Dawn Thompson (27 page)

Head bent low, where the smoke wasn’t so thick, he ran along, picking up speed as he moved deeper. Yes, she had come this way. Was she lost? Disoriented? Why didn’t she come back out the way she’d gone in? It didn’t matter; nothing did but that he find her. The fire was all around him now. He couldn’t go back the way he’d come; it was blocked by a wall of fire that spread from behind to the ground he was covering. Again and again he howled, but there was no response.
Why doesn’t she answer?

There was so much fire, it was ludicrous to look for torches. There was no alternative but to take the only way out the situation presented. It took Jon in a north-easterly direction. Nose still to the ground, he padded swiftly through the forest, clinging to her scent. All the
while, the fire crept behind him. He felt helpless in this wolf’s body; he needed to be himself. And yet, he also needed the fleet-footed aspect of the dire wolf. Head down—he feared to raise it even for a moment—he might lose Cassandra’s precious scent—he ran on, weaving in and out among the trees, through the belching puffs of thick, black smoke. He ran on instinct alone. The uncanny phenomenon of his powers when he took the form of
canis dirus
never ceased to amaze him—like now, when his furry feet seemed to find the way through that tangled snarl of moss and vine, nettle and briar, all on their own.

The form did, however, have its drawbacks. He relaxed his guard. He became careless. So absorbed, he failed to see one of the villagers approaching, parting the bilious clouds of smoke as if they had spat him out, until the man was nearly upon him. Up until then, Jon had been careful to remain hidden. When he looked up, it was to stare down the barrel of a well-seasoned flintlock pistol in the hand of a man who, judging from his posture, knew how to use it. He had taken aim. The blood-chilling click as the man cocked his weapon blasted Jon as if the ball had already left the chamber. His heart took a tumble in his breast. He was too near; the man was at close range. Their eyes met. Jon tasted death, his hackles raised. The black, silver-tipped fur standing up along the length of his spine lifted the ruff that wreathed his thick neck, grieving the bruised skin and muscle still tender from his battle with Sebastian by the graveyard. His jaws parted, and he emitted a deep, guttural growl from deep in his throat. Facing death, his last thought was of Cassandra. But then there was another sound, the spitting, hissing, rich rasping growl of a cat—an angry cat.

Cassandra
!

Was she a figment of his imagination? Had he summoned her with his will alone?

In a blur of black fur silvered with speed, the panther slammed against the villager’s left side, spoiling his aim. The pistol discharged. Flames spurted from the barrel. Traces of white smoke mingled with black. The acrid stench of gunpowder shot up Jon’s nose. He felt himself twisting as the pistol ball whizzed past him. He crashed to earth with a thud, on his side, a searing pain ripping through the side of his neck.

Cassandra!
Sleek, beautiful, beloved Cassandra. A canine whine leaking from him, Jon shook his head, scattering blood from a graze wound on his neck. His fur was covered with it.

The smoke was so thick now it narrowed his eyes. The villager had stopped screaming, but the panther still growled. Jon was glad of the black-edged curtain that spared him the sight of the price the man was paying for that pistol shot.

He attempted to rise, failed, and tried again more successfully. Feet apart to steady himself, he shook his whole aching body as if to shed the incident altogether, and let loose a howl that rose above the roar of the holocaust closing in all around them. It brought Cassandra leaping through the smoke—black against black, her magnificent green panther eyes iridized with battle madness. At once she was by his side, swatting him with her great paw. It was a playful swat, a feminine swat, a joyful, loving, triumphant swat. It was obvious that she was as glad to see him as he was to see her. He showed his understanding with a high-pitched whine while nuzzling her shoulder, extracting a throaty purr from her as she licked the blood from the wound on his neck.

Her doctoring was, however, short-lived. The man she had taken down was not alone. Others were hidden behind the smoke blanket; Jon could sense them. He could feel the clamor of their hasty feet through the ground in his sensitive paw pads. Cassandra must have felt it, too, for she turned and bounded seamlessly northward, away from the smoke, and dove into a convenient thicket. Following close behind, Jon kept up with her pace. How he wished they could shapeshift and he could hold her in his arms. Only hours until the blood moon—
the blood moon!
Tomorrow. He had almost forgotten.

Overhead, lightning speared the sky and fat raindrops began pelting them. His heart sank. Was this a good sign, or bad? The sky needed to be clear to view the eclipse and the strange blood-colored moon it caused. It wouldn’t be visible in the rain. Another thought struck:
The fire will have burned nearly all of the herbs.
Where would they gather more here? And without Milosh, how would they know where to find them? Jon had to find the enigmatic Gypsy! And with that thought to drive him, he followed the thicket eastward, a close eye upon the sleek, black panther streaking through the underbrush ahead.

This was much better than blundering about as a helpless kitten, Cassandra thought, and this new incarnation was much more efficient than the clumsy cub of the species had been. If the situation weren’t so grave, she would actually enjoy it. Streaking through the thicket, only one thought drove her—somehow, she had to get back to the waterfall and Milosh’s cart; she couldn’t resume human form without her clothes, and there was only so much she could do as a panther.

