Dark Pleasures_A Novel of the Dark Ones Page 18

  Grace gently pulled it out, and it opened directly to a ribbon-marked page.

  Sonnet 147:

  My love is as a fever longing still,

  For that which longer nurseth the disease;

  Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,

  The uncertain sickly appetite to please.

  My reason, the physician to my love,

  Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,

  Hath left me, and I desperate now approve

  Desire is death, which physic did except.

  Past cure I am, now Reason is past care,

  And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;

  My thoughts and my discourse as madmen’s are,

  At random from the truth vainly expressed;

  For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,

  Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

  Huh.

  Grace didn’t understand the exact meaning, but it seemed to her that the gist of the writing was to point out that to love was to embrace insanity. Not terribly complimentary of love, this sonnet.

  She flipped over to another well-marked page and read:

  Sonnet 116:

  Let me not to the marriage of true minds

  Admit impediments. Love is not love

  Which alters when it alteration finds,

  Or bends with the remover to remove:

  O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,

  That looks on tempests and is never shaken;

  It is the star to every wandering bark,

  Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.

  Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks

  Within his bending sickle’s compass come;

  Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,

  But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

  If this be error and upon me proved,

  I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

  Hmm. Grace was somewhat more familiar with the lines of this sonnet. It was probably very famous. It still didn’t make a lot of logical sense to her. How could love be immutable?

  Everything changed. The world changed. Nothing remained the same. This was why love was a figment of human beings’ imagination.

  “Ever-fixed mark” indeed.

  Grace felt like everything she had in common with Devlin was downstairs. But up here, in his inner sanctuary, she felt like an intruder. Stuck out like a sore thumb.

  Nevertheless, the thick, luxurious sheepskin rugs called to her. Even though she didn’t belong, she felt safe and content here. As if Devlin’s very arms were wrapped closely and warmly about her. She couldn’t resist any longer and hunkered down into the soft fleece.

  Heaven, Grace sighed, making herself comfortable in the cushions and pillows. The only thing that would complete her bliss was Devlin’s body inside her. Or better yet, Devlin orgasming endlessly inside her.

  But the male needed his much deserved rest. He wasn’t quite ready for twelve-hour orgies in his current state, though his unwavering erection would have protested this assessment. She’d tucked him in bed anyway and reluctantly disengaged from his embrace to take temptation away.

  Temptation to her own self-control that was, for she couldn’t have resisted taking him again and again had she stayed in bed with him.

  Her blood did seem to help, for he no longer seemed as tender in the torso as he was before, and the pink lines on his skin from puncture wounds and slashes had faded almost to invisibility.

  A swelling of pride and bone-deep satisfaction filled her to the brim as she realized that she did that for him. Made him strong again. Fed his needs.

  Could one make a career out of being a vampire’s food?

  But it was more than a job. It was a duty. Heck, it was her very own calling.

  But only Devlin. Everything she had to give, it was only for him.

  What did it all mean?

  Grace didn’t know the answers, so she tried instead to write down everything she thought of, starting with the recovered memories of the day her parents died.

  It was hours before she came down from the loft with her notebook and Miu-Miu in tow.

  She put the chinchilla back in her cage and spread some old newspapers she found beneath it. Devlin had stacks and stacks of them in a corner of the loft, neatly tucked away in a large woven basket. They were mostly sports and financial pages. And he seemed particularly fond of the Economist. Some of the newspapers were decades old.

  On second thought, perhaps she shouldn’t have used them to catch chinchilla droppings.

  Grace darted a glance in Miu-Miu’s direction. Too late. Her pet was very regular with her bowel movements. There was nothing she could do about it now.

  Grace checked her cell and answered her aunt’s worried texts, having not heard from her in a couple of days. She even let Maria know that she was with “her man,” to which she received a series of emojis and exclamation marks in reply, a level of expressiveness uncharacteristic of the older woman.

  Grace smiled and turned off her phone.

  She then seated herself at the built-in ledge that served as a work station along one wall and began tapping away on her laptop.

  Soon, she was in the Cove’s secure network and searching through Devlin’s files, the ones on Zenn that she copied for him.

  He’d already flagged bundles of data that might require further digging. There weren’t many of them. A quick scan told Grace that everything was as it should be, nothing noteworthy or suspicious in any of Zenn’s archives all the way back to the company’s inception. Because she was intimately familiar with its architecture and file logic, having built the structure and security around it, Grace’s scrub of the information took much less time than Devlin had taken.

  As she came back for a second pass, she agreed with Devlin’s assessment that there were only two source files worth digging into. Grace wondered why he hadn’t already done it himself. But she quickly realized that an extra layer of encryption was wrapped around the files like electric barbed wire, a firewall unfamiliar to her own algorithms.

  She leaned back in her swivel chair and laced her hands together, stretching her arms taut and cracking her knuckles. She’d never met a puzzle yet that she couldn’t crack.

  As Grace concentrated on hacking the firewall, Devlin twitched and murmured in his sleep. The nightmare he’d been able to evade for weeks had finally caught him in its jaws again…

  1812. Somewhere in Spain.

  He’d been starved, beaten and left to rot in a dark, square cell in the bloody middle of nowhere Spain for weeks.

