torn one abusive customer limb from limb. Pain touched his silvery green reflective eyes—eyes that fiercely snapped up. “What in blazes happened to her? Did you kill her?”
“He didn’t touch her!” one of the courtesans cried.
“She just collapsed.”
She had been a favorite of Sebastien’s and he lifted her in his arms.
No one spoke of the red fluid.
“Take her to one of the bedchambers,” he demanded. Servants rushed to do his bidding, but Sebastien was the one to carry her away.
Zayan straightened. Why this ache around his heart?
Remorse, Zayan, whispered the voice. If you help me, I can give you what you desire most. You cannot have my power—I cannot give that to you. You did not understand. But I will give you your children and your soul. I will return them both to you as though two thousand years never passed. I can give you heaven on earth. I can give you both peace and love, and you remember, I know, how sweet they were. But you must serve me. The priceis your service—for a few more years, until you find the ultimate prize.
Of course she could not give him the power—he’d been betrayed again by a woman. I have served you, damn it, when I vowed to serve no one, he roared in his head. For that, return my children to me.
He had been the most feared Roman general. He had carved a brutal swath through the Gauls. He had been legendary—struck a hundred times by killing blows, only to rise again. Then his emperor, his closest friend, and his wife had all betrayed him. He had vowed never to serve again—but for the chance at immortality he had broken that vow.
In answer, pain sliced through his skull. Excruciating. He sank to his knees, pain slashing at his body. By the gods, he would drive a stake in his own heart to be free of this.
But he never would be.
He knew it meant the answer was no. The red power would not give him his children back unless he continued to serve. To see his children again, to give them another chance at life, he would have to be a slave.
Mayfair, London
May 1807
She was quite certain she was dying.
To take on the vampire Zayan had been foolish. The impetuous choice of a woman determined to prove she was as tough, resourceful, and fearless as any man. And she had been, Eugenia Bond thought. The vampire had just been stronger.
Zayan had not even been the one to wound her. She had been completely foolhardly. When Zayan had retreated from her, she’d triumphantly believed she could destroy him. She’d surged forward with her stake and another vampire, one named Guillaime, had come out of the shadows of Hyde Park, had wrenched her sharpened bit of wood from her hand, and had attacked her with it.
Just remembering the pain made her weak.
Eugenia stumbled along the streets of Mayfair, keeping to the shadows, seeking one house alone for refuge. Her brother would understand what had happened to her. He would be angry, but he would accept her into his home. She did not know how she could keep moving forward, given her wounds. But she had to. To stop would be to die.
Blood had soaked her gown and was dripping down her arms and legs. She was pulling herself along, clinging to wrought-iron gates and lampposts when she needed support.
Her brother’s house was so close. Only another block.
But there must be footpads in the shadows waiting for drunken gentlemen to rob. Would they come out for her?
Coaches clattered by, and several were stopped outside other mansions to unload passengers. Voices milled everywhere. Horses whinnied and shied. Coachlamps and lights at gateposts threw a brilliant flickering glow onto the street. It was a public, crowded place for a vampire to pursue her.
It was not Zayan who was following her, but some younger, lesser vampire who might be stupid enough to let himself be seen.
There. She heard them—stealthy footsteps behind her. She didn’t have the strength to turn. All she could do was throw her fear into a headlong plunge forward. The steps sped up behind her into a run.
Thank heaven for the crowd. Even though the dimwitted members of the ton merely gasped in shock at her and stepped back to give her room, it meant her vampire attacker would not spring in front of so many witnesses.
Number 16. Just the sight of the front door and its lion’s head knocker made her want to cry in relief. She stumbled up the steps.
“Madam!” cried a young footman in shock as he opened the door, and she promptly fell against him.
“Footpads,” she gasped, for his benefit, and that of the servants hurrying forth. Her pompous brother Edward would not want it to be made public that his sister was a vampire hunter. Edward thought her mad. It was only because he knew that vampires were not myth but reality that he had not already locked her into Bedlam.
Boots thundered across the tile floor. She had sagged on her back against the wall, clutching her side. Icy cold swept over her, and her fingers were numb. Dimly, she saw Edward’s face. Instead of being livid with fury, he was anguished with fear. “Eugenia. Dear God, what have you done?”
Engineered my own death. She thought the words but couldn’t say them. Her strength evaporated then, and the cold claimed her.
She slithered to the ground.
A brilliant light shone upon her, welcoming her, embracing her. In her mind, Eugenia reached out to it. It promised refuge from the cold. It was beautiful to behold, flooding out fear and uncertainty.
“Aunt Eugenia?”
She heard a child’s voice from far away.
“Don’t die, Aunt!” the girl cried.
Eugenia felt a pressure on her chest. The weight of a young girl’s head. I have no choice, she wanted to say. It is my time to go. This battle, I’ve lost.
But warmth flooded through her, a heat that took on a greater strength and made the bright, beckoning light fade away. Eugenia was pulled backward, pulled down to the bed on which her body lay, and she slammed back into herself with a jolt.
She forced her eyelids up and saw a girl standing at her bedside.
Miranda. The child was twelve, her golden hair still caught up in braids that did not tame the tempestuous curl. Her skirts skimmed below her knee. The child blinked rapidly, her blue eyes glistening, and tears streaked her cheeks. “Are you…all right, Aunt Eugenia? I felt the heat. You aren’t going to die now, are you?”
Good heavens, the girl had brought her back to life. She was weak still and could not sit up, but Eugenia felt the beat of her heart grow stronger and faster.
Her niece had pulled her back from the afterlife, and had, well, resurrected her.
She had encountered such strong magic only once before—in the vampire Zayan.
Exhausted by the ordeal of saving her aunt’s life, Miranda collapsed at Eugenia’s side. Weakly,
