Bite Me, Your Grace

Twenty-six


Angelica awakened to a strange mewling sound. She lifted her head from her desk and winced as the cramped muscles in her neck screamed in agony. She had fallen asleep writing again. She looked down at the crinkled paper she had used as a pillow, grimacing at the smudged words. I’ll have to rewrite this page all over again. She frowned as she rubbed her cheek and saw that her fingers came away stained with ink.

Loki mewled again. She turned to see the cat on the windowsill, frantically pawing at the pane of glass that let in the early-morning light.

“What is the matter, Loki?” she asked, blinking as her eyes adjusted. “Do you need to go outside and do your necessary?”

The cat let out a plaintive wail. Her heart turned over in alarm. She had never seen the kitten behave in such an odd manner before.

Angelica stood up and stretched, yawning as the bones in her spine popped. Her feet were numb and her legs tingled from being in an uncomfortable position for so long. Rubbing her eyes, she made her way to the window. She peered outside, expecting to see a bird or a squirrel or some other thing that would catch a feline’s fascination. Instead what she saw made her heart stop and her blood freeze. She clung to the window frame and gasped.

A strange man had entered the rear garden. He was right below the window, creeping at a stealthy pace through the cropped grass, headed toward the mausoleum. Slung across his left shoulder was a bulging canvas bag with a piece of wood protruding out of it. In his right hand he carried a wooden stake, the tip sharpened to a deadly point. There was no doubt as to the stake’s purpose. Angelica bit back a moan of agony. Her heart felt as if it were being crushed in a vise.

This is one of the vampire hunters Ian told me about. She put a hand to her throat to stop her pulse from exploding from her neck. And he’s going to kill Ian! Loki growled and leaped to the floor, darting to the door. Angelica fought for breath, fully comprehending his urgency, yet momentarily frozen in terror. Her mind screamed at her to take action, and she willed herself to move. After an agonizing battle, her panic abated slightly and the blood returned to her limbs.

She spun from the window, eyes darting around the small room, looking for anything that could be used as a weapon. There, a sharp, silver letter opener. A small cry of triumph escaped her lips as she snatched the instrument from the lamp stand and ran out of the room. Loki sprinted ahead, barely staying in her view. Bright shafts of sunlight streamed in from the windows, illuminating the swirling dust motes. The servants were still abed. The house was silent and the only sound was her frantic heartbeat roaring in her ears.

She flung open the rear door and choked back a small scream. The hunter had already found his way inside Ian’s marble lair. Frantic hope bloomed in her breast when she saw that he had left the door open. Her pulse raced almost as fast as her legs as she darted through the garden, oblivious to the sharp branches and brambles that tore at her gown and scraped her flesh.

Angelica ran into the gaping mouth of the mausoleum. Ian, Ian! Her mind cried the desperate litany. She stumbled, almost pitching headfirst down the long stone steps that descended into a black, unknown void. Would he awaken? Could he defend himself from an assassin who knew a vampire’s weaknesses? Taking a deep breath, she lifted her skirts and plunged into the darkness, praying she’d get to her husband in time.

She rounded a corner to see the hunter approach Ian’s unconscious form. He lay on a stone slab as still as if he were already dead. Her soul clenched at his beauty, and she knew she could never stop loving him. God, why have I realized this too late?

A candle guttered in the small stone chamber, casting erratic shadows on the walls and across the hunter’s back. Her heart seized, her blood as thick as molasses, as the man held the stake to Ian’s chest with one hand and raised a hammer to pound it in with another.

Ian’s eyes opened, widened in shock, then turned to meet hers. His face contorted into a mask of despair and accusation.

“No!” Angelica screamed at Ian and the hunter. She charged forward, skirts tangling around her legs.

She was too late.

The hammer came down.

Angelica groaned in agony as the stake buried itself halfway into Ian’s chest with a sickening crunch of bone. The man glanced at her, indifferent to her pain, and raised the hammer again. She went numb with shock, but then a white-hot rage boiled inside her and exploded from her being. This man would die.

