Prologue

PROLOGUE

LEWIS ~ LONDON, 1724

L ewis staggered from the Old Cheshire Cheese, spilling into Fleet Street, feeling more drunk than he was. The brown wooden door slammed, rattling the pub's lamp sign. Rounding the corner, he mulled over every word Defoe spoke moments ago, explaining the entirety of his work, Robinson Crusoe . Struck with the overwhelming fantasy of jumping ship on an adventure, he turned into the dark alley that made his walk home a little shorter.

He shouldn't have left Denver to fend off those women by himself, but daydreams trapped him in his head, imagining penning out stories and traveling to far-off places. Imbued with enough whiskey to drown a sailor, his brother would most likely pass out before he would do any further damage to their reputations. Gentlemen of their age, in the heart of the city, must make proper, smart choices. It was all too easy to be branded for the worse, landing a man in dire need of lodging and well-paying work.

Shadows encroached on the alley. Lewis spun back. The tang of rotting garbage and the ever-creeping fog of the streets of London wove through his senses. The slick cobblestone underfoot met the seemingly narrowing grimy sides of the buildings on either side of him. Collar up, he shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat. Sobering somewhat, he walked on, picking up his pace.

The moon was long into its descent into dawn as Lewis's clipped footsteps echoed through the long, narrow space. The city's night scavengers trawled through the trash, hunting for any morsel to be snatched up. A cat screeched, fighting over a find with another. The garbage toppled over, tin and litter scattered across the stones. Head down, he turned to check behind him.

Two men in top hats and tails stood at the entrance between the two buildings, as if deciding whether to enter the putrid space. Lewis turned back, assessing the distance between himself and the far end. Just about halfway. Wrapping his coat around his body tighter, he walked faster.

A whisper and a chuckle right behind him shot shivers up his spine. He spun around.

Nothing.

He turned back, smacking into the chest of a man with a top hat and dark coat. The man's riding boots shined so well they managed to reflect the dim light the narrow street offered up. Immediately, Lewis stepped back, mumbling an apology. How had the man gotten there so fast?

Lewis nodded and moved to step around him. The man blocked his path, and his gut plummeted. Should have gone the long way home. Denver would never let him hear the end of it if he got robbed in the backstreet he'd been told to avoid on so many occasions.

"I don't have anything worth your while, mister. Let me pass," he said, meeting the man's darkened gaze.

"I'm not after your treasures, boy," the man drawled back, his accent strange, his movements almost imperceptible.

"Then what do you want?"

"Your soul is all, young'un," a voice whispered from behind.

Lewis flinched, spinning around. The man's face, fiercely pale, was a stark contrast to his eyes. Dark but lined with crimson. What on earth? An iron grip slid around his wrists, and he struggled against them, heart pounding. The man's eyes in front of him lit up, angling his head as he studied Lewis's face, his gaze traveling down his neck, where it stayed.

"Whatever you want, just tell me," Lewis choked out.

"I don't think we will. Will we, Thomas?"

"Doubt it, Edward. Not our style." A strange European accent rolled off his tongue.

Edward leaned in, smelling every inch of his neck. When he stood back up, his eyes were completely black, his mouth opened, canines stretched past his otherwise perfect teeth as he tilted his face to the moonlit sky. A raw growl left his throat.

Vampire.

Lewis stood frozen; every breath far too shallow to be of use. The vampire lowered his head and met his gaze. A savage smile ripped across his face as he lunged, sharp teeth sinking into Lewis's fleshy neck.

Lewis scrambled to stay on his feet, blinding pain surging through his body like fire.

Moments later, he lay on cold cobblestone, gasping for air, his entire body consumed by a raging current of agony and cinders. Motionless, he allowed his eyes to drift shut. This is what dying feels like.

At least he wouldn't have to put up with Denver's lecture about the consequences of back alleys one more time. The sky moved overhead, stars tracking across the slim space between the buildings, keeping their own time.

"You can't leave him here to die," Thomas uttered. "Sloppy gets us hunted down, like last time."

"Are you suggesting resurrecting this one, Tom?"

"At least there would be no evidence. The Council would use anything to take us out; we can't afford sloppy, and you know it."

"Fine. But next time, I say we toss them into the Thames."

"Excellent plan, man, now finish your work and let's head back before the good folk of London start to rise."

Edward knelt by Lewis, leaning over. With the flick of a small blade, he made a cut across his wrist, which he held over Lewis's face. Red pearls of blood bloomed at the site, falling one by one onto Lewis's mouth. Startled by the warm, wet drops, he jerked, mouth gaping. Drop after drop hit his tongue.

"There's a lad. That should fix you up."

"That's enough, Ed, let's get out of here."

Edward studied the vacant stare of the young man underneath him briefly before rising and following his comrade into the shadows. Satiated, they made a swift exit.

Motionless, Lewis lay on the cobblestone, stunned.

S oftness touched Lewis's cheek. The golden haze behind his eyelids signaled dawn had stolen the night's darkness.

"He has been bitten," a warm voice said.

A woman.

"Let's help him inside." Another coaxed, older, rougher.

