Mala Fide

By Kate Monroe

Henry Devane is a vampire. Once he ruled resplendent over all of London, but his dramatic fall from grace finds him scraping out the sustenance he needs, alone and forsaken amongst the shadows he used to revel in – until he hears that the last ten years of his life have been built upon a lie. With that revelation comes the realisation that the revenge he seeks is finally within his grasp.

His sire, Gabriel, fled to Italy to start all over again, and the elder vampire is in possession of the one thing Henry craves above all else. In order to steal it back and avenge himself, the vampire finds himself unwillingly leading the band of brothers who orchestrated his downfall so long ago.

It soon becomes clear, though, that while they are immortal, the vampires are far from invulnerable...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kate Monroe
• Release date: Apr 14, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310825002

Kate Monroe

Kate Monroe is a red-headed author and editor who lives near the sea in a quiet corner of southern England with her husband, daughter and three crazy cats. She has penchants for chocolate, horror, loud guitars and old movies and a fatal weakness for red wine.Her steampunk novel, The Falcon's Chase, is also available to purchase here on Smashwords http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/242196

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MALA FIDE

Book 2 of the

Songbird

Trilogy

By Kate Monroe

Copyright 2014 Kate Monroe

Front cover art design © Kate Monroe

Smashwords Edition

All characters and events appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for the recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter One

Bristol, 1824

Henry Devane tossed the drained body of the whore aside with an impatient snarl, already regretting the hour he had wasted with her. Ten years ago he would have confidently asserted he would die before resorting to using a whore for either of the pleasures she had given him, but desperate times called for desperate measures – and he was desperate, there could be no doubt about that. Alone amongst the wreckage of all he had known, satisfaction was something he had not experienced since all he revelled in was stolen away.

He ran his tongue over dry and cracked lips, the brief promise of sated thirst nothing more than a memory. Each time he fed his body recalled the taste of the addiction that had ruined him, tensing in glorious anticipation that this could be the time he would savour it once more, but in the back of his mind he knew how impossible that was. There was only one fount from which he could drink that nectar, and the whore whose veins he violated tonight would never be that woman.

She whimpered and curled up into a tight ball on the cobbled path beneath Henry’s feet, and he snorted in disdain as he reached into his breast pocket for a ha-penny to toss towards her. Your wages, madam, he said, already gripped by a violent disgust at himself at resorting to such a thing yet again. I suggest you depart now before my uncharacteristic charity in letting you live recedes.

The whore’s tears streamed down her painted face; a face he forgot even before she crawled down the path away from him. He had used many and broken more than a few, but none of them compared to that he had lost, the only one whose face still burned brightly in the fugue of his mind.

No. She had already taken far too much from him. He would not let his wife haunt him again tonight.

Yet despite his resolve, Henry could not stop his thoughts from turning in the most unwelcome of directions as the whore disappeared around the corner, still crawling on her hands and knees. She would recover, given time, but he was beginning to fear that he would not.

His top lip curled as he instinctively swilled his mouth for the very last drop of the crimson nectar that sustained him before he retreated back into the shadows that were now his home. They called this street the Christmas Steps. Deep in the heart of Bristol, he had fled here ten years ago when it became clear that London was no longer a safe home for those who once ruled over it with an iron fist.

Skulking out of the capital city like a thief in the night was something that still rankled deeply. There had been a time when the entire city was his to command, its residents enslaved by their fear of the coven that had taken it over; and in that coven, Henry answered only to his sire. Every other being, mortal and vampire, was his to do with as he wished. Even the Prime Minister himself dared not defy him; but there it was once more, that most perilous of trains of thought.

As he hobbled up the steep incline, he grimaced when the familiar throb in his thigh attacked him with a cruel temerity that made it plain that tonight was to be another of those nights where his past tormented him. The dull ache in his leg was a constant reminder of the wife he had lost, and the ten years that had passed since then made it very plain that even his vampiric attributes could not heal the poisoned wound she gave to him.

Phoebe Larkin filled his every thought. Even slumber offered no respite, for his sleep was haunted by her face. He detested that he could not move on from her, but there was too much left unsaid and undone for him to ever find peace without her at his side.

