"Nonetheless, the men must look. And make sure." Althea tugged the ta.s.seled pull. And sat again. "There are two things you must know, Serena."

"It's not necessary-"

"It most certainly is. You saw me in the library with Yannick and Bastien."

It had been real. Serena put her hands to her hot cheeks. "I didn't mean to walk in. I am so very sorry."

"You don't approve." Althea smiled gently. "Or do you?"

She couldn't think what to say. She...she wasn't sure how she felt.

"I have a very unusual marriage."

Blinking, Serena looked to her friend.

"You see, I am married to two men. The church records show only one, of course, for we had to ensure things were legal, done in the proper English manner. But I am actually mated with both Yannick and Bastien. They are both my lovers, my soulmates, my partners, and friends."

Clinging to her scattered wits, Serena looked down at Althea's belly. Then hated herself for making that telling glance.

But Althea merely smiled again. "The baby is the child of the three of us. Oh Serena, you look stunned. Horrified."

"I have no right to be. I've done worse." There, she had said it. Admitted it.

"What I have done-and I'm sure that what you have done-is not bad. Yannick, Bastien, and I have discovered that love is more powerful when we share it between the three of us. Our love has the power to save lives, to save souls, to give us unimaginable pleasure and joy."

"I had an affair with a gentleman in the house where I was raised," Serena blurted. "I lost the baby. He was infuriated that I had quickened. I was supposed to be happy to be saved from disaster, so I didn't cry. I never cried for the baby I lost. There-now you see that you don't have to explain anything to me."

"Dear Serena, you did nothing wrong. You must have been terrified to discover you were pregnant. And I do have to explain this to you. I believe you understand why."

She shook her head. "I don't."

"I had dreams, scandalous, forbidden dreams-dreams that were erotic premonitions. It is important that you understand it is not wrong, or bad, or impossible to love two men."

Chapter Fourteen.

Brothers Share "Why defy Ashcroft to hunt Lukos?"

Jonathon ignored the goading quality in Swift's voice. He tightened his grip on his crossbow and slipped into the shadows by the towering brick warehouse wall. Fog slithered up the alleyway. The dank, sooty mist clung to his greatcoat, his hat, condensed on his cold cheeks and chin, and dripped.

He was tired of creeping around in b.l.o.o.d.y fog.

"And why in h.e.l.l doesn't he want you to hunt?"

Jonathon didn't answer. He scanned the impenetrable gray gloom ahead. If Lukos were in there, they'd never know it before he smelled their blood. Apprehension mingled with the pleasure of the hunt. His skin p.r.i.c.kled and he flinched, as though he felt fingers grazing across his neck.

It was as though she were still out there in the night. Lilianne. His fiancee. Still watching him.

Why did he remember that night so vividly right now? The slash of a blade. The neat severing of the head from the neck. And then arranging her neatly in a coffin, covering that wound, pretending she was finally at peace.

Perhaps Lilianne was. He would never be.

"Sommersby-" A hand clasped down on his shoulder, and he jerked in shock. He spun to meet Swift's narrowed green gaze.

In Swift's free hand he held his crossbow, and he winced as he moved-the healing knife wound must still hurt. "It's not like you to charge into a trap-that's more my nature. What secrets are you hiding?"

"What secrets are you keeping from me, Swift?"

Those eyes narrowed into angry slits. Jonathon knew he should have no reason to fear Swift- he was larger, more muscular-but Swift was pure killer. Drake Swift was like random chemicals poured into a beaker-volatile, unpredictable, potentially explosive.

And Jonathon understood why. Trigger Swift's memories of his past and you unleashed his demons. h.e.l.l, how Jonathon understood that.

"If you're rescuing the delightful Miss Lark because you're in love with her," Swift said, "you're too late."

"What in h.e.l.l are you talking about? What did you do to her?"

"She broke into your laboratory."

"h.e.l.l, you ravished her in my laboratory?" Rage gripped Jonathon so suddenly he almost shot off his b.l.o.o.d.y crossbow.

"Not in the way you're thinking, Sommersby. I feasted on her delicious cunny-until she exploded in the wildest, most wanton climax I've ever seen." Swift ran his tongue around his mouth, as though tasting Miss Lark's intimate flavors, and then he lowered his lids, looking b.l.o.o.d.y blissful. "It was heaven, Sommersby."

Jonathon felt his entire body shake. "Don't tempt me to shoot this bolt through the base of your b.l.o.o.d.y throat, Swift."

"So testy. I reined myself in that night. But last night, last night-I couldn't resist. I made love to her in the brothel last night."

"Christ Jesus." Jonathon's hand had fisted, had slammed into Swift's jaw before he realized what happened. His partner's head reeled. Blood sprayed.

