Silken Rapture: Princes of the Underground, Book 2 Read online

“Aubrey told me yesterday that you tend to starve yourself at times, weaken yourself by not taking vitessence.”

  He blinked as a shock jolted through him for the second time in minutes. Damn Aubrey. He’d been very specific with the Literati about how much they revealed to Isabel. He’d made it clear, for instance, that he didn’t want Isabel to understand their shape-shifting nature, recollecting all too well how repulsed Elysse was by his wolf-self. It had been a different century, and legends and fears associated with the werewolf had clung heavily in the Italian countryside where Elysse had grown up.

  He hadn’t specifically told Aubrey not to tell Isabel about his moments of despair, but he’d thought such a personal thing would remain an obvious secret between friends.

  “You have been spending a great deal of time with me every day for the past week,” Isabel continued, her lovely voice vibrating with emotion. “Do you never feel the desire, the urge to take my blood? It might help to calm you right now, give you strength…”

  His mouth went dry as a bone. He stared at her mutely. He felt cornered, defeated by a foe against whom he had no training. How could she ask him such a question? He hungered for her essence each and every second of his existence.

  He quenched himself at night on her. Or he tried to, anyway. It never worked. He always wanted more. He knew he was foul for doing it, but it was ridiculous to think he could do otherwise. He was soulless…an animal. Human beings called him a vampire. He could not prevent himself.

  He’d stopped trying.

  But these afternoons with Isabel were part of her every day, conscious existence. She was aware when he took her at night, as well, but he’d always end their impassioned joining by hiding those memories deep within her unconscious. It was the only thing he could do to save her from her anguish—to protect himself from the eventual certainty of her disgust and horror. He must steal her memories of his savage, unquenchable need for her. He must make her forget how much she wanted him, in turn, or she would become ashamed…afraid. He couldn’t bear that possibility.

  He knew he was a fool for allowing himself to spend time with her during these stolen afternoons. One day, he would lose control and take her blood here in his study as they talked and exchanged glances and laughed. If it weren’t for his thorough possession of her every night, he would have done so already.

  “Aubrey needs to learn to keep his mouth shut,” he told her shortly before he set his half-drained wineglass on the mantel.

  “He’s just concerned for you.”

  “He’s just an interfering idiot. I don’t care if he is a genius. Besides,” he added, altering his tone when he saw her startled expression at his harshness. “I take sustenance from the crystal.” He avoided her stare. He took nourishment from her as well, during their heated, abandoned moments of repeated intercourse. He was overly cautious, but he had taken her blood on his nightly visits. To drink it was nirvana. One swallow could enliven him for days.

  He longed to taste her sex juices, to lick the sweat in the valley of her breasts, to taste her tears of joy, as well. But he would not allow himself. He had already lost control, taking her repeatedly under the influence of some kind of rapturous mating spell. To make love to Isabel—to truly make love with her, commune with her—would be the ultimate act of losing himself. It was the hardest thing in the world to join with her, and then make her forget those moments of bliss. If he made love to her, he feared he would never be able to break the connection between them.

  It would kill him to have to make her forget these quiet, intimate, seemingly innocent afternoons together. That would somehow be even worse—

  “Blaise?”

  He blinked and met her stare. Her eyes were like shiny ebony mirrors, the gold flames of the fire reflecting in them, beckoning him.

  Her white throat convulsed when she swallowed. “You have not answered me.”

  Her persistence made him desperate. “Do you need your ego stroked, Isabel? I had not realized you were such a stereotypical actress. Very well. If it pleases you to know it, yes. I feel the urge,” he bit out between clenched teeth.

  She backed away from him, her eyes huge in her pale face. He muttered an ancient curse upon seeing her fear of him.

  “You shouldn’t come here anymore,” he said, looking away from her.

  “Does it pain you so much, being with me?” she whispered.

  The answer stuck in his throat. If he told her the agony he experienced in her presence, the ecstasy, she would leave. His selfishness—his cowardice—knew no bounds, because he couldn’t bear the thought of losing these moments here in his study, talking to her, seeing the play of light on her delicate features, allowing the richness of her voice to caress him with every word, every sigh…absorbing her beauty.