A fortnight was so short a time. In comparison to the near hundred and fifty years he had lived it was no more than a heartbeat, but in that time she had seared herself onto his soul. It was not love; that was an emotion he was incapable of attaining now. He had married her, of course, but only to secure her forevermore. Forever, though, was never destined to be theirs.

She was dead.

He could not even remember her as she once was, her flushed face aglow with laughter and delight as he fiercely worshipped her with his mouth and with his hands. Whenever he thought of her his mind summoned up the detested memory of her broken body, drained of blood and slumped on the floor of the box in the London theatre where together they met their fate.

From that first moment she was lost to him, a desperate, burning thirst for vengeance consumed him, growing stronger with every day that passed without her at his side where she belonged. Though she willingly killed herself, Henry was convinced that the blame for her death could be laid at the door of two equally guilty parties. He was determined that one day soon, both Gabriel Canzano and the Resistance would be made to pay for all they had done.

As he heaved himself up the last of the steep cobbled steps, he seized hold of the railings and allowed his eyes to briefly close, permitting himself for a few moments to imagine the impossible; his enemies at his mercy and his wife back at his side. With a grim and low burst of laughter, he opened his eyes again to find he was no longer alone at the top of the street.

The shape of a man grew ever clearer out of the darkness, hastening towards him with a speed Henry knew he could never match, not now. But to flee was both impossible and against his nature. His teeth and nails sharpened with no conscious command, and he squared his shoulders as his vast coat billowed in the night breeze. Though a shadow of his former self, no doubt he still cut an intimidating figure; and if the man now mere feet away from him sought a fight, he was convinced his unnatural attributes would stand him in good stead.

Prepared for and now eagerly anticipating the chance to relieve some small amount of the pent-up frustration he carried as a constant companion, his narrowed eyes darted over the stranger as he skidded to a halt before him, panting for breath. A spark of awe and amused delight shone in the stranger’s eyes, setting Henry on edge even before his unexpected words filled the still night around them.

Devane, he breathed. Long we have been pursuing you, and I little expected that we would finally find you here!

Unwillingly Henry backed up until he teetered at the very top of the uneven steps. Retreat was foreign to him, but he instinctively sensed that this man posed the greatest of dangers to the new life he had forged for himself in the shadows of Bristol. Outwardly he seemed to be no physical threat; at least half a foot shorter, his body had already started to turn to corpulence despite his relative youth. There was a determination to his face, though, that made it very plain he would not be leaving until he had what he came for – and it seemed that was Henry himself.

Willing his voice and the curl of his top lip not to falter, he drew himself up to the fullness of his height and faced the stranger down. How do you know my name?

"Henry Devane, where I come from everyone knows your name. A smile slowly spread across his rotund face, and he leaned nonchalantly against a gas light behind him. Indeed, amongst my people your infamy is renowned. No longer do you carry the title you once revelled in, of course, having been stripped of it by the new government - and rightly so. No vampires deserve to count themselves amongst the members of this glorious country’s nobility."

That much was unwelcome news to Henry’s ears. Since his father’s death some hundred and fifteen years ago he had carried the hereditary title of Lord Vaughan with pride, secure in his confidence that the title and adulation that came with it would always be his. Now it was just one more thing he had lost at Gabriel’s hands.

However, he could not afford that distraction, not when his opponent already had him on the back foot. He had to concentrate, had to win back the advantage – and the only way to do that was by discovering where the stranger had come from and why he and his people had seemingly been tracking him down for so long. Fortunately, a hundred years under the tutelage of his master had bestowed him with a steely nerve and black countenance he called upon now as he inched forward, allowing a soft growl of discontent to ripple through the night air as he came to a halt no more than a pace away from the stranger’s throat. So, whom do you represent? he said under his breath.

To his frustration, the stranger’s eyes began to dance with laughter. A band of brothers whom you once knew very well, Devane; though you were not aware of it until after the fact. I am here on the behest of the Resistance.

