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  Presently a slight drizzle began and they returned to the house. Clive excused himself and went off to his room to change out of his wet jacket and shoes.

  “Be back to look at the books some more,” he said with a grin as he jogged up the stairs. Blaylock was watching after him when Reginald appeared.

  “I trust you and your guest had a pleasant walk around the grounds on his fine morning?”

  “Don’t give me your cheek,” Blaylock said harshly, turning on him. “I’m not in the mood.”

  Reginald was not dissuaded. “He’s very sweet, isn’t he? Young… healthy. Full of spirit. Just the thing the abbey needs right now, I’d wager.”

  His fury spiraling out of control, Blaylock raised his hand to slap Reginald, but stopped. His stomach clenched as a sickening feeling crept through his body. Even with the library at the other end of the corridor and the secret panel securely closed, he could feel the hunger that lay coiled inside the narrow space. He could almost hear those otherworldly voices in his head, silky and persuasive now.

  We like him very much. You have chosen well!

  Seeing that Reginald was still staring at him, apparently waiting for him to either strike out or speak, Blaylock lowered his fist and cleared his throat.

  “Actually, on further reflection I have begun to wonder if Clive really would be suitable. I am beginning to think I could find someone better.”

  “Nonsense,” Reginald said. He smiled through his stubby, crooked teeth. “He’s perfect, and well you know it, sir. Our duty will be done… as it always was by your brother, your father, and his father before him.”

  Snickering, Reginald walked away.

  He was right, of course. Blaylock had a mission… a role to play. Though the prospect seemed to hurt his heart just now, he recognized that as nothing but an illusion. After all, he had no heart. He knew that already. And, truth be told, he preferred it that way.

  Chapter 3

  The next day and night passed uneventfully, with Clive tending to his studies in the library and Blaylock watching from a safe distance. The weather had turned foul, so there could be no more walks around the grounds accompanied by conversation of any sort. In a way, that suited Blaylock fine, since Reginald’s words clawed at his memory no matter what he tried to do to distract himself. Though Clive dropped more than a few hints that he would have welcomed Blaylock’s presence in the library while he worked, Blaylock pretended he had urgent matters of his own that required his attention. When it came time for dinner, he feigned illness, retreated to his room, and had Reginald bring him a tray.

  “Mr. Whitley is most disappointed you cannot join him in the dining room,” Reginald said as he arranged Blaylock’s meal on a small table by his bedroom window. As usual, he was biting back a smirk. Blaylock knew he couldn’t have fooled Reginald no matter how hard he tried. Reginald always knew what was in his mind, just as he had always known what his father and brother had been thinking. That was why the family depended on him so much—that, and the fact that he knew all the abbey’s secrets.

  “Mr. Whitley will get over it,” Blaylock grumbled. Privately, he wondered if his own disappointment was just as great as Clive’s. Still, there could be no help for it—he had to stay focused on his duty and the task at hand. Gazing at Clive’s smooth, round face and trusting eyes would only make that difficult or maybe even impossible.

  “For myself, I think you are making a wise decision,” Reginald said, surprising him. “Best not to become distracted. In fact, sir, may I make an offer?”

  “I suppose.”

  “If you approve, sir, I would be willing to take upon myself to conclude the business at hand. You may remain here, out of harm’s way, while I make the specific… arrangements in the library.”

  “No! I most certainly do not approve!” Blaylock had been about to taste the soup Reginald had set in front of him. With a sudden, violent motion, he flung the spoon down onto the tray. For reasons he could not fully work out even in his own mind, the thought of Reginald taking control of Clive’s fate angered and insulted him. He knew what had to be done—there was no getting around it—but at least he could do Clive the courtesy, if one could call it that, of seeing to the details personally. “I am master here, and I know my duty. It’s been impressed upon me enough times over the course of my entire life, as you know, Reginald! Things will proceed as I say they will, and at the pace I determine.”

  “Quite so, sir,” Reginald replied without the slightest note of protest. “I merely thought I would ease your path to the best of my abilities… as I did with our last guest.”

  “That was different. Ulrich was different.”

