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  His voice stirred the air next to her ear. “Followed my nose.”

  Elle spun around.

  “You smell like violets.”

  “Right.” She raised her eyebrow slowly.

  His eyes were like molten gold. “You do.”

  “That’s stupid.” With him so close, it was the best she could come up with. Which said it all, really.

  He took a step closer, his chest almost touching hers. “You didn’t tell me to get out.”

  She was barely breathing. He touched her shoulder and she winced.

  “What happened?” His touch turned, light, careful.

  “I dislocated it.”

  He frowned. “How? Did you get in another bar fight? I told you to be careful.”

  She shook her head. “I’m a guard.” It was her job to deliver the beatings, not receive them. Then she sighed. “My cousin, Bjorn, threw me against a wall. We were training.”

  Clay gently felt around her joint. “Well, it seems to be back in place. It still hurts?”

  Elle shrugged out of his grasp and slumped onto her bed, rubbing her injured body part. “I’m human.”

  He grinned. “I had noticed that.”

  She stared at him with a feeling close to resentment. “We don’t heal like you do.” We age, we die, she thought.

  “I forget about that.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Oh, how fortunate for you.”

  “It can be annoying.”

  “Your memory problem? I imagine it could be at times.”

  He rolled his eyes. “You’re a real handful, you know that?”

  “First time I’ve heard it.” She fought to keep the smile from her face. Why was she even talking to this guy? He’d stalked her!

  You have serious issues, her mind said.

  She told it to shut up.

  He leaned back against the curtains, his body enfolded by azure material. “Oh? That surprises me.”

  She shrugged and then winced in pain. “Well, normally it’s ‘psycho bitch,’ ‘crazy fool’ and things of that nature.”

  He folded his arms across his chest, his shirt wrinkling and bunching, leaving the dark trail of hair that marched down his stomach exposed. “That’s not very nice.”

  “That’s life.” She thought back through their conversation. “So why do your super-healing problems rate as annoying?”

  She would have thought they’d be pretty awesome.

  He moved one of his arms, slashing it through the air. “Imagine breaking an arm and not setting it right, only to have to re-break it again.”

  “I thought that part of the super-healing powers meant you didn’t need to have bones set—they had some type of ability to heal how they should.” Elle absently rubbed her shoulder.

  The wolf took a step closer to her and stopped when she tried to slink away from him. “I’m not going to bite.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “That’s what they all say.” She didn’t move her eyes from his teeth.

  He shook his head. “I won’t.” A grin flashed. “Not this time, anyway.”

  “Oh, I’m so relieved.”

  The grin turned wicked. “I only bite when I’m trying to keep the sound of my groans quiet.”

  She wanted to say something mocking, but her mind was caught on the idea of why he’d need to keep his groans silent. She shuddered and closed her eyes, picturing his body moving…What was wrong with her? He was a wolf and she was human. He was interesting, as much as he was annoying. She couldn’t believe she was entertaining the thought of him naked. But she was, blood help her. Maybe it was because she was tired. And she hadn’t had sex in a long time. She was attracted to strong men, and the only ones she spent time with were colleagues or relatives. Which meant they weren’t options. Plus, thinking of Clay naked was a wonderful thought.

  “What are you thinking?” His voice was a whisper next to her ear.

  Opening her eyes, she noticed the wicked gleam in his eyes. “Get out.” It was weak, her voice breathy.

  “In a minute.” His hands came up to cup her jaw and he leaned forward, his lips touching hers softly, their texture warm and firm. As they molded over hers, his tongue swept forward, sending tingles down her spine. Without thinking, she wound her arms around his neck, but broke away from the kiss when her shoulder protested. And logic descended.

  Pain and reason returned. “What did you do to me?”

  “Kissed you.” He was still too close—she could smell him and it was good.

  She stared at him.

  “People have been doing it for thousands of years.” He brushed some hair back from his face. “That wasn’t your first kiss, was it?”

  She jerked. “No!”

  “Oh.”

  Irritation and embarrassment rushed through her. “What? Was it that bad?”

  He laughed and she kicked him in the shin. He looked at her, mouth hanging open.

  “Quiet!” she hissed.

  “Get out?” he offered.

  “That too.”

  He darted forward, too quickly for her to stop him, and kissed her firmly. “Until next time.” Then he climbed out the window.

  Chapter 10

  Anton flicked his arm outward, then grabbed the snowy white sleeve of his evening shirt and fastened the ends together with a ruby cufflink. He straightened the sleeve before reaching up and flipping over his collar. Turning to the mirror, he studied his reflection, straightening his simple black cravat as he did so.

  He was thinner than he’d been two days ago, his cheekbones more pronounced. Beads of sweat were glistening on the caramel skin of his forehead. His normally short, wavy black hair hung lank over his head, despite the washing he’d given it. Shadows loomed under his brandy-colored eyes and he watched as the man in the mirror winced.

  Anton wasn’t well, but he wasn’t suffering the agony he’d experienced for the last two days. He didn’t know what had triggered it, but he doubted it would happen again. At least, he hoped not. He’d fired his cook, cleaned out the medicine cabinet and studied every inch of skin he could find to make sure there weren’t any needle marks or vampire bites. He hadn’t knowingly been with a vampire—he was faithful to Annabel, after all—but he’d heard stories where they could charm humans into doing whatever they wanted.

