Dawn Thompson (24 page)

Reliving the nightmare, she didn’t hear Jon approach from behind, and she nearly jumped out of her skin when he took her in his arms and turned her toward him. It was a frantic embrace. His trembling hands flitted over her body as if he were checking for broken bones. It was a desperate moment that attacked her conscience viciously, especially when his fingers came to rest on the punctures on her throat.

He let loose a heart-wrenching groan that brought tears to her eyes and crushed her close. “It wasn’t a dream,” he despaired. “My God, what have I done?”

“You have done what had to be done, Jon Hyde-White,” Milosh said. Both of them turned toward him with a jerk, where he stood on the threshold behind them. Neither had heard him approach. Cassandra cast him a warning glance, to which he replied with a slow blink. At least he hadn’t betrayed her . . . yet.

“The sun is rising,” he remarked. “There is no time. Come, we have much ground to cover before dark, and our path takes us back into dangerous territory. Look sharp! Vampires are not our only danger now.”

“I hope you’re finally satisfied,” Jon said to the Gypsy as the cart rolled through the forest toward the blinding streamers of blood-red dawn stabbing through the trees.

“I am,” Milosh said with a brisk nod. “Though I cannot claim the credit for it, you will thank me one day, Jon Hyde-White. There really was no other way. You will see that soon enough.”

Jon doubted it. He glanced back over his shoulder. Cassandra was curled on her side, wrapped in his greatcoat, sound asleep—or at least she appeared to be. How pale she was; how transparent her skin, like alabaster, marred by telltale blue veins that testified to what he had done.

“Those will fade somewhat,” Milosh said, casting Jon a sideways glance as he eased Petra out onto the narrow road. “Once her body adjusts, the veins will be less noticeable. Sometimes talc is enough to hide them. If not, there are treatments that ladies know that will suffice—the sorts of things actresses use. Cassandra is very fair. She may have to resort to these. Do not look so stricken! Your wife will know what to do. Do not sell her short, Jon Hyde-White. She is a brave, intelligent soul. You are too drunk with love to to be less protective, but let her be. We have much to discuss. What is yet to come shan’t be easy. We are being watched. Sebastian and his minions know what you are about, and they will try to stop you. You must be prepared for that.”

“What must we do meanwhile?”

“We must collect the necessary herbs. This must be done in the morning, while the dew is still upon them. As soon as the sun rises, you must be prepared. I can put you in a position to find them. You must gather them yourselves. You must climb the mountain, build a fire, and steep the herbs to make the draught that must be drunk when the
blood moon emerges during the eclipse. I know just the place. The peak I have in mind is low and easily scaled.”

“That is all?”

“That is much,” said the Gypsy. “As I said, you must do this in the open where you will be vulnerable, and you will be in even more danger because you cannot shapeshift during the rite. Whatever your incarnation when you begin, that is how you must remain; your shadow upon the earth that drifts across the moon must not change shape. The amount of water in your blood must not alter, either, lest the balance be upset. Afterward there will be . . . consequences. The draught affects each person differently. You may hear voices or see visions. It will be difficult to separate dreams from reality. At that point you will be most vulnerable of all. You will need to protect yourself by outside means, so these must be carefully prepared before the hallucinations begin.”

“Outside means? I do not understand,” Jon said.

“You will be in a trancelike state, unable to protect yourself, so before you drink the draught, you two must draw a protective circle around yourselves. Straw from the cart will do; then you must sprinkle it with melted holy oil and set it afire. As long as you remain inside the circle, you will be safe. Vampires will not risk crossing the fire line. The holy oil will prevent them.”

“What of those who are not put off by holy things?”

“There is still the fire, Jon. Vampires fear it, because it is one of the means mankind has to destroy them.”

“You have done this?”

Milosh nodded. “With no help.”

“And this rite will check the bloodlust?” It seemed so impossible, so full of hocus pocus. And yet, who would have believed any of the things Jon had lately seen?

Milosh nodded. “So long as you renew the rite as I have already told you, yes. If you do not, you will revert back to what you are now until the next blood moon. Now remember, the full moon will not save you once you let the antidote lapse. In that case, you must start over just as you are doing this first time, so I suggest you keep current.”