  “As you say, sir.” Folding his hands in front of him, Reginald stepped back to allow Blaylock to eat in peace. He remained the very picture of subservience. Blaylock wanted to stand up and slap him. Fortunately for Reginald, he was too hungry to bother.

  He occupied himself with the food for a while. Whatever his faults—and they were many—Reginald could at least cook a decent and filling meal. He’d even thought to bring wine, namely a dry red that was strong enough to take the edge off Blaylock’s thoughts, at least for a short while.

  As he was swishing the wine around in his mouth, enjoying the flavor of the grapes and various other crushed berries, an idea struck him. His new plan might only delay things for a while, but it would have the added benefit of appeasing Reginald and buying him a few more days to enjoy Clive’s company without pressure.

  “Reginald, start a bath and set out some clothes for me while I finish my dinner. I’m going out clubbing.”

  “Indeed, sir? You haven’t done that in a while.”

  “True, which is why I think I’ll do so tonight. Have you any objection?”

  “It is not my place to object, sir.” The corner of Reginald’s mouth twitched with disapproval. “Will Mr. Whitley be joining you?”

  “No,” Blaylock said too quickly. “In fact, you mustn’t mention to him that I have left the house. Let him carry on with his research or entertain himself in his own room—whatever he likes.”

  “Ah. I think I see what you are getting at, sir. Shall I expect you to bring another… guest… home with you?”

  “‘Expect’ might be too strong a word. But be prepared for any possibility.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand completely.”

  Dropping a slight bow, Reginald backed away out of the room. Blaylock soon heard the water running in the attached master bathroom. He could almost sense Reginald’s disdain rolling through the wall in waves, like the steam from the tub.

  So be it. He was still master here—and Reginald never would be, no matter how much he blustered and scowled. With fresh determination, Blaylock finished his dinner and stripped off his clothes on the way to his bath. He threw them on the floor, deciding it would do Reginald a world of good to have to bend down and pick up after him for a change. No harm in reminding him who was the owner of Blaylock Abbey, after all.

  Two hours later, bathed and changed into a tasteful but trendy clubbing outfit, Blaylock emerged from his room to find Reginald waiting for him at the bottom of the staircase.

  “Where is our guest?” Blaylock asked, looking around before trotting down the steps to join Reginald in the foyer.

  “In his room, sir. Upon hearing you were indisposed, he decided to turn in for the evening. I believe he mentioned doing some reading, though he assured me he had removed nothing from the library.”

  “Good on both counts. Remember, tell him nothing about where I’m going or what I’m doing. Things will go more smoothly that way.”

  “Quite so, sir. In any case, I could hardly offer him any details, considering I do not know them myself.”

  “And I, for one, prefer to keep things that way.” Blaylock held out his hand. “Car keys?”

  Reginald produced them from his jacket. Blaylock had known he would have them ready and waiting. Curse the man and his damned efficiency! It really got to be to
o much at times. Suddenly, he couldn’t wait to get away.

  “I trust I will return to find everything just as I left it,” he reminded Reginald on his way to the door. He didn’t wait for Reginald’s answer, knowing he had made his point.

  As he drove away from the abbey, he thought he caught a glimpse of Clive, silhouetted in the guest room window. He couldn’t tell which way he was facing, and in any case there was no way Clive could have seen anything but moving headlights in the darkness. He could have no idea Blaylock was fleeing for the evening—and if he did, so what? It was Blaylock’s house to come and go from as he pleased.

  After turning up the car’s stereo as high as it would go, he hit the gas and sped off toward the city.

  The underground club was loud, smoky, and crowded, just the way Blaylock liked it. He could be anonymous there, his face blurred by the flashing blue lights rotating overhead and his voice distorted by the pounding music. No one who inquired later, on the off chance anyone did, would be able to place him there with any certainty.

  He stood at the edge of the dance floor with a fresh drink in his hand, admiring the writhing bodies of young men as they undulated in the tight space. Some danced shirtless or in skimpy cut-off shorts, and the fresh scent of youthful male sweat and hormones tickled his nostrils pleasantly. A few of the dancers glanced over and caught his eye. Some of them smiled. One even winked. Blaylock returned their smiles. Though he had never thought of himself as especially handsome—his older brother had wholly eclipsed him in that department—his appearance always seemed to garner sufficient male attention in venues like this one. He supposed his looks were at least adequate, after all.

