Felicity’s expression shuttered. “My reputation is of little concern. If I can convince a single person of the danger that lurks in the shadows, it will be worth it.”
“Why?” Winifred asked. “Why do all of this? What has Marcus done to you?”
Felicity blinked several times. “‘Marcus’?” She uttered a sharp laugh. “He is but one of many of the evil creatures that lurk in this city and around the world.”
“I don’t understand,” Winifred whispered. She didn’t recognize the bitter woman in front of her.
Felicity closed her eyes and seemed to wilt. “Four years ago, when I was an innocent girl… I watched a vampire murder my parents.”
Winifred had to grasp the edge of a table to keep from falling over. “M-My mother said your parents died in a carriage accident.”
Felicity scoffed. “A clever lie. Why do you think she uprooted your family? It was not because of the initiation. Our uncle told me everything. Aunt Margaret fled because she was afraid she’d suffer the same fate as my parents.”
As awful as it was, it made sense. Winifred had always found it odd that her mother had continued to insist she learn about their family history, even though she’d claimed they had relocated to Toronto to get Winifred away from her “barbaric relatives.”
“Now you know why I was concerned about your marriage.” Felicity clasped Winifred’s hands. “Your husband might seem kind, buthe is a murderer. They all are.”
The conviction in her cousin’s voice shook Winifred to the core. She knew he’d done terrible things, but she’d never have used the wordmurdererto describe him. He was a predator and humans were his prey. “You’re wrong.”
Felicity pursed her lips. “You need more proof. I understand.” She dragged Winifred deeper into the room and picked up a book. It had to be at least a hundred years old, judging from the metal clasps and tooling on the leather cover.
“This book lists suspicious deaths recorded by our family,” Felicity said. She flipped through the pages, then turned the book around and held it out so Winifred could see. “Look for yourself.”
Winifred leaned forward and read the page. Each entry contained a brief description of each human’s age and occupation, followed by Marcus’s name. Not once or twice, but hundreds of times.
Felicity flipped the page. The entries continued, each with Marcus listed.
“This means nothing,” Winifred said, even though it felt like the floor were lifting and heaving beneath her. Seeing the list of names made it more difficult to think of Marcus’s victims as prey.
But even if Marcus had killed them, he’d changed. He wasn’t the same person who had snuffed out all those innocent lives.
“You don’t know him,” Winifred said. “Come to the castle. Talk to him. Then you’ll understand.” She could still fix things.
Felicity chuckled. “It’s too late for that.”
Winifred’s heart dropped into her stomach. “What do you mean?”
Felicity’s eyes were cold. “As we speak, Vincent is taking care of the problem. Soon the world will have one less vampire.”
Chapter Thirty
Marcus prowled thehalls like a caged animal. He’d tried reading, but his mind refused to focus, and pacing was proving equally futile. It had been less than a day, but he ached as if something vital had been ripped out of him. He couldn’t stop thinking about Winifred. Was she safe? Did she miss him as much as he missed her? Were Jonathan, Cordon, and Kitty watching over her properly? Why hadn’t any of them returned with news?
Sending them all had been a mistake. If he’d ordered Cordon to remain behind, he could have relied on his brother’s mental bond with Kitty to relay information back from Glasgow.
He climbed the steps to his tower. Working would at least distract from the pain in his heart. It was better than stalking the castle and frightening the maids.
But when he reached the top of the steps, his legs burned and there was a crackling in his lungs. He stumbled to the window and cranked it open. The cool air flowing over his skin provided some relief, although a dampness beneath his shirt suggested he’d aggravated his sores.
As he looked out over his land, he noticed a gathering of cows in the pasture. There was something on the ground, a pile of what appeared to be turnips. That was odd, as he had instructed his staff to feed them only grass and hay.
He put his hands on the windowsill and felt a punch. He’d sliced his thumb on a sliver of wood. The wound did not heal right away butoozed dark-red blood. It was nearly identical to the cut Winifred had sustained in his workshop on their wedding night. He brought the digit to his mouth and nearly gagged at the sour taste. It was the same flavor he’d noticed in his tainted samples. That meant whatever had infected his livestock was still affecting him. It seemed impossible, given he’d only drunk from wild-caught animals, his valet, and his wife since discovering the contamination, but there was one way to know for sure. Especially now that the thicker glass he’d commissioned had finally arrived.
He used the sharp edge of a knife to slice his upper arm and when he’d collected enough for a sample, placed it in the device.
The gears spun smoothly as he cranked. He counted in his head for two minutes, then opened the lid and removed the vial. The layers were much more distinct, although the topmost one was frustratingly pink.
A gentle rap at the door interrupted his thoughts. “Enter.”
