Authors: Colleen Gleason
Max had tried that at first—but after a particularly annoying undead managed to rip away the
vis
right through his shirt, he decided to put it in another, less obvious location. Now, he wore his strength amulet as part of a unique ring around his big left toe. It was pierced through the loose skin on the underside of the digit. The cross lay flush against the top of his toe like a silver brand, and it was even more comfortable than having it dangle against the hollow of his torso.
Despite the power of his
vis
, the gunshot wounds throbbed painfully—one in his right shoulder, and one along the outside of his left thigh—and they both kept oozing blood. Of course, if he weren’t moving around so much, trying to free himself, maybe they would have stopped bleeding by now.
But Max didn’t know how long he’d been unconscious or how long he’d been in this room.
When he came back to himself and realized his predicament, his first terrified thought was
Savina
. The subsequent rush of fear threatened to paralyze him, sending him back to that day of horror when he’d found Felicia, but he fought back the worry. He thrust every worst-case scenario to the back of his mind. He couldn’t think about that now; he’d do her no good if he were so distracted that he couldn’t save himself.
He just prayed
she
was still able to be saved.
But the residents of Crenshaw Hall knew his true identity, and that meant her cover had been blown too. He tasted sourness at the back of his throat. There might be reason to keep him alive, but that wouldn’t necessarily hold true for Savina. Max turned his mind to what he did know, and what he could do to escape.
He did know that vampires seemed to have had a feast while he was knocked out, however, for his shoulders and arms were riddled with bite marks. The fact that he was still alive and not shredded to pieces indicated his captors had plans for him, which was no surprise. Rastingard was probably just as desirous of meeting Max as he was to meet her—and he could hardly wait. Clearly, he’d been left intact because Alexander Purcell was intelligent and cunning enough to deliver Max to the great vampire in as whole a condition as possible.
Which gave him the opportunity to figure out his escape from this…wherever he was.
The place was pitch dark, warm, and very stuffy. An interior room, not very large—likely no more than a closet. Probably on an upper floor or the attic. No windows and only one door. Sweat trickled from everywhere on his body, mingling with blood and dust. He was on the floor, his wrists and ankles chained together, and then affixed to something on the wall. Clearly, they were taking no chances with him. He grinned darkly. He couldn’t wait to disabuse them of the notion that Max Denton could be imprisoned for long.
Once he assessed the situation, he set to work. He had cause to once again send up a mental thanks that Savina had tossed his shoes out the window last night (he assumed it was last night; he had no idea what hour or even what day it was). For it was inside the hollow, removable heels of his shoes that he had secreted a number of useful objects…including a lock pick.
It was an old magician’s trick, and one that the incomparable and patriotic Harry Houdini had shared with many American and British troops near the end of the Great War when he did some basic “escape artist” training. Max wasn’t quite as accomplished at wielding the lock pick as Houdini or that young Irish bloke named Grady, but these were simple padlocks, and he could definitely spring them open. It helped that his wrists and ankles were chained together in front, for when the arms were pulled behind the back, it was more difficult to work.
Bent double, he carefully removed one heel and extricated the pick. Then, holding it in his teeth, bent forward to work on his wrists. It was all the stretching, bending, and exertion that caused his wounds to keep bleeding, but when the first lock popped open and his hands were free, he grunted with satisfaction.
The rest would be child’s play.
Moments later, he had his ankles liberated. Max stood and stretched, stifling a groan as his cramped muscles released. Now his injuries were bleeding freely, and he sat back down to remove the other heel. Secreted in there were five finger-sized vials of salted holy water, which basically amounted to first aid for vampire bites. He dumped them freely on the fang marks, then on the bullet holes (couldn’t hurt), and ignored the searing pain when the water hissed and sizzled on contact. He replaced his heels and all of the tools therein, then searched the room for anything that could be used as a stake. Nothing. It was completely empty of everything but him and the chains. Ah well. It was time to get the hell out of here anyway.