There was a long silence. The only sound was the crunching of the cart wheels on gravel. They had reached the first crossroads, and Milosh steered Petra in a northwesterly direction, bypassing the grave, which drew Jon’s eyes. There was no sign of the woman’s body, and he felt chilled, imagining what had become of it. To look at the spot now, one couldn’t imagine the grisly scene that had unfolded only a few hours earlier. That brought the whole nightmare trickling back across his mind, and he literally shook the thoughts loose, as a dog sheds water.

“And that will put things to rights, eh?” he repeated skeptically.

“The rite will free you from the bloodlust, Jon,” Milosh said, clearly out of patience. “But it will not free your adversaries from it; never think so. What it will do is set them upon you with more of a passion to kill, and to claim your lady wife as their master’s consort. In this case that would be Sebastian, since he reigns here and would not take being usurped calmly; but it is not limited to him. There are many vampires in these mountains, Jon Hyde-White. That is why you must be as I am—free of the bloodlust—in order to help me destroy them.”

“And . . . if I fail?”

“Then you will become just another
vampir
in need of killing. So! You had better be sure not to fail, Jon Hyde-White. It is not a personal thing, you understand. I have
grown quite fond of you and your wife. It would pain me greatly to make an end of you. I am counting upon you never to put me in such a position. Do not disappoint me.”

“Where do we go now?” Jon said, changing the subject.

“There is a village close by—more a community than a village; very small, but there is an open market, and we have need of several supplies.”

Jon uttered a bitter laugh. “What could we possibly need that you have not tucked away in this rickety old cart?”

The Gypsy offered a crimped smile. There was no humor in it. “Food, for one thing,” he enunciated, his dark eyes flashing. “You will have need of real sustenance once the bloodlust no longer commands your appetite. A cauldron, for another thing—to brew the draught—and vessels to drink from. These implements must be new, never used, or vessels made of precious metal. We shall need rope for scaling the mountain peak; you cannot reach it by cart. Can you afford these things?”

Jon nodded.

“Good,” Milosh said. “We should have no difficulty moving among the villagers here. They all know me. That you are in my company will gain you acceptance; they will take it as a good sign, since my usual company consists of those I have beheaded brought in to be burned. I told you once that there are only two kinds of people here: vampires, and those that hunt them. They do not know that I am both. These are simple folk; they could not comprehend such a thing. Needless to say, you must not let on what you both are. This means no feeding anywhere in or near the village, though you may feed once more tonight, when we arrive at our destination. Hopefully that will be your last time. Make certain you make that plain to Cassandra.
Her feeding frenzy has been problematic since we met; it could be fatal now. We do not yet know how strong her lust for blood will be, now that you have made her stronger, and will not know until the sun sets.”

“I will keep a close watch,” Jon said.

“That is just it,” the Gypsy replied. “You may not be able to. You are going to have enough of a task keeping watch of your own lusts.”

“I will be able,” Jon assured him.

“Good! I may not always be about to see that you do—especially when the ritual begins. It isn’t only blood that you must avoid now. You will take one meal of the food we purchase before the sun sets, and then no more until after the blood moon tomorrow night. You must fast before the ritual. Afterward, you will be ravenous; at least I was, so choose your victuals carefully. You will need to keep up your strength.”

Again Jon nodded. Food was the least of his worries. The look of Cassandra worried him. She seemed changed—even in her sleep something was . . . different. Again and again, he glanced over his shoulder at her honey-colored curls, feeling their silken softness with his eyes. How very beautiful she was. But for him, she would be doing the London shops, buying frocks in Bond Street, visiting the linen drapers for muslin and laces, linen and silk. She would be having refreshing ice treats at Gunter’s to chase the heat, taking a pleasant ride through Hyde Park in the fine Hyde-White landau. Instead, because of him, she was clad in a torn and dirty frock. Because of him, it wasn’t cool, flavorful ice that quenched her thirst and refreshed her but rather thick, warm blood—
human blood.
Instead of the elegant landau kept at the town-house for pleasure jaunts among the fine ladies and gentlemen
of the upper classes, she was riding in a dilapidated, hay-strewn cart in the company of vampires and half-vampires who hunted them.