She leaped onto the hunter’s back and slashed at his face and throat with the letter opener, shrieking in a fury that bordered on insanity.

“But lassie, I have saved you!” the hunter cried, which further fanned the flames of her wrath. “Lass, please stop! The monster is dead, or he will be soon if you’ll let me—”

The man struggled to throw her off, but Angelica fought like a madwoman and clung tenaciously to her victim, hacking at him over and over with her small but lethal weapon as her hands grew more and more slippery with blood. She lost hold of the letter opener for a second and caught a ringing blow to the side of her head as she snatched the slender blade before it could fall.

“You little bitch!” the hunter roared as she sliced open his cheek. He bucked like a raging bull, yet still Angelica managed to hold on.

His fists struck her all over; his nails clawed at her arms. She shrieked as a hank of her hair was ripped from her skull, but still she fought. Angelica screamed like one possessed as she buried the point of the letter opener in the murderer’s throat. His hands ceased their assault and fluttered against his chest like wounded insects. A disgusting, gurgling sound escaped his throat. Blood bubbled from his thick lips.

Finally, the hunter collapsed as his life’s blood continued to pour from his neck and face. Angelica didn’t spare him a second glance. She ran to Ian and pulled on the stake with all her might. As it slowly wrenched free, her heart contracted as if the infernal object had pierced her breast as well. She threw the loathsome object as far away as she could and turned back to her love. Blood welled from his gaping wound at an alarming rate. But she could see that his heart still beat with a feeble pulse. A thrill of hope electrified her being.

“Oh Ian, my love,” she whispered. “Please live, please.”

She tore off her muslin day dress and rolled it up. With shaking hands, she stuffed the fabric into the wound and leaned on his chest with her elbow, hoping she could apply enough pressure to staunch the flow. He had already lost a great amount of blood, and his skin was as white as her chemise. Her fingers sought his throat once more. The pulse remained, but it was fading. Panic clawed at her, but she fought back the mindless fear, knowing that if she allowed it to incapacitate her, Ian would die. Her thoughts raced for something, anything to do next.

He needs more blood, she realized. Angelica leaned over as far as she could, her fingertips reaching the letter opener. Slowly, she dragged the weapon closer. The scraping sound on the rough stone floor echoed loudly in the silent chamber. Her heartbeat and breathing roared in her ears as her incessant panic fought to gain a foothold over her mind. When she was able to fully grasp the weapon, she cried out in triumph. Her nose wrinkled in disgust at the congealed blood of the vampire hunter already drying on the metal surface. With a deep breath and a whispered prayer, she sliced open her wrist, hissing at the sharp pain that raged through her arm like fire.

She pressed her bleeding wrist to Ian’s mouth. As the blood began to flow down his chin, she used her other hand to force his lips wider apart, whispering, “Please, Ian, drink. Please live. Please. I love you, Ian. God, I love you. Please don’t die!”

At first the blood trickled out of the corners of his mouth and ran down his face to pool in his hair. Tears welled up in her eyes. Was she too late? But then, his chest rose as he took a shuddering breath. A current passed between them.

His eyes snapped open and his fangs pierced the tender flesh of her wrist. She sighed in relief even though her heart felt as if it would be tugged out of her breast as he began to suck her blood in long, greedy pulls. “I love you.”

The edges of her vision tinged with black and white spots flashing before her eyes, and finally Ian released her. Though he still had an alarming pallor, the deathly cast of gray had abandoned his flesh. He might live. Triumphant relief surged within her being that the hunter hadn’t murdered her love.

The hunter… Angelica peered over at the mutilated corpse on the stone floor. Its glassy, dead eyes stared at her in eternal accusation.

I killed him. The world tilted, began to spin. I killed a man. Her body trembled in shock as dizziness overtook her. Angelica’s muscles turned to water and she pitched forward. Just before blackness closed over her, Ian’s strong arms enfolded her and she heard one last word from his beautiful voice.

“Angel.”

***

Ian’s heart constricted as Angelica’s blood coursed through his veins, a heart-rending sacrifice. She’d been willing to die for him.

