Sharon Page - Blood Curse

He’d slid his hand around Simon’s strong neck. Drew the lad close to him.

Breathless moment. God, so arousing and breathless.

His mouth had touched Simon’s lips.

It had been like coming to life. Hot desire ran through his body. His staff had gone stiff as a brick, pushing hungrily at his trousers.

Kissing Simon like an eager swain, Valde had recognized the young man of twenty-two was a virgin when it came to the matter of two men making love.

Slowly, he had undone the cravat that held Simon’s shirt points against the golden stubble of his throat and jaw. He’d kissed the exposed neck, loving the scratch of stubble, the scent of cologne on the young man’s dewy skin.

He caressed Lord Simon’s broad chest. One mere pass of his hand had the lad’s nipples pointy and erect. Then he’d undone Simon’s trousers. There had been one murmur of protest from the innocent young man, but he’d silenced that with a passionate kiss.

Then his hand had slid into Simon’s small clothes and had wrapped around a thick, straining, vein-covered cock . . .

Valde touched the coffin, closing his eyes to fight grief.

He could not open the coffin. Simon was not undead. There was no beautiful, un-aged face for him to caress. No perfect vampire or demon lips to kiss.

They had taken the man he had loved and had killed him before he had immortal life.

The damned vampire assassin who had taken Simon, who had been working for one of the evil vampire queens, had left him with a decaying corpse.

He hated them—the vampires and the queens.

Hated the Royal Society, even though that group of vampire slayers believed he was one of them.

He knew what he wanted. He was the bastard son of a demi-goddess, and he was denied the power of a god. For a short time, as a child, he had been possessed of the magical powers of a god, with the ability to change weather, to move things with mere thought, and to make mere mortals fall in love with him and do whatever he asked. But as punishment for being the bastard son of a mortal, all of his power vanished when he reached the age of eight. When he had finally become just old enough to understand that his power could let him rule the mortal world, it was taken away from him.

Then he was taken from his beautiful mother, Mrs. Darkwell, who was the daughter of the goddess Aphrodite.

He knew the gods and goddesses of old legends did exist—but they could interact no longer with the human world. The only time they could intervene was when one of their own came into the mortal world.

Aphrodite’s daughter had done that. She had fallen in love with a mortal.

And he, as her son, had paid the price.

He had been forced to live as a mortal boy, working like a servant on the farm of an angry and brutal mortal man.

What he wanted was power.

He wanted his chance to rule.

Valde wanted revenge.

And he knew there was a woman who had the power to kill with just her touch. If he had that power, he could have all the vengeance he wanted.

He knew where she was—with that damned vampire assassin. The one who had taken Simon from him.

It was going to be a pleasure to begin his reign of terror—starting with the destruction of the vampire Ravenhunt.

Twilight had settled on London, blanketing the town with a purple-gray gloom. Raven walked through the streets, using his preternatural powers to move so quickly he was invisible to mortals. He walked in the center of the road, dodging carriages. Horses whinnied and reared as they sensed him pass. Nervous coachmen steadied them, and when these men saw nothing in the road, they crossed themselves.

Raven reached the house that had once been his: a huge home of golden stone on Grosvenor Square that spanned half the block. His cousin lived here now. His cousin was mortal. When Raven had left the world to believe him dead, his cousin Anthony had inherited the title of Marquis of Ravenhunt.

Some vampires who were peers attempted to live normal lives. They kept their titles, lived in their mansions, and tried to act like humans. He knew of many. The Earl of Brookshire was a vampire earl who also worked for the Royal Society. So was the Earl of Blackmoor. The Duke of Greystone was a vampire and a dragon hunter.

There was only one thing Raven missed of the mortal world. Tonight he was going to go and see her. His heart ached already at the anticipation of laying eyes on her for the first time in a week.

With lightning speed, he crossed the lawns, strode over the flagstones of the terrace, and reached the side of the house. He needed to remain clothed so he could not shift shape and fly.

His heart rate, normally so slow as to be almost undetectable, sped to a thunder.

It was these moments that made an eternity of hell bearable. This was the only reason he did not walk out into the light and destroy himself.

He did not destroy himself because he had a girl to protect. His sister, Frederica. Even though he could never let her see him, he could watch over her and keep her safe.

At first, given his black-hearted disposition and his natural enjoyment of violence, he had enjoyed being a vampire. He’d reveled in the power. But having so much power quickly became boring. His prey was too easily hunted.

At least, when he’d been a mortal solider, he had stood a good chance of getting blown off the face of the earth with a well-placed pistol shot or a cannon ball. The risk of death made it more fun.

He’d gone looking for death.

Unfortunately the moment it had almost been handed to him, it had been snatched from his grasp by a vampire queen who had wanted him to be her lover for eternity.

As he approached the house, Raven took a breath. The sooty smell of hundreds of burning candles touched his nostrils. He detected hundreds of blends of perfume, along with the heady smells of bouquets of flowers and a lavish supper.

Over all those smells, he was flooded by an overwhelming coppery-smelling wave—the aroma of blood given off by hundreds of mortals.

His fangs shot out.

Hades, they were more unruly than his cock—always lengthening at the wrong time.

