Page 3 of A Honeymoon of Grave Consequence (The Unexpected Adventures of Lady and Lord Riven #2)

Some hours later, the din of a nearby voice began to form a distracting buzz at the edge of her consciousness.

However, she was far too busy to pay it any attention as she was deeply engrossed in the analysis of three tantalizingly different descriptions written in three different languages across the centuries.

Each letter had been transcribed by a different scribe, and all of them had to be carefully compared to a significant note she had only just discovered in the sixty-year-old Parisian pamphlet.

If one accounted for the variety of translation options for each word, not to mention any possible transcription errors along the way, and imagined how certain archaic fears could have led to exaggerations of both size and aggression...

“I said, what do you think you’re doing here ?” The high-pitched German demand sounded so suddenly and so close to her right ear that Margaret startled hard and—disastrously—lost her grip on her fountain pen.

“Ahhh!” She threw herself forward, her left arm shooting out to protect the materials on the table even as she snatched for the falling pen.

Thank heavens, she managed to catch all the scattered puddles of black ink on the fabric of her own new travel gown rather than damaging the precious pamphlet or her notes—but her pulse was still jittering as she re-capped the pen a cautious six inches away from the closest manuscript on the long table. Glowering, she raised her gaze.

A sharp-toothed creature from the depths of Germanic legend loomed above her, red-rimmed eyes furious in a deathly pale and hairless face.

Their lean body was swathed in a shapeless black hooded robe with draping sleeves that fell away to reveal long, curving, yellow fingernails as they raised their arms menacingly above their head and let out an unearthly snarl of warning.

“Begone or prepare to be devoured , witless prey!”

“Oh, I very much think not ,” said Margaret. “Really, have you no respect for scholarly work—or basic courtesy? You nearly made me ruin a priceless piece of historical research just now!”

“I...” The creature blinked, narrow shoulders hunching, as Margaret gave them the same cold and distinctly unimpressed look she’d perfected across years of attempted bullying from larger and louder male colleagues at Morningford College.

For a moment, she actually thought they might see sense and apologize.

Then they rallied and leaned even closer, until their hot, rank breath rolled distastefully across her cheek. “Begone now, piteous fool, or I’ll creep into your room tonight while you sleep and consume your flesh !”

“For goodness’ sake.” Turning in place, Margaret raised her left hand to tick off a succession of simple facts in an educational fashion.

“First of all, any scholar worthy of the name is well aware that nachzehrer, such as yourself, only consume already-dead flesh—thus the species name ‘ After -Devourer.’” That was also the reason why those originally-human yellow fingernails on the creature’s hand had lengthened, toughened, and sharpened into claws; they were not merely sinister accessories but necessary tools in order to dig up deeply buried meals .

“Secondly,” Margaret continued calmly, “if you make any attempt to come near my sleeping form tonight, you’ll find that my own husband—who happens to be a vampire—will take very badly indeed to your behavior. Then, you’ll be the one to regret it, I promise you!”

Even in the tumultuous first days of their marriage, well before his keen intelligence had won her over, Margaret had reluctantly taken note of Lord Riven’s large and muscular form, shaped perfectly for fighting or for dancing.

Well before his vampiric transformation, he had trained in swordplay, wrestling, and warfare.

She’d only needed one quick glance to be certain that this haggard creature had not .

“Finally, this ”—she gestured in illustration—“is a large room with multiple free tables and more than enough space for both of us to work...unless, that is, you came here solely to practice these exaggerated dramatics for some amateur theatrical?” She tilted her head and waited with pointed expectation.

For a long moment, the undead creature simply gaped at her in what appeared to be wordless disbelief.

Then they dropped their curled fists to their sides and said in a far less sinister but infinitely more petulant tone, “You’re supposed to be frightened of me!”

“Pah,” said Margaret, and went back to her work, spreading out her best maps across the table for easy reference as she studied those variant historical descriptions from the letters and her Parisian pamphlet.

She could feel the shadow of the nachzehrer still above her as she scooped back up her notebook and pen. Fortunately, she had never lacked an ability to focus. It took several minutes before she realized that once again, the creature was speaking.

