Dawn Thompson (13 page)

“It was too late,” the Gypsy said, his eyes downcast. “There is no help for those whom the vampire fully makes, those who die once he drains them and then rise again to serve him throughout eternity. Help is only to be had for those infected but not made—those like yourselves . . . and like me.”

“And you have had such help?” said Jon, fascinated, though wary still.

The Gypsy nodded. “I have . . . but it is not for the faint of heart,” he warned, his eyes upon Cassandra.

“My heart is not faint, sir,” she said. “Just breaking. . . .”

“How far is the nearest priory?” said Jon. What the Gypsy was saying was intriguing, but he wanted to follow his original course. They hadn’t come all this way to take the word of another infected just as they were. He couldn’t imagine the Church denying them help were they to beg. It was unthinkable.

The Gypsy stared at him long and hard. “Follow the stream,” he said at last. “It will lead you through the forest to the foothills. There you will find a priory.”

Jon nodded. Climbing down, he lifted Cassandra down as well.

The Gypsy laid a hand upon his arm. His touch was riveting. Was it only that it was unexpected, or was it something else, something connected to the condition they shared? Whatever the case, Jon’s spine was riddled so violently with chills the bones audibly popped.

“You cannot go on foot,” Milosh said, climbing down also. “Take the cart.”

“You are that certain it will return to you once we fall into the trap you’ve laid for us?” Jon said, voicing thoughts he’d never meant to speak aloud.

The Gypsy smiled. “I’ve set no trap—I’ve sprung one,” he said. Stripping off his garments, he began tossing them into the cart. “Once you see how you are received, you will return the cart and Petra here eagerly enough. But this you must find out for yourselves. Besides, though making holy water is no chore for you, we shall need holy oil for what is to come. Fetch some while you are there.”

“How do you propose I do that?” Jon asked, his fisted hands braced upon his hips.

“You will find a way,” the Gypsy returned. His drawers were the last of his clothes to sail through the air and land in the cart. He stood naked, and Jon turned Cassandra’s head away, though there was scarcely enough light to see clearly.

The Gypsy sprang toward the forest. In the blink of an eye, his shape changed from that of a muscular, dark-haired man to that of a large white wolf with a gray-tipped spine. It was a silvery streak of blurred motion that brought him crashing to earth upon all fours. A melancholy howl escaping its throat, the animal sped off and
disappeared into the deep dark among the trees and junglelike tangle of vines and foliage.

Jon fingered the Gypsy’s clothes, which were still warm in the wagon. “Is that what it looks like when I change shape?” he murmured, half to himself.

Cassandra nodded. “What do you make of it . . . of
him?
” she said.

“That he was telling the truth,” he replied, gravel-voiced. “Or at least he believes he is.”

The lantern hanging from the cart gave off no more light than a firefly, but in what it spared, Jon took his wife’s measure. Despite the rain, traces of blood still stained the front of her sprigged muslin frock, as well as splotches of the mud that the peasants had flung at her. Her face was smudged with dirt as well, and he took up her traveling bag and handed it over.

“Refresh yourself beside the stream,” he said, “and change clothes. You cannot go as you are. I shall keep watch while you do.”

“What about that wolf?” she said. “What if it comes back?”

“While I have no doubt it will stay near, I do not think you need fear it. I do not presume to understand any of this, but we have to trust something—someone. Let us begin with Milosh, hmm?”

She did as he bade, but her demeanor showed him all too clearly that she was not convinced. Truth be told, neither was he, but they had to play the hand they’d been dealt, and the last thing he wanted to do was overset Cassandra by adding his doubts to hers.

Looking on, he stood mesmerized by the sight of her as she stripped off her torn, soiled frock and began bathing
her face, arms, and chest in the cool water of the stream. How exquisite she was in the eerie light, reflected from what source he couldn’t identify, unless it was moonlight bouncing off the glistening ripples riding the stream where the dense canopy of boughs let it through. Nevertheless, it sparkled in her honeyed curls and gleamed from the soft, wet swell of her breast above the thin underwaist. She was pure gold.