  Deciding that he wasn’t going to improve on his sickly appearance, he rang the bell for his valet, who arrived and helped Anton into his tailored black evening jacket. It was a little loose on him, not the second skin it had been designed to be. Running a hand over his lifeless hair, he thanked the servant, grabbed his silver-tipped walking cane and headed out to the marble entry, to wait for his carriage.

  Black and white tiles spread out across the entrance, stretching from wall to wall and to the foot of the elaborate marble and wood staircase. Sculptures and vases sat in wall niches, their presence a statement of his family’s wealth rather than the good taste that had selected them.

  His home wasn’t really a bachelor’s residence, but it had become that this year, since he was the only Greystoke in town. He was always in town, unlike his family. They preferred country life, said the air was cleaner, the stench of vampires less apparent. Actually, those were his father’s words. Anton was quietly positive his mother would be thrilled to spend time in town. He couldn’t argue against his father’s logic though, and he didn’t really want to. His sister and mother were safer in the country with his father, the Earl of Maerton, who was also the local magistrate. There was only one aristocratic family in the area and they were wolves, more interested in breeding sheep and cattle for meal times than corrupting or eating the local humans.

  The sound of carriage wheels on cobblestones grew louder and Anton assumed it was his vehicle’s arrival. Walking toward the front door, he waited for the footman to open it before heading outside. The coachman had already lowered the steps on the carriage and opened the door, so Anton quickly climbed inside, careful of his bad leg.

  Maki
ng sure the window was shut, he leaned back against the squabs. The smell of the city permeated the carriage despite the closed glass: coal dust and shit. Which was strange, considering the sewerage system. The muted sounds of music—from aristo parties, he assumed—reached his ears as they passed through Lord Row, and headed out toward Pittbrough Street. The call of hawkers became clearer as they headed toward Court Road. In this area, the city woke up at night, its patrons being blood drinkers rather than vegetable consumers.

  Soon, the carriage rolled across the cobbles in front of his destination. The coachman let the stairs down, and Anton limped from the carriage. He stood in the brisk cold as he knocked on Annabel’s door. He began walking on the spot, his breath misting in the air. His bad leg ached, and for the first time in two years, he found he actually needed the support of his walking stick. Restless, Anton knocked again and waited, his eyes locked on the brass knocker, which looked like a reclining, naked woman. Funny how he’d never noticed that before. Maybe he should point it out to Annabel? Let her know that it more suited a courtesan than a widow?

  Eventually, the door opened and a sleepy-looking maid stood visible in the three-inch gap. She was wearing an old robe and a mob cap that rode low over her eyes. “Can I help, sir?”

  “I’m here to see Annabel.”

  The maid peered at him through the small open space. “She’s not here.”

  He blinked. “Did she already leave?” Anton was meant to be taking her to the theater, but maybe he’d remembered their plans wrong. He’d been out of his mind for two days, after all.

  The door opened a little more, and he could see that the maid was wearing a pair of threadbare slippers in addition to her silly cap and dressing gown. “No, sir.”

  He frowned. “But you just said she wasn’t home.”

  “She hasn’t been home for days.”

  Worry began to beat a tattoo in his blood. “Did she send a note?”

  The maid’s lips puckered. “She doesn’t normally send notes when she’s working.”

  “Working?” Anton tried to keep the frown from his face. He could feel the tremors start again and his bad leg wobbled.

  She was nodding. “Yes, at Madam Venus’s.”

  Madam Venus’s?

  “I didn’t think she worked.” He thought she’d inherited money and was living quietly as a widow. But he could understand that she might not want to tell him she worked as a clerk or some such at the famous brothel—it would lead to awkward questions…

  “Oh, not all the time. Just for special clients.”

  Just for special clients. Each word was like a knife in the gut. Clients. Clerks didn’t have clients. Annabel—his Annabel—was a whore? But…no. Anton told himself that he wouldn’t have cared if she had been a whore before they were together—well, he would have, but he loved her so much, it wouldn’t have really mattered—but to still work as one?

  Just for special clients.

  The maid looked about to shut the door, so he blurted, “She doesn’t come home when she’s working?”

  “Not when she’s on a job; she has to go to the estates sometimes,” the maid said.

  Estates.

  He felt his stomach drop to somewhere below the steps under his feet.

  “I think I’ll go over to Madam Venus’s, see if she’s forgotten our date.” Anton turned to leave.

  Just for special clients.

  “I doubt she will be there…but, do you know where it is?” the maid called out as he headed down the path toward his carriage, leaning heavily on his cane, his body feeling heavier than ever.

  Estates.

  “Yes!” he shouted, without bothering to turn back. “Do I know where it is?” he muttered. More to the point, who didn’t know where Madam Venus’s was?

  By the blood, he realized, Annabel’s a vampire whore.

  Chapter 11

  Dante’s father had returned.

