Chapter One

Steam curled from the engine at rest, covering the platform with a misty white vapor that glowed in the darkness, alleviated only by the greasy glow of gaslight from the lamps stationed at regular intervals along the railway platform. She was not alone. Two uniformed porters stood by with carts to collect baggage. Two carriages waited outside to carry baggage and the occupants of the train back to the townhouse.

Outwardly, she appeared composed. She was dressed for the cool night in a heavy wool gown and a fur lined cloak. Her hands were gloved. There was a hint of color in her cheeks that might have easily been mistaken for a reaction to the wintry chill that lingered in the air. It had more to do with the increased rate of her heart beat, and the instincts that screamed at her to flee as the time that she had fought to enjoy in solitude was about to come to an abrupt end.

It had been two months. At first, she had been afraid, though she hated to admit it; especially at night, alone in the townhouse, lying awake, listening to the sounds of the house around her. She slept poorly. The irony of it tormented her. Alone and safe, and it frightened her more than anything now. In those sleepless hours her thoughts had turned, inevitably to ways to escape. She had access to money, and God knew she had fled enough places in the dark of the night to know how to get away, to become traceless and invisible.

But she knew that she would spend the rest of her life, looking over her shoulder, waiting. Wondering. There was also the notion that she clung to that she was there for some reason that would eventually reveal itself.

She considered taking the laudanum that she kept in store with her herbs and potions. When she was exhausted and unable to sleep the prospect of falling forever into a deep and dreamless sleep beckoned. In the early years she had tried to kill herself twice. Those failures, desperate gestures, incomplete and futile, mocked her now.

They were coming.

She saw them, through the clouds of steam. A sleek, beautifully dressed blond woman with her hand resting decorously in the crook of a tall, dark haired man’s arm. A fur-trimmed hood that rested lightly on the dull gold of her elaborately dressed hair framed her face. The man was considerably taller with broad shoulders that were emphasized by the cut of his greatcoat. Despite the long train journey, they were immaculate, and they moved in the deliberate, unhurried way of experienced travelers, neither distracted nor alarmed by the adjustment to walking on the unmoving surface of the platform, or the sights and sounds of a train station that had stirred to life as passengers debarked and met their waiting parties. They made a handsome couple.

A few steps behind them trailed a dark haired girl with a beatific smile on her face and a distant look in her dark eyes, seeking the night sky, incongruously carrying a doll. The doll bore a passing resemblance to the blond woman. She had been carefully dressed for the cool evening in a small pale blue coat with tiny pearl buttons, trimmed in white fur with a tiny matching muff hanging on a silk cord around her neck.

Last of all, a smaller man than the first, his ashy brown hair falling over his brow, his cravat a careless mess, loosely knotted around the equally loose neck of his blouse. His greatcoat was left unbuttoned despite the chill in the air, and it billowed around him as he quickened his step, moving beyond the dark haired girl, whose dreamy gaze lingered on him with creamy satisfaction. He swept past the more sedate looking couple, earning an annoyed look from the man. The blond woman smiled indulgently, but the smile never reached her calculating gray eyes.

“Pet,” he greeted her, blue eyes dancing with humor and satisfaction, his hands, always cold, and colder now with the chill in the air, cupped her face, his thumb moving boldly over her lips.

His forehead touched hers under the brim of the hat she wore. The hatpin securing the hat stabbed her scalp, scratching it as the top of his head pushed the brim of the hat back. The unexpected pain brought tears to her eyes. The tightness in her chest had nothing to do with the pain. She knew better than to close her eyes. He smiled and tilted his head to one side, taking her upper lip between his, sucking on it delicately.

“How sweet,” Darla said in a tone that suggested otherwise.

William refused to allow Darla’s disapproval to dictate to him. He let the kiss go on a moment longer, and reveled in the bright, wet green eyes that stayed open throughout, full of pain and a flicker of defiance that had never been entirely stamped out to his delight. His arm curled possessively around her waist, exerting just enough pressure to bring her into full contact with his body. Layers of clothing separated them, but she knew that he was there. He saw it in her eyes before they closed, briefly, and then opened.

He held her lightly, against his side. Drusilla glided forward, her thin, long fingered hand lightly patting the girl’s cheek. “My William’s poppet,” she cooed. “Come home to us, dearie? Such fun we will have, with moonlight and dark wine and pretty sounds in the dark.”

She found her voice. “Hello, Dru,” she said, steadily.

Dru pinched her cheek. “Hello, Miss Willow,” she breathed, and then she giggled. “Such lovely games we shall play.”

Willow swallowed hard. In Drusilla’s not so sane mind she was merely one in her beloved collection of dolls. Not quite as beloved as Miss Edith, but up there. Dru’s cool lips brushed hers and then she was gone, dancing over to Darla. “Say hello to Daddy and Grandmum,” she ordered.

Annoyance flickered again in Darla’s eyes. She disliked being called grandmum, and it wasn’t an ageist vanity. Her connection to Dru was something she did not like being reminded of. She was damaged; an embarrassment to Darla, tolerated because she was Angelus’ childe, and her second sight was moderately useful. Her appraising gaze lingered on William and his pet. He had kept the girl, nearly eight years now. It was little more than a game to him, but it had produced interesting results.

