Читать книгу Blood Rose - Sharon Page - Страница 8

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 Swift. A quick tug of her hands and her low-cut bodice popped beneath her breasts. She jumped giddily so those breasts wobbled up and down, like jelly aspic on a platter. The woman’s hand snaked out and clamped onto Mr. Swift’s crotch.

Drake Swift gave a hearty laugh. “Not now, wicked wench. I promised to stuff the arse of this one with my companion. But those luscious tits of yours look like a meal for two.”

Sensual need forked through her at his crude words, and she almost stumbled in shock. The woman gave a playful pout of scarlet-painted lips, then raced off, and leapt into a vampire’s arms. This gentleman was most definitely a vampire—his fangs lapped his lower lip. He possessed white hair; a grizzled face; a strong, lean body. He pulled out his cock and the woman toyed with it. It was incredibly long, curved like a scythe, and soon many women’s hands teased it while the vampire moaned his pleasure.

Serena looked away. These women must be fools. This vampire would drink from them. He would hurt them. The books described the vampire’s bite as the most intense pleasure, but Serena didn’t believe it.

“Are you all right, little lark?”

It was Drake Swift, murmuring by her ear, setting her skin tingling with the warmth of his breath.

Serena nodded. She was. Her heart beat a wild rhythm as they passed men—the dozens who prowled the hallways or who suckled women’s breasts or who rutted wildly against the wall-papered walls. What would happen if she walked into Roman? Or Leonardo? But she did not recognize any of the handsome faces with their glittering, reflective eyes, their long, curving fangs.

Every vampire she saw was attractive and wore clothes that spoke of great wealth. Many smiled at her. With just a glance, a vampire could make a lady lust and need so much she willingly offered her neck, but the heat these demons ignited—which she fought—was nothing compared to the sparks that scorched her each time she brushed against her hunters’ bodies. She walked between the two men, Mr. Swift on her left, Lord Sommersby on her right. She no longer knew which man’s hand rested on her waist, her shoulder, or gently grazed her arm.

“Which way, sweet?” Mr. Swift whispered.

“The ballroom,” Serena said.

Suspicion glittered in the earl’s dark eyes. “The most crowded place here? No other way?”

She swallowed hard, and whispered, “There’s a gallery that overlooks—and stairs on both sides. We could pass through there, go down the stairs, and then down to the tunnels.”

“And all this you learned from books?” Sommersby asked.

“Yes, all this I learned from books.” This brothel had existed for decades—she had traced its ownership back hundreds of years, to the original Tudor building that had been on the site.

A gong sounded—it was subdued, but it must act as a summons, because people began to flow in the opposite direction to the gallery. Some vanished into bedrooms on the way. But Serena could see that no one was looking in their direction as they reached the draped entrance to the gallery.

His lordship went in first, simply vanishing behind the curtain. She was alone with Drake Swift. It was eerie to gaze at his mask, to have no idea of his expression. He moved in front of her, to trap her back against the wall, shielding her from the eyes of a couple of women who passed.

He bent as though biting her neck but did not touch her. His words were soft. “Do you want my touch, Miss Lark?”

His voice was deep, roughly accented—Serena knew he’d grown up around Covent Garden—but his brazen words only made his low baritone more sensual.

Serena felt his warm breath on her skin and grew indecently wet. She felt dizzy still—from the drug, she assumed. From shock, too, no doubt, but she couldn’t give in to that. “Yes,” she said simply. She touched Mr. Swift’s cheek, below his mask, and didn’t care. She pulled him closer, drew him until his hot mouth ignited against her neck. “I do want your touch.”

“You’re a brave woman, Miss Lark,” Mr. Swift murmured as his lips skimmed around her throat, down to the hollow at the front. Heat flared in her blood.

Was she brave? She was nervous. Were brave people nervous? She knew that Drake Swift was wildly courageous. He’d told her that once in the Society’s library—I’m addicted to the hunt, love. It is almost as fun as making love. She hadn’t blushed for him then, which she had suspected was his goal—to embarrass the prim former governess.

His teeth brushed her neck, and the pressure sent a bolt of pleasure rocketing through her. Warmth. Wetness. A delicious tickle. He was running his tongue over her neck! Her quim ached with the contact. Even the brush of the mask’s long nose along her neck made her legs wobble.

She pushed on Mr. Swift’s shoulders to force him away. He conceded, lifting his mouth from her neck. “Did I frighten you?”