  It didn’t strike him until that moment that he had been making love to her during these afternoons. Perhaps it was already too late.

  She set down her wineglass. “I didn’t mean to upset you further,” she said in a low voice. “I was only…concerned for you. You seemed so upset by Saint’s news. I wanted to offer—”

  “Don’t,” he said sharply, cutting her off. “Don’t you dare,” he added quietly. He knew full well what she’d been about to offer him. His need for her already cut at him. To hear her offer herself at that moment would have been too much for him to bear.

  Her eyes flickered up to the portrait of Elysse. “I know what it is to be lonely. I still fear that I’ll die alone.”

  He went still. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m just trying to tell you, I know you’re afraid. I know why. Because you lost her,” she nodded at the painting over the mantel, “you’re afraid to get too close to me. I’m trying to tell you—I know what that’s like. I, too, have lived in fear of another’s touch.” She held up her gloved hands. “I, too, know what it’s like to lose someone, and feel like you’ve lost your whole world.”

  “Who?” he asked, taking a step toward her.

  “My father,” she said in a hushed voice, lowering her head. “He was my whole world. I was only seventeen when he died. I felt like I’d been cast adrift in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. I was so afraid.” She inhaled raggedly and met his stare. Tears shone in her soulful eyes. “After the accident, it caused me so much pain to touch other human beings. I became wary of them. I became convinced I would die alone. We’re not all that different, you and me. We’re both afraid to love.”

  He looked away from the torment—the promise—in her eyes. “I told you. The soulless cannot love.”

  His voice sounded hollow and stupid in the fire-warmed air.

  “I’ll go now,” she said after a moment.

  He said nothing until she opened the door to his study.

  “Isabel?” he called, unable to stop himself.

  She turned.

  “You will be back tomorrow?” he asked, even though his words rang like a command in his ears.

  “Of course,” she replied, her voice as soft as a soothing caress on raised wolf fur.

  He waited until the urge to go after her eased. Once he was able to clear his brain from the intoxication Isabel always wrought, he called out with his mind telepathically.

  “Come to me in my study, Aubrey. I have news from Saint and need your advice.”

  Chapter Nine

  Later that night, Aubrey stared at Morshiel across the ornate Louis XIV boxwood table. They sat in a makeshift suite of luxury in an underground cavern running below the Tube line—a network of caves which had remained secret and uncharted by Blaise and the Literati. Aubrey found the domicile as bizarre as its chief occupant. He’d studied Morshiel for centuries, but he’d never quite grasped his character. How was it possible for decadence and beauty and decay and sheer charisma to blend so seamlessly?

  Aubrey kept telling himself he was far superior to Morshiel in strength, intelligence and moral fortitude, but then he’d fall under the mesmeric power of Morshiel’s compelling eyes…
<
br />   …and he’d have to remind himself of his superiority all over again.

  “I’m still not sure I understand what’s brought you here,” Morshiel said, his tone implying he really could care less one way or another.

  “I would think it was obvious,” Aubrey said. “I want the woman. I’m willing to do whatever it takes in order to have her. She is power personified.”

  Morshiel gave a viperfish smile. “And you’re willing to betray my clone in order to have her? Yes, I see that I state the obvious. What will I get from the deal?”

  “Nothing much. Just the service of the most brilliant mind in the history of western civilization. Me, in other words.” He smiled into Morshiel’s laughing eyes. “Then there is the crystal, Blaise’s demise and the full and complete power of Sanctuary, the underworld, all of London, if you choose it.” Aubrey quirked up one brow in a subtle challenge.

  Morshiel pointed his finger significantly at Aubrey and began to laugh. “I like you.”

  “He lies, Morshiel,” a harsh whisper cut through Morshiel’s mirth, originating from everywhere and nowhere at once.

  Morshiel made a hissing sound. “Quiet.”

