Blood Curse

Her heart skipped a dozen beats as she drew back into the room.

He was flying away from her, leaving her, and it didn’t appear he was going to come back and attack again. Though she couldn’t be sure.

Her fingers went to her neck. Sticky droplets of drying blood perched on top of the wound.

She stared at the red smear on her fingers. Rubbed them together, but that did not make the blood disappear. He had fangs, he had tried to drink her blood, and he could change into a bat.

She had even wondered if he could be a vampire and she’d dismissed the idea. She had been so trusting, so naive, so utterly foolish. Why had she not listened to her instincts? He’d offered freedom and she had grasped at it, desperately and pitiably, trusting everything he’d told her.

For most of her life, she had been held prisoner by people who had lied to her. Even her parents had done so. They had tried to make her believe she would change and would one day be free. Even Mrs. Darkwell had lied—pretending that there was no way Ophelia could escape her power.

Ravenhunt had lied by omission. He certainly had not told the truth and revealed he was a vampire.

It was time she took charge of her life. But what exactly was she going to do? She was trapped in a vampire’s house.

Ophelia leaned on the door frame, trying to think. Why had he spared her? Why had he changed into a bat and flown away?

That she could answer. He couldn’t kill her yet. He wanted her power. That was all she was worth to him—her horrible power that she’d been cursed with. He must have planned, after he’d taken her power away, to feast on her blood for his dinner.

The warty, evil wretch. The slimy, scummy vulture. The—the monster.

Cold fury rushed through her, filling her with determination. Every horrible word she called him gave her strength.

He had gone upstairs. He’d told her the house was a fortress that she could not escape, so where was he going?

Sorry, he had whispered. Could it be an apology? Could it mean he hadn’t wanted to hurt her? He was flying away—a vampire’s version of fleeing—to protect her. She knew it was because he couldn’t feed from her yet, but it meant he was flying to somewhere. Where?

Fired by anger, by the determination to beat him and get away, Ophelia stepped out into the eerie darkness. Running her hand along the wall to guide her, she made her way down the wide corridor.

Perhaps she was heading into danger, but logic told her he intended to fly to somewhere that wasn’t in his house. If he was escaping her, it meant he was leaving her.

When he had gone to rescue her, he’d done it without any clothes. Now she knew why—when he changed shape, his clothes fell off him. That meant he had flown out of his house to find her.

There must be a way out of his house. She had to find it.

At the end of the corridor, the door to the servants’ stairs stood open. The narrow steps disappeared into darkness.

She would go up.

The stairs creaked beneath Ophelia’s feet. When she reached the top, a cold draft leaked out of a doorway, brushing her bare arms. Something was open to let the outside night air inside.

Here, grayish moonlight streamed in through a few dirty windows. It gave enough light to reveal there was no winged Ravenhunt above her. Unless he could perch, curled up, the way ordinary bats did, and he could hide in the rafters.

In the dim light, she saw the attic was divided into two spaces. Cold air wafted through one doorway, which must mean a window was open and that was how he’d escaped the house.

It might be a way out for her.

Except she was four stories above the street.

Following nippy air that made her shiver and hug her arms, she made her way into the quiet room. It was a large space, and she saw at once he hadn’t gone out a window. There were only two and both were shut, encrusted with dust. Beds stood in rows in the dim space, obviously intended for servants, but the brass frames were bare of mattresses. No one had used this room for years.

Something cold and slippery hit her cheek and slid down.

Her scream filled the room. She wanted to run but couldn’t see where to go. She forced her legs to stay put. She couldn’t be a coward now.

Another slippery, horrible thing dropped to her lips—

Water. It was water dripping down on her.

There had been a light patter of rain earlier, when they’d been in the bedroom. She had barely noticed it. Flushing, she felt stupid remembering how excited she’d been, how aroused and thrilled and happy.

She really had been an idiot.

No, she wasn’t a fool. She had been trusting, but was that so bad?

Ophelia looked up. The ceiling was slats of board, aged and dark, against a midnight sky. One more drop fell and she stood under it and saw a change in the blackness above her—a place where she glimpsed gray clouds. A slight grinding sound came from the ceiling, and then the small rectangle of cloudy sky was gone, leaving inky, uniform darkness in its place. No more rain fell.

There had been an opening. Now it was gone.

And so was Ravenhunt.

The key.

Ophelia had stood, staring up at the ceiling for minutes before she remembered Ravenhunt’s robe tumbling to the floor when he’d shifted shape. His clothes must be in his bedchamber. His key was either with his robe or his clothes. He couldn’t have taken one with him when he shifted shape.

It was her way out of this house—out of the nightmare of being a vampire’s prisoner. He wasn’t the hero she thought he was. Instead, he was a monster, an undead demon who fed on blood.

It changed everything.

Yes, he had rescued her from those men—though she had only his word for it they were from the Royal Society and wanted to dissect her to study her power. Yes, he had flown away tonight rather than hurt her, but he had wanted to bite her. His fangs had actually cut her flesh.

Fighting his hunger for her blood had been a tremendous struggle for him. How vividly she’d seen it. It was part of his nature and it was something he could not control. That was something she understood. She knew what it was like to have a power you could not stop, no matter how hard you tried. What if he gave in next time?

Ravenhunt would kill her.

The key. She had to find it. Hiking up the trailing ends of the robe, she ran out of the attic room and raced down the stairs.

Panting, she reached his room. His clothes had been just tossed on the bed, and she slid her hands through them to find the key. His shirt and trousers carried his scent—sandalwood, and a spicy smell that was unique to his skin. Smelling it made her throat tighten. So did remembering his beautiful, almost-naked body standing at the foot of the bed. She thought of his dark eyes, bright with desire, as he watched her, admiring the way he’d tied her up.

Tears burned in her eyes. Why? Why should her silly eyes be filling with tears? She hadn’t lost him; she’d never actually had him in the first place. He wasn’t mortal, and he didn’t care about her.

Her fingers brushed cold metal. With a soft cry of triumph, she grabbed the key—

She couldn’t escape anywhere while wearing nothing but a velvet robe. Key in hand, she took two steps toward the door to go to her own room, when inspiration struck. His lush skin-smell was still in her head. His clothes were imbued with it.

His clothes.

Female clothes were hopeless—long, tangling skirts, heavy fabric, corsets. No one could escape anywhere dressed like that.

She would wear his clothes. It meant drenching herself in his smell, and she wanted so much to forget him, but she had no choice.