  Devlin resisted scratching the open, festering wounds in the middle of his back from the countless lashes he’d received while tied to a couple of stakes in the ground. The wounds were burning and itchy at the same time, no doubt oozing pus as well. At this rate, he just might die of infection. He was already feeling feverish.

  It was the only time he’d been dragged outside, to receive the most recent bout of punishment (or rather, “inducement,” as his captors would say) and even then it was the middle of the night. He’d lost track of the last time he’d seen and felt sunlight on his skin. All of the other tortures were efficiently conducted in a large, windowless chamber next to his underground cell.

  Officers were supposed to be treated with some semblance of respect and dignity when captured by enemy ranks, but they’d stripped him of his clothes the moment he and two of Ned Pakenham’s infantry soldiers had been taken. Devlin had tried to negotiate their release, given that those men knew nothing and were useless as prisoners when the battle had already been won.

  But all words and persuasion had fallen on deaf ears. Before his very eyes, one of the soldiers was shot dead on the spot. Just to make the point that there would be no concessions. After that, it became abundantly clear that Pakenham and Wellington’s plan for Devlin’s mission had gone horribly awry.

  It took a day and a half of being d
ragged walking or running, or just face down in the dirt clawing, behind the horses upon which their captors rode to reach their destination—an isolated fortress far away from any sign of civilization. There, Devlin was brought before the leader of this little band of what appeared to be hired mercenaries instead of regular, law-abiding soldiers.

  The leader was neither Spanish, Portuguese nor French. He was most definitely not English, though he spoke the language quite fluently. Devlin had come to think of him as “the Greek,” given his accent and his looks.

  As an avid student of ancient history, one of the many scholarly pursuits his family deplored in him, Devlin called the term kaloskagathos to mind when looking upon the Greek. It meant “gorgeous to look at, blessed by the gods, and therefore in possession of a beautiful mind.”

  The Greek’s mind was many things, but beautiful was not one of them. Devlin would have used adjectives like twisted, depraved and sadistic.

  He was always smiling, the Greek.

  Smiling while his men rained agony upon the captives. Smiling when he interrogated Devlin the way he might enjoy a scintillating conversation. Smiling every time he came to visit Devlin in his cell, as if he were genuinely happy to find him there, rotting in his own filth and countless unhealed wounds.

  As if his thoughts conjured the male in question, the Greek appeared just beyond the iron gate of his cell.

  “How are you feeling today, Devlin?” The Greek always greeted him by his Christian name, insinuating a closeness that didn’t exist.

  Devlin distantly wondered how he even knew his name, given that Devlin had certainly never revealed it. He’d only given his title and rank when captured.

  “I could use some good French wine, a beefsteak and some salve for my back,” Devlin replied cheerfully. He liked to think it needled the Greek, his gracious acceptance of his current lot.

  His captor’s smile grew wider, almost but not quite revealing his teeth.

  “You’ll have your reward after you tell me about the English commander’s plans,” the Greek doled out his oft repeated line.

  Devlin was beginning to wonder whether the Greek really cared to know Wellington’s strategies. At times the interrogation seemed a mere excuse to torture Devlin and the other soldier.

  “Not today,” he answered. “My memory doesn’t work well when I’m feeling peckish.”

  The Greek shook his head almost admiringly. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, his tone all sympathy and concern.

  Abruptly, he smiled again. “I’ll have to see what I can do to jog your memory, then.”

  Bring it on, Devlin thought.

  Enough with the pointless banter. He didn’t know what else the Greek had up his sleeve by way of torture, but he wouldn’t crack. He was made of sterner stuff.

  “I thought I’d change things up a bit today and tell you a little story you might be interested to hear,” the Greek declared, a glint of excitement entering his eyes.

  Or perhaps it was madness. Devlin couldn’t really tell the difference where the Greek was concerned.

  His captor made himself comfortable by sitting down on the dirt ground and stretching out his legs while leaning his back against the deep frame of Devlin’s cell door. Looking for all the world as if he was settling in for the duration.

  Devlin could care less. If the Greek wanted to be chatty today, it was no skin off Devlin’s back. Let’s hope literally.

  “Once upon a time there was a beautiful Marquess,” the Greek began, “let’s call him the Marquess of Hart.”

  A shiver of awareness goosed down Devlin’s spine.

  “He was the eldest son of the Duke of… Devon.”

  Devlin deepened his breathing in an effort to calm his quickening pulse. How did the Greek know?

  “He was born into the wrong family, sadly,” the Greek continued, seemingly immersed in his story-telling. “Like a cuckoo in a nest of eagles. Or rather, an eagle in a nest of cuckoos.”

  Helplessly, Devlin raised his eyes to the Greek, staring intently at his face as he spoke.

  “He took after his mother, this beautiful boy, all golden and bright—fair skin, rosy cheeks and stunning sapphire blue eyes.”

  At this, the Greek’s gaze unfocused, as if he were as much describing the boy in his story as someone else from his memory.

  “He had none of his father’s dark looks. You couldn’t find any trace of the Duke in him, in fact, which was probably why he was widely regarded as the usurper in this noble, ancient lineage.”