Serena tipped her head back to look into his eyes, dazzling green behind the mask. “Of course not! But I’m so close now—I can’t be sidetracked.”

He laughed at that, leaning back against the wall, his eyes bright behind his mask. “Do you really think books are more important than hunting? More important than passion?”

“Tonight, yes,” she answered, trying to banter.

“Do you really believe that words, not stakes, can destroy vampires?”

She hadn’t expected such a question from Drake Swift, the man known as the Mad Slayer. Strangely, having him forsake his devil-may-care persona and show a glimpse of his soul made her heart thump against her ribs. She moved closer to the drapery. “Words have great power. And I have no choice but to bury myself in words—the Society will not let me hunt.”

“But tonight you defied them. Are books worth risking your life?”

He was questioning her motives, and she couldn’t have that. “Are you offering, now, to let me hunt with you?” she asked. “To take me on as an apprentice?”

He looked more startled than if she had lifted her robe and jumped on him. Of course he would never consider hunting with a mere woman by choice.

“Hurry—” It was Lord Sommersby, holding open the drapery.

Mr. Swift gallantly offered his arm, but she ignored it to dart up the stairs, holding up the trailing hem of the oversized robe.

The gallery was empty, shadowed. The dangling chandelier that should illuminate the salon below was unlit, but the crystal caught golden light from wall sconces below and dazzled. Urbane laughter welled up, as did the strains of cultured music and feminine giggles.

She’d expected wildness, rowdy sounds, mayhem—like an uproar in a theatre pit.

“The exit must be there—shielded by those curtains,” Lord Sommersby directed. His domino cloak flapped around him as he strode across to where the railing reached the wall, beside crimson curtains. His long legs crossed the space in seconds.

“Wait.” Mr. Swift kept his voice low as he prowled to the gallery’s edge. “We should see if we can spot Miss Lark’s captors in that crowd.”

“Even if we do, we aren’t attacking here,” Sommersby warned.

Her library—and Dracul’s journal—were so close. Serena moved to the gallery’s edge to look down on the ballroom. She wanted a glimpse into the vampires’ world. If she was truly a vampire, she wanted to know…

How could she be a vampire yet not drink blood? Not be undead? She didn’t understand—and she was determined to make Ashcroft tell her.

The brass rail around the gallery was smooth, cool beneath her touch—her hands were still bare. She needed a moment to plan. How was she going to retrieve the Vlad Dracul book without Lord Sommersby discovering what it was? He’d take it from her, likely by force. He might be known for heroism, but it was known that if he wanted something, he took it.

How could she find it and hide it?

She heard the click of boot heels behind her, Sommersby approaching her. Drake Swift was scanning the crowd below. Blinking, Serena looked down on the scene. Everywhere she saw women. Courtesans, high-flyers, jades, lightskirts—but all were voluptuous, lovely, fascinating. Many were young, with long silky hair that reached their bared bottoms, but they were of all ages, all coloring, all sizes and shapes, and most wore the same costume. They wore corsets of black with scarlet strings, dyed black stockings, and heeled shoes.

It was scandalous, but it also seemed so freeing to be un-afraid to parade around in such clothes—certainly wearing just a robe made her feel both courageous and nerve-wracked.

There were men below, of course, dozens of men. In the center of the salon was a raised dais, a large one, like a stage. It was empty. Around it, many of the men strolled. Men in evening dress, in capes, in robes. So many men on the move it was almost impossible to search them for her vampire captors. All were surrounded by women—women fawning on them, touching them, whispering to them.

It still startled Serena to see the lusty smiles on the women’s faces—women who should be terrified. It was like watching rabbits leap into foxes’ jaws.

Serena glanced up. On her left, Drake Swift was slowly scanning the crowd. On her other side, Lord Sommersby did the same.

Did she see Roman? No. To Serena’s astonishment, one dark-haired man, wearing a cape, tossed a blond woman onto the stage. The woman giggled, and her expression was a blend of lust, excitement, and playfulness. She was delighted to be a vampire’s plaything. The man pushed her back, and she flopped back on the stage, arms outstretched. Her breasts were exposed, her waist cinched impossibly small by the corset, her nether hair exposed. The man shoved her legs apart—wider, wider, until the woman let her head fall back. He dropped to his knees and pressed his face to the woman’s quim.

Applause and cheers abounded.

Serena knew what that act felt like. William Bridgewater had done it to her—she had been shocked and enthralled. At the time, her heart had been as excited as her body. She had believed it an expression of love. She had been quite wrong.

