Chapter 1

​Puddling-on-the-Wold, September 1882
“It’s Lady Maribel all over again,” the grocer Frank Stanchfield
muttered to his wife, checking the lock to his back room. “How the girl
discovered the telegraph machine is a mystery.”
Except it wasn’t such a mystery, really. Lady Sarah Marchmain--
“Sadie” to her late mama and very few friends—had eyes, after all, and
there it was behind an open alley window, gleaming on a worn oak desk.
She had climbed in, her tartan trousers very convenient for hoisting
oneself into the building. After being caught trying to send a message to
who knows who, she was now unrepentantly inspecting the jars of candy
on the shop counter.
She might try to steal some of it, if only the shopkeepers would stop
hovering over her.
“Bite your tongue!” Mrs. Stanchfield whispered, looking over
nervously at Sadie. Apparently no one wanted another Lady Maribel de
Winter in Puddling. The first had been bad enough. Sadie had heard of
her in snatches from the villagers, and the woman’s portrait hung in the
parish hall. Her wicked reputation had outlived her, even if her decades
of good works once she married had mitigated some of it. She had been
a wild young thing who would have made Napoleon quake in his boots.
Or take her to bed. Lady Maribel had been, according to gossip,
irresistible to men. Fortunately her husband, a local baronet called Sir
Colin Sykes, had taken her in hand as best he could once they were married.
Sadie was determined never to be taken in hand.
Puddling was known as a famous reputation-restorer, a place to
rusticate and recalibrate. Prominent British families had sent their difficult
relatives here for almost eighty years. Lady Maribel was among the first
to be gently incarcerated within its limits in 1807, according to the elderly
vicar’s wife, who seemed to know everything about everyone dating back
to William the Conqueror.
Now it was Sadie’s turn to be gently incarcerated, and she didn’t
like it one bit.
The village had a spotless reputation. It was a last resort before a
harsher hospital, or worse, killing one’s own offspring. Or parent. Lady
Sarah Marchmain had angered her father so thoroughly that they’d come
to blows. When the Duke of Islesford dropped her off, he had been
sporting a significant black eye.
Well-deserved, in her opinion.
Sadie’s own eyes were unbruised and light green, the color of beryl,
or so her numerous suitors had said. Occasionally they threw in jade or
jasper—it was all so much nonsense. Right now she was examining the
penny candy in a glass jar, lots of shiny, jewel-like drops that looked so
very tempting. Sweet, edible rubies and citrine, emeralds and onyx. Frank
Stanchfield hustled over to the counter and screwed the lid on tighter.
She licked her lips. Unfortunately, she didn’t have a penny to her name.
She was entirely dependent on her housekeeper Mrs. Grace to dole out
a pitiful allowance every Friday, and Friday was millions of days away.
Sadie had spent the last of her money on a cinnamon bun earlier and had
reveled in every bite.
Her father’s draconian restrictions were designed to sting. Or so he
thought. Sadie didn’t really mind being impoverished and hungry in
Puddling-on-the-Wold. It meant she was not about to be auctioned off to
Lord Roderick Charlton, or any other idiot her idiot father owed money to.
The Duke of Islesford’s taste in men and luck at cards was, to put it
bluntly, execrable.
So far Sadie had overstayed her visit by one week. Originally consigned
to her cottage for twenty-eight days, she had somehow not managed to be
“cured” in that time.
Rehabilitated.
Restored.
Brought to reason.
Knuckle under was more like it. She was not getting married.
In fact, she’d like to stay in Puddling forever. It was very restful. Quiet.
The little lending library was surprisingly well stocked, and she’d gotten
a lot of reading done between lectures from the prosy ancient vicar who
instructed her daily. She also helped Mrs. Grace keep the cottage up to a
ducal daughter’s snuff.
Despite the fact that Sadie had no interest in becoming a wife, she
was remarkably domestic. It came of hanging about the kitchens of
Marchmain Castle, she supposed. The servants had been her only friends
when she was a little girl and she’d been eager to help them.
All that had changed after she was presented to the queen at seventeen,
wearing those ridiculous hoops and feathers that threatened to put out
someone’s eye. Suddenly, Sadie became a commodity, a bargaining chip to
improve her father’s ailing finances. A surprising number of gentlemen--
if you could call them that, since most men were absolute, avaricious,
thoughtless pigs—were interested in acquiring a tall, redheaded, blueblooded,
sharp-tongued and two-fisted duke’s daughter as wife. For the
past four years, she’d avoided them with alacrity, aplomb, and those
aforementioned fists.
Needless to say, her reputation was cemented in ruination.
It amused Sadie that her father was using the last of his funds to lock
her away here in this very expensive Puddling prison, hoping that she
would change her mind, acquiesce and marry the one man who remained
steadfastly interested.
Not bloody likely.
She touched the glass jar with longing.
“What may we help you with, Lady Sarah?”
The poor grocer sounded scared to death. His wife hid behind him.
Sadie batted her lashes. Sometimes this feminine trick worked, although
these Puddling people seemed remarkably impervious to charm.