“Calm yourself,” he muttered to them. “You will not be feeding here tonight. We are here for another purpose entirely.”

Likely he should feel something—some anger, some regret, some bitterness—to be reduced to climbing the wall of his former home instead of walking in the front door.

The stone blocks of the house wall cut into his bare hands, but each wound healed instantly. Hoisting himself over a railing, he landed lightly on the terrace on the upper floor. Below was the ballroom, but he entered the window of his sister Frederica’s bedchamber.

Her scent lingered. Light, lavender, sweet as a meadow of flowers.

Her bed was turned down, ready for her to slide into it at dawn, exhausted after a night of dancing. His portrait hung across from her bed. That gave him a good dose of guilt. His sister missed him. She wanted his picture where she could see him every day.

Frederica thought him dead.

This was her second London Season. His cousin Anthony, the marquis, was her guardian and overseeing her introduction to Society now that she was eighteen. She would soon find a husband.

Raven wanted to ensure the gentleman she accepted was worthy of her. He could do that by standing in the shadows, learning whom she became engaged to, then hunting down the truth about the man.

Frederica’s silken pillow, her folded nightdress, her brush and perfumes on the vanity—all the signs of her happy mortal existence—brought up too much guilt and pain.

Raven stalked out of the room.

The house was filled with servants, but he moved so quickly no one saw him. He slipped through the crowd, to the receiving line, where his cousin stood and his sister glowed. Her honey brown curls were threaded with a white satin ribbon, decorated with emeralds. Pink shone on her cheeks, her green eyes sparkled for every guest.

Folding his arms over his chest, Raven could tell which callow young men were already in love with her.

Then he saw a gentleman he did not know by name, but he recognized the type. The kind of man he’d used to be before he had fallen in love.

Three words described the handsome man smiling at his sister.

Scoundrel. Libertine. Rogue.

Frederica blushed. Her lashes fluttered. Suddenly she appeared awkward. The damned seducer—a fair-haired bastard in impeccable dress—lifted her hand to his lips and gave a slow, sensuous kiss to her fingers that was intended to make her melt.

Raven knew what the rogue was doing. Picturing her naked.

He wanted to step out of the shadows, drag the bastard into an empty room, and drink his blood dry.

He couldn’t do it—it would break his sister’s heart if the man just disappeared. Frederica had sense. And if she did not see through the blackguard’s intentions, then he would kill the man and get rid of him.

He watched her through the ballroom windows, from the darkness of the terrace.

Frederica danced twice with the rogue. In fact, she danced every dance with an admiring gentleman.

Raven wanted to lock her up in her room where men could not get at her.

Of course he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t even go near her. What would he say? That he had never died, he had been turned into a vampire?

He watched until the guests began to leave. Dawn was close and he had no choice but to go. He couldn’t stay out long in daylight—meeting Lady Ophelia that late afternoon at the museum had almost turned him to dust, for example. Frederica’s beau had left, so he felt it was safe for him to go.

He walked out across the terrace, into darkness, striding with vampiric speed.

“So here you are,” said a sultry voice. “Why do you come here, you foolish boy? There is nothing for you here.”

Raven stopped. He turned. He knew the voice, and it made him curl his lip with hatred.

It was a testament to the vampire queen’s power that she had been able to approach him from behind and he had not heard or sensed her.

Ever since he’d left her, since he’d refused to be her sexual plaything, she had left him alone.

Why in hell had she come after him now?

Queen Jade smiled at him, flashing marble-white teeth and two long, curved fangs. She was adorned in a fur-trimmed pelisse. Her pale skin appeared to sparkle in the moonlight, as though she were dusted with diamonds. Long and black, her hair spilled down and almost touched her ankles.

“I come here because there is only one woman I love on this earth,” he muttered. “And that is my sister.”

For years, he’d been Jade’s pet. She had turned him into an assassin of vampires—commanding him to kill the demons she wanted rid of.

Jade cocked her head. Her face was exquisitely lovely—her eyes large and silvery-green, her features smooth and perfect. But she not only had no soul, she was cruel and vicious.

She gave him a loving smile. It made him want to vomit.

“I have allowed you to have your independence for long enough.” She held out her hand to him. “You belong in my services. I have allowed you to help other vampires and the Royal Society—and kill for them—because it suited me. Now, you have something that I want very much.”

He did not move toward her. He snarled. “What is that?”

She came to him. Her long-fingered, beautiful hand stroked the side of his face. When he had first been turned, he had craved her every touch. He’d lusted for her every moment of the night. Now he felt nothing but revulsion and hatred.

“The girl. Lady Ophelia. I need to take her power away from her.”

How did she know he had Lady Ophelia? She could not read his thoughts. Raven grimaced. She probably had spies watching him. “Why?”

He used his jaded, unconcerned tone. But he was worried.

He didn’t understand why he felt that reaction. Why should he care about Lady Ophelia? Was the girl not just a nuisance to him? Yet, he pitied her, while he hadn’t felt anything but disgust for mortals and their weaknesses for a long time.

He had teased her with his threats to pass the time by pleasuring her. It was entertaining to make her angry.

Maybe that was a sign he spent too much time alone.

“Does the power kill our kind?” he asked Jade. “Why the hell do you want it?”