Sharon Page: Blood Curse

Mr. Ravenhunt managed to quell his smile. “You are afraid of me?” he asked.

“No.” She wasn’t, actually. She was not afraid of what he would do to her. She was thoroughly terrified of what she might do to him.

A soft, kind look came to his eyes. They were absolutely black, so there was no difference between iris and pupil, which made them look striking and unusual. They glittered in the light. Framed by thick, long lashes, they were stunning.

She couldn’t tell him the truth about her wretched, cursed power. She couldn’t bear to watch him run away from her, too.

He bowed to her, an elegant bow that made her catch her breath.

“I shouldn’t have used a lie to bring you here,” he said. “I am sorry about that, but I had no choice. It was not as if I could send you a note inviting you to my home.”

“No,” she said again. He could not have sent a letter to her to ask to meet. It wasn’t done—not letters from unmarried gentlemen to unmarried ladies. Especially not to ladies who weren’t . . . normal and who were locked up to protect the world.

Ophelia wished she could think of more to say, other than parroting “no.” But in her head, a voice warned: Run, before you hurt him.

“Lady Cresthaven was willing to play along with my game,” he continued. “She met you at the museum per my instructions. Fortunately you came back as you had done every day.” He smiled once more. His lower lip was full and pouty. His mouth was more beautiful than those on any of the statues.

“I thought you would not be able to resist this collection, Lady Ophelia.” He stepped toward her.

She tore her longing gaze away from his mouth. She couldn’t kiss him. Or touch him. Or let him touch her.

“Thank you for thinking of me.” Ophelia winced. The words sounded prim. Daft.

But what could she do? Since the first moment she’d seen this man, she’d been obsessed by him. At night, she made sculptures of him with clay. She had made one of his whole body, and in that one, she’d tried to guess what he looked like without any clothes.

She’d done them quickly and sloppily, driven by a mad passion to make something that looked so much like Mr. Ravenhunt that she could pretend she was caressing him , the actual man.

But she had to destroy her sculptures before morning, before Mrs. Darkwell could see them.

“You are very quiet.” Ravenhunt’s brows dipped in worry.

His face looked much younger than he behaved. From his relaxed manner of speaking with her, his lighthearted teasing, he showed obvious experience with women. She had guessed he must be almost thirty. But here, in the brilliant light of the chandelier, she thought his face looked like that of a young man in his early twenties.

“Are you so angry with me?” he asked.

“No. It’s just—” Lying was so awkward, but it was all she could do. Why had he lured her here? What if he hoped for—for something like a kiss?

“I cannot . . . do anything,” she said. How awkward she sounded. She would scare him away by sounding like such a ninny.

“I assure you I had no intentions of seduction, Lady Ophelia.”

The day they’d met, she had given him her real name. It had been a very dangerous thing to do. But she had not spoken to a gentleman in years. Not since she had almost killed her fiancé just by kissing him. Not since she had been taken away to Mrs. Darkwell.

Mr. Ravenhunt took a step closer. He held out his hand, an invitation for touching.

“No!” she cried. She edged around the statue, no longer caring how embarrassed she should be to take cover behind a naked man with an enormous erect . . . thing. “You mustn’t touch me.”

Ravenhunt dipped his handsome head in acknowledgment. “You will notice I am wearing gloves, Lady Ophelia. I believe you can’t hurt me if I’m wearing gloves.”

Ophelia almost toppled over. “You know about me? How could you know? That’s impossible.” Not even her family—all the family she had remaining—knew the whole truth about her power. Only Mrs. Darkwell did.

Gloves did nothing. She could hurt him no matter what he wore.

He grinned, a rakish smile of pure amusement. “I know everything about you. A kidnapper should know everything he can about his victim. Especially one as dangerous as you, Lady Ophelia.”

Kidnapper? “What are you talking about?”

He surged forward, his long strides closing the short distance between them. Ophelia’s heart seemed to take off in flight, pushing hard against her chest. But her legs tarried before they caught up.

Stupid, stupid legs.

She took two stumbling steps, and something grabbed her from behind. It had to be his hand. She screamed. He jerked back, she almost fell, but he caught her and a white cloth clamped over her face.

His hand pressed it hard over her nose and mouth.

A scent like burned sugar filled her senses—a sickly, nauseating, sweet smell. Her legs wobbled beneath her. Desperate, she grasped Mr. Ravenhunt’s forearm. She would have better luck pushing a carriage. His arm didn’t budge.

She was touching him. She would kill him.

She shouldn’t care!

She tried not to breathe, but of course, she had to draw in some air. Dizziness took command of her head. Ophelia tried to scream, but that only drew in more of the disgusting smell.

Blackness swept her up, thick and enveloping, and she realized with heart-stopping panic she was falling to the floor . . .

“Is it done?”

The voice came to him from behind a small grille placed within a heavy oak door. There was no light in the room, but as a vampire, the former Marquis of Ravenhunt could easily see in the dark.

His mysterious client had arranged that they meet here, in an abandoned church near the docks. The overwhelming scent of old spices and dust clogged his nose, and he could easily scent the fetid odor of river water and the ditches of sewage.

As with their other meetings, Ravenhunt—or Raven as he now called himself—stood in the dark, gloomy, long unused nave. His client would remain in the chancel, hidden by the rood screen that separated the spaces. Raven was forbidden to enter that other space. He had never seen the man who had paid him to kidnap Lady Ophelia Black.

The man claimed to be a vampire also. Raven did not know if that was true. Definitely his client was not human. Raven would have smelled that on him.

Raven had gone through numerous battles. As a mortal, he had fought in the war against Napoleon, then traveled to the exotic East, where he’d fought in uprisings in Ceylon. In Ceylon he had been turned. Returning to England as a vampire, he had allowed his family to believe him dead. His cousin had become the marquis, and Raven lived in isolation, acting as a kind of mercenary.

After all, when a gentleman was cursed to live forever, he had to do something to pass the time.

Approached by his mysterious client, he had become intrigued by the man’s interest—and determination—to have Lady Ophelia. Raven had refused the commission, claiming he would not do it until he understood the man’s motivation. To get him to take the job, his client had been forced to reveal the young woman’s power.

The truth had annoyed Raven. She had the power to kill with a touch, and his “client” had at first refused to divulge it. So now he drawled lazily, “Yes, it’s done. I have her.”

“Good. Bring her—”

“I did not say I was going to give her up.”

Silence from behind the door. Then the man barked, “What?”

“Now that I have her, I intend to keep her.”

Raven turned abruptly and made his way through the dark, dank church. He passed pews coated with dust, and the various trappings of religious devotion, encrusted with dirt and hung with spider webs. His lip curled.