  He was warned of his parent’s arrival from the subtle changes: the surge of vacant-eyed slaves roaming the halls, the flurry of panic amid the servants, the whispers. There was no sign of his father, though, or a summons to his side, but that was to be expected.

  Further confirmation of his father’s return was obtained when he walked past his parent’s study and he heard voices within. His father’s being the loudest. Mostly arguments, he thought, although he couldn’t hear the conversations word-for-word, and since vampire hearing wasn’t meant to be able to penetrate the soundproof doors, he kept walking.

  Returning to his workroom, his eyes locked on the shiny table. Thankfully, he’d already gotten rid of the whore’s body. Dante had taken care of it himself, despite the fact that he could have ordered a slave to do it. He had supposedly Chosen the woman because of an undying passion for her, after all. He was meant to display some level of emotional attachment to the corpse, so he had organized her funeral arrangements. Wooden coffin, lots of flowers, a service out at the human cemetery that was reserved but elegant. The funeral home had made most of the decisions, he’d just gone there wearing all black and trying to appear as mournful as he could.

  There’d also been the interview with Madam Venus. That hadn’t been pleasant, but he’d coughed up enough money to make her happy.

  Despite the hassle he’d had with the dead human, and the fact it had been less than a week since his initial failure, he had tried to Choose another woman. He hadn’t wanted to miss out on the opportunity, especially since it had walked right by him. She’d had green eyes, and had fought him from the moment he found her wandering down a side-alley, alone. He’d knocked her out and hired a hotel room under a fake name and attempted the transformation there. He’d followed the procedure to the letter, but he’d ended up with another corpse.

  He’d gotten rid of that body too, although its funeral had been more of an ignominious river dive, rather than an elaborate ceremony. Dante thought disposing of dead bodies was a waste of his talents. But…humans got crotchety when too many failed Choosings occurred, which meant that his father might ask some uncomfortable questions, so he had cleaned up his messes.

  The waste of time had been productive to a small extent: he’d decided that colored-eyed humans couldn’t be Chosen. He’d paid close attention to the second woman, and he’d found that it was the third transfer of blood that did it. Within seconds of the critical, Change-occurring blood entering her system, she had expired. It was poison to them, he was convinced.

  But, why?

  He had a drop of the second woman’s blood on a glass slide and was studying it when his father found him.

  “Dante,” his father said into the cold chamber.

  Dante had heard his father’s entrance, but had pretended to be absorbed in his task. Viktor liked to think that he was almost silent when walking, and Dante figured it was better to prolong his father’s delusion.

  “Father,” Dante said and stood, pushing his chair back across the stone floor. He put the slide in a wooden box with care and shut the lid with a click, before turning to face his parent.

  Dante’s father was tall, had always seemed towering, but Dante now stood three inches higher. Like Dante, Viktor Kipling—the Earl of Wintermere—had dark hair, pale skin and aristocratic features, but his father had lines around his eyes and a thin mouth, which was pressed together in a perpetual scowl whenever he was in his son’s presence.

  “What are you doing?” Viktor asked.

  Dante shrugged. “Just trying to work out why Sandy died.”

  His father straightened a sapphire cufflink. “Sandy?”

  “I Chose her, but she didn’t survive.” Dante tried to look upset. He didn’t know if it worked, but his father frowned and it seemed more thoughtful than annoyed.

  “Misty mentioned something like that.”

  Dante wasn’t sure what the appropriate response was, so he nodded.

  “Did you bother to let Madam Venus know what happened to her employee?” Viktor asked.

  Misty must have
done more than just “mention” it for their father to know Sandy had been a whore.

  “Yes.” Dante frowned. “She wasn’t…happy.”

  Viktor snorted. “I can’t imagine why she would have been. Sandy was one of her most popular…staff.”

  Dante decided he didn’t want to know how his father knew about Sandy’s popularity.

  His father walked forward and wrapped an arm around Dante’s shoulders. It felt like a band of iron had settled against his back. Viktor led—although pushed would have been more accurate—Dante out of the room, kicking the door shut behind them. They walked down the hall to his study, yellow lamps illuminating the stony passage. Slaves walked by with downturned heads, their clothes little more than mended rags, their bones protruding.

  Dante was stiff under his father’s hand. Viktor never touched him. Dante thought back through his mental catalog of his father’s behavior with Misty, and realized that he did hug her, so this must be a sign of parental affection.

  His first ever.

  Dante was suspicious, but decided that candor may be called for. He hated this, this not knowing what to do in social situations. So he said, “After the meeting, I was sent a rather terse note—she insinuated there would be an investigation.”

  “She what?”

  Dante figured his father probably already knew about the threat, but the apparent anger in his voice was real enough. “Yes. She seems to think that Sandy was unwilling.”

  The band of steel tightened on Dante’s back. “Ridiculous.” Flicking a glance at his father from the corner of his eye, Dante saw Viktor lift one imperious eyebrow. “Who would not want to be Chosen? What human would reject such an opportunity?” Disdain rumbled through his voice.

  Dante guessed that the assumption would be true—most of the time. But he figured there would be a human somewhere who wouldn’t want the perks of immortality. Living forever could be bloody boring.