They were hardened souls, harboring the odd, uncooperative, and
unwanted scions of society for a hefty fee, believing that being cruel to be
kind was the only way.
“Do forgive my transgression, Mr. Stanchfield. I so longed to
communicate with my old governess, Miss Mackenzie. Miss Mac, as I
so affectionately call her. I found a book on telegraphy in the library and
wondered if I had any aptitude for it,” she lied. Science in all its forms
confounded her. In truth, she’d read nothing but Gothic romances since
her arrival, very much enjoying the fraying sixty-year-old books written
by an anonymous baroness.
Moreover, Sadie’s old governess had been dead for six years and had
been an absolute Tartar in life. There had been little affection on her part,
4 Maggie Robinson
Sadie thought ruefully. The woman was at this moment no doubt giving
the devil a lesson on evil and grading him harshly.
“You know that’s forbidden, miss. No telegrams, no letters. Perhaps
when you are r-r-released, you may visit with the lady. A r-reason for your
good behavior, what?”
Goodness, she was causing the poor fellow to stutter. She stilled her
lashes.
“Ah.” Sadie gave a dramatic sigh. “But I just can’t seem to get the hang
of it. Being Puddling-perfect, that is. Every time I get close, something
seems to happen.”
Like stealing Ham Ross’s wheelbarrow full of pumpkins. It had been
very difficult to push her loot uphill, and so many of the bloody orange
things chose to roll out and smash along the road.
Or turning up in church in her tartan trousers...her stolen tartan trousers.
Some poor Puddlingite was foolish enough to hang them on a clothesline
to tempt her. After some tailoring—Sadie was handy with a needle—they
fit her slender waist and long legs as if they were made for her.
Her father had always wanted a son. Instead her horrible cousin
George would be the next duke, and Sadie would lose the only home--
well, castle—she’d ever known.
It wasn’t fair. She sighed again.
“Here, now, Lady Sarah. I don’t suppose I’ll miss a few boiled
sweets.” Mr. Stanchfield relented and unscrewed the jar, his wife looking
disapproving behind him. He filled a paper twist with not nearly enough,
and passed them to her.
Sadie saw her opportunity for well-deserved drama. Any chance to
appear happily unhinged must be seized with two hands, so she might
stay here in Puddling just a little longer. Dropping to the floor on her
tartan-covered knees, she howled.
She had been practicing howling at night once her housekeeper Mrs.
Grace went home. Her neighbors were under the impression a stray dog
was in heat in the village, perhaps even a pack of them.
“Oh! You are too good to me! I shall remember this always!”
She snuffled and snorted, slipping a red candy into her mouth. Red
always tasted best.
“A polite thank you would do just as well.”
The voice was chilly. Sadie looked up from her self-inflicted chestpounding
and the candy fell from her open mouth.
Good heavens. She had never seen this man before in all the walking
she was made to do up and down the hills for her daily exercise. Where
had he been hiding? He was beautiful.
No, not beautiful exactly. His haughty expression was too harsh for
beauty. Compelling, perhaps. Arresting.
But, she reminded herself, he was a man, and therefore wanting.
Lacking. Probably annoying. Not probably—certainly. Lady Sarah
Jane Marchmain was twenty-one years old and had more than enough
experience with men in her short lifetime to know the truth.
The man reached a gloveless hand to her to help her up, but it didn’t
look quite clean. Something green was under his fingernails—paint? Plant
material? Sadie made a leap of faith and gripped it anyway, crunching her
candy underfoot when he lifted her to her full height.
He was still taller than she was.
Not lacking there. Not lacking physically anywhere that she could see.
His hair was brown, curly and unruly, his eyebrows darker and
formidable. His nose was strong and straight, his lips full, his face bronzed
from the sun. His eyes—oh, his eyes. Blue was an inadequate adjective.
Cerulean? Sapphire? Aquamarine? She’d have to consult a thesaurus.
But they weren’t kind.
She found herself curtseying, her hand still firmly in his.
“Thank you, sir, for coming to my rescue.” She fluttered her
eyelashes again.
“You were in no danger on the floor. Mrs. Stanchfield sweeps it thrice
a day. One could eat off it, it’s so immaculate.” He dropped Sadie’s hand
and kicked the crushed candy aside.
The grocer’s wife pinked. “Thank you, Mr. Sykes.”
Sykes. That was the name of the family the infamous Lady Maribel
married into. Interesting.
“I only speak the truth, madam.”
Sadie considered whether she should fall to the floor again. It would be
fun to gauge this Mr. Sykes’s strength if she pretended to swoon. Would
he pick her up and hold her to his manly chest? Whisper assurances in her
ear? Smooth loose tendrils of hair behind her pins?
But perhaps he’d just leave her there to rot. He wasn’t even looking
at her anymore.
Sadie was used to being looked at. For one thing, she was hard to miss.
At nearly six feet, she towered over most men. Her flaming hair was
another beacon, her skin pearlescent, her ample bosom startling on such
a slender frame.
