Dawn Thompson (12 page)

Cassandra must have been thinking like thoughts, for she was the first to speak, when at last he slowed their pace. “Our holy water!” she cried, her breath coming short.

“I can make more holy water.”

“The book! The tome the vicar gave you . . . Oh, Jon!”

“It cannot be helped. I’ve read most of it while watching over you during the night. It is a small loss, considering. Right now we need to put as much distance between ourselves and that mob back there as is humanly possible. I am praying that the storm keeps them at bay until we find some suitable shelter until dawn, when I can see where we’re going.” He took her measure. “You’re soaked through,” he said. Stripping off his greatcoat, he wrapped it around her shoulders without missing a step, then continued on, a close eye over his shoulder for any sign of pursuit.

“Whatever possessed you to leave our room?” he asked. “You were safe there.”

“I heard the rat scratching at the door,” she said. “I smelled its blood. The bloodlust came upon me. Before I knew what I was doing, I had opened the door. You
know
what a fever the craving causes. The animal scurried away toward the backstairs, and I followed—stalked it. I thought of nothing but feeding then. My vision narrows when the feeding frenzy comes upon me, Jon . . . someone must have seen me follow and catch it. All at once I was surrounded! They had clubs! They would have beaten me to death if you hadn’t come when you did.”

“Shhh,” he warned, steering her toward the edge of a wood, where the pine branches would spare them some of the punishing rain that seemed to be following. “We may not be alone. Save your strength. We must keep moving. We shall press on as long as you are able.”

“There must be more like us here,” she observed, low-voiced. “They were
ready
. All those clubs . . . They were armed in seconds—as if we were expected!”

“According to that tome, these are a very superstitious lot. I heard them call out
revenant
. Those are the dead come back to life to collect the living. Peasants open graves here and drive stakes into the corpses of those whom they suspect, pinning them to the ground. They cut off their heads and turn them backward to confuse them should they rise. I am not surprised that they were prepared for us. We are very fortunate to have escaped . . . if only for now.”

It was hopeless to continue on foot over such terrain and in such conditions, but Jon dared not tell that to Cassandra. Hoping for some crude sort of shelter at the worst, or the home of a local squire at best, he urged her on as the narrow mountain pass rose up and loomed before them through the teeming rain. After a time, the storm passed over, and the moon shone through the clouds in all its misshapen glory, its pale rays glistening on the wet blackberries growing in profusion along the edge of the wood, upon which they nibbled along the way. The rich, succulent juice of the ripe fruit was like balm, soothing their parched, dry throats.

The wild berries seemed to cheer Cassandra, and Jon did not hinder her. This was little enough to allow—anything that would ease the tension. He’d heard rustling in the upper boughs almost since they’d escaped the inn. Whether she had or not, he wasn’t certain. He didn’t mention it. With any luck, it was a squirrel or some bird they’d awakened while trespassing in its domain. Either way, he was glad he still had the pistol in the pocket of his greatcoat. He was glad he’d resisted the temptation to use it to frighten the mob earlier. It would have been useless against such a number, and he would have wasted his only ammunition. At least now he had one shot against
whatever enemy threatened. He groped the pocket of his coat draped around Cassandra for reassurance, slipped the pistol out, and wedged it beneath the waistband on his breeches. Yes, it was safe. He would be very careful how he used it.

He had just begun to relax his guard when the familiar sound of wagon wheels crunching on wet gravel pulled him up short, extracting a breathless cry from Cassandra. Spinning around, he faced a large cart lined with straw, its driver a well-built man of indeterminable age, his dark hair lightly silvered at the temples. Judging from his attire and olive complexion, he appeared to be a Gypsy. He seemed to have materialized out of nowhere, emerging from the direction from which they had just fled, out of a ghostlike mist that had risen over the ground after the storm. That alone made him suspect in Jon’s eyes, and he shoved Cassandra behind him when the man reined the feather-footed, dappled gray horse in alongside them.

“Come,” said the Gypsy, sweeping his arm wide. “The road is not safe at night.”

Jon stared, taken aback that the words were in English.

“You cannot travel the pass afoot in the dark,” the man went on. “You will not live to see the dawn.”

“You were one of them . . . back there,” Jon accused, jutting his chin, fully aware of Cassandra’s pinching grip upon his arm.

