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Rhys crouched behind the trunk of an ancient oak that spread its wide branches over the eastern corner of the ancient parish graveyard. He reached in his pocket and carefully opened his pocket watch at an angle that would not reflect the moonlight.
A quarter past eleven. Blackpool was late. Or rather, that was what the Lord Vampire likely wanted him to think when in fact, Blackpool was likely circling the area, searching for him.
Just then, a tall, stately figure strode into the graveyard. Authority and power radiated from the man. The Lord Vampire of Blackpool had arrived.
Rhys’s breath tightened in his lungs as Blackpool approached a moldy headstone with the name “Burlingame” carved into its rectangular stone face. The Lord vampire looked around the cemetery one more time before reaching in his pocket and placing a leather pouch atop the grave.
This was the most dangerous part. If the wind changed direction or if Rhys moved at the wrong moment, Blackpool would sense his presence. And the longer it took for the second half of his plan to commence, the greater the risk of discovery.
Speaking of the second part, Blackpool wasn’t the only party who was tardy.
That sodden fool had better follow through with his task, or Rhys would give him a thrashing. Just as his knees began to cramp, Rhys heard the distant sound of whistling approaching the graves.
Blackpool stiffened. As expected, he heard it too.
The whistling grew louder as both vampires tensed. The moment Rhys’s hired decoy strolled into sight, the Lord Vampire of Blackpool was upon him. He seized the drunken sailor, lifting him by his shoulders until his feet dangled in the air.
“Where is she?” Blackpool snarled, baring his fangs.
Rhys blinked at the brazen reveal. That was a foolish error of judgement right there. He would have expected better of a Lord Vampire.
Sam, a man Rhys had bribed in a pub just this evening, squirmed in terror. “I don’t know who you’re talking about! I only came to visit my grandmother’s grave. She raised me since I was a boy.”
Very good, Sam, Rhys thought. Play the innocent bystander. There was a chance that Blackpool would feed on the man and learn the truth, but even if he did, Rhys had been disguised with a false bushy red beard when he’d paid the man a dear sum simply to pretend to visit a grave at this late hour.
Rhys didn’t wait to see if the ruse would be uncovered. While Blackpool continued to interrogate Sam, Rhys dashed to the gravestone with preternatural swiftness and seized the leather bag. He ran on past the other headstones and out of the cemetery, not daring to look over his shoulder.
Only when he was miles away did Rhys stop and enter a pub in a village halfway to the No Man’s Land. Technically, he was still in danger as this was under the Lord of Lytham’s domain, but Rhys had learned that His Lordship turned a blind eye to rogue vampires passing through so long as they did not cause trouble.
The barkeep regarded him with a look of irritation, for strangers who arrived at such a late hour were often looking for trouble. Rhys ordered the cheapest ale available with hunched shoulders and a lowered tone to put the man at ease. And once he took his cup and slunk away quietly to a table in the far corner, the barkeep relaxed and turned his attention back to the men playing cards near the fireplace.
Rhys sipped the ale, surprisingly good for the price and rough location, and withdrew the leather sack that Blackpool had left on the grave.
Something didn’t feel right about the bag. When he opened the sack, he immediately saw why. Rather than two hundred pounds of coins, Blackpool had stuffed the bag with chunks of coal. Rhys blinked in astonishment. Did the Viscount of Thornton truly not give a whit for his own blood? He hadn’t anticipated that. What would he do with Vivian and Madame Renarde in that case?
The bag crinkled in his clenched fist. Rhys sneezed from the coal dust as he reached inside and drew out an envelope, sealed with a blot of wax bearing the Thornton crest. He tore it open and found a folded letter written on vellum, far sturdier than the foolscap Rhys used.
The letter however, was quite a bit briefer than the one Rhys had penned.
It read:
“You have chosen to extort the wrong man. I will find you, and I will kill you.”
Rhys stared at the angry, slanted words in stunned silence. What was he to do now? He couldn’t call Blackpool’s bluff and kill the women. The very idea filled him with revulsion. But was he supposed to keep them prisoner forever? That wouldn’t do either.
Perhaps Rhys had been too jovial in the ransom letter and not given the impression that he was serious about this business. He would have to get another message to Lord Thornton. One that would convince the vampire that Rhys was not to be trifled with.
But what would he say? Rhys took another deep drink of ale and left the pub. He needed to walk, to think. Then he realized that if he would be holding his captives longer, they could use a hot meal. He went back inside and ordered two meat pies, which he wrapped in handkerchiefs and tucked in the pockets of his greatcoat.
He also fed on the barkeep before departing. He really didn’t care to take the blood of those who provided a service to him, as such was considered bad manners in vampire society, but Rhys didn’t have time to hunt, and he certainly did not want to feed on Madame Renarde again. Aside from the taboo of feeding from guests, Rhys couldn’t banish the memory of the blazing accusation in Vivian’s eyes when she’d suddenly sat up in her bunk and caught him drinking her companion’s blood.
He’d willed Vivian to fall back asleep, but from the suspicious looks she’d cast in his direction this afternoon, Rhys suspected some part of her retained the memory. That wouldn’t be so much of a concern if he was returning her to Blackpool before dawn as originally planned, but now that her stay was being extended, the risk of Vivian or Madame Renarde discovering Rhys’s secret had multiplied ten-fold.
An idea flickered in the back of his mind, as teasing as it was daring. But no, Rhys would save that option for a last resort.
When he reached his cave in the no-man’s land, Vivian and Madame Renarde rose from their seats on Vivian’s bunk, bent heads snapping up guiltily.
Rhys bit back a smirk. He wondered what they had been plotting in his absence. Though keeping a pair of women prisoner was an inconvenience, it did certainly abate the prospect of boredom.
“I’ve brought luncheon,” he told them with a broad smile and withdrew the meat pies.
Vivian turned her nose up and opened her mouth to issue what would doubtless be an imperious refusal, but then her stomach growled loudly, echoing in the cave.
She took the proffered bundle with a mutinous frown.
Rhys waited for his prisoners to finish their meal before delivering the unfortunate news. “I’ve received a reply from Lord Thornton.”
Vivian gasped and Madame Renarde fixed a suspicious stare at Rhys, already mistrusting his tone.
“Did he give you the money?” Vivian asked.
Rhys shook his head and handed her Blackpool’s note. Her shoulders slumped as she read the curt message and passed it to her companion. Madame Renarde’s scowl was fearsome to behold. “This is his writing. Bloody foolish male pride.”
“Yes, pride.” Rhys latched onto the explanation. “I do hope that was his reasoning rather than cold disregard for your safety. Either way, it appears that I have made a grave error in my approach to this situation.”
Vivian’s dark hair rippled over her shoulders with her vigorous nod. “Indeed, you have. You may rectify it by releasing us at once.”
Rhys chuckled at her boldness and allowed his gaze to rove over her luxurious hair. Her tresses weren’t the usual dun-color that was prominent with many English women, but rather a rich, dark shade, that reminded him of coffee from the Americas.
“No, my error was that I mistakenly gave your uncle the impression that I am a jovial man and far too soft to contemplate harming a gently born maiden. And indeed, I shall rectify that immediately.” He reached in his pocket and withdrew his hunting knife.
Vivian gasped as he lunged at her.