Blood.

Swift clamped his hand to his nose, but he didn't throw a punch in return. Beneath his hand, he grinned as the blood leaked down to his lips.

"I offered marriage." His words came out distorted, through swelling lips.

In that stark moment, Jonathon knew he couldn't let Serena Lark marry Drake Swift. He couldn't let Drake have her.

"You b.a.s.t.a.r.d," he spat at Swift. "You took advantage of her. She was kidnapped only a few nights ago. She barely escaped with her life-and what do you do? Open your b.l.o.o.d.y breeches and rape her in a brothel."

"She was on top. And willing."

His left fist came up this time, catching Swift beneath the chin. But a tough-soled boot drove into his gut. Wind rushed out and he hit the wall behind him. Swift had driven his foot hard into his stomach. Bile rose, and Jonathon choked it down. Swift's left leg swung up. Jonathon rolled against the warehouse wall, but with no way of moving back, his hip took the brunt.

His entire spine hurt from the blow to his hip. "You want to kill me here? Now?"

"It's what your father wanted of me," Swift snapped. "The ability to kill without thought. Ironic if I tore his b.l.o.o.d.y son apart while hunting a vampire."

"My father-" Jonathon lunged forward and he fought the sudden weakness in his legs, the sensation of the world dropping away. Christ, Swift's kick had really injured him. But he could not show weakness.

"What in h.e.l.l are you addicted to, Swift? It is opium?"

Swift rushed at him, holding the crossbow pointed at his face. Jonathon was pinned against the wall. He'd drawn back as far as he could, now had nowhere to retreat. All he could do was stand his ground as Swift caressed his face with the point of the arrow.

Swift grinned as he drew the arrow across Jonathon's lips. Jonathon kept them gripped together, fighting the invasion. If he parted them, would Swift shoot into his mouth? Was Swift that insane? Blood still welled from Swift's nose and dripped to his top lip. Their gazes locked. Jonathon saw the huff of their breath against the cold October air, between the wisps of fog.

He jerked up his leg, drove his boot into Swift's stomach, and sent him sprawling back. Swift fell, his limbs spread-eagled in the wet filth that stretched the length of the alley.

It had always been like this between them. Jonathon remembered the night he'd discovered Swift had seduced the girl he'd been in love with. Brothers share, Swift had laughed.

He could have ripped Swift's heart out and done it without any remorse. But Swift had saved his life that night while they hunted-Swift had taken the blow intended to kill Jonathon.

Staring down at Drake Swift, who lay in the filth on the ground, Jonathon remembered that night. He'd carried Swift home, helped his partner onto his father's flat wooden table and had stepped back to leave him to be sewn up by his father- Swift's hand had shot out and grabbed his wrist. "If I can't walk, shoot me. Drop some of his poisons down me throat. Anything. Don't let me live as a cripple."

He'd pried Drake Swift's hand from his wrist. "You'll live as a cripple," he'd vowed. Anger had still raced in his veins. "If I have to live with humiliation, with a broken heart, you'll live as a b.l.o.o.d.y cripple. And I'll relish every moment of it."

"Ah, come on, lad," Swift had lain back, irises drifting back under his eyelids. "You didn't love her. You care more about being humiliated than about her."

His father had made rest.i.tution with the family, and the girl had married a fifty-five-year-old viscount who had a taste for fresh young ladies. Better she marries him than Swift, his father had said. That man's a gentleman-Swift is an animal.

His father's condemnation of Drake Swift had eased the pain of humiliation. Jonathon knew his father thought Swift was a more courageous hunter. He knew his father had always thought him a failure compared to Drake Swift. When he became engaged to Lilianne, he'd been terrified he'd lose her heart to Swift. And now he'd lost Serena Lark...

From the dirt, Swift's laughed broke into Jonathon's thoughts. "Clever move-" His voice broke abruptly. "Christ, rats."

Jonathon heard them then-the scuttling, the high pitched squeal of them. Like a wave of black water they raced down the alley, filling it wall to wall.

Swift jumped to his feet in an instant. Lashing out with his leather boots, he tried to kick the rats back. Small black bodies flew into the onslaught. Then just as suddenly, as though they'd heard a silent command, they stopped. Turned and retreated.

"What in h.e.l.l was that?" For the first time, Jonathon saw fear in Swift's eyes.

Then he heard it. Soft scurrying. But not rats. Likely the urchins that lived on the street- Swift had been one of those urchins before his father rescued him.

"Swift, we should move-"

Two small forms charged out of the black and rammed Jonathon's legs, knocking him off balance. One leapt on top of him, and he knew from the weight, the shape, even the smell, that this was a child.