  Eventually a brash and slightly tipsy young man sidled up to him. Blaylock looked him over as the two exchanged meaningful smiles. He was young and vital, with a lean but well-muscled figure and thick blond hair combed down over his forehead in a shape resembling a bird’s wing.

  “Cheers, mate. I’m Eric,” he said, raising his beer bottle in a mock toast. “Fancy a dance?”

  Even with the music blasting, Blaylock’s well-attuned hearing picked up his broad, working man’s accent. No trace of Oxbridge or intellectual pretensions there. He would do perfectly.

  “I would enjoy that very much,” Blaylock replied. The two moved onto the floor and shimmied a while to the pounding beat. Blaylock had to admit that he enjoyed losing himself in simple, wanton debauchery, something he didn’t indulge in nearly often enough.

  While they danced, Eric gradually moved closer and eventually slid his hands onto Blaylock’s hips. When he tilted them in time to the music, Eric let his palms drop to cup his buttocks. He danced closer, grinding his own fly against Blaylock’s zipper. Firmly, but not rudely, Blaylock pushed his hands away.

  “Not here,” he shouted over the pulsating electronic beat, leaning in close so Eric could hear him. Eric flashed him a suggestive grin and even darted his tongue out for a moment. He trailed it along his own lower lip, tempting Blaylock to imagine what it might feel like slipping over various parts of his body.

  “Where, then?” Eric shot back. “Don’t bother pretending you don’t understand what I’m talking about. I know you want me.”

  “You’re right. I do.” Blaylock shrugged, feigning casual indifference. This was all turning out to be much easier than he had ever imagined. He offered Eric a small smile of his own. “Come home with me.”

  “All right,” Eric said.

  “Do you have a car?”

  Eric shook his head and pointed to the beer bottle he still held. “Nope. Walked.”

  “Perfect.” That would save disposing of it later. Blaylock hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but Eric didn’t notice anything amiss. “Listen, meet me outside in ten minutes. Wait until I’m gone and then follow.”

  “Why the secrecy? You think anyone in here cares what—or who—you do?”

  “Never mind. That isn’t your concern.” No doubt Eric suspected he was closeted or perhaps cheating on another mate. He didn’t care, though in a strange way he felt he was betraying Clive.

  Besides, what Eric thought didn’t matter. If all went well, Eric’s thoughts, along with the rest of him, would soon be gone from the world, leaving as few traces as Ulrich and the sixteenth-century monks… maybe less.

  Eric laughed. “All right, then. Whatever you say.”

  They didn’t talk much as they drove through the darkness to the abbey. Eric stared out the window, probably trying to memorize some landmarks in case he had to find his own way back. It amused Blaylock to think that would never be an issue for him, but this time he managed to hold his tongue. Instead, he made a few idle comments about the condition of the road and the increasing chill in the air as winter approached. Eric answered in monosyllables, and Blaylock sensed he was getting nervous in spite of his earlier bravado in the club.

  His trepidation seemed to fade, however, when they entered the abbey. Blaylock saw his eyes widen and his mouth drop open in awe.

  “You actually live here?” he asked in disbelief.

  “It’s as good a place as any,” Blaylock joked. Again Eric leaned over and tried to kiss him, right there between the staircase and the front door. Again Blaylock gently pushed him away. “Give me a moment to get everything ready. I’ll alert my servant we’re here and have him bring us some refreshments.”

  “Servant, huh? Fancy that!” Eric grinned and looked around at the sparse decorations that adorned the abbey. Blaylock wondered if he might be looking for something to pilfer.

  Feeling strangely nervous, Blaylock left Eric where he was and wandered around until he found Reginald. Though it was just past midnight, he was in the kitchen, having a cup of tea at the counter. He looked up curiously when Blaylock approached him.

  “Back already, sir? A pleasant outing, I hope?”

