blood and carnage, my insides curdled, my stomach heaved . . . and I became paralyzed.
I often wondered why Bram hadn’t been the one called. He had a morbid interest in all things UnDead and considered himself an expert. And yet he had no comprehension of what it was like learning how to fight them. How to wield a stake and where to slam it into the vampire’s chest for the fatal blow. Preparing to take the life of a creature, damned or not.
But I was the one who’d been chosen, the one who’d been called to this life. And I was determined to follow in the footsteps of my ancestor Victoria, the most famous female vampire hunter to ever have lived.
Naturally, Mina Holmes and her steel-cased stomach lacked the physical attributes that enabled me to protect myself from dangers on the dark streets. Miss Holmes might have a brilliant mind, but I was faster, stronger, and possessed the ability to sense the presence of a vampire by the unpleasant chill over the back of my neck. That, at least, was small consolation.
As Miss Holmes’s cab trundled off on damp cobblestones, leaving me alone with the night, I closed my eyes and listened to the familiar sounds of sleeping London. There was the faint shhhhhh and the accompanying rumble of a Night-Illuminator meandering its way down the street. On the next block, one of the heavy gates to a street-lift clanged. The air smelled of damp grass and coal smoke, along with the ever-present twinge of sewage—stale, putrid, dank.
“Waitin’ for something?” said a male voice. Very close behind me.
My eyes popped open, and I barely managed to swallow a gasp of surprise. “I was simply waiting for you to show yourself,” I replied without turning around. Though my heart was ramming in my chest, my voice came out smooth and steady. I eased a hand toward the pistol weighing down my skirt pocket.
His low, rumbling laugh sent a prickle of awareness over the back of my neck. It was almost . . . pleasant. Not like the eerie warning that an UnDead was near.
“Cop to it, luv,” he said, a heavy dose of Cockney in his tone. “Ye didn’t granny me till I spoke.”
I turned, searching the shadows. I spied him in a dark nook of the wall, tucked behind a slender bush. I could just make out his form next to the sharp line of the bricks, but no details other than the angle of his hat.
“Right,” I replied. “Neither your presence nor your absence matters to me.” My pulse had spiked, and anticipation barreled through my veins. At last, something interesting was happening.
Something dangerous.
He chuckled again and shifted a little. A splinter of moonlight slashed down from the hat brim to his face, jolting over a shoulder covered in a long, flowing coat. I had the fleeting impression of a dark brow and the quirk of a smile.
The man eased out of the shadows. He was taller than me and had broad shoulders. I caught the glimpse of a square, clean-shaven chin. Although I hadn’t seen more than an impression of his countenance, from his voice and demeanor, I guessed he wasn’t much older than I. “Pr’aps you were waiting for someone else to appear? Some ’andsome gent t’woo ye in the moonligh’?”
The cool metal of the firearm felt comforting in my pocket, but I saw no need to pull it free. I was more curious than anything. And even with my unfinished training, I could easily defend myself against a mortal man.
“I was merely taking in the night air,” I replied. Why was I still standing there talking to him? Unless . . . “What are you doing, lurking about at this time of night? You must be up to no good.”
Again he smiled. This time, I caught a glimpse of white teeth and a dimple in his right cheek. “I’m allus up to no good, Miss Stoker,” he said in a voice that dipped low and dark and velvety.
A little surprised flutter went through my belly—only because he knew my name. Not at all because of the way his voice seemed to wrap around me and tug, deep inside. “You seem to have the advantage of me, boy.”
But my juvenile insult didn’t have any effect on the young man, who was years past being a boy.
He gave another of those low, rumbling laughs. “ ’Aving the advantage o’er a vampire rozzer is quite the accomplishment, then, aye?”
This time, the prickle that squirreled up my spine wasn’t as pleasant. Not only did he know my name, but he knew my secret identity as well? My fingers tightened around the cool butt of the pistol.
“What do you want?” I asked again. I’d definitely lost my advantage, if I’d ever even had one.
He seemed to sense the change in my demeanor, for his own easy personality became more intense. “I don’t know all that ’appened inside there tonight, but when the Jacks get called in, even a glocky like me knows ’tain’t for the good. Someone buy it? The Ripper at it again?”
I raised my eyebrows, even though I’m sure he couldn’t see them in the dim light. “A glocky like you?” I understood his Cockney slang and the false modesty he was attributing to himself. Even from the few moments in his presence, I knew this man was not the least bit half-witted or, in his term, “glocky.”
“Nothin’ wrong with a bit o’ modesty, luv, now, is there?”
Just then I caught the faintest shadow of movement from above. He noticed it too, for we both looked up at the same moment. It was an odd airship, cruising much lower to the ground than usual.
My companion muttered something, and the next thing I knew, I was propelled back into the deepest niche of the building’s exterior. The force of his body, strong and quick, shoved me into the dark V of two brick walls as if he intended for us to melt into them.
Surrounded by the damp, tobacco-scented wool of his coat, I found my chin pressed into his shoulder as a strong arm curved around my waist. Nevertheless, I kept looking up and watched as the strange airship slid past us. Low enough to enter an air-canal, it slid between the buildings. It was so close, a person could step from the upper streetwalks onto the vessel.
This was unlike any airship I’d ever seen. It was a slender, elliptical shape, smaller and more elegant than the ones I was familiar with, and it boasted wicked-looking fan-like wings and a swallowtail.
This one . . . it moved like a dark cloud. Eerie and forbidding. Breathless. Ghost-like.
“Bloody hell,” my companion murmured.
I realized with a shock that I was still plastered up between his formidable chest and the damp brick wall. And that his Cockney accent was all but gone. “What was that?”
“ ’Tis jus’ as well ye don’t know. ’S a battle ye’d be best out of.” He looked down. His face was close, his eyes focused steadily on me. The bridge of his nose was a slightly lighter shade than the shadows around him. I realized my breathing had gone shallow.
“I’m certain they didn’t see us.” I had to say something. Then I started to push him away, but he didn’t move. And although I could have shoved him to the ground with ease, I held back. I didn’t want to expose the full extent of my strength . . . even though he knew my identity.
It was only then that I remembered to uncurl my fingers from the lapel of his coat.
“What’s the ’urry, luv?” he asked in a low, rumbling voice. “Ye’ afraid I’m gonna fan ye ’ere?”