  Aubrey followed the direction of Morshiel’s sharp gaze and saw the demon—or ghost, as Morshiel called her—hovering like a dark blue and gray mist before a large, elaborately carved armoire. Morshiel looked back at Aubrey, his gaze warm. Aubrey had been surprised to learn Blaise’s clone never retracted his fangs, even in the midst of polite conversation. Aubrey found that habit both unspeakably crude and exciting at once. Blaise had taught them to control their primal instincts. It had always been the Literati’s prime directive. To see a creature that mirrored Blaise almost perfectly, yet who flaunted his bestial nature, was stimulating, for some reason. Perhaps the fact that Morshiel dressed the part of a refined aristocrat only added to his enigmatic charisma.

  Morshiel picked up a bronze pitcher. Aubrey’s nose had told him the contents of the pitcher was human blood even before he saw the thick, crimson liquid flowing into the goblet. His refined senses also told him the blood all originated from one human. The amount in the pitcher suggested that human was definitely no longer in the world of the living.

  Morshiel offered him a cup. Aubrey nodded his head in thanks but didn’t drink.

  “You must forgive Shirian her rudeness,” Morshiel said affably as he sat back in his chair, a picture of confident male ease. Aubrey would have thought that the absence of gleaming, waving black hair would diminish Morshiel’s appearance in comparison to Blaise, but he was mistaken. Morshiel’s face was so compelling that the lack of hair only made Aubrey twice as aware of the power of his unusual eyes. Morshiel was dressed—inexplicably—as a seventeenth century French courtier. The velvets, lace and rich brocades pleased Aubrey’s sensual nature. Blaise was such a beautiful man to behold, and Morshiel was his twin, after all. It had always pained him to see Blaise treat his appearance with such disregard. Morshiel, on the other hand, seemed all too aware of his raw masculinity and abundant good looks.

  His clear lack of vitessence was repulsive, on the other hand. Aubrey had been mortal once, however, and he recalled all too well what it was to admire a creature’s beauty with no obvious evidence of either the grossness or refinement of the soul.

  Aubrey shrugged and toyed with his heavy goblet. “Shirian comes by her suspicion honestly, at least. Blaise is your mortal enemy, I am his sworn friend, and Shirian is an Egyptian princess who was fed the milk of subterfuge as a newborn,” Aubrey said, repeating what Morshiel had told him minutes ago about the other presence in the underground chamber with them. In truth, he knew for a fact that Shirian’s lust for power was nurtured in the very womb of her witch mother, but he didn’t betray his intimate knowledge of the cunning demon to Morshiel. He’d summoned and communed with the demon on multiple prior occasions, although he had not yet successfully been able to subjugate her entirely to his will. In fact, he’d only located the secret chamber with Shirian’s help. Her dramatics at the present moment in regard to pretending suspicion and animosity toward him for Morshiel’s sake amused Aubrey.

  He held many cards that neither Blaise nor Morshiel were meant to see.

  “I would be shocked if Shirian didn’t warn you against me. I assume she only echoes your doubts, but you’re too much of a gentleman to put it so bluntly,” Aubrey finished.

  If a smile could be lethal, Morshiel’s was. Aubrey blinked. He’d come prepared for Morshiel’s power, but he’d underestimated him. It kept creeping up on him unaware.

  “I’m glad you recognize it,” Morshiel said. “You seem a gentleman yourself. How is it that you put up with my clone? He’s a savage.”

  “They say opposites attract.”

  It wasn’t until Aubrey saw the gleam of interest in Morshiel’s eyes that he realized he’d been flirting.

  “If you are so attracted to my clone, why seek to betray him?

  “I’ve never before had a reason to betray Blaise. I don’t do it easily now. But I’m a scientist as well as a magician. I’ve been investigating the Sevliss princes and their clones in depth for over three centuries now.” He paused, fiddling with his goblet, deep in thought. “I have reason to believe that a great change is on the horizon for you and Blaise—a magnificent opportunity for you and me. My magic has hinted at it; the appearance of the crystal heralds the change…as does Isabel Lanscourt. The stars are aligning, so to speak. The time has come to act.”

  He paused dramatically, noting that he had Morshiel’s full, focused attention.