When he saw the vampire hunter poised over him with her standing nearby, he was ready to die to be spared the agony of his wife’s apparent betrayal. He’d thought she hired the hunter to kill him. As the stake plunged deep into his heart, the pain was so agonizing that he lost consciousness and greeted death and oblivion with open arms.

Then he awoke to the sweet, unforgettable taste of his Angel’s blood flowing down his throat, quickening his body and healing his wound.

“I love you,” she’d whispered achingly before fainting across his chest.

Ian extracted her wrist from his mouth and bit his lip to place a healing kiss upon the wound. He carefully rolled Angelica off his body, laying her reverently on the cool marble, and sat up to take stock of his injuries. She’d stuffed her dress into his wound, he realized. Ian shook his head in wonder as his wife’s heroic efforts to save his life struck him anew. He pulled out the fabric before the bones and flesh could knit around it. He tied the muslin around his torso, wincing at the combination of pain and the tingling of healing that rushed through his immortal body. Yet still, he needed more.

Slowly, he eased her on her back and rolled off the slab, his face contorting in agony as his chest seemed to rip apart.

With impossible slowness, he dragged his body to the crumpled form of the hunter. The man was dead, but the blood would still be warm. Ian swallowed with revulsion at what he had to do; then he plunged his fangs into the man’s neck, draining the corpse dry of what sustenance he could gather.

When he had taken all he could, he looked at the gaping cut on the man’s throat and the rest of the shallow wounds covering his face and neck. The top of one ear had been sliced clean off. It was obvious that his wife had fought like a demon for him, and his heart ached anew at the pain he had heaped upon her.

He looked at the corpse one more time, and his eyes widened as recognition speared him. The vampire hunter was no amateur. He was none other than Ben Flannigan, the bane of the vampire world, who had more than a dozen kills to his name. The man had become such a threat that the Elders had lifted their ban on killing humans and put a price on his head. And his tiny, mortal wife had been the one to take him down.

As the blood revitalized and healed him further, he was able to return to his bride much quicker. Though he could ill afford it, Ian bit his finger. Gently Ian coaxed Angelica’s lips to part, giving her a meager amount of his power back. Her color improved, but still she did not awaken.

“God, I have been such a fool,” Ian whispered.

For the first time in centuries, tears burned his eyes. He should have known she did not marry him with the intention to expose and destroy him with her writings, or even to become rich and titled. He now remembered what she had said when she’d announced her willingness to wed him and her confessions of her attempts to escape the match.

“I was not going to marry you at all! I have been doing everything I can to avoid it and I was going to run away!”

“And just where were you planning to run to?” he’d accused.

“I was going to use the money I made from my stories to rent a flat somewhere in the city, and support myself with short stories until I finished a novel. I heard the lady who wrote Pride and Prejudice made one hundred forty pounds.”

“That would not be enough to buy your pretty gowns.”

“Gowns can go to the devil! Besides, they are not sensible garb for an author, I should say.”

She had been so irritating but so magnificent in her rebellious pride and naivety.

He held her closer, kissing her brow as he remembered her words the first night they’d made love.

“If I had known it would be like this, I would have insisted you marry me the very night of the Cavendish ball!”

“Oh God, I hurt her so unbearably,” he whispered. “I hurt her and yet she still loves me! And she risked her life to save mine. What have I done?”

He stroked her pale cheek with his thumb, willing her to open those dark gypsy eyes he loved so much. He needed her impish gaze, her light laughter and intoxicating touch. He needed everything about her. She’d made him feel more alive than when he was human.

Needing her kiss as much as he needed blood to survive, he pressed his lips to hers. “I beg of you, wake. Please, my precious Angel,” he prayed as he held her in his arms. “Wake so I can tell you how sorry I am, and how much I love you. God, I love you.” He couldn’t say the words enough. “I love you. I love you.” He repeated the litany over and over again until exhaustion overcame him and he fell asleep, still clinging to her with a vow never to let her go again.