Josephine Shaw would live. But she would never be the same.

Chapter Eight

SHE BOLTED UP IN BED, almost throwing herself into the fire with the unexpected strength of her limbs.

“Josie!”

She screamed when she hit the floor. And she kept screaming.

The hunger.

The pain.

She was in the throes of a most horrific dream.

Her throat burned. Her mouth ached. The room burned. There was a roaring in her ears and a tumult of voices surrounding her.

“Put out the fire, it’s too hot!”

“Is the bath ready?”

“Josie? Josie, try to drink.”

A goblet was forced to her mouth, thick with the scent of copper and meat. Blood. It was blood. She choked on it until the taste hit her tongue, and then she opened her throat, howling inside from the pleasure.

“Another. Give me another, damn you.”

“Bath is ready, boss.”

Her body hit the water, and it was hot and cold all at once. She tried to scramble away until she felt him at her back.

“Shhh.” His voice captured her and she turned to it. She blinked her eyes open before she closed them again, wincing.

“Turn the lamps down. They’re too bright. Josie? Josie, love, can you hear me?”

“She needs to drink more.”

The water crawled up her body, and it was her friend. It petted her as if she were a cat curled by the fire. It was a cool blanket on a warm day. Her nurse’s soft touch.

“Josie?” Another goblet shoved under her nose, and she grabbed it with both hands, feeling the metal bend under her fingers.

“What?” she croaked. “What—”

“It’s all right now. Just drink.”

“Tom?”

“Drink, Josie.”

She drank. And then she drank some more.

Liquid heat. Satisfaction.

I’m dreaming. This is a dream.

“You’re not dreaming, Josie.”

I’ve died. I was so afraid to die. I left him. My lovely Tom. I left him.

“I’m here, sweet girl. You didn’t leave me. You’re right here.”

She closed her eyes to block the light, weeping with the pain of losing him.

And when the tears touched her mouth, they tasted of blood.

HENRY Flynn put his arm around Mrs. Porter as he showed the old woman into the room where Mrs. Murphy’s body lay. He’d be grateful when all the new servants were gone and only the ones that knew the truth were left. He’d grown weary of the lies and constantly guarded words. His father had told him he’d be expected to do things like this, but he’d had no idea how complicated it would all be.

Lucky the missus was a vampire now. At least he’d no longer have to carry on one-sided conversations for hours while the master slept. But Mr. Tom Murphy was about as grand an employer as he’d ever have, so he wasn’t about to complain. He was very grateful the man wouldn’t have to say good-bye to his wife, who was now lying in the darkened room, the fire low and the covers drawn up to protect her as much as possible while they fabricated the story of her death.

According to his mam, she’d wake at nightfall with a driving hunger that wouldn’t know friend from foe, so it was important that all the human visitors be ready to leave well before dusk.

“The poor girl.” Mrs. Porter sniffed. “The poor family. Mr. Shaw gone and Miss Shaw too. All within a day. And poor Mr. Murphy.”

“He’s in his room now,” Henry said. “He weren’t in a good state last night.”

“Well of course he wasn’t,” Mrs. Porter said. She put her arm around Mrs. Murphy’s day maid. “They loved each other so. What a tragedy.”

“It is,” Henry said. “Though I know my master wouldn’t have traded knowing her for anything.”

“Oh, poor Mr. Murphy!” the maid said. “And poor Miss Shaw. It’s so sad, and yet so terribly romantic, don’t you think? Miss Shaw would have liked that.”

“Here now,” Henry said, trying not to shake his head at the maid’s melodrama. “Why don’t we go downstairs? There’s nothing of her here. The downstairs maids will clean the room, and I know others will want to pay their respects. Let’s go see if Cook has anything to eat, shall we?”

He ushered both the grieving women downstairs and into the care of Cook while he saw to the other men on the floor who were guarding the master and the missus. Hours passed as Henry began the business of faking a funeral. It shouldn’t be too much trouble. His father had faked one for Mr. Declan. It’d be easier if he had a few more men, but currently, most of Mr. Murphy’s staff were busy securing the day-chambers until the vampire staff rose at dusk.

Henry was hoping when they were both sorted he’d be able to consolidate security for the two of them. Guarding one day-chamber would be so much easier than—

“Unhand me!” A domineering voice rang from the ground floor.

“But Mr. Burke! Surely you can wait for tonight. Mr. Murphy is retired and he won’t want to be dist—”

“I want to see my cousin! Take me to her now.”

“I say, who do you think you are?” Adams, the old butler, had never been one to mince words. “Sir, Mr. Murphy is not receiving callers at this hour. You must leave.”

Henry stood at the top of the steps while Mr. Neville Burke made a great show of trying to look like a worried man. Henry wasn’t fooled. Burke had the gleam of greed in his eyes.