Willow had been barely sixteen years old when he stumbled upon her, dragging her home like a stray cat, keeping her locked up in his room to fuck and feed on. When that didn’t kill her, and Dru took to her, he started taking better care of her. Eventually Angelus was stirred to take a mild interest in the girl, and she had proven useful. She had a quick mind, and in her late teens, she had developed some magical abilities that had probably always been there, dormant. Angelus had insisted on getting her a first rate education, hiring tutors for her. Nearly eight years later she had a place in their little family as a human servant, soothing Dru, fucking William, managing their finances, and providing them with a human to secure their dwellings.

The great fuss of keeping her alive and moderately healthy had paid off, and Darla sometimes forgot that she had not been best pleased with the project. It was nearly time to bring it to its natural conclusion, and she was eager for that. In fact, she almost regretted siding with William. Angelus was itching to sire the girl, and William had appealed to her to support his claim to her. In most things she allowed Angelus to pretend that he was in charge of their little family, but she was not above using her hold on him as his sire to snap him back into place.

“You’re looking well, Willow,” Darla said. “Prague agrees with you?”

The girl’s eyes lowered. “Yes . . . m’am,” she said.

Darla smiled at Angelus. “Doesn’t she look well, darling?”

Angelus reached for her hand, and brought it to his lips, his fingers stroking her gloved palm. “Exquisite,” he drawled in a bored tone, his eyes contemptuously raking her form.

Darla’s laugh tickled like crystal in the cold air around them. Left to her own devises, Willow was dressed like a dowd. All in black, buttoned from wrist to throat.

The porters had gathered the luggage and trundled it out to the waiting carriages. Drusilla linked arms with Willow. William kept his hand centered on her back as they moved through the rail station to the waiting carriages. He handed Drusilla up, his hands framing her narrow waist, and then turned to Willow. Angelus and Darla were taking the other carriage. He pinched her chin, turning her face up to him.

“Miss me, pet?” he asked.

“Like a bad cold,” she retorted, making him laugh at her resentful tone.

“Up you go,” he said, easily lifting her and tossing her into the carriage.

She should have been more prepared for that. Her skirt caught under her and she landed awkwardly on her knees. Before she could get up and take a seat, William had joined them in the close confines of the carriage, his hand on her shoulder warning her against any attempt to leave the floor. He took his seat beside Dru, who rubbed his thigh and rested her head on his shoulder.

“Don’t be mean,” she pouted prettily, shaking her finger at Willow. “William has missed his pretty poppet ever so much,” she told her with a knowing smile.

His booted foot probed her skirt, and Willow clenched her jaw.

He smiled at that. “Growl at me, little bitch, and we’ll play games that you’ll regret,” he warned her.

A shudder ran through her frame as she struggled to find the right frame of mind to relax and accept her subservient position. He rapped on the roof of the carriage to get the driver’s attention, and the carriage lurched into motion. Even knowing this was coming, Willow felt herself almost fall forward. The carriage was well sprung, but on the unprotected floor, she felt every jolt against the cobblestones. She felt an irrational desire to press herself against his leg and apologize—not simply as a matter of self-preservation.

“Poor, Miss Willow, all alone, for days and days,” Dru murmured. “No one to pet her, or brush her hair, or play naughty games with her soft, wet parts.”

That wholly inappropriate observation wrung a wry laugh out of William, and he relented, removing his booted foot. “Get off the floor, pet,” he ordered.

Awkwardly searching for the seat behind her, Willow scrambled into the opposite corner of the coach, smoothing her skirt down.

He toyed with Dru’s hands. “Darling? Does Miss Willow need her soft wet parts played with?” he asked with a smirk.

Rubbing her cheek against his shoulder, she made a purring sound. “Lovely, naughty games to be played, my William. My Spike, My wicked, beautiful boy,” she crooned to him. “Daddy and Grandmummy and I will play other games.”

Willow stared out the window, watching the town pass, her stomach roiling. Oh, God. The games that would be played tonight . . . there were seven servants in the house, per Angelus’ instructions, two women, and five men, not counting the coachmen.

They had been rather carefully selected. The estate agent had thought her instructions bizarre. She had not demanded the well-referenced servants that were typically sought in a household with means. She sent him into the workhouses to recruit for her. She wanted servants without families, without prospects. She told him that it was because she wanted people who could be trained to her specifications, people who would owe her their loyalty. He bluntly told her she was likely to be rewarded by theft or worse by picking from the dregs, but he had done as he was told, and she had cast her protection charms, knowing full well that no one would harm her, and if they did, it hardly mattered anymore.

Of course, they had followed their instincts, robbing the house blind, smirking behind her back at her obliviousness. There was one footman who had seemed to decide that despite the fact that she was foreign and stupidly naïve, she was also well meaning and kind, and he had knocked a few heads together and brought a semblance of order to the household. He made sure that he was always within the sound of her voice, at all times, and she had rewarded his loyalty by making him the majordomo.

The increase in pay and status had a ripple effect, changing the atmosphere of the house overnight, and all the while she pretended. Kindness and generosity, and quiet authority could overcome the dreadful obstacles placed in the path of these people. It was a social experiment, a success that amazed the nosy, disapproving estate agent.

Tonight, it ended. Tonight they would all die. Tomorrow they would rise again, undead, and she would remain. Coldness crept into her. Her face was numb with it as she stared blindly into the night. She would not be alone, nor be required to bear witness to what happened, and she quietly despised herself for feeling grateful.