Lewis struggled to his feet, cracking his eyes open. A woman, around the same age as he, stood before him. Her long brown hair twisted to ringlets around her neck. Her face held a thin smile, her blue eyes burning into his. A hunched woman appeared at his side. Taking him by the arms, they led him to the end of the alley and into a door on the side of the building.

Barely able to stand, with fire coursing through his body still, Lewis let them lead him into their dim-lit home. The heavy door clunked shut behind him. The aroma of herbs crawled its way into the air. The front room was small, with coats lining the wall by the entrance. Through the closest open door was a kitchen. To the left, a hole in the floor that sunk into a winding, dark staircase.

"Better put him downstairs, my girl." The hunched woman nodded to the steep treads. The descent was precarious. With every limb still raging from the attack, Lewis, desperate to lie down, faltered. If he could only lie down. Once inside the dank little basement, the woman lowered him onto the floor. Hands white-knuckled around his arms, he rocked, trying to drown out the fire ravaging him with each breath.

L ewis shifted on his seat, aching bones creaking in protest from hours of sitting on the frigid, hard floor. The cold air of the stone basement tangled around his shivering limbs. The clothes he wore from the night before were tattered and ripped, filth coating every inch, as if some unholy force had dragged him through the London sewers for miles.

He had no idea where his brother was. Knowing Denver, he was probably held up in some woman's parlor, enjoying himself. He laid his head back, wincing, as a thumping ache coursed through it, and met the slimy stone wall. God only knew what had been kept down here before him. If the rancid, stale air was any indication, death had followed the occupants of the small space and stayed.

Hours later, the women upstairs had not allowed him to leave the confines of the locked basement. The sounds of the city going about her business tumbled in from outside. His body jerked, changing. Splintering hellfire came and went, worse each time, as if rising to a pinnacle of some sort. Smoke from burning herbs drifted down through the gaps in the floor, twisting its way down the spiral stairs.

Hands trembling over the bite on his neck that throbbed constantly, he called out, voice raw from breathing through the bouts of pain, "Hello?"

Thudding footsteps overhead made their way downstairs. The woman his age stopped on the last tread as she studied Lewis's condition. She held a small vial in one hand, amber liquid moving between its walls as she stepped off the staircase.

"I have a proposition for you, young man."

"What do you want? Since you are not willing to help me, let me go, so I may seek proper treatment."

"Ah, if only it was that simple."

"What are you talking about? I need a doctor, woman."

She took a long stride, stopping short of where Lewis sat twisted on the cold stone. "You are in no position to make demands. You either help me, or I let the poison in your blood take its full effect."

"What do you want?" Lewis ground out, annoyance long having taken hold of his manners.

"I require a certain person taken care of. I want him to cease to breathe. And I need you to do it for me." She held his gaze, her otherwise elegant face set in stone in anticipation.

"You want me to kill someone?"

A smirk spread across her face. "You catch on quick."

"No!"

"So be it. Enjoy the last of your human hours. I am sure the agony will be much more enjoyable than accepting my simple task."

She spun on her heel and swept up the stairs, skirts trailing the treads behind her.

"Wait!"

The woman paused, the liquid in the vial between her fingers sloshing. "Changed your mind?"

"What will happen to me? How can you cure me if it is poison those thugs have left me with?"

"The poison from the bite you received will change you irreparably. This vial contains the antidote. Do one simple task for me and you can have it. And if not? Let's just say you will have a long, long time to mull over your choice, centuries even."

"Nobody lives that long; you're making no sense."

"Do you accept my request or not?" she snapped, hand tightening to white around the small vial.

Lewis slumped against the wall. He could never bring himself to kill. It wasn't a choice at all. He would die here in this grimy, cold cellar.

"No," he choked out. "My answer is no."

"Pity… You are about to become very familiar with hell."

Lewis watched as her skirts ascended the spiral passage, each footfall softer than the last. The blood in his veins thundered through his ears, heat swallowing him whole. Helpless from the agony, he slid down the wall, head hitting the floor. Writhing, he screamed, waiting for his heart to stop and save him. A ringing inside his head deafened him. Every muscle in his body spasmed. Blood filled his mouth where his teeth grit down hard.

The breath in his lungs stalled.

Weak heartbeats slowed to a still.

The ringing faded and the room around him brightened.

Lewis staggered to his feet.

The scent of dried blood on his shirt flooded his senses and his throat caught fire so damning, he gasped for air. Wild with hunger, he lunged up the stairwell. Smashing a palm into the small wooden trapdoor, it flew from its hinges. The grey-haired woman stood startled. Grabbing up a bunch of herbs, she stepped backward. The pungent stench coiled up his stomach.

Witches.

What in the Lord's name? How did he know that? But the instinct awoke in his gut and told him to get far, far away.

The younger woman was nowhere to be seen.

Rushing the front door, Lewis fell into the alley. Loud, it was all too loud!

"Anjelica! He turned!" the hag called from behind him.

"He won't get far, mother; I have placed the curse of the moon over his soul. His days are predefined."

Lewis stumbled over his own feet, adjusting to a strength he had never possessed before. Seconds later, he stood by the Thames.

Surrounded by beating hearts.

A burning thirst in his throat.