Dawn Thompson (20 page)

“Another lesson?”

“As it turns out, yes. But I did not prepare it for you; Sebastian did. The undead left the forest long before I returned. They knew I would destroy them, and Sebastian does not want that. He wants to win, to savor this—to draw it out as long as he can before he adds your life to his trophies and makes your lady wife his own.”

“You said there was help to be had. I would hear of this . . . help. Soon I will not have to wait for creatures like those to bring me low; Cassandra will do it. I shall go mad if this goes on much longer, God help me. . . .”

“There is help, if you will but listen.”

“Tell me, then!”

“You trust me?”

“I have no choice,” Jon said through a humorless laugh.

“At least you are honest.”

“I am counting upon you being honest as well, Milosh. There is too much at stake for treachery now.”

The Gypsy nodded. “You have my word. I am not pleased overmuch by the little seed of doubt that still remains in you after all we have been through together in our short acquaintance but am confident that I can put those doubts to rest. I have not harmed you or your lady wife thus far, have I?”

“No, no, but neither have
they
. Yet.”

The Gypsy studied him for a long moment. “Do not put me in the same company,” he said at last, velvet-voiced, though the words had an edge. “I can understand why you view me with suspicion, but keep in mind that I chose you because through all the centuries I have
roamed this land with this curse as a millstone ’round my neck, through all that I have suffered, I can count upon the fingers of one hand those brave souls who could not be turned. You are one. Despite the infection in you and that girl there, you still have the will to resist—the will to hunt down and destroy the very thing you have become. Most infected have become mindless servants by now. Instead, you live in a half-state, your infection halted by your will. Have you no inkling of the rarity of that, of the power? The trouble is that your will . . . that stubborn will is going to lead you to your death unless it is cultivated. My methods may seem bizarre, but I ask little when you look at your gain at the end of my tutelage. So! Think of me what you will. Soon the blood moon rises, and if all goes well, that narrow mind of yours will see the truth.”

Jon stared at him. “The blood moon. Let us begin with that.”

“First a few simple truths,” the Gypsy said. “You will not like hearing this, but it must be said . . . regarding the thing you do not wish to speak of.”

“Go on then. Say it if you must, but you waste your breath. My position is clear.”

Milosh nodded. “You have wed Cassandra, but she does not belong to you. She is Sebastian’s creature, needing only to be fully made to become his consort. She will remain his creature until someone else takes more of her than he has done—then she will become that vampire’s. It is the way of the curse. If you were to make her your creature, you would override Sebastian’s power. It would be beneficial to her. She would no longer be as much a victim. Her strength, her powers of awareness would be heightened further. It would elevate her powers to your
level. You would no longer need to hover over her as you do. If you would truly be one with her, you must rethink your position. When the time comes, and it will, it would do you well to remember this if nothing else.”

Jon made no reply. He would not commit to anything, but he did not like the truths the Gypsy presented. He could not countenance the thought of Cassandra being Sebastian’s. It made his blood boil.

“You have seen the blood moon?” Milosh went on seamlessly, as though he hadn’t expected any answer.

Jon nodded. “It was explained to me at university as being a phenomenon of a lunar eclipse.”

“Yes,” Milosh said, “but it is more than that, and it occurs at other times besides the eclipse, though that is what we deal with for the initial rite. It is the Vampire’s Moon, called that for its blood-red color, and not without good cause, because it holds a well-kept secret—the power to arrest the ‘infection.’”

“I do not understand,” Jon said, his brows knit in a frown. “How can the moon—”

“The moon has phases, does it not?” Milosh interrupted him.

“Well, yes, but—”

“Does it not rule the tides? Does it not make men run mad?”

“I suppose, yes, but—”

“Ah. You want a scientific explanation? Blood is the ‘tide’ that rules a man’s existence. It is eighty-three percent water. If you are aware—if you
let
yourself—you will feel the pull of the blood moon upon you when the ritual begins. Harness that power, Jon, and you can arrest the bloodlust and quell the feeding frenzy.”

“How do I harness it?”

