Blood Deep. Sharon Page

on herself below, as though she were soaring over her body. The golden-haired man prowled toward her below. Her mouth was wide open in a shriek, but she could hear no sound. His erection wobbled in front of him, reflecting moonlight. Naked, defined by the hard bulges and curves of solid muscle, his body seemed to glow blue-white within the shadows.

      He tipped his head up and fangs shot out of his mouth.

      He bent to her neck and she felt a dull ripple of pain as she saw his canines penetrate her neck below. Air currents began to spin her. She slowly circled and watched as two demons drank the blood from her body, gulping hungrily, making low moans of appreciation.

      Wake up. Wake up.

      She was sinking back to her body now, losing blood and growing weak. If she didn’t wake up, she would die—

      The golden-haired man lifted from her neck. “Now, angel, we take your power. And make you ours for eternity.”

      “We know what you are, Miranda,” the other man murmured behind her. “A witch.”

      On a fierce scream, she bolted upright. A heavy fur throw slid down her lap, and the world lurched drastically to the left. Miranda pitched against the side of a moving room but struck softness. A clattering sound, rhythmic but jarring, hammered into her brain. Somewhere, horses gave muffled whinnies.

      She was in her carriage, or rather, one of her brother’s carriages. Her corset clamped her lungs, dug into her ribs, and prevented her from taking a deep breath. Lace along her neckline itched, her skirts were tangled around her legs, and her feet throbbed hotly in her tightly laced half boots.

      She was alive. Alive and alone. And safe.

      It had all been a dream. Thank heaven.

      “I am not a witch,” she shouted aloud to the empty carriage. But she was shaking, despite the fierce way she was hugging herself.

      Two weeks ago, she had written down her plan to save her impoverished brother and his wife by racing to Lord Blackthorne and convincing him to marry her. How trivial poverty seemed now.

      The day after she’d made her plans, a vampire slayer named James Ryder had come to her brother’s house. Like her Aunt Eugenia, Ryder was a member of the Royal Society for the Investigation of Mysterious Phenomena. And once he began to ask her questions, she realized he knew of her special power.

      Aunt Eugenia had warned her never to tell anyone—not even the Royal Society. So she had pretended not to understand him and had played a vapor-brained twit until he’d left in frustration.

      But Ryder had come upon her in the park.

      You are a demon. Or a witch, he’d said. Only an evil, otherworldly being can possess the power of magic. And as a slayer, it is my sworn duty to destroy you.

      The intense, almost fanatical fire in his blue eyes had terrified her. It certainly proved she wasn’t a woman to swoon—she’d never had a better reason to faint. But she’d stayed on her feet, determined to fight for her life. She had blustered that he must be mad, that she knew nothing of magic, and was certainly no witch. And inside, she had been thinking, I’ve saved lives. That’s all I’ve ever done. But after all, how many innocent women had been burned at stakes through history?

      The Royal Society believes you must be removed, he’d said coolly. He’d stroked her cheek, and she’d been too horrified to pull away from his touch. You’ll never know when it will happen, love. But I promise it will hurt. Then he’d slipped away and disappeared in the crowd of the ton that filled the park. Simon and Caroline had caught up with her, and though she’d lied about what happened, she knew they’d sensed her terror.

      The Royal Society wanted her dead. She couldn’t put her family at risk. And by staying, she was putting Aunt Eugenia in danger.

      Lord Blackthorne was the only one she could turn to. He’d told her—in letters—that he was falling in love with her. She prayed it was true. She prayed that she could go to him and find safety. And through his power and wealth, she could also protect her family.

      “Hold hard!”

      The coachman was shouting. That was no dream; his furious shout was real. Suddenly, the carriage skidded on the road and the horses screamed in terror.

      “What is it?” Miranda cried, clinging to the seat. But over the clatter of the traces, the frightening creaking of the carriage, she did not think anyone would hear.

      The wheels seemed to catch in the road and tipped to the right, then swung back over to the left. Men—the coachman, the outriders who thought they were escorting her on her brother’s orders—shouted and hollered. A lot of colorful cursing filled the air. But they were going to overturn…

      There was no way to stop it. Miranda grabbed the seat, but the force of the spill threw her. The other side of the carriage slammed her back and she tumbled around as the carriage went over. Her face hit the frame of the window, stunning her. Had she lost all her teeth? Broken her cheek? Pain shot through her and her stomach churned.

      The side of the carriage scraped across the rutted ground as the horses tried to run, dragging the heavy carriage behind them.

      Then it stopped.

      Miranda let her head fall to rest against the wall. Oh dear God.

      She wanted to be sick.

      Women were supposed to swoon over far less. But she was going to stay conscious, even if it killed her. Her lower lip stung and she wiped her hand across it. Of course, blood instantly streaked her white muslin glove. She tasted the coppery tang on her tongue.

      Someone wrenched open the door that was now above her. Brilliant sunlight and cool air poured in.

      “Miss? Are you all right, miss?”

      “Yes.” And she was. Though she was lying on her back and her feet stuck up in the air. Her skirts had tangled around her legs, her pelisse had wrapped itself around her arms. It was a most undignified situation, and her head ached like blazes.

      The coachman flushed red. “Would you allow me to help you out, Miss Bond?”

      “I don’t see how else I’ll get out.” Blasted clothes. “What happened?”

      His hand came down—he tried to grasp her wrist without actually looking at her. Apparently, he didn’t want to be accused of behaving improperly. She sighed, then grasped his hand.

      “The horses went mad,” he said. “And then, out of nowhere, some sort of creature appeared in front of us. We tried to rein in, but the horses were wild with fear. Then the carriage went over.”

      “A creature? Do you mean a wolf? A wild dog?”

      “No, my lady, it wasn’t that.” He pulled her upward, and she struggled to gain purchase against a wall or the seat, something to lift her out.

      This was certainly an adventure. When had she ever had to hike up her skirts to climb out of an upturned carriage, then slide off the wall, which was now up in the air like the roof?

      Her brother’s coachman looked mortally embarrassed as he helped her scramble through the door opening. He was a handsome man with coal black hair and flashing eyes, but he was not supposed to be clasping arms around a lady’s waist to set her on the ground.

      “Thank you,” she breathed, to let him know that she didn’t care one whit about propriety in the situation.

      She and the coachman shared an awkward moment while he gruffly acknowledged her appreciation. The sunlight promised a beautiful day, but the air she sucked in was crisp with the newness of spring, and her shoes were sinking into the muddy road. Fading gold light picked out a scene of madness: of the poor horses, one was on its side and screaming, and the other was fighting the constraint of the traces. Outriders were struggling to free them. The carriage was a battered wreck.

      She was lucky to have survived.

      That made her more determined to know what had