Jon’s sex sprang to life, turgid and throbbing. How he longed to seize her, to lay her down on the cool green moss along the bank of the stream and bury himself inside that exquisite body. How he longed to feel those tiny hands fisted in his hair, caressing his sex, feel those arms clasping him fast, feel the petal-softness of those dewy lips welcoming his kiss. A soft moan escaped him as his lips parted in anticipation of just such a kiss. But then there was something else: the pressure of fangs obscuring his canine teeth slowly descending in rhythm with the contractions gripping his belly, seizing his loins with the thudding pulse thrumming through his veins. The bloodlust! Would it always be thus? Would he never be able to make love to her the way she was meant to be loved?

Reeling away from the sight that had aroused him, he clenched his teeth as if to drive back the fangs. All he achieved was piercing his lower lip with the deadly things. Finally they receded. He loosed a different sort of groan, shuddering with despair. Finally, his shallow breathing became deep. His heartbeat sought a calmer rhythm. Pain relieved the hunger again. At least there was a way—albeit a drastic one, and in this case accidental.

Snatching his greatcoat up from where Cassandra had left it draped over the side of the cart, Jon began slapping the dust and dirt from it relentlessly. This was just what
he needed: something to take his mind off the beautiful woman whose closeness was a threat to them both. Carrying the coat to the stream, he saturated his handkerchief in the cool running water and sponged the mud from it. He scarcely remembered being hit so many times with handfuls of ooze as they fled the inn.

“Let me help you with that,” Cassandra said, reaching for the coat. He hadn’t heard or seen her approach. Dazed, he stared at her through eyes glazed over with rage and desire, but his breathing was deep and controlled. How lovely she looked in her clean white muslin frock and indigo spencer. Not the most practical choice, but that couldn’t be helped. The traveling bag she’d taken it from was only large enough to hold one change of clothing, and their trunks were probably halfway to Gdansk by now.

“No,” he blurted, a little too loudly. Did it sound as harsh to her as it did to him? He wasn’t angry with her. It was himself he hated then; but if it did, so be it! He had to keep her at a distance for both their sakes, and he wrung out the handkerchief, passed it over his hot face, and shrugged on the coat. “It will have to do,” he said, more civilly. “Come. There is no time to lose if we are to reach the priory before word spreads.”

Cassandra gasped. “What have you done to your mouth?” she asked. “How have you hurt yourself?”

“I bit my lip,” he snapped. “It’s nothing.”

He helped her up to the seat in the cart, hid the Gypsy’s clothing beneath the straw, and climbed up beside her. Her eyes were full of questions, but he would not encourage them now. Snapping the whip, he gripped the reins and gave the lane ahead his full and fierce attention.

They reached the priory situated exactly where the strange Gypsy had told them they would, in the wee hours before dawn. Cassandra was exhausted, though she wouldn’t let on to Jon. He would only worry, and there was nothing to be done about it. Making matters worse, her longing for Jon was overwhelming. She knew the reason he was keeping his distance; he’d made that chillingly plain. Nevertheless, she longed for those strong arms around her, that corded, muscular body holding her so close she could feel every throbbing nerve in him. Would he ever hold her again? Would she ever feel him inside her, feel his living flesh inside her, bringing her once again to that excruciating ecstasy he had awakened in her on their wedding night but not completed, leaving her unfulfilled? There was no time to ponder it. They had arrived.

Instead of driving the cart around to the stable yards, Jon tethered Petra at the edge of the stream in the pine grove, out of view of prying eyes, and proceeded with Cassandra on foot.

“Suppose he was right,” she said.

“These are men of God, Cassandra. They will not turn us away.”

“I am not worried about them turning us away. Suppose they are of the same mind as the peasants who set upon us?”

“Of course we shan’t be so foolish as to tell them it is ourselves we’ve come about—not after what occurred at the inn. We are simply seeking information because of incidents that have happened at home, and because we heard that they have solutions to a problem of which we in England have no knowledge and are at a loss to deal with.”

“Still . . .”

“The only thing we need fear is that there are none
among them that speak English,” Jon said. “My knowledge of Eastern European dialects is sorely lacking. Stay close beside me and follow my lead. This is why we have come, Cassandra.”