  The Greek turned slightly so that he could see Devlin’s face out of the corner of his eye as he spoke.

  “The poor, beautiful child was hated by his mother, because for her at least, if not for anyone else, he was a product of his beast of a father, the result of countless copulations forced upon her in the early years of their marriage. For, after all, she was exquisitely beautiful, he was randy and robust, and she was his property, his wife. Her duty was to beget an heir for the Dukedom. There was not one single night during that terrible first year that he didn’t visit her bed.”

  Devlin swallowed, memories of his childhood flooding his mind as the Greek continued to weave his gruesome spell.

  “She told him often, her first-born son, how much she hated him. How much she despised his sire. How she wished he were never born. The only advantage of his birth was that her husband began to visit her less often and turned a blind eye to her affairs.”

  The Greek regarded Devlin fully for a moment, smiling beatifically. “How do you like my story so far, Devlin Sinclair?”

  Devlin barely managed to shrug, but his ashen face betrayed the pain he carried inside.

  “Not interesting enough?” the Greek inquired solicitously. “Let’s see if I can make the story more exciting.”

  He settled back against the door frame and looked away again.

  “Before the boy turned one, the Duchess was with child again. It was her duty too, after all, to beget a spare. Within the year, she gave birth to another boy, an ordinary, dark-haired, wrinkly thing who nevertheless became the apple of the old Duke’s eye.”

  Devlin flinched despite his efforts to keep still.

  “This boy didn’t take after his mother at all. And while one couldn’t be entirely sure if he inherited the Duke’s austere dark good-looks, for the boy grew up to be exceedingly average in every physical way, he seemed to take on his father’s mannerisms, interests and personality.”

  “They were two happy peas in a pod, those two. And the Duchess was pleased, for now she could be free to do anything she wanted, take as many lovers as she liked, freed from her husband’s slavering and incompetent nightly visits. She removed herself from the lives of these three males and promptly died with one of her numerous paramours a year thereafter.”

  Devlin wanted to shut his ears, but he knew that the Greek would find a way to make him listen. If this was his torture of the day, the Greek had certainly found Devlin’s soft, vulnerable underbelly.

  “Only the heir seemed saddened by her passing. I can’t begin to comprehend why, since the Duchess had never shown him even an ounce of affection. The Duke was relieved in a way, given that he thought of her as a burden, but his hatred toward her, all the years she spurned him, all the vitriol she threw at him, remained after her death.”

  “After all, she had the audacity to get herself killed in the most embarrassing way, entwined with her lover to the very end, making the Duke a laughingstock. She made him a cuckold and it was widespread public knowledge among the ton.”

  “Is there a point to this rambling?” Devlin couldn’t resist interrupting.

  He was shaking now, and he couldn’t control it. It was as if his captor had taken a dagger and was using it to slowly carve out Devlin’s heart.

  “Oh I’m just getting to the good part, don’t be impatient,” the Greek said. “We haven’t even reached the climax of the story yet.”

  Devlin ground his teeth and kept silent. He could hear
the glee in the Greek’s voice when he’d uttered his objection. It was a sign of weakness. He wouldn’t show it again.

  “So the Duke refocused the full force of his hatred and venom on his elder son, the one who looked so much like his late wife, the one everyone whispered behind his back that the poor child wasn’t really a product of the Duke’s loins after all.”

  “And the little Marquess of Hart didn’t do himself any favors. He was a quiet child, studious and careful. Unlike his younger brother who voiced his opinions and demands often and loudly. His reservedness reminded the Duke of his mother’s frigidity, so the Duke turned all of his attentions and any affection and regard he had in his beastly heart toward the younger son.”

  “Naturally, there formed a rift of insurmountable proportions between the two brothers, one who was secure in his father’s regard but wouldn’t inherit his title and one who loved but never received in turn.”

  The Greek looked at Devlin again, who kept his gaze on the floor in front of him.

  “And now we get to the good part. I know you’ve been waiting with anticipation.”

  With relish, he turned to face fully Devlin’s cell, staring unblinkingly at Devlin’s face as he continued his uncanny story, sitting with his long legs drawn up and enfolded loosely by his arms, like an eager fortune teller at a campfire.

  “The boys grew up, as boys are wont to do. The older brother dedicated himself to scholarly pursuits, but the heart of a warrior burned within. The younger brother reveled in being a rogue, a sportsman, a dandy about town, but deep inside, a cold ball of resentment and jealousy grew. For though he had his father’s approval, an exclusive pack of chums, money and privilege, he did not have that coveted title; he was merely a second-born son.”

  Devlin’s cheek twitched. It was the only outward sign of distress he showed. But the Greek caught it, and it seemed to fuel his sadistic joy.

  “And then it came to pass that our little Hart fell under the spell of a beautiful woman at last. She was vivacious and bold, smart and passionate, a true belle of the ball. And she had set her sights on Hart.”

  “He was not easy to win, but she was persistent and cunning. So he decided to let her have him, accepting his duty to marry and carry on the line, though he never could tell if she wanted the man or the title. After all, no one in his life had ever given him the impression that he was worth having as simply himself.”