However, that was easier said than done. The door was locked, of course—he tried the knob softly and carefully in order to keep any external guards from knowing he was free. The hinges, he discovered, were on the other side. Dammit to hell.
After a moment of consideration, he sat down and wrapped the chains loosely around his arms, and pulled his feet up close to his body. And then he began to kick at the door with all of his might. He’d either break out of here himself, or—if someone happened to hear him so far away and came to investigate—he’d get someone else to let him out.
He’d just shattered the door right around its lock, and it needed only one more blow, when he heard pounding footsteps. Max gathered the chains into his lap and waited.
When the damaged door opened, he was already lunging to his feet, whipping the heavy chains up and toward the newcomer. A split second before they connected with the figure in the doorway, he recognized her and pivoted, barely missing Savina.
“Bloody damned
hell
,” he gasped as he and the armful of heavy metal slammed violently into the wall, then sank to the floor.
“Oh, thank God, Max,” she cried, and dove to the ground next to him. “Thank God you’re alive.”
“I nearly killed you,” he said, beating back the terror, fury, and relief that threatened to overwhelm him. He was shaking. Good God, he would have killed her if he hadn’t stopped himself in time. He felt a cold sweat break out over his skin even as Savina was pulling wildly at the chains.
“Stop,” he told her, a little more harshly than necessary. “I’m fine.” He dumped the bindings on the floor in one big clank, and then grabbed her by the shoulders. “Don’t
ever
do that.”
She looked at him with wide eyes and pulled away. “My God, Max, what did they do to you? Is that a
bullet
wound?”
“Yes, a couple of them,” he said, then lifted a finger to hush her. He listened, and with the door still open, he was able to discern distant voices, but no one seemed to have raised an alarm or was coming running. So much for his plan. Although…it had worked.
“You’ve been shot
twice
? And bitten?” She was dragging the shirt away from his shoulder, and he pushed her prying hands away.
“Not now. I told you, I’m fine.” He looked at her, some of his apprehension rising again when he saw the bite marks on her neck and shoulders. Other than that, she appeared unhurt, but… “Savina, what happened last night? With Purcell. Did you—do what you intended?” He had to force the words out.
She nodded, tears and anguish filling her eyes.
Dammit, no
. He pulled her close, holding her against his torso, heedless of the blood that began to seep through his shirt once again.
“It wasn’t him,” she said into his neck. Max had no business right now, noticing the soft warmth of her lips moving against his skin. No business smelling her hair, that spicy floral scent…no business wanting to drag her to him and kiss her. Especially as dirty, bloody, and sweaty as he was. But she felt so damned good. And she was here, alive, safe—and he wasn’t going to let anything else happen to her.
Then her words registered and Max thrust her away. “What do you mean, it wasn’t him?”
She still wore a wide-eyed, haunted expression and she swiped angrily at a tear that escaped. “It wasn’t Alexander who took Hannever’s Chest. His arm…his arm was unmarked. I mean, except for the Tutela tattoo. I…I was wrong, Max.” She sniffled a little, and he had to close his eyes or he would have kissed her. He was so relieved she was alive…but at what price?
He curled his fingers into his palms and redirected his thoughts. “I’m so sorry. But that’s not what I meant when I asked…
Savina
. Did you—what happened with Purcell? Between the two of you.”
“Oh.” She seemed surprised at his insistence, and then grateful. “I…well, we were interrupted before…er much happened. Fortunately. And then this morning, the holy water I’d drunk last night sort of…deterred him.”
Thank God
. Relief blasted through him, making his head go light and his knees weak. And she was smart enough to drink holy water? And…
Oh, thank God
. He didn’t want her to have to deal with that as well.
He
didn’t want to have to deal with that.
“Max, I was so worried about you.”
She was so close. And the light spilling from the hallway into the tiny broom closet was enough for him to see the depth of emotion in her eyes.
That was all he needed. Without another thought, he pulled her close and covered her mouth with his.
Oh God
. All of his relief and fear and apprehension poured into the kiss, and he lost himself in a moment of pleasure and comfort.
A long, long moment.