She could not look away from the moaning woman as the vampire feasted on her cunny. He pulled the jade’s hips to his mouth, the way an uncouth man would lift a soup plate. The woman’s eyes shut tight, her hands fisted. She banged those fists against the polished floor of the dais.

“Oooh!” The vampire’s plaything cried out in pleasure. Her limbs went slack, her head lolled. The vampire slid his hands up to her waist. He stood, lifting the woman, his face still in her quim as—

“What do you see, little lark?”

Serena blinked at Drake Swift’s voice. Startled, she saw Mr. Swift stood behind her. He had approached her and she hadn’t noticed. His black-gloved hands rested beside hers on the rail.

“I do not see any of them—any of the vampires who captured me.” She tried to be as nonchalant as he, but her face flushed. At least her mask disguised some of the red heat on her cheeks. She wanted to appear unmoved by what she saw. She didn’t want to appear to be just a “delicate” woman.

“We should go and find the library,” she urged.

“You are a remarkable woman. Tougher than any I’ve met.”

She wondered at that—he had grown up in Covent Garden. Women there were tough.

“Have you ever wondered why we really kill vampires?” he asked.

Serena frowned and shivered—because vampires killed mortals. Why else? But she knew he was teasing. She was aroused. Burning. But also terrified—what would he do if he knew she might be a vampire?

“Because they have all the fun.” Mr. Swift’s voice held naughty wickedness.

He wanted her to step unwisely into sexual banter. The drug was still in her head, still making it hard to think. She was watching sensual acts and beautiful lovers, and each time she moved the silk of the robe skimmed her nipples, brushed her nether curls, and maddened her.

“Do you really believe that?” Serena challenged, because naughty boys required a firm hand.

Drake Swift laughed. “Sometimes, my dear, I am tempted to get bitten.”

She recoiled at that, remembering the horrifying sight of Guilliame biting him. Was that why he discounted the bite?

Anger flared—how easy for him to joke. Mr. Swift did not fear he was truly a demon.

Then she saw him—Roman. Flitting through the crowd, his long dark hair flapping with his hurried steps. He now wore a robe. A tall woman emerged from the throng and grasped his arm. A woman strong enough to stop Roman in his tracks.

Serena pointed. “Look, there is one of the vampires who captured me. The one with the long hair, with that woman in the topaz gown—”

She felt the excitement ignite in Drake Swift. “Wait, little lark. Watch awhile. We will see what he does.” He stepped behind her and braced his arms on either side of her. “Learn about your foe before attack.”

“You don’t do that,” she protested. “I’ve heard that you race in madly, and by a miracle, somehow you survive.”

“Didn’t Sommersby warn you not to listen to everything you hear, my dear?” Mr. Swift bent close. “Does it frighten you to watch him?”

“No—yes,” Serena admitted. She could feel the bite of the manacles on her wrist and ankles again and felt the fear of being vulnerable. And a deeper fear—that she was vampire, too.

“Fight it, angel. If you want to hunt, you have to learn to fight your fear.”

Serena found Roman again, in the crowd. The tall woman had left him, and he stood watching the stage, his arms crossed over his chest. She was afraid to look too long. Roman would sense her.

She glanced up and saw Lord Sommersby a few yards away, walking slowly alongside the gallery railing, watching the scene below.

She should call out to him. Tell him where Roman was. But she knew once she did that protective Lord Sommersby would ensure she had no part in pursuing him. He would get her out of here, and she’d have no chance to find the library.

Horror rushed like ice water through her veins—if Sommersby and Swift captured Roman, Roman would tell them what she was.

The madam—the tall woman with the shimmering topaz gown, the pile of raven black curls, the magnificent diamonds—clapped her hands.

At the sharp clap, many of the corset-clad girls scurried to the center of the room. Giggling, the girls began to kiss. The madam spanked one on her bottom with harsh slaps of her open palm, and the girl turned, presenting her now-rosy derriere. She still lushly kissed the other girl, mouths wide open. Grunts and murmurs of male appreciation filled the room, especially when the madam picked up a black leather switch. The girl held her cheeks apart, and the madam thwacked the girl’s rear thoroughly with the leather straps. After the girl’s buttocks were flushed red, the madam lifted a device from a table, a long rod of black with a tail of peacock feathers and two gold chains attached. Graceful fingers dipped the rod into a tall brass container and withdrew it. Clear, viscous liquid dripped from the tip.

