Blood Curse

Oh God. A long shaft stuck out of his back. It was an arrow of some kind. Despite the sheer agony in her body, Ophelia dropped to his side. “Ravenhunt!” She felt along his strong back. Her fingers slipped in his blood.

“Should I pull it out?” she whispered. God, could she? “I don’t know what to do. Will I hurt you more if I try to pull it out?”

“No, love.” His eyes were black as pitch. His hand clutched hers, but then the pain came and he had to let her go. “Pull it out. Then I can heal.”

She gripped it and tugged, hoping to ease it out. But it wouldn’t go. He gave a cry of pain.

“I can’t do it.”

“You have to.” His voice was harsh. “Pull hard, don’t think about hurting me. Yank as hard as you can and rip it out.”

She pulled, wincing as he fought to smother a roar between his gritted teeth. It should be easy to hurt him—he was a vampire, and he had wanted to bite her. But it was not easy. She could not stand to inflict pain on him.

Then, with a horrible sucking sensation, the arrow came out.

Hands gripped her shoulders and jerked her backward. She was dragged along the cobbles in the alley. She could see legs all around her, male legs with boots.

She struggled—

A cloth was clamped over her face, and Ophelia breathed the same sweet, sickly scent she had when Ravenhunt had kidnapped her. Wildly, she struck out, trying to fight, but whoever gripped her face wasn’t afraid of her.

Her arms flailed weakly.

She saw Ravenhunt jerk to his feet. But a man in a black cloak stepped in front of her, lifted a crossbow. The arrow flew. It slammed into Ravenhunt’s chest and he fell back.

No! She screamed it in her head, for she could make no sound.

Was he destroyed? Could even a vampire endure such a thing? Desperately, she reached out toward him, but she was too dizzy and weak to move. He had been right, right about everything, and now she was going to die.

She couldn’t let him be destroyed for her—

She tried to fight free of her captors. Somehow she got to her feet, but then the brick walls whirled around her and her legs seemed to disappear beneath her.

Ophelia blacked out.

11 Prisoner

Ravenhunt!

Ophelia opened her eyes in a panic. She remembered everything. The horrifying twang of the crossbow’s string, the way his body had jerked as the arrow slammed into his broad, bare back . . . the look of agony in his dark eyes as he’d collapsed on the ground.

Dear heaven, she couldn’t see. Even with her eyes wide open, she stared into unfathomable blackness.

Fabric scratched her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. Something pressed against her eyes and the back of her head.

She was blindfolded.

Ophelia felt herself move through the air—she wasn’t flying, someone carried her in strong arms, but not with any care. Her legs struck something; her shoulder bumped an unyielding surface that could be a wall. Ropes bound her arms to her body and secured her wrists—too tightly. She couldn’t move her legs. Far too slowly, her senses came back. Pungent mustiness of old, damp wool flooded her nose and made her gag. It was a scent wafting up from just below her nose, so she knew they had bundled her in a blanket.

Panic made her heart thunder, her breaths sounded like hissing steam. If she could calm down, she might be able to hear. She fought to focus.

Whoever carried her breathed heavily, and his breath stank of beer and onions. Scraping sounds came to her ears, which she guessed were shuffling footsteps on a hard floor. There were other footsteps, too, crisper ones, which meant boots striking the ground in a refined gait.

Voices reached her ears, indistinct, as if through a thick, muffling fog.

“Bring her in here,” growled one voice—a deep and harsh male voice.

“No one can speak of this. If the rest of the Society learns of it . . . damnation, they have vampires within the Society. They’ve allowed the enemy to breach the walls.” This was a second voice, and it was low and filled with righteous anger. “If they knew about this, they would stop us. It’s the poison within. They want us to stop hunting monsters. They talk about acceptance. All of it is lies. They are trying to convince us to stop hunting them so they can take over the world.”

Hunting monsters. To these men, she must be a monster. Her heartbeat galloped, but her heart had nowhere to go, and she felt the pounding against her rib cage, even up in her throat.

There was a sharp, sour smell, as if someone had spilled brandy on the floor.

More footsteps sounded on the floor behind her, and her heart jolted with increased fear. There were more than just the two men. How many, she couldn’t distinguish. But with so many people surrounding her, she couldn’t hope to escape. She had to stay still, pretend to be unconscious. And wait.

Ravenhunt couldn’t come for her. He’d been shot just before she’d passed out.

It was sheer agony to think of it. Was he . . . heavens, was he dead? Could a vampire, who was undead, actually die? She didn’t know.

What if he had been destroyed? Her teeth sank into her lip, tears leaked under the blindfold.

She had to get away to go to him. Only hours ago—was it even that long?—she had fled, believing she must run for her life from Ravenhunt. Now, she was determined to help him.

Perhaps she was crazy to want to do it and insane to feel anything but fear for a vampire.

But Ophelia didn’t care anymore. Ravenhunt was the only person who had ever really protected her. She owed him so much.

How was she going to accomplish an escape when she was wrapped in a blanket and held in the strong arms of a man who thought her a monster that deserved to be killed?

Her breathing sped up, and she sucked in musty air. The blanket and the rock-hard arms were squeezing her lungs and she could barely breathe.

Don’t panic. If she could confront the fact Ravenhunt was a vampire without fainting or collapsing, she could cope with this. What she needed was courage. Ravenhunt had told her how brave she was. Perhaps she had better believe him.

With black cloth tied over her eyes, she couldn’t see a thing. Ophelia strained to hear sound, but it was quiet. She was in a place that smelled of spirits—a wine cellar? The basement of a tavern? There was only the dull echo of footsteps.

A clattering sound, following by a soft creak—a door opening?

“We must succeed in our mission.” The second man spoke again. Anger punctuated his every word. “We can never have peace with monsters like these. It is our sworn duty to slay them, and slay them we must.”

Ophelia fought to not tremble. Her captors must think her unconscious, oblivious to everything they said.

“The foolish old men of the Society called them ‘tamed’ vampires,” snarled a new voice, one she had not heard before. “Bloody hell, a vampire is a soulless beast. It cannot be tamed.”

“We have to make the Royal Society pure again,” whined another man, who had not spoken before. “But we were told to wait—”

“We had the opportunity to capture her and we took it,” growled the first voice. “She had escaped Ravenhunt, we had to act.”