rode Jonathon as he left the room and found his own mask and cloak. Had Miss Lark really pieced together information in plain sight in the Society’s books and discovered a secret no one else knew? Or was she leading them into a trap?
He tied on his mask, knotting the cords. Swift was right—they needed to hunt down information on this master. Jonathon knew how valuable Serena Lark was. She was the first known vampire child. If this vampire Lukos knew…
Hell.
Jonathon swung his cloak around his shoulders, pausing on the threshold of the room. Drake Swift held Serena Lark’s hand, and she was smiling up into his partner’s eyes.
Jonathon’s heart felt like ice. Since he’d first set eyes on her—on her glossy black hair, seductive gray eyes, sweet heart-shaped face—he’d been obsessed with Serena Lark. Even before Ashcroft told him to watch her. He was obsessed with her in his dreams. When he bathed. When he rode. When he toiled in his bloody laboratory. Damn, even when he hunted. Especially when he hunted. While he stalked the fog-laden London streets, he dreamed of being in Miss Lark’s bed, making love to her, and hearing her cry his name—
Ashcroft wanted to let her change, wanted Jonathon to study the transformation of mortal to vampire. She was to change on her twenty-fifth birthday—All Hallow’s Eve. It was her destiny, Ashcroft insisted, and they would learn how to save vampires if they studied Serena Lark. Jonathon had to admit that was true. He hated letting her change, but he didn’t know how to stop it.
He knew exactly what service the Society would require of him when they decided Miss Lark was no longer of value. Once she transformed and gained her power, she would be too dangerous.
He would have to stake her.
4
Enslaved
Serena reached the bottom of the stone steps and held her candle up to illuminate the dark tunnel. It stank. There would be rats. A cold drop splattered on her neck, and she gave a smothered cry.
In front of her, Mr. Swift turned. His mask hid most of his face, shadows hid his eyes, but his lush lips cranked down in a grimace. “Smells like piss.”
Before she could agree, he caught hold of her waist and lifted her. “The floor is mud, Miss Lark.” He juggled her with ease so he was carrying her in his arms, one solid arm beneath the crooks of her knees, the other around her waist. His gloved hand splayed over her bottom.
He grinned, revealing a dimple in his right cheek—she could see the shadow of it, half-hidden by the exotic mask.
“Are you truly so concerned about saving my slippers, Mr. Swift?” she asked.
“Of course, Miss Lark. Don’t ask me to put you down—I won’t. I’m enjoying this too much.”
She had to laugh at that. Just a small giggle that only he could hear before the blackness swallowed it up. She held out a candle, but it did little to fight the dark. Lord Sommersby strode ahead—she could see his light a few feet ahead of them, hear the reassuring slap of his boots in the mud. The walls of the tunnel were too dirty, too covered in sludge to reflect much light. They were curved and gave the strangest sense of enveloping, like demonic arms.
The light played on the arched stone ceiling above them. At once Serena saw her research had been correct—the tunnel ended a few yards to the left, narrowing and closing to a wall of dirt and stone. It stretched into blackness in the other direction, and there was no sound but their breathing and the splatter of drips on mud.
Mr. Swift gave her bottom a squeeze, but he lifted her also, as though he’d only intended to improve his grip. She should protest, but she liked the pressure of his hand there. She hooked one hand around his neck. Even carrying her, Mr. Swift strode confidently into the dark.
Daringly, she let her bare fingertips brush his hair. So soft. So remarkably pale blond. He caught her gaze, his green eyes glittered in the faint light, and she saw wicked desire there.
Lord Sommersby stopped abruptly, his candle held in front. “Ahead,” he whispered. “I see the outline of the door.” His light twinkled on the gold painted stars on his rich midnight-blue mask. Serena glanced from his masked face to Mr. Swift’s. Both the Venetian masks sported strange long noses—noses with a downward curve at the end, like vicious beaks. They looked like creatures of fantasy, masked and swathed in black silk capes.
Twisting in Mr. Swift’s arms, Serena saw nothing but shadow, until the glow of Lord Sommersby’s candle touched a padlock, open and hanging off the hasp.
Serena’s heart leapt—there was nothing to stop them getting into the brothel.
“Remember, little lark—” The nose of Drake Swift’s mask bumped her lips. His voice held dangerous promise, as he set her on her feet. “You are our courtesan—our lover. You must play the part to keep us alive.”
Around her, dozens of people—vampires, courtesans, gentlemen—were having sex. Serena tried not to stare. She truly did. But the groans made her legs ache, and each time a woman cried out, it was as though a bolt of lightning struck her quim.
She remembered her confident answer to Mr. Swift. Yes, I can play the part.
Now, she wasn’t so certain.
Her hand on Lord Sommersby’s arm, Serena gaped at one vampire, his trousers down around his ankles, his tight, muscular derriere exposed. A woman’s bare white legs were hooked around the vampire’s waist and he held her up against a wall. He was thrusting into her so hard he shook the wall.
“I die!” the woman cried.
Goodness, they had to save the poor creature! But the woman screamed in pleasure and ripped at the vampire’s clothed back with fingers curved like claws.
The woman was enjoying herself. Her life wasn’t in danger—yet.
“Hell and perdition.”
She heard Sommersby mutter the curse. “My dear, you really don’t belong here.”
It was true. She’d steeled herself to expect audacious sex acts and lewd couplings—she’d seen many such illustrations in the Society’s hidden texts—but she knew he was right. She was not a virgin, and she truly liked sex, as illicit and unladylike as that was, but she was shocked by this. By women who willingly gave themselves to demons, who exposed their breasts to catch male attention, and who were willing to sink to their knees and kiss a man’s privy member at his command.
Many jades cast glances at Lord Sommersby and Mr. Swift—below the bizarre masks, both men’s beautiful lips and strong jaws were visible. She guessed the women knew the masks covered handsome faces, that the cloaks shrouded muscular, beautiful bodies.
The three of them kept to the shadows—though in this crowded corridor it was almost impossible. Serena noticed the care Lord Sommersby and Mr. Swift took to disguise the fact they had no fangs.
She was masked, too—in harem style, with a subtle strip of white cloth hiding her face. Mr. Swift had torn fabric from his cravat to fashion it for her. He’d chosen the part that wasn’t bloody from his wound, a wound that he cavalierly disregarded.
A woman with wild henna-red curls leapt in front of Drake