Bitter tears stung his eyes. He blinked them back. He wished he’d never received Clive Snow’s missive, wished he’d never gone to that gambling hell. Would he ever see home again? Could he ever return to Whitebriar Abbey? It wasn’t likely. The worst of it was that his friend and mentor, Vicar Snow, no doubt believed he had killed that hunter in the woad field. All of it seemed so long ago and far away, it was as if it had happened to someone else. He wasn’t even the same person anymore. Who or what he was remained to be seen; he was almost afraid to turn that page. Suppose the ritual didn’t work? The connotations of that thought were too terrible to contemplate, and when the Gypsy broke the silence between them, Jon stiffened as if he’d been struck.

“There’s something more,” Milosh said, casting him a sidelong glance. “Have you looked at the sky?”

“A beautiful sunrise. Why?”

“‘Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning,’” Milosh said. “An adage as old as the Bible, and as true as ever.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Sky that is red in the morning foretells a storm on the way,” Milosh explained. “If that storm lasts through tomorrow night, there will be no moon—cloud cover will hide it.”

Jon stared. He could have sworn his heart stopped. He shifted positions on the seat just to prove to himself that it hadn’t. Gooseflesh puckered his scalp, and his bones crackled as his spine stiffened. Such a thing had never occurred to him. Why, that would mean . . .

“We shall hope for a brief shower, no?” the Gypsy said. Jon couldn’t answer. All he could do was stare at the
spectacular sunrise, the glorious, blood-red sunrise warming the lane with its deceitful beauty.

“Yes, we shall hope,” Milosh went on. “Meanwhile, you need to prepare your lady wife for what is to come. You need to tell her all that I have just told you about—”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Cassandra from behind them, her voice as gritty as gravel. “I heard every word.”

They reached the village just before noon. Billowing stormclouds darkened the sky, but it had not yet begun to rain, though a downpour seemed imminent.
Perhaps that is a good sign
, Cassandra thought.
If it rains now, likely the storm will pass before tomorrow night.
It was something to cling to, and she found herself anxiously monitoring the clouds’ progress as they moved through the square.

It was market day, and the streets were filled with milling people. Milosh left the cart with the hostlers at the public house that served as a coaching inn. It seldom saw travelers, he pointed out; but for lost wayfarers, few ventured this deep into the Carpathians due to the grisly tales spread by the superstitious locals. Afterward he left them to visit the tinker’s wagon, where he would purchase the cauldron and cups.

Choosing foodstuffs was difficult for Cassandra. It had been so long since she’d craved food, nothing seemed palatable. The smell of the various meats, bread, strong cheese, overripe fruits and vegetables permeating the
square threatened to make her retch. The sickening-sweet fruit dominated, reminding her of the overripe blackberries she’d eaten while fleeing another village. She gagged, remembering, and covered her nose and mouth with her hand.

Jon wasn’t much help in that regard either, though together they managed to choose several loaves of bread—one barley loaf, one large flat loaf of wheat, and one made with dark rye flour and studded with whole grains. They also purchased a generous slab of cheese made from goat’s milk, some fresh and dried fruit, honey, and a small cask of rich brown ale, none of which tempted Cassandra. Milosh added some dried spiced sausage meat and several crocks of wine, then moved on to fetch rope.

Cassandra accompanied Jon as he bargained with the hostlers for two horses—a fleet-footed black gelding for himself and a sorrel mare for her—complete with saddles and tack. Leaving them to be readied for travel, they moved through the market, examining the wares of some of the other vendors before they were packed up for the day, which seemed imminent as a fugitive wind rose and suddenly brought the clouds closer.

They were just about to go back to the inn to collect the cart and horses when a table spread with women’s clothing caught Cassandra’s eye. Unthreading her arm through the crook of Jon’s elbow, she moved toward it, a close eye upon the wares. One woman had snaked a sprigged muslin frock from the pile and was holding it up against her plump body, while another woman jeered, looking on. Cassandra sucked in her breath and ventured closer still. Reaching out, she ran her fingers over a blue voile morning frock the color of robin’s eggs.