Even though it was still at least an hour before dawn, light streamed from some of the lower windows. Of course the priests would rise early. There was even a light in the adjoining chapel, which was where things would begin, so Jon steered her in that direction.

Several Orthodox priests were preparing for matins when they entered, but none spoke English. One, however, led them into the priory proper, and took them to wait in a well-appointed though sparsely furnished anteroom, probably for someone who could understand their speech.

It wasn’t long before two black-robed clerics joined them. The elder of the pair, who introduced himself as Father Gurski, was the only one who spoke English. His companion, Father Kruk, seemed to understand the language but either did not know how, or did not choose, to speak it. He did, however, scrutinize them more thoroughly, or so it seemed to Cassandra, often speaking low-voiced in what she assumed to be Romanian. She found it hard to meet this priest’s dark-eyed gaze; there was something unsettling in it.

“My rector at home referred me here,” Jon said. “He gave me a book. It was lost on the journey.
Legacy of the Undead
—written by one of your own, a priest from one of the priories hereabout. I . . . I forget his name.”

Was that a patronizing look? Cassandra wondered. Father Kruk was whispering in the elder’s ear again. Father Gurski seemed unmoved by whatever his colleague said. Yes, that
was
a patronizing smile he’d fixed in place . . . and something more. What did it mean?

“You must know of it,” Jon urged.

“I know of it,” the elder agreed. “You have come a long way on the strength of a few words in an old tome.”

“Many are . . . infected, and we are ill equipped to deal with the condition. Too old and frail to make the journey, my priest and mentor sent me instead.”

“And your lady? Was that wise?”

“We are just newly wed,” said Jon. “I could not brook such a lengthy separation.”

“Despite the danger?” said the elder.

“I insisted,” Cassandra cut in.

“She was in more danger at home than she might find here,” Jon said. “Believe me, there was no other choice.”

“Hmmm,” Father Gurski replied. “There is no cure, if that is what you seek.”

Jon fought back annoyance. “No, I am aware that there is no cure, but surely there must be something—some means of arresting it. Many are infected. The vampire Sebastian has corrupted many in Carlisle alone! Why—”

“Sebastian, you say?” the elder interrupted. “What does he look like, this Sebastian?”

“He looks like death,” said Jon. “He wears the fashions of the day, but the clothes hang on him. He himself is no more than skin stretched over bones. Yet he is possessed of great strength and the power to cloud the mind. He also has the power to change his shape into that of a bat.”

“
Sebastian
,” the priest murmured, making the sign of the cross.

Jon nodded. “It sounds incredible, I know, but you know the name?”

“We know it, but we rarely speak it aloud,” said the priest. “It is one of many names he is known by. So
you
are the cause! We were well rid of him—of his menace,
of his evil. We had enough just dealing with the minions he left behind.” He surged to his feet. “And now you have brought him back to us!”

Jon’s posture clenched. “We have come to rid ourselves of the evil among us,” he said, “and to seek some means of help for those this creature has infected.”

“Evidently you have done so!” the cleric said. “He plagues your land no longer. His ancestral home, Castle Valentin, sits high in the Romanian side of the Carpathians. In darkness for centuries, light now shines from the windows again. In the night, at the top of the treacherous mountain pass, the castle was all but invisible, forgotten, passed into the mists of recorded time—but no longer! He has followed you, young son. You have brought him home! Why are you so vital to him, hmm?”

“Because he knows I am his enemy, committed to destroy him.”

There was silence while the priest considered—dark, deep, palpable silence, as cold as the grave. Father Kruk leaned close to the older priest. Though his lips moved, no sounds were discernible. Father Gurski’s eye movements alone were testimony that he heard what his colleague spoke. Now and then his own lips tightened, keeping time with whatever Father Kruk was telling him, and at the end of it, the elder priest nodded.

Outside, the sky was lightening. Were these wary Orthodox clerics waiting to see if their guests could bear the dawn? Something was amiss. If only Cassandra could read it. If only she could read Jon’s expression. He looked as though he was about to explode. His handsome mouth had formed a white, lipless line, and the muscles along his angular jaw had begun to tick. Though she squeezed his arm, and his muscles tightened beneath her fingers,
his demeanor did not change. Should she speak up or hold her peace? Father Gurski made the decision for her.