  “Despite my fascination with the Sevliss princes and their clones, Blaise keeps what he knows rather close to the chest, I’m afraid,” Aubrey continued. “I long to travel, to meet the other princes and their clones in person, but I am bound by some unknown magic to stay in the general vicinity of Britain. It appears Blaise’s territory is my own, as well. Perhaps you are familiar with this dictate?”

  Morshiel waved his hand irritably, stirring the lace at his wrist. “It is the same with the Scourge and me. That is Usan’s work, curse his magic.”

  Aubrey’s eyes narrowed. “Usan…the Magian? One of the beings that watches over Blaise and you?”

  “Usan doesn’t watch over me,” Morshiel spat. It was beyond bizarre to see a mirror-image of Blaise’s usual stoic face twisted in a bitter pique. “He adores and protects Blaise. He left me to rot in these tunnels ages ago.”

  “It’s all so strange,” Aubrey broached the forbidden topic cautiously. He always had difficulty understanding if Blaise avoided speaking of his origins because he kept them secret on purpose, or whether he didn’t know any more than Aubrey did. Still, Blaise had revealed some things over the centuries. “Blaise has told me that Usan and the Magian are beings from another planet. And that you and Blaise, and the other princes and clones, share some of that alien DNA, in addition to that of humans and shapeshifters.”

  Morshiel drank deeply from his goblet, turning his smirk blood-red. “And you find this hard to believe?”

  “No, not in the way you’re imagining. I know intelligences from other places, other dimensions of reality, exist. I am a magician, after all. Magicians can channel demons and what some would call the lower orders of angels, creatures of wisdom who may tell us of other existences besides our own on this small, insignificant planet.” He nodded his head in the direction of Shirian, his eyes remaining on Morshiel. “If a ghost exists, why not beings from other realities…from other worlds?”

  Morshiel latched a hungry gaze on Aubrey as he leaned his elbows on the table. “You can channel these spirits? Commune with them?”

  Aubrey gave a negligent nod.

  “That must make you very powerful,” Morshiel admitted after a pause, his expression sullenly respectful.

  “It makes me very humble. We cannot begin to imagine the vastness of the universe. But whatever power I have, I am offering for your service. Tell me, have you ever met Usan?”

  “Twice, but that
was centuries ago. He was in my early memories, but he has neglected me since. He gave me my heartluster and told me that Blaise would never rest until he vanquished me,” Morshiel said. His face looked hard and cold as he touched his outer thigh, stroking the sheathed weapon like a lover. His gaze leapt to Aubrey’s. “Do you see that senile fool frequently with Blaise, then?”

  “I have never seen him, but from the hints Blaise has dropped over the years, I believe he visits Blaise every dozen years or so,” Aubrey admitted.

  Morshiel made a disgusted noise and lifted his goblet. “I have no doubt Usan watches over Blaise’s every move, worships his every footstep. He has made Blaise master of Sanctuary and barred me from its treasures.”

  “Usan may have warded Sanctuary against you and the revenants, but I made Sanctuary an unrivaled treasure,” Aubrey said, holding Morshiel’s eyes. “I did, along with all of its grandeur and miracles…never Usan. Never Blaise.”

  “He thinks a great deal of himself,” the air around them hissed in Shirian’s mocking, sultry voice.

  “It’s not a crime for the great to think well of themselves,” Morshiel replied, his gaze never wavering from Aubrey’s. “All right. Let’s say I agree not to take off your head this second. Let’s say I agree to work with you. What do you have in mind? What do we do next?”

  Aubrey smiled to hide the flash of fear that went through him. “We kidnap an Iniskium warrior from Chicago. A man named Isi.”

  “One of Saint’s followers?” Morshiel asked, leaning forward in interest. “But how will we ever accomplish that?”

  “I told you that change is on the horizon. Saint somehow knew about the crystal. He is the one who warned Blaise about its presence in the British Museum tunnel. Now that Saint has vanquished Teslar—”

  “There has been no definitive proof of that,” Morshiel interrupted him.

  Fear spiked through Aubrey, seemingly of its own accord at the mere hint of Morshiel’s ice-cold aggression. He nodded calmly, understanding that the rumors of Teslar’s demise must not have sat well with Morshiel. Teslar was Morshiel’s equal, after all.