The Vampire Dimitri (Regency Draculia 2)

The flames roared and curled, heat surging in incessant waves. It was getting close. Soon, he wouldn’t be able to breathe. It was a miracle they hadn’t already been engulfed, for the fire seemed to lick and devour, but its speed had slowed. Something seemed to keep it at bay.

“Lucifer!” he bellowed again.

And then there he was, the Fiend, the devil, there in his mind. “You have the temerity to call me back after breaking our contract?”

“You asked me once if I loved Meg enough to save her,” he said…or, more likely, thought, for this was a dream just as the other had been. “I didn’t know, but now I understand. Once again, I give you my soul, but this time, I do not give you hers. You have me, but she is untouched. Do it now, you bastard. Do it now.”

Luce smiled that warm, tempting smile and his eyes narrowed. “It is always gratifying when the most God-fearing turn to me. I’ll have you back, Dimitri. I’ll have you back.” He stretched out his hand to replace his Mark, and searing pain, a shock of white light, blazed in the darkness. Dimitri caught a glimpse of Wayren and thought, Too late…

And then he was falling.

22

OUR HEROES IN DARKNESS

Maia felt rather than saw the flash of white light from behind closed eyes, and heard a loud crashing splinter. Corvindale’s arms were around her, and suddenly they were falling, tumbling into nothing.

They landed on hard, cold ground with hardly a jolt. Coughing, wiping her gritty eyes, Maia struggled out of Corvindale’s grip and realized she could breathe.

It took her only a moment to ascertain that they’d fallen through the floor of the burning building, and were now in some sort of cellar. The fire raged above them, and would soon burn through the rest of the floor, but for now they were safe from smoke and flame. It didn’t surprise her that a strong stench of refuse was mixed with smoke and burning wood, and she suspected that there was a cesspool close by, for that was the purpose of cellars such as this. But perhaps, pray God, there was also a way out. Even if it were through the waste.

Regardless, they were out of the fire. Miraculously, safely. At least, for now.

Except that Corvindale wasn’t moving.

Maia crawled up next to him, tugging at his soot-streaked arm and touching his sweaty, filthy face. The light was dim, but the fire cast a yellow glow from above and when his eyes fluttered and his head moved, she could have cried with relief.

“Corvindale,” she said, shaking him urgently. “We have to get out of here.”

He groaned and she saw in the dim light that he’d opened his eyes. “Maia,” he murmured in a smoke-roughened voice. “I’m sorry.”

“Apologies later,” she said, wincing as an ominous rumble sounded above. Something fell from the wooden slats that formed their ceiling, landing nearby and making the hole above larger. “We have to find a way out of here. Now.”

“Safe,” he said, struggling to his feet, his eyes never leaving her. “You’re safe. Thank God.”

He was too tall to stand upright in the small space, but, crouching, he gathered her up to him, touched a quick, tender kiss to her mouth, and then pulled her against him in a tight embrace. She felt the tremors in his arms and torso and breathed in the scent of his salty, sooty, masculine skin, burying her face in the coarse hairs of his chest.

After a moment, he released her and, still holding her arm, began to look around. But Maia had already noticed the way the tendrils of smoke seemed to be drawn toward a particular corner.

“There,” she told him, just as he pointed in the same direction and said, “This way.”

His hand steadying her, they picked their way, leaving the small glow of light and stepping into the dark. It was like ink, black everywhere, close and damp and small. Maia didn’t like it. Something furry scuttled near her foot, and once, she stepped on something that squished and moved, but she stifled the little shrieks that threatened and soldiered on, clutching Corvindale’s arm.

Her thoughts were spinning, filled with so much to comprehend and absorb that she couldn’t allow her mind to focus on anything except getting out. When they were safe, she’d sort it all out and be with the man she loved.

Who loved her, too.

That thought she couldn’t keep submerged, and a flowering warmth started through her limbs, strengthening her wobbly legs and aching body. She’d get out. Because Corvindale—Dimitri Gavril, the Earl of Corvindale—loved her.

At last, there was a shift in the air and the faintest buffet of cooler breeze. They were close. The impossible darkness eased into dark gray shapes that grew more and more defined as they went on.

A little splash told her they’d found water, and at first she was concerned it was one of the sewage channels. But there was no accompanying stench, and as it grew deeper, rising to her ankles, she realized it was a relatively clean stream running from the nearby wharf.

They slogged through water now nearly to her waist, drawn by the light, navigating blindly through the river along uneven rocks, slippery with algae. One of the rocks moved suddenly, scudding against another, and the uneven surface sent them slipping and plunging into the water, which was suddenly up to her shoulders.

Maia knew how to swim, and she didn’t regret the sudden dunking. When she came up, her hair dripping in her face, she felt cooler and cleaner. She ducked back under again, glad to rinse away the remains of blood and smoke, and the sensation of violating lips and fangs. Relief rushed through her when Corvindale emerged, as well, whipping his wet hair back with a sharp toss of his head.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, reaching for her hand as she found a stable rock or brick to stand on. The light was growing stronger by the moment. The sun must be rising above.

“It feels good,” she said, her voice still rusty from the smoke. “The water was refreshing.”

“That is one thing even I cannot argue with,” he replied, and his hands were on her shoulders as he looked down at her. “Maia, I’m sorry. For all of this.”

She was now able to see the water dripping from his brows and hair, and the odd set to his face. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

She couldn’t understand it, didn’t understand why he looked so stricken. They’d escaped the fire, they were nearly free, he’d admitted his feelings for her and he certainly knew how she felt about him. Why did he look as if something terrible had occurred?

Beyond that, she was certain that something miraculous had happened there, during the fire. She knew that Voss had become mortal after some horrible incident involving Angelica, and part of her believed—and hoped—the same had just happened to Corvindale.