“No,” Marguerite said. Then her eyes flickered blue, and even though he knew what was coming, he could do nothing to stop it.
Her mouth opened, and the words that came out rang with command. “Plunge the stake through my heart.”
His body shook, but the chunk of wood remained firmly in his grasp. There was no crucifix around his neck, but he could no more disobey a command from his maker than he could have resisted the orders given to him by Felicity before she’d freed him of the crucifix.
His arm jerked forward, and the stake slipped between her ribs.
As she lay in his arms, the light fading from her eyes, she smiled and whispered, “Thank you.”
Then she dissolved into dust.
The pain that rippled through his body was unlike anything he’d ever felt. He opened his mouth to scream, and the cry that tore out of throat was more animal than human. When he came back to himself, he was lying on the floor on his back.
The basement window was open, but he didn’t care. When the sunlight came, he would let it scorch his flesh, and then hisexistence would end. There would be no more drinking Marcus’s increasingly foul concoctions or feeling like the sand in the hourglass of his life was slipping away.
He would let the sun take him, and then it would be over.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Felicity wandered thestreets for quite some time, unsure of what to do. As tempting as it was to return to Marguerite’s haven without reinforcements, it was a mission that could only end in her death. Going home was likewise out of the question. The townhouse was a simmering den of hatred, an environment that had helped sustain her fury for so long.
So many evenings spent furiously launching sharpened silver knives at wooden targets while imagining them as the vampire she’d been searching for. Anger had done that to her, twisted her up inside until the pressure had built and made her desperate for release. Then the perfect victim had come along.
Jonathan.
At first, he’d been nothing more than a stitch in her side, an irritating distraction that wouldn’t go away. But when she’d learned he was a vampire, she’d leaped at the opportunity to use his abilities to further her own interests.
And she’d called him selfish.
Remembering all the times she’d used the crucifix on him made her feel like she was going to cast up her accounts.
How could he ever love someone who had used him like a tool?
Her legs suddenly stopped moving, and she realized she was standing outside the Sloan House. The exhibit waited inside, apainful reminder of hundreds of hours spent furiously chasing revenge that wouldn’t have brought her family back.
It was time to close that chapter of her life. Mr. Blackwood would be furious when she told him she needed the artifacts that she’d donated back, but she had to try.
With renewed determination, she entered the building and made her way through the halls. It was only when she heard shouting that her steps faltered. She knew immediately where it was coming from, and her suspicion was proven correct when she found a group of uniformed men clustered around the curator outside the conservatory. Mr. Blackwood moaned and tugged at his thin hair. As she got closer, she realized the confrontation she’d feared would not be necessary.
Her exhibit was gone.
The tables were bare of all but the smallest and most trivial of artifacts, ones she assumed had been left behind because they were counterfeit or had no significant historical importance.
It had to have been Jonathan, although she didn’t know how he’d penetrated her warding spell.
Her shock slowly faded, replaced by a remarkable sense of lightness. None of the items had ever truly belonged to her. They’d been stolen from vampires her ancestors had murdered. Now they were back where they belonged.
Jonathan had solved that problem for her, and she loved him even more for it.
Mr. Blackwood shoved through the constables and rushed to her side, a notebook clutched in his arms. “Oh, Miss Sorrow, what are we going to do?” His cloudy eyes filled with tears. “We cannot allow patrons to see such a disaster! I’ve been trying to rearrange the displays—”
“Mr. Blackwood,” she said, but he continued talking over her.
“—cannot find a configuration that won’t result in a noticeable gap.” He dragged her into her office and slammed the door. “It’s impossible!”
“Mr. Blackwood, if you would—”
He moaned. “There is no other option. We will have to refund tickets.”