“But this is my moping room !”

It had been many years since Margaret had allowed herself to be bullied by anyone but her own relatives, and this past year, she and her husband had jointly defeated them in court. She gave the nachzehrer a quelling glance, without lowering her work. “If you wouldn’t mind moving out of my light?”

The nachzehrer’s hiss in response sounded like nothing so much as a disgruntled cat.

Also like a cat, they retreated to lick their metaphorical fur in offended silence on a couch across the room, only periodically aiming glares across the distance that did not disturb Margaret in the slightest. In fact, she looked up from her notes, after some time had passed, with the intention of asking an important question about local geography that would have been of great assistance in clarifying her next steps. ..

Only to find that the nachzehrer had apparently flounced off in the meantime.

“Ah, well.” An unexpected yawn interrupted her words; shielding her mouth, Margaret became abruptly aware that her own body was more than ready for sleep.

It was the natural dilemma of any affectionate human wife to a vampiric spouse; she rarely wished to miss her husband’s nightly waking hours, but despite her best attempts, her willpower had not yet become stern enough to dismiss sleep as a necessity.

She did take time to gather up her materials and carry them in her leather case back up to the bedchamber rather than leaving them spread out on the table, in case the nachzehrer proved vengeful and petty.

Once she was safely back within her locked room, though, the sight of her husband’s unmoving form was too enticing to resist any longer.

With the sun still up, she had no fear of waking him, so she slid underneath his blanket with a sigh of relief and curled herself around his reassuringly solid body to fall into sleep with full security.

When her dreams were finally interrupted, it was by the thought of tea.

No, not just the thought: that was the scent of good tea—her favorite tea!—undercut with smoky tones and with a delicate overlayer that?—

Her eyes flashed open, and she found her husband smiling as he leaned over her prone form, proffering a cup of steaming, milk-laced tea that was no dream but a gorgeous, inexplicable reality.

Still half-caught in the foggy remnants of her sleep, she drew a long, delicious inhalation and nearly whimpered with yearning. “What— how ?—?”

“You may recall I made you a promise when we first agreed to stay wed: I would never let you lack for proper tea.” Lord Riven gave an easy, rolling shrug as he placed the cup and its saucer on Margaret’s side table.

“I took the precaution of purchasing a good supply in Paris. The tea you were served at our previous stops seemed perfectly serviceable, but I would have seen to your needs here before my morning sleep...if I hadn’t been so delightfully diverted by your other needs at the time. ”

“Ha.” Shuffling upwards in bed, Margaret lifted the cup to her lips to both quench her thirst and shield the blush she could feel rising on her cheeks. “Only my needs? Really?”

“What can I say?” There was a devilish gleam in his hazel eyes. “I’m always happy to assist my wife in everything she desires.”

“Hmph.” Clearly, her husband had woken in a dangerously roguish mood.

..and unlike Margaret, Lord Riven had the outrageous luck of rising from his deathlike rest, each evening, with instant full awareness and none of the grogginess that inevitably plagued her.

Rather than engage in verbal swordplay at such a disadvantage, she surrendered the small battle and focused on the tea that would soon break through her mental fog.

Her husband’s smile was knowing as he sat down beside her on the bed, resting one hand on her duvet-covered legs with warm familiarity. “I hear you had a run-in with Fr?ulein Leonie earlier today?”

Margaret frowned. “With whom?”

“The resident ghoul,” Lord Riven said calmly. “She claims you cursed and threatened her in the most scandalous and shocking manner until she was forced to retreat to save her innocent ears from such terrifying blasphemy.”

“What?” Margaret lowered her cup to stare at him. “That is absolute nonsense!”

“I did presume so.” Her husband’s lips curled in maddeningly condescending amusement. “For one thing, the worst curse I’ve ever heard you use was remarkably tame, so?—”

“She claimed that I menaced her ?” Margaret demanded. “She was the one who threatened to ‘consume my flesh!’”

The amused smile vanished from Lord Riven’s face in an instant. “She did what ?” he asked softly.

There were times when it could be forgotten that her husband was, in fact, an ancient and extremely dangerous vampire.

This was not one of them.