  Blaylock ignored his sardonic tone. “Finish up what you’re doing here and fix my guest a strong drink—very strong. You may tell him I will return shortly, after I’ve changed my clothes. Meanwhile, conduct him to the library and see to… whatever the situation requires.”

  “Of course, sir. I understand completely.” Reginald wore a sadistic smile as he picked up a liquor bottle and took a suitable glass from the cabinet. Blaylock had expected that sort of attitude, of course, but this time he felt especially unnerved.

  He followed Reginald at a distance, watching as he led Eric to the library and offered him a seat. He left the door open so Blaylock could continue watching as he handed over the drink, which Eric gulped greedily.

  “A refill, sir?” Reginald asked politely. He held up the bottle, which he had thoughtfully carried along with him.

  “Sure. Why not?” Eric held out the glass and watched Reginald pour until it nearly overflowed. “I see you know how to serve a bloke a decent drink. Not like those tossers at the bars. Mostly water, if you ask me. It’s how they make their coin, isn’t it? One finger of the good stuff, three fingers of ice. Nothing but a scam to make you spend all your money to get properly drunk.”

  “Quite likely, sir.”

  Again Eric looked around in wonder, though it was not the same sort of wonder Clive had expressed when he’d first seen the antique books. Clive’s interest in them stemmed from the knowledge and artistry that lay between the hand-tooled covers. To Eric, they represented little more than their monetary value. As if to punctuate Blaylock’s thoughts, he let out an overly loud whistle. “This place is like a bloody museum. Everything in this room must be worth a fortune, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t need to think. I know so… sir.” Turning, Reginald eyed Eric with sly understanding. This was exactly what he had hoped for. “What you see around you, however, is but a small portion of the abbey’s treasures. I don’t suppose you want to see the real treasure? Master Blaylock would probably prefer I keep it a secret, but I have the sense you are the sort of man who would truly appreciate it.”

  “You got that right.” Eric snorted with amusement and got
up, swaying unsteadily on his feet. Reginald took his glass, once again empty, and set it on the same table where Clive had worked so diligently that afternoon. Blaylock winced to see it make a damp little ring on the wood.

  Eric wasn’t paying attention to the glass, or to Blaylock peeking through the doorway, though. He was watching Reginald ease open the secret panel between the shelves.

  “This room dates back to the Middle Ages,” Reginald said in the dry, measured tone of a practiced tour guide. “The monks used it to hide from intruders—and they also stored their most cherished artifacts here.”

  Eric leaned forward, squinting into the darkness. “You mean like gold and jewels, things like that? I heard these old monasteries were full of that stuff. Rich people would donate it trying to save their wretched souls and all that rot.”

  “Quite true. Here, let me light a candle for you. It’s rather dark inside the passage. I assure you, you’ll want to see everything that lies within.”

  Blaylock heard the noise as Reginald touched a match to the sconce on the wall. A light, brittle rattling commenced, accompanied by an odd sort of humming sound. It made his chest tighten and a cold sweat break out on his neck.

  Eric heard it, too. He took half a step back from the passage. “Sounds like you’ve got rats in there.”

  “Nothing to be alarmed about,” Reginald assured him. “Please come with me.”

  “I don’t know. Something seems a little off to me.”

  Blaylock bit back a curse word as Eric, clearly beginning to panic, moved his arm just in time to avoid Reginald’s grasping fingers. The sounds inside the passage grew more distinct—he heard the hiss of ancient pages rustling and hungry jaws stretching open.

  Reginald had lost patience. He grabbed for Eric again, this time closing his gnarled fingers around the cuff of Eric’s shirtsleeve. “I said come with me!” he growled.

  Eric, though, had also endured enough. As Reginald tensed and prepared to yank him inside the passage, he fought back by panting his feet and swinging his free hand at Reginald’s face. His open palm connected, sending Reginald crashing to his knees on the floor. Tenaciously he still clung to Eric’s shirt, part of which came away in his hands as Eric punched, kicked, and clawed his way to freedom. Blaylock was able to duck behind the open door just as Eric flew from the room, screaming, and fled down the corridor toward the front door. Reginald staggered to his feet and attempted to give chase, but he was still dazed from Eric’s blows and soon fell to the floor again.