“Not easily,” admitted the Gypsy. “But it can be done. I have done it, and I have none of the strength your calling requires. It takes great will. There are herbs that must be gathered, steeped in holy water, and that liquid must be drunk when the blood moon rises. It must be drunk in the open from a hill or a mountain peak, with naught between you and the moon but open air. The atmospheric particles in the earth’s shadow that give the moon its redness create the phenomenon; this is one of the mysteries of the universe.
Your
shadow is a part of the earth’s shadow, too—part of that substance that turns the blood moon red, if you will. That shadow must not be broken, and the eclipse must be viewed with nothing in between to sever the connection. You will be vulnerable to the enemy, but if you succeed, while you will not be cured, the bloodlust will no longer rule you. You will be as I am . . . so long as you repeat the rite once each year when a full moon rises. It need not be a blood moon thereafter, though there is greater power in such a moon. Now, I must warn you—the rite will not make you immune to the vampire’s kiss, Jon. The undead will still be able to corrupt you and believe me they will try. This is the best that I can offer, my friend.”

“What are these herbs that I must gather? Where can I find them?”

“Borage grows here in this wood. Since time out of mind it has been used to cleanse the blood of poisons and as an antidote for the bite of rabid animals. Brew a handful of the leaves. Broom grows in the rocky foothills—get enough of their tops to fill the well of your cupped palm, likewise steeped. Milk thistle—the hearts of several plants as well as the seeds are needed. You will find them in pastures. Rue you will gather in the mountains. Steep
the fresh leaves and use them sparingly; it is stronger than all the rest. You will need skullcap, called mad-dog-weed by some. You will find it by the stream. Steep the whole herb. Last but not least is barsa weed, a cress that lives in the stream, the most important ingredient of all. It is the catalyst that binds the lot. Without it, the draught is useless. These all may be steeped together, then strained, and the liquid drunk. I will write the proportions down for you. They must be exact. There is no margin for error. A warning: This concoction is a poison that will counter the other poison in your blood. It’s somewhat like an antidote, but more of a preventative. It would kill an ordinary man, and you will at some point believe that you are dying from the dose, but you will not, though you will have visions . . . some of them frightening. These will pass.”

“I am not skilled at identifying the different species of herb,” Jon said. “Skullcap and rue I know, but the others . . .”

“I am,” said a quiet voice from the shadows. Both men’s heads snapped toward Cassandra, who was swinging her feet to the floor. “My mother kept a kitchen garden. Her herbal cures were legendary in Cornwall. Doctors came to her for their medicines. I helped her gather the herbs.”

“You’re sure?” Jon said.

“I’ve seen broom on the rocky hillsides hereabouts,” she informed them. “Its leaves are tiny, oval-shaped. It has yellow flowers shaped like peas that give off a strong, sweet fragrance. My mother used to make a distillation of perfume from them. It was much sought after by the local aristocracy, and brought a fine price. I saw milk thistles in a pasture near the inn. The leaves are gray, with silvery-white veins. The flowers have purple tops, with prickly
bottoms. There are skullcap plants growing right out by the stream. One can hardly miss their brilliant blue flowers. They are soft as down and rather large, and barsa weed grows thick beneath the water. Will that do?”

“Most impressive,” said Milosh, with a nod of admiration.

“How much have you heard?” Jon asked.

“I’ve been listening with much interest since you began,” she replied.

“Why didn’t you make us aware that you had awakened?”

“What? And have you sneak off and have your conversation out of my hearing? I won’t be ‘spared,’ Jon. Like it or not, I am part of this madness. I will do my part.”

“How long before the blood moon rises?” Jon asked the Gypsy.

“Less than a sennight,” Milosh replied. “But you cannot pick the herbs ahead of time. They must be fresh, with the dew still upon them.”

Jon nodded. “In the meanwhile?”

“You sleep by day, feed how you will, and guard against the creatures of the night once the sun sets. It will be difficult. You can be sure Sebastian also knows when the blood moon will rise.”

“Will
he
not try to avail himself of the rite?” Cassandra asked.

Milosh shook his head. “He cannot, and he is fiercely jealous of that. He is undead. It is too late. Once fully made, a vampire cannot alter his fate. The Rite of the Blood Moon is only for those like yourselves, whose final transformation is incomplete. He will try to prevent you, just as he tried to prevent me—more so you, Jon, because of your calling. I cannot help you in the physical sense,
but can only arm you with the means. This is a rite of passage you both must make on your own, just as I made it in the wilds of Persia where my mentor instructed me. I did not have the immunity to holy water that you both do, and I suffered nearly to the point of death. It will be likewise hard upon you, dear lady, since you do not have the protection Jon’s vocation affords him—you may as well know that now.”