She had been chased by men mercilessly, even after she had made it
crystal clear she had no interest. These past years had tested her wits and
firmed her resolve. She was mistress of her own heart, body, and mind,
and determined to remain so.
Mr. Sykes probably knew that—apparently everyone in Puddling had
received a dossier on her. She’d come across a grease-stained one at the
bakeshop under a tray of Bakewell tarts, and had tucked it into her pocket
for quiet perusal, along with one delicious raspberry pastry. Theft was
apparently in her blood.
It had been most informative. The dossier, not the tart. Sadie had been
gleeful reading an account of her past recalcitrance. She rather admired
the clever ways she’d gone about subverting her father’s plans for her--
she’d forgotten half of them.
It had meant, however, that she had to exercise creativity in Puddling
and not repeat her previous pranks. No sheep in the dining room. No
bladder filled with beet juice tossed out the window. No punching
fiancés or fathers.
There was only the one father, but Sadie had endured several fiancés.
The latest, Lord Roderick Charlton, was getting impatient. He’d given her
father quite a lot of money to secure her hand. To be fair, he’d tried to woo
Sadie with credible effort.
There wasn’t anything really wrong with Roderick, she supposed. But
there wasn’t anything right about him either.
If Sadie could just resist the pressure to marry, she’d come into a
substantial fortune when she turned twenty-five. She wouldn’t have to
turn it over to some man, and her father wouldn’t be able to touch it. She
could live her life just as she liked. She might even buy herself a small
castle, if one could be found. One that wouldn’t fall down around her
ears. One that had working fireplaces and no rats.
However—and this was a huge however—the Duke of Islesford was
threatening to have her declared incompetent, seize her funds, and lock
her away in a most unpleasant private hospital. Sadie did not think it was
an idle threat, and to some, it might look as if she deserved to be there.
She was much too old now for the tricks she’d played, and four
years was a very, very long time to stall. Sadie was beginning to realize
she hadn’t done herself any favors with the pumpkins or the trousers
or the howling.
But she couldn’t succumb—she just couldn’t. No matter how many
times Mr. Fitzmartin, the elderly vicar, reminded her of a proper woman’s
place—as helper to her husband, silent in church, subordinate, obedient--
she felt her fingers close into a fist.
​

Emily slipped her phone into her pocket. He hadn’t been lying about
leaving the hospital late. She’d watched him walk out the door. She’d spent
a lot of time watching him and not enough doing anything. The times
they were together they got as close as two people could, yet Julian had
managed to keep the rest of his life completely apart from her. She was
pretty sure that no one even knew they were dating.
She sat in her car without starting it. They weren’t really dating
and she shouldn’t be feeling pissed that he’d blown her off. He was a
mark, not her lover.
He was her kill to get her full membership to the Guardians of Adam.
She closed her eyes and leaned over the steering wheel. So why hadn’t
she done it already? She should’ve done it months ago when they first met.
She’d known that he was Albah from the curl of his ears. But he was also
attractive, educated, and nothing like the egotistical magic-using maniacs
her mother had told tales about. She should’ve questioned him and killed
him two weeks ago while the undead horror was alive and killing. Now
the Albanex had vanished and she knew a Guardian hadn’t killed it. The
Albah were probably protecting it. Hiding and feeding it.
She shuddered.
How could Julian, a well-respected doctor and burns specialist, participate
in something like that? Yet it was in his blood to become an undead, blooddrinking
Albanex. She needed to find out where his father lived—which
was harder than it should have been. She’d tried.
There was a tap on her window. Her heart stopped and she almost died.
What a Guardian she was, jumping at a security guard doing his rounds.
She opened her window a crack. “Yes?”
“Just checking you’re all right, miss.” The security guard looked concerned.
Emily softened her features as though she’d seen a dying relative and
sniffed. “Yeah. Just gathering myself before I drive home.”
“Never wise to linger in the car park. Better safe than sorry.” He smiled.
He looked as though he couldn’t run down a thief even if the thief was
carrying a box full of donuts and a coffee to wash them down.
Emily nodded and obediently started her car. When he didn’t move
away, she pulled out of the bay. She needed to get home. It was late, but
no doubt her mother would want a status update.
No change. Nothing to report.
The only excuse she could give for why the Albah was still alive was
that he could lead them to more…and hopefully the Albanex.
She paid for her parking and headed out of the city. She’d go to Julian’s
place and wait to see if he came home tonight at all. That twinge in her
chest was not jealousy.
He didn’t have another lover.
He barely had time for her.
She knew the real reason Julian was still alive was because she did
fancy him just the tiniest bit. And he saved people. Maybe he wasn’t like
the other Albah.
But all Albah could become Albanex. Albanex were the vampires that
humans thought existed only in myth. Albah were more like the elves or
witches, harmless until they did the magic that would make them drink
blood and live forever. The Guardians should’ve wiped them all out 200
years ago instead of calling for a truce; then she wouldn’t be in this position.
Doctor Julian Ryder, for all his good work, was still only one magic
ritual away from becoming an undead monster.