She had her arms around his neck and was kissing him back with a passion that shocked and surprised him—considering the fact that he was sweaty and filthy, and probably didn’t smell very good—when he heard something.
He broke away, but kept his arms around her as he listened. Savina clearly understood, for she stilled and cocked her head toward the door as well. Then, lifting a finger to his lips, he rose to his feet and helped her up as well, still listening.
Footsteps on a stairway. The back stairs, the servants’ way. Half a corridor away. They could be coming to investigate the noises; they could be bringing up a pile of towels.
Let’s go
, he mouthed, and pulled her out into the hall. He closed the closet door behind them.
They moved in tandem, quickly and silently, until they came to the door farthest from the back stairs. When Max investigated yesterday, the chamber had been empty, and he hoped like hell that was still the case.
He opened the door silently, glanced inside at the room shrouded by thick drapes, then yanked Savina in with him. No one was present, but two lamps had been left burning. The moment he closed the door, Max saw that he’d chosen wrong.
Trunks and clothing indicated someone had taken over the chamber in the last day. Expensive frocks, feathers, lace, and jewels. And the very strong smell of lilies.
Rastingard
.
Maybe not such a mistake after all.
He started to say something to Savina, but she had bent over and was digging beneath the hem of her dress. When she straightened up, she slipped something into his hand.
His stake. Max took it gratefully, then grinned when he saw she had a second one up her skirt—so to speak.
Nice
.
“How many?” She moved in close as she asked. Her hand was on his chest, and he could see their reflection in a mirror across the way.
Good Lord, he looked like he’d just walked off the battlefield. His white shirt was stained with blood, sweat, dirt, and dust. His hair was wild and sticking out straight in places, and blood and dirt striped his skin. His beard and mustache just made him look even more disreputable. And Savina…just as beautiful as always. What the hell was she doing practically climbing into his lap?
He returned his attention to her question. “Five or six. I figure Purcell, his valet Briggs, Rastingard…probably one of the footmen, and then Rastingard must have brought two of her own too.”
“Just five then,” Savina told him. “I took care of Alexander.”
He grinned again, suddenly amazingly light of heart. “I’ll bet that was more satisfying than seducing the bastard.”
She smiled up at him. “You have no idea.”
Oh, God, he wanted to kiss her again. Instead, he put some distance between him and Savina and prowled around Rastingard’s chamber. This would be the last place the vampires would look for him—if they even discovered him missing—and now they had the opportunity to search for the safe. He twitched one of the long, pooling curtains aside and saw that it was bright and sunny out; probably early afternoon to judge by the sun’s position.
Savina didn’t have to be told what to do; she began digging through the trunks of clothing while he searched the rest of the chamber, all the while listening for footsteps and monitoring the chill at the back of his neck.
“I don’t see anything that could be the safe,” she murmured once as they crossed paths. She looked up at him, her eyes worried and her expression daunted.
He set his jaw grimly. All this for naught if they didn’t find the letter.
The chilly portent of approaching vampires suddenly became colder and more insistent. He snapped his fingers softly to get Savina’s attention and jerked his head toward the door. Someone was coming. Several someones.
She understood and to his delight, pulled out a large silver cross from behind the neckline of her dress. With the stake in hand and the cross on her breast, she looked ready to defend or attack.
Max positioned himself behind the door, and gestured for her to duck behind a chair nearby. He wanted her nearby for obvious reasons, but not too close. Also for obvious reasons.
The chill at his neck became terribly ugly and prickly, and the door to the chamber opened. Three people walked in: all of them undead.
The valet Briggs, a man he didn’t recognize, and a tall, voluptuous woman who had the build and presence of an opera prima donna. She had masses of thick, honey-blond hair streaked with brown that made it appear almost a caramel color. Her clothing was expensive and flowing, and she wore jewels in her hair. Her fingernails were long and had been painted pink, and she wore rouge and lip color, as well as makeup around her eyes. She had an attractive, round face and full, pouting lips. And there, on her wrist, hung a gold link bracelet with several keys dangling from it.