From somewhere far off, a cock crowed, heralding the dawn. The sound raised hairs on the back of Jon’s neck. Ghost-gray streamers had begun seeping through the cracks in the old wall boards, throwing thin beams of light on the dirty floor. Dust motes rode the slender shafts up and down, as if they had a purpose.

“Is it safe to go out?” Cassandra asked. “I would dearly like to refresh myself beside the stream.”

Milosh threw the bolt and cracked the door ajar. Jon and Cassandra crowded close for a look at the morning. The rain had ceased, except for hollow splats as latent drops dripped from the uppermost boughs. A ground-creeping mist blanketed the forest floor, where the cool, rain-washed air met the warm ground. Entering the cottage, it groped their ankles like curious fingers.

Milosh threw the door open wider, taking a deep breath of the morning air. “It is safe,” he said. “Refresh yourselves. We leave within the hour.”

“Leave?” Jon said. “Why?”

“To find another shelter,” the Gypsy said. “It is not wise to stay too long in one place.”

Jon shrugged. “What does it matter, if Sebastian will find us anyway?”

“Why should we make it easy on him, eh? I have another place in mind. Go and refresh yourselves while I
hitch Petra to the cart. We have much ground to cover before sunset, and you two must rest, too. Time always flies when one wishes it would stand still.”

The water trickling over smooth, moss-covered stones in the stream was cool against Cassandra’s skin. Squatting at the mossy bank, she let the ripples trickle and flow over and around her splayed fingers. How good it felt! What she wouldn’t give to immerse her whole body into that sparkling clean water, to feel the swaying barsa weed between her toes. If only it wasn’t so shallow.

She cupped some in her hands and drank, then drank again. She could not get her fill. Unbuttoning her spencer jacket, she splashed some water on her face, on her throat and chest and the back of her neck, but it couldn’t wash Jon’s words from her mind. If only she had stayed asleep, wrapped warm and safe in his greatcoat. If only she hadn’t eavesdropped. But then, perhaps it was best that she had.

Rocks lined the far bank. Above, a shaft of light stabbing through the trees struck the water. It projected shimmering reflections of spangled gold on the jutting boulder overhanging the flow, as though a hundred fairy lights gleamed there. It was an enchanted moment, made more so when a spotted fawn crept close to drink. Cassandra’s heart warmed to the sight, until she realized that if it were night, she would be stalking the creature to feed. Chills riddled her spine and her posture collapsed. Across the way, lit in the golden sunlight, the animal looked up. The instant their eyes met, it fled.

Cassandra dropped her head into her hands. She was too exhausted to cry, though she ached to do so, and dry sobs leaked from her throat, bringing Jon on his way back to Milosh and the cart. Before she knew what had happened,
her husband had lifted her up and she was in his arms. The rich, musky scent of him filled her nostrils, dizzying her. She inhaled deeply. What was he saying? She scarcely heard. Her own nagging thoughts possessed her then, drowning out whatever words those lips were forming. It was as if she had suddenly gone deaf.

“Why did you marry me?” she asked, gazing up into his quicksilver eyes. She almost gasped. Golden reflections of dappled sunlight on the water glowing on the boulder by the stream danced in those eyes as well. He looked nonplussed. Evidently her words had naught to do with what he was saying. “Why, Jon?” she persisted. “Was it out of obligation? You didn’t have to, you know. . . .”

“What are you talking about?” Jon said. “I love you, Cassandra. That is why I married you.”

“You needn’t pretend. I heard what you said to Milosh,” she confessed. “You feel responsible for what happened to me. You are not at fault. How could you think it? You needn’t have martyred yourself. I’m holding you back.”

“Where is this coming from?” Jon demanded. Gripping her upper arms, he shook her none too gently. “I’ve held you in my arms. You have
felt
why I married you, Cassandra, and once we settle this I will make love to you. My life will live inside of you and there will no longer be room for doubt.”