Glancing back over her shoulder, she monitored Jon’s progress. He was right behind her. He wasn’t badly hurt, just grazed, but he must be in great pain nonetheless. Her heart was still hammering against her ribs from the horror of seeing him staring down the barrel of that villager’s pistol. She hadn’t killed the man, but he wouldn’t use the hand that aimed that gun again. He was the least of their worries. They had to avoid the others, find Milosh, collect the cart, and move on while the fire covered their escape. It had to be now, before the heavens opened up and the random raindrops that had begun to fall came pelting down in earnest.

She had no idea where she was going. Sniffing the smoky air, she tried to pick up the scent of water, but all that filled her nostrils was the stench of fire. As if Jon read her mind, he surged past her, speeding eastward. Time was slipping by. Trusting his heightened sense of smell, she followed as he led her along the fringes where the fire had not yet spread toward where the waterfall should be behind the smoke screen. Amazed at how the flames had changed the look of the land, Cassandra stayed close behind him, a close eye peeled for any stragglers fleeing the blaze.

It seemed an eternity before the waterfall came into view in brief glimpses through the billowing smoke. It could be reached by running past, then doubling back through some ground cover that had been spared by a wind Cassandra hadn’t even noticed until that moment. The rain was coming more heavily now, though it didn’t seem to be doing much to douse the fire. They had passed the waterfall by and were continuing eastward when all at once another scent threaded through her nostrils.
Blood.
Fresh blood. Jon must have smelled it, too, because
there was a hitch in his stride, and he turned south, his nose bent to the ground.

Whose could it be
? she wondered, bounding after him.

Milosh!
a voice said in her mind.

What was this? Did Jon answer her thoughts? Could they communicate without speaking?

Yes
. The answer came ghosting across her mind.
But evidently only at close range, or you would have heard me earlier when I was so desperate to find you.

And spared you your wound. Oh, Jon! Is it bad?

No, but this is
, he replied, routing a bloodied shirt out of the brush.
It is Milosh’s.

Cassandra raised her nose and sniffed the air.
Leave it
, she said.
Come
!

Aiming farther eastward, Cassandra bounded on swift legs into the brake at the foot of the mountain, with Jon following. They hadn’t gone far when she slowed her pace. Some anonymous bulk lay facedown in the grass and nettles, close by a little stream.

Jon howled into the wind.
Milosh!
he cried.
Is he . . . ?

She inspected the body.
Not yet
,
but he has lost much blood, Jon. He has been shot. And there are two wounds.

Stay with him while I fetch the cart
.

Cassandra raised her head.
No, wait!
She glanced about.
It isn’t at the waterfall. Look there!
He followed the direction of her eyes.
That mob must have found it. See? It’s there—or what is left of it is. Downstream, in the water!

Before Jon could respond, Cassandra clamped her jaws around the waistband of Milosh’s breeches and lifted him up, half carried him the way a mother cat transports its kittens. Half dragging his inert body through the under-growth to the damaged cart, she let him down on some soft grass.

A dose of his own medicine
, she thought ruefully, wondering if Jon would hear.
I have carried the Gypsy as he once carried me. A pity he isn’t conscious to appreciate it.

If a wolf could smile, she had the distinct impression that her beloved husband was doing so. He did not oppose her. They turned and surged into their human forms and each other’s arms. It was a powerful embrace, during which Cassandra satisfied herself that his neck wound wasn’t serious. Both naked and aroused, their bodies trembling with desire, they clung to each other in mindless abandon, oblivious of the rain sluicing down over them. But the respite was brief; there was no time to satisfy those urges. Snatching their clothes from underneath the tarpaulin, they tugged them on; then together they lifted Milosh into the cart, and Cassandra covered him tent fashion, while Jon assessed the damage to the wheels. Everything else on the cart seemed intact.

“Is it badly burned?” Cassandra asked. Climbing up beside Jon, she tugged the hood of her cloak close around her. The rain had become a downpour.

“The back wheels are badly charred and some of the spokes are gone,” he said.

“Will they bear our weight?”

“Not for long. But we need to address Milosh’s wounds. We cannot do that in the open in the teeming rain. We have to find shelter.”

“Back to the cave?”

Jon shook his head. “We cannot go through the fire. Even if we could, the villagers will return once the rain puts it out. There may even be some stragglers wandering about, like the one who shot me. We must away.” To Petra, snapping the reins, he commanded:
“Walk on!
” The horse bolted forward, her complaints amplified by the downpour.

“But where . . . ?” Cassandra persisted.

“There is only one safe place I know of,” Jon said. “The cottage.”

“But the vampires!”

“We have little choice. We will be fortunate to make it that far; it must be well past midnight. Yet there is another reason. Tomorrow we must gather the herbs for the ritual. They were plentiful there—you said you saw some by the stream? You know where to find them there. God alone knows where we’d find them anywhere else without Milosh to show us. We shall just have to chance it. Now, look sharp. Do not delude yourself that Sebastian lacks our whereabouts. I feel his presence in the very marrow of my bones, Cassandra. The smell of blood surrounds us—mine and Milosh’s—and that will bring him. I do not mean to frighten you, but we will not be safe until we reach that cottage and lock ourselves inside.”

Cassandra said no more as the cart lumbered forward. She did as Jon bade her, keeping watch, though her eyes strayed longingly to the blood still seeping from his neck wound. No matter how she fought the magnetism of the feeding frenzy, it remained there, lurking, potent.

How handsome Jon was, all mussed