And there it was. The architects of his destruction. The Resistance. It seemed they were not content merely with seeing him fall from the dizzying heights of supremacy to the gutters he now inhabited. Without his power, his coven, his wife, his title and his home he had nothing left, but still it seemed they wanted more from him, one further humiliation to make their triumph over him complete. Simmering rage sped through his cold veins, and his sharpened nails dug into his palms as he drew a shallow breath, foregoing all attempts at self-control as, for the first time, the stranger paled.

I see you have not forgotten our name, Devane, he said.

How could I forget the name of the Resistance when I have dreamed of revenging myself upon them for every day of the past ten years?! On the far side of the street, a passing whore turned her head towards them then whitened and scurried away, her shawl clutched close to her chest as Henry made no effort to conceal his enraged snarl. Damn you, harbinger of misery, unless you have come to offer me that revenge then I suggest you leave here now. If you do not, all I can promise you is the same fate that those who crossed me before suffered!

His vicious temper was rapidly spiralling out of control, and he needed nobody to tell him that his dilated pupils were ringed with red. To his credit, though, the stranger held his ground.

I cannot offer you revenge against the Resistance, but I can offer you something I suspect you want even more. Before that, though, your presence is required at our base of operations.

Henry recoiled. To what end?

To assist us.

Barely able to believe the words he heard, he deliberately exposed the gleaming canines beneath his thin lips. I have no intention of helping the Resistance – and if you intend to try to force me to do so, I tell you now that I will not come quietly, mortal!

We rather expected that would be the case, Devane. Therefore, we all carry with us a weapon which we are convinced will persuade you to come quietly, as it were.

A weapon? His narrowed eyes darted from side to side, but the hands the stranger held out were empty.

Of sorts, yes. Our weapon is three words. No more, no less.

Henry stilled, keenly aware a trap was now closing in yet powerless to break free. Speak them, he said, convinced though he was he would regret urging the man to do so. Damn you, man, speak them!

Very well, the stranger said. He leaned in close, and triumph sparked in his eyes as he whispered the words Henry had never expected to hear. "Your wife lives."

Chapter Two

Phoebe was alive.

If Henry’s blood was still warm it would have run cold in his veins. He recoiled as the three little words echoed relentlessly inside his head, torturing him with the myriad of possibilities that burst into life, at once glorious, enraging and terrifying.

How? he said, his voice hoarse as the twin hungers he had always been powerless to suppress around the woman he married exploded into the forefront of his mind once more. He craved the taste of her on his tongue and had from the very start, the pull of the opiate she drugged him with in no way lessened despite the years that had passed. I saw what she did; I saw the knife go into her chest, I saw her stop breathing, damn it!

But the gift of a vampire’s blood has the power to heal even the most grievous of wounds.

Henry slumped against the wall of the nearest shop, stunned into renewed silence as the stranger’s whispered words provided all the illumination he both needed and feared.

Gabriel.

His master stole Phoebe’s broken body from the theatre on that fateful night ten years ago. Even if Henry had been able to ignore the poisoned wound in his leg and drag himself in their wake, there seemed little point; his master had clearly abandoned him as a result of his abject failure, and there was no doubt at all that the knife in his wife’s breast had ended her mortal life. Yet in the haze of bitter despair that gripped him when he found himself alone, he never even thought of the possibility that his master would be able to save her life; of course, the chances of success were negligible when she had lost so much blood, but Gabriel was the oldest and most powerful vampire still alive. If anyone could do it, it was him.

You...you are sure? he said slowly, trembling from head to toe as the implications played out a torturous tableau in his mind. "You are sure she lives?"

We are certain of it, Devane. It has been confirmed by numerous sources.

Then where is she? Crimson abruptly flooded Henry’s eyes, blinding his vision until all he could see was the mocking smile of the man before him who threatened to turn the wreckage of his life upside down once more. Where is my wife?!

The stranger smiled impassively. That will have to wait until the morning. There is much to be put in place before I can reveal that to you, I am afraid.

He hissed. If you value your life, you will tell me now.

All in good time, my friend.

I am not your friend, and you will tell me now where my wife is!

The stranger’s smile only widened. Such possessiveness over a woman who was yours for so short a time! I will not tell you where Phoebe Larkin is -

"Phoebe Devane," Henry interrupted him, grinding his back teeth together