Winterly (Dark Creatures Book 1), стр. 108
A raven awoke her some hours later, convoking its conspirators with murderous cackles outside her window. The drapes were set aglow with blessed sunlight. Instead of berating the bird under her breath as she was inclined to do, she flung the bedsheet from her limbs and rushed through her toilette. Once she was dressed she went in search of Skinner.
“Tell your master,” said she to the cadaverous housekeeper, “that I require fresh air and solitude, I do not wish to be disturbed.”
The wight gave a lifeless nod of her head. “Very good, miss.”
The moment she was out of doors, Emma filled her lungs with the salt air that blew in from the north and turned her face to the overcast sky.
The first order of business was to find Ana. Emma had decided, before she’d fallen asleep, that there was nothing for it but to confess to Ana that she’d done the very thing she’d been warned against—taken blood from Markus.
And what of this impossible notion of killing him. Could she do it? Even if it meant freeing herself and Milli?
She directed her feet towards the Whitby Inn in search of Ana. She entertained little hope of finding the watcher, but what else could she do?
When she inquired after the three sisters, however, the publican appeared bemused. He distinctly recalled seeing Emma there the night before, but had no recollection of seeing the De Grigori sisters. Even the man that had served the ale peered queerly at her when she’d questioned him. Emma left the inn, her insides much disturbed. She betook herself to the ruined abbey and the lichen-mantled tombstones where, not so long ago—though it seemed an eternity now—she’d been kissed for the first time in her life. Kissed by a vampyre.
Emma shut her eyes tight against the very stone upon which Markus had stolen that first stormy kiss; nay, the stone upon which she’d received his kisses with hungry reciprocation. Even the memory of it reinvigorated her heart, such was the work of his diabolic influence in her blood. How could she yearn for the beast even after witnessing his bloodiest deeds? It was some hours later when, roused from her brooding, she realized her feet had returned her to Winterthurse. The dark siren song of the wyrm in her veins had called her home.
The only way to be free of him, to be the master of her own destiny, was in death—either hers or his, for he refused to let her go. The cost of her freedom was indeed dear. As she stood ruminating on such morbid and costly matters, a silent warm tear escaped from the corner of her eye to glide woefully down her cheek.
The truth was, Markus’s death scared her near as much as her own; he might not love her, but she had long ago admitted to herself that she loved him. Her sickness was acute indeed. Not even the violent depravity she’d witnessed in the blood memory had robbed her of that accursed love. Even if that were not the case—even if she thirsted for his death—how was such a thing to be realized?
The heart. Ana had been most adamant that his heart was where the fatal blow must fall. But how? His heart is impossible to get at, were I even of a mind to get at it. She let out a sigh and turned to leave. Turned to find her gaze dashed against a pair of fierce black eyes.
The white face wrenched an instant frightful yelp from her throat. “Victoria!” Emma backed away, gasping. The vampyre was staring at her with unbridled and demonic hunger. “If Markus finds you here…” The threat, such as it was, trailed off weakly, for Emma realized she had no notion of the master’s reaction should he find his wayward myrmidon lurking outside.
“His absence,” said the vampyre, “will make my discovery here rather impossible.”
Emma glanced up at the castle as though Markus might suddenly appear at a window and prove Victoria wrong. But the windows remained black and silent. “How can you be sure of that?”
“The same way he knows your whereabouts at all times. The bond. It works both ways now—I’ll wager you yourself cannot sense him near at hand.”
Victoria was right, Emma could not feel his presence nearby. She did not know how she knew that, she just did. She squared her shoulders against the vampyre’s glare. “Are you here to propitiate your master with that sweet disposition or are you here to make mischief?” Emma ventured it was the latter.
“Perhaps I came to discipline the master’s pet, since he has done little to blunt that thorny disposition.”
Emma knew she must reek of that odious terror that seemed lately to have disgusted Markus, yet she kept her gaze locked in battle with Victoria’s, stepping carefully but determinedly around the creature. It struck her that she was treating the woman as she would a feral hound, which, at heart, Victoria no doubt was. “Begone, vampyre.”
Black eyes narrowed into vicious slits. “Careful, mortal, I could end you with no more effort than it would take to pluck the wings from a sparrow.”
“Your master would snap your wretched neck for your trouble.”
“Would he, indeed? How sure you are of him, pet.” Suddenly the blackness cleared from Victoria’s eyes and she smiled almost congenially. “It’s getting dark. Better not loiter out here unprotected, lest your blood prove too tempting to the rest of the beasties hereabout; not all who dwell here exercise the restraint that I do; only ask your sister.” And with a shameless leer, Victoria left her beside the roses with a parting gibe. “Careful they don’t bite you too…”
Emma watched her gliding across the lawn till she turned a corner and disappeared from view. Why had she returned and whence had she come? London? A shiver