“I was at the inn, yes,” said the Gypsy, “and yes, I saw what happened, but I was not one of them.” Reaching into the cart, he raised a valise from the straw. It was singed black in spots.

Cassandra gasped. “Your traveling bag, Jon!” she cried. “It’s been burned.”

“Where did you get that?” Jon demanded, taking a step closer.

“I took both it and the lady’s from the pyre the blacksmith made to destroy them.”

“Why?” said Jon.

The Gypsy shrugged. “Because you will have need of them,” he said simply, struggling to control the horse. It had begun to rear and shy and paw the ground.

“Who are you?” Jon asked. Well aware of the reason for the horse’s complaints, he gave it a wide berth. “How do you speak our language?”

The Gypsy spoke gently to the horse’s unease, and flashed a smile that did not reach his eyes. “I am called Milosh,” he said. “And my people lived for many years in England. Come . . . more dangers than you know of haunt these parts.”

“How do I know—”

“You do not,” the Gypsy interrupted. “But there is no time to lose. Come.”

Still Jon hesitated, and Cassandra leaned close. “No, Jon,” she whispered. “I’m afraid . . . Tell him to just give us our bags.”

The Gypsy flashed another half-smile and dropped both of their traveling bags on the ground. “Young lady,” he said, “I have more to fear from
you
than you have from me. Others follow. You will have a far greater chance to escape a dreadful fate with the distance this cart can put between you than you can hope to achieve afoot. Those who live hereabouts take their mission in earnest. They cut the heads off vampires and stake them to the ground with wooden spikes through the heart. They dig up the dead bodies of suspected revenant, and burn vampires
alive.” He nodded behind. “You doubt me? Look there. What do you think those torches are for?”

Jon glanced behind. Sure enough, a sea of bobbing torches lit the steppes where the inn stood. They were moving toward them.

Jon tossed the bags back into the cart, lifted Cassandra up, and climbed in beside her. Tearing his bag open, he searched for the tome the vicar had given him, but it was not among his belongings. Neither was the skin of holy water. He heaved a sigh, shutting the bag again.

“I could not save the book,” said the Gypsy. “It is the reason for their pursuit. Finding it after the young lady fed upon the rat has sealed your fate. They know why you are here—what you seek. They burned it. In the melee, I was barely able to save the bags.” He cracked the whip over the horse and the animal bolted forward.

“Why are you doing this—helping us this way?” Jon asked as the cart lumbered along. “Gypsies do not usually mix in such matters. They keep to themselves.”

Again the Gypsy smiled. “I am what you aspire to be,” he said, “and what you will become. A vampire hunter.”

“We seek a priory—any priory,” Jon said. “Several were mentioned in that book.” The Gypsy had taken them deep into the forest, and Jon kept his hand poised over the pistol wedged beneath his frockcoat, casting meaningful glances toward Cassandra, whose face had gone as white as the moon.

“The holy ones there will not help you,” said Milosh. Jon could no longer see the torches following. The Gypsy reined the horse in alongside a trickling stream and continued, “We are safe here . . . for now. The villagers will not enter this wood in darkness—and with good cause. But that is to our advantage.”

“What do you mean, the priests will not help us?” Jon said, having heard little beyond that. It was the sole purpose of their journey. He refused to accept that they had come all this distance for naught. “Of course they will help us.”

Milosh flashed a patronizing smile. “Did your clerical togs spare you just now?” he said.

“Perhaps they did not recognize Jon’s clothes for what
they are,” Cassandra put in. “The holy men in these parts dress differently, I’m sure.”

The Gypsy’s dark eyes flashed toward her, and Jon gave her hand a warning squeeze.

“Young lady,” Milosh said, “I can show you the graves of many a priest whose vestments did not spare him. No one is incorruptible here, and members of the clergy—
any
clergy—are prime targets for the undead.” His dark eyes snapped toward Jon. “I should not need to remind you of that—‘Jon,’ is it?”

Jon nodded, giving a start. He had totally forgotten the amenity of introductions. “Jon Hyde-White,” he said, “And the young lady is Cassandra, my wife.”

The Gypsy acknowledged him with a deep nod.

