“What happens to me doesn’t matter. I want to help him.” With that, with her crossbow loaded, she pulled open the church door and jerked her weapon up to guide her way into the church.
Candles burned, sitting in pools of wax at the ends of the pews. The flickering light made a length of gold, while darkness reigned everywhere else. Candelabra lit the altar. Guidon’s body lay on the floor in front of the altar and her heart lurched. For him . . . and for Raven.
Raven stood, half-naked in his trousers, his hands raised in the air, in the position of surrender. A dark- haired man who stood almost seven feet in height trained a crossbow on Raven, the arrow aimed at his heart. It was as if her thoughts were coming to her through fog-filled air. They came in dizzying snatches and snippets.
She had never seen this man before. His face was as white as marble, his features cut as clean as a sculpture’s.
What did he want from Raven, from her?
He had a crossbow, the tip of the arrow pressed right against Raven’s bare chest, directly over his heart.
The man motioned with the crossbow. “One more step, demon,” he barked at her, “and I shoot him. Rip a hole through his chest, take out his heart, and spear it into the wall beyond.”
“I won’t move,” she said quickly. Her voice didn’t even shake. She was terrified, but for some reason, her body was calm, her mind worked swiftly.
“My power is gone,” she said. “The vampire queen named Jade took it from me, and she was killed as she did, so the power vanished with her. It is gone. I can’t give it to you. We have nothing that you want.” It was a lie, but she hoped he believed it.
“You still have your power, my lady.” He sneered as he spoke her title. “I want two things from you—the damned vampires in the Royal Society attacked us tonight and arrested most of our group. I escaped. But there is no way those softhearted blood drinkers would want your death on their hands, Lady Ophelia. You will be my ticket to freedom. Then I will take your power and give you the freedom you want.”
“No.” Raven reached for the tall man, but the villain ruthlessly pressed the weapon harder against him. It broke his skin and blood dribbled, reminding them both of the threat.
“Don’t move,” she implored Raven. “He will kill you. I will go with him.” She knew Harry was in the shadows near the door. She had no idea if Darkwell had followed her in.
“Over my dead body,” Raven growled.
“You are already dead.” The man spat to his side. “You are a corpse that walks around, Ravenhunt—a revolting parasite that should be destroyed. Do not worry—you will be dead.”
A mocking grin widened the man’s mouth. He looked evil and hideous. He took a step back, and his finger jerked with infinite slowness.
Ophelia screamed as she saw the taut cord move, the arrow flying forward, propelled by the pull of the trigger. It shot, straight and true, across the meager two feet separating the Society man from Raven.
It drove into Raven’s chest, and protruded out the back.
He collapsed. Ophelia swayed on her feet, then forced herself to run forward. She dropped to her knees at his side.
He wasn’t moving. His eyes were open, staring glassily.
“Raven?”
No response. No twitch of his body, no attempt to move, no life in his eyes. Dear God, no.
A rough, harsh laugh echoed in her ears. The man stalked to her, grasped the collar of the shirt, and hauled her to her feet.
The floor tilted beneath her as the man shoved her forward. In the few seconds she had been at Raven’s side, this monster had reloaded his crossbow and prodded her back with the arrow to make her move.
Surely Raven would get up and pull the arrow out of him and he would be healed. Her heart poised in its beating, and she strained to hear him groan, or hear him get to his feet.
Nothing. Just cold silence broken only by the horrible fast breathing of her captor.
She couldn’t see Harry or Mrs. Darkwell. Had Brookshire and de Wynter brought men?
What did it matter? If Raven was dead, she didn’t care if he killed her now. She didn’t want to live.
“Why don’t you just shoot me?” she spat.
“Think you’ll be reunited with him?” The fiend’s laugh was harsh. “He’s got no soul. Destroyed, he lives in purgatory. Don’t know where you’ll go. You’ve got a soul, but it’s a witch’s one.” He pushed her out to the front steps of the church. “Go to that carriage over there,” he snapped.
Should she try to run? Fight him? Do something so he would shoot her and this would be done with?
Raven’s voice in her head. He wasn’t dead. She had to follow his orders, she had to stay alive.
The carriage steps dropped, and her captor pushed her up them. She lost her balance and sprawled on them. She scrambled up. He held the crossbow pointed at her, then he hauled a pistol from his pocket and kept it in his left hand. “Where are you going to take me?”
“To Darkwell’s. She will help me,” he muttered. “She will have to. I will not allow my mother to ignore her duties to me. Otherwise those damned Society vampires will kill me.”
“Your mother? Mrs. Darkwell is your mother? Who are you?”
“My name is Valde. I am part god, spawn of a mother who is a daughter of Aphrodite. I have powers of my own, you know. Powers you cannot comprehend.”
He spoke like a sulking boy. “I am sure you do,” she said. “But we do not need to go to Mrs. Darkwell. She is here.”
No one responded. She had hoped for a dramatic entrance of the demi-goddess. But there was silence, except for the whinnying of the four horses hitched to the carriage.
Her captor laughed. “A good attempt at distraction—”
“She is here, you fool,” Ophelia snapped. “But she now seems to have gone away.” Which meant she could not rely on Mrs. Darkwell, the demi-goddess, to rescue her.
How could she rescue herself? “Does my touch hurt you?” she demanded.
“No, because I am part god.”
So much for that idea.
A twanging sound came from behind her. Valde jerked around as a crossbow bolt slammed into the carriage between them.
It was not Harry, but the older gray-haired man of the Royal Society, Cartwell, along with young, pimply- faced gentlemen carrying a variety of weapons—pistols, blades, a crossbow.
“Stop, Valde,” Cartwell shouted. “No one man can claim her power. Your lackeys believed your rubbish and tried to help you, but they were wrong. No one can have such power.”
“I can, you bloody fool.”
In the shadows, Harry was approaching the Royal Society men from behind. But Valde lifted both his hands. Lightning bolts shot from his hands, like Mrs. Darkwell’s, yet much weaker. But they struck the men and knocked them back.
“Stop right there.” Harry came forward, pointing his bow.
Lightning flew at him, and she screamed.
The bolt exploded in midair, and the lightning burst against Harry’s chest, driving him back.
“Stop!” she cried. “I will give you anything.”
Valde lifted his hands, palms pointing toward her. But as the streak of light burst from his hands, it exploded in a brilliant flash in front of Ophelia’s eyes. Valde screamed, and when Ophelia could see again, she saw Valde on his knees, wailing with pain, his hands over his eyes.
“You foolish boy.” Mrs. Darkwell stepped forward, pain etched in her beautiful face, making her look much older and haggard.
“Ophelia!”
Ravenhunt’s voice! She looked up. He was limping down the stairs, with Guidon’s arm flung across his shoulders, and he was carrying the smaller vampire. Thank heavens they were both . . . alive. He set Guidon on