“What is she doing?” Without thinking, Serena asked the question of Drake Swift.

She immediately regretted letting the words slip out.

“Penetrating her arse.”

A quiver of heat and agony shot through Serena.

The madam pushed with hearty force until the rod disappeared deep into the girl’s bottom. The girl was rocking and panting with each thrust, her loose auburn hair tumbling over her back.

Once the rod was within to the hilt, the woman—the madam—looped two chains around the girl’s bare thighs. She attached two to the girl’s corset. The girl giggled with delight, waggled her bum, and began to spin and dance around the room. Peacock feathers swirled and spun with her wild motions.

Mr. Swift breathed heavily. Serena felt the warmth of those deep breaths against her ear.

“Does that not hurt?” she asked. Her own bottom tingled.

“It pleasures her,” he insisted. “She will perhaps reach orgasm many times. Eventually she will wish to remove it, for it is large and is spreading her wide. After several hours, she will yearn to stop. That is when she will be selected by a vampire as his companion and he will heighten her pleasure.”

Serena could not understand why the thought of such a bizarre thing made her own body weak and shivery.

The madam continued to slap the girls on their bottoms and continued to slide large rods into their derrieres. She chained each one in place. A larger and larger rod was used on each girl. For the last, a beauty with chestnut ringlets, two other girls held her to support her as the madam worked the enormous black pole inside.

The first girl was already straddling a man’s lap, crying out in pleasure as she bounced upon him. The chains were taut, straining to keep her filled. Two other girls lay upon a divan and began to kiss each other’s privy curls. One banged her bottom roughly against the divan. The other spread her thighs wide and wriggled. Did that provide stimulation?

Men—vampires—sprawled on the various chairs, watching the display, exuding raw sensual power. All were cast in shadow, so they looked mysterious and dangerous. Some crooked their fingers—summoning a girl to dance before them.

The girls would play with their nipples or hold open their nether lips, then spring around to display their bottoms. One girl with enormous breasts was able to reach her nipple with her tongue, eliciting a cheer from the bright-eyed man watching her. Another man dragged the girl toward him, until she crawled on her knees on their chaise. He pulled her hips to his face so her quim was at his mouth. With his large, gloved hands, he began withdrawing the rod and thrusting it in her, the chains attempting to resist.

Serena realized his tongue was licking the girl’s privy parts, tasting the moisture there, and the vampire made hungry, growling sounds. Another girl crawled between his thighs and began to undo the placket of his trousers.

Serena’s face was aflame, her throat dry and tight.

Mr. Swift leaned forward—heavens, she felt his erection push against her backside. He was aroused. She wanted to push back against him. But she tried to stay completely still.

“Is this the sort of thing you do?” she croaked the question at him. She should disapprove. But she found watching so arousing, so irresistible.

“Is it the sort of thing you would want to do, little lark? Wouldn’t you wish to perform for him, to entice him beyond all control?”

She had no answer, swallowed hard. “But those women are enticing vampires. The vampires will feed from them, hurt them.”

“But you know vampires do not always kill—and the only ones allowed here are those with control over their feeding urges. And the girls are well treated, in a way. They have warm beds and beautiful clothing, and are very well fed. They have every comfort they could imagine. These are not girls trapped and abused by a brutal madam.”

“They are free to leave?”

“Yes, but they don’t leave.”

“Why not—if they have freedom, why would they not take it?”

Swift leaned closer. “Because they need to offer their blood. They cannot exist any longer without joining with a vampire and surrendering their blood.”

“Slaves? Or worse—food!”

“In all relationships, one partner feeds on what the other offers. In different ways. The vampires are as much their slaves.”

“I don’t believe that.” She glanced up and caught Lord Sommersby’s gaze. She saw the way his lips parted, the tense way he held them. Shadows shielded his eyes, but something in his expression knocked all the air from her chest.

Slowly, like a prowling beast, Lord Sommersby walked toward her. Instinctively, she wet her lips in anticipation of his touch, his kiss. She was living her dream. She moved back from the rail, which pressed her derriere against Drake Swift’s rigid erection. She was aware of her heat, her scent, her wetness, and the power of the two men who had vowed to protect her.

Serena gasped as Drake Swift kissed the back of her neck. As he suckled. A burst leaped from there like a tiny firework. It raced through her, furiously fast, and exploded between her legs in a flood of wetness.

Ecstasy. Pleasure. Goodness, at just that touch—that hot, lovely touch—she’d climaxed!

She cried out.