Jonathon's hand gripped an arm. His other hand glanced off a rib cage barely shielded by thin clothes. This was a weak, starving child. But the boy wrenched free and slammed a fist into Jonathon's stomach. The force of the blow drove him back to the cold, rough ground, coughing.

The child had the strength of a soldier.

The second boy jumped at his head. A bare foot rammed into his cheek and sent his head snapping to the side. Jonathon's jaw pounded against a cobblestone. He tasted blood. His crossbow-where in h.e.l.l was it?

One of the boys let out a keening cry that echoed through Jonathon's skull as two small hands fastened on his exposed neck. Even battered, he should be able to fight off two malnourished children, but the grip on his throat was like that of a man twice his own size.

Where in Hades was Swift?

A pistol shot, and a human cry of pain was his answer.

Someone had shot Swift. Jonathon fought with the boys-kicking at them, flailing fists. But he was pinned, like the jawbones on the mounts in his laboratory.

Two lips pressed into his skin above his cravat. The lips parted, and he felt teeth sc.r.a.pe against his skin. The boy gave a laugh of pleasure, then plunged his teeth.

Jonathon punched, kicked, fought like a banshee, but struggling only sent his blood flowing faster from the wound to the vampire's teeth.

h.e.l.l, he was d.a.m.ned if he would die this way. He slipped his fingers into his coat to work a stake free.

Drake lay on his back in the muck, and all he could do was watch the wreaths of mist dance over his head. He couldn't move. h.e.l.l, he couldn't even blink his eyes.

Was he already dead?

Where in h.e.l.l was Sommersby? Probably applauding in glee at finally being rid of the filthy, murderous, street sc.u.m his father had molded into a killer.

The bullet had ripped into his back. Just below his hat, right at the top of his spine. The front of his chest had exploded as the ball tore through him. He could smell the stench of his own blood, but he couldn't move his head to see the gory mess that was once his body.

The mist congealed in front of him. Swirling, it formed the shape of legs, arms, the thick torso of a man. And then it became a form as black as night. That form bent beside him, as though dropping to one knee. He couldn't turn to see it-he couldn't move his neck.

Long-fingered hands caressed his face. One fingertip traced an old scar, the one right under his eye. Drake saw only shadow above him, shadow hidden by fog. The finger stroked his cheekbone, ran feather-light across his lips. The way he'd traced Sommersby's mouth with the stake. Why had he done that? He knew-to irritate Sommersby, to show superiority.

The fingers lifted his chin. "You have lost much of your blood. You will die. It would be a pleasure to finish you."

Drake fought the dizziness. The effort seemed to suck the life from him. Why couldn't he move his b.l.o.o.d.y limbs?

"But it will be a greater pleasure to keep you."

Blearily, Drake saw fingers move to his lips. His eyes crossed; the pain almost drove him to pa.s.s out. Gently, lovingly, the fingers traced his lips. A bolt of sensual excitement sizzled through him, leaving him aroused, erect, and burning with fury. Something wet touched his cheek. Christ Jesus, a tongue.

But he couldn't wrench his head away.

"There are some who deserve to live forever," the demon continued.

Lukos. This had to be Lukos. Drake's heart pounded, and his constrained, rigid c.o.c.k pulsed with each beat. He seemed to drift on a line between death and life, his senses fading, then becoming sharp and clear. But he couldn't speak. His tongue was frozen, and cold began to stiffen his fingertips, his toes. It spread, crackling like ice on a pond, claiming his arms and legs. He could feel his heartbeat slowing.

And the voice droned on, low, hoa.r.s.e, against his ear. "It was amusing to give eternal life to discarded children left to die. It entertained me to give ultimate powers to the d.a.m.ned."

Drake's heart labored. He tried to keep breathing, tried to will his heart to pump. But it only sent blood pouring out his wound, soaking into the wet mud.

The tongue licked his ear. Drake almost vomited-his guts lurched and he couldn't sit up to fight it. He coughed, spluttered-would he choke to death first?

Lukos's pale hand settled on his chest-instantly the sensation of drowning in vomit pa.s.sed. "I see your thoughts. You are d.a.m.ned too. You belong with me."

"N-n-" Drake couldn't shake his head in refusal. His limbs were numb, his chest cold, his body racked by shudders.

"What would you do if you could never die? Never be killed? If you had the strength of an army and senses more acute than any predator? What would you do with such power?"

The demon's mouth touched his jawline. Cold lips slid along his neck, leaving a trail of pain and wet warmth. Lukos must be splitting his neck open with his fangs. Some vampires did-some almost bathed themselves in blood, to absorb its life-giving, youth-giving powers through the skin.