“Please do not take our hope away,” Jon went on. “The contents of that tome they burned brought us all the way from Scotland seeking help.”

“The only thing it has done is mark you both for death,” Milosh said flatly. “It has betrayed you—just as the holy men you seek will betray you. Believe me, the book is no great loss.”

“But surely, men of God—”

“There are only two kinds of men here in Moldovia,” the Gypsy said, raising his hand to flag the interruption. “The undead, and those who hunt them.”

“And you are the latter?” Jon asked warily.

“I am both, like yourself,” Milosh replied. Stunned, Jon clenched his fists, and Cassandra gasped beside him, her eyes wide. “Which is why I recognized you so easily, and why I came to help you, if I can, or rather . . . if you will allow.”

“H-how?” Jon stammered. This was not at all what he’d expected, and his tone betrayed his surprise.

“Vampires have identifying marks at different stages of their making.” He gestured against his own face. “The blue veins there beneath your fair skin give you away. If you were fully made, they would be much darker. Your lady wife’s are hardly noticeable . . . yet.” Jon studied Milosh’s face for similar marks, and the Gypsy smiled his half-smile. “The veins do not show so easily beneath my olive skin, which works to my advantage. That is why I seldom go abroad before nightfall. In your homeland, where such a thing as vampirism has not obsessed the people, such marks would go for the most part unnoticed—or attributed to other, more familiar . . . more acceptable maladies.”

“How did you become a victim?” Jon asked, a close eye upon Cassandra, who clearly did not trust the Gypsy—especially now, since he had confessed to being what they were. He would have laughed at the presumptuousness of her attitude if the situation weren’t so grave.

“The undead Sebastian and his minions took my wife and unborn child from me,” Milosh explained, tugging at his mustache. “I was bitten trying to protect them. In my ignorance, I failed, and had to give them peace in a most . . . repulsive way—the way that mob plans to give you peace, though with these your ‘peace’ is of no consequence. Their purpose is to protect themselves. That pyre the smithy built was not only for your paltry traveling bags; he would not have wasted precious kindling over those alone. Once they had clubbed you senseless, your bodies would have been fed to those flames. And that is a kinder justice than some of their other methods.”

Cassandra hid her face in the folds of Jon’s neckcloth. She was trembling helplessly, clearly terrified—but perhaps that was for the best, Jon reasoned.

“Your lady wife is not long infected,” Milosh observed. “Her . . . inexperience has nearly cost you both your lives.”

“The . . . ‘infection,’ as you call it, is new to both of us,” Jon said.

“Would you care to tell me how it all occurred?” asked the Gypsy.

Water splattered upon them, shaken from the uppermost branches by a fugitive wind that had risen. The forest was so dense, Jon couldn’t see the sky. It seemed a strange place for a stranger conversation—especially since he no longer had the skin of holy water to defend himself if things should turn sour. Still, Milosh had been forthcoming with them about his own situation, and he had helped them, after all. Before he knew what had happened, he’d told the Gypsy everything.

There was a long silence.

“There is no cure,” the Gypsy reminded them at last.

“I know that,” said Jon, “but there has to be
something
, some help for it.”

“There is,” the Gypsy said, “but as I said, you’ll not have it from the holy ones. It is a well-guarded secret, and though they know of it, we Romany are the only ones who hold the key to open that door.”

“If that is true, how is it that you ‘had to bring peace’ to your wife and child in such a horrific manner?” Cassandra queried. Jon’s eyebrow inched up a notch. She had been so quiet for such a length of time, he had almost forgotten she was there. “What?” she said, answering his expression. “Have you forgotten that when I am not in the grip of bloodlust I am capable of rational thought?”

Jon raised his hands in a gesture of concession, almost amused at her bristling over such a point in these bizarre
circumstances. Loving her all the more for her courage and perseverance, he made no reply, though she gave him ample time to do so before continuing.

“Hmmm,” she said. How fetching she was when angry, her doe eyes flashing, her pouty lips pursed so provocatively. If the moon were visible, he was certain it would have picked out the irresistible red patches that always colored her cheeks when she was in a taking, and he would have come undone. As it was, cloaked in the eerie green darkness, what little he could make out of that beloved face aroused him. “If there were some help to be had,” she went on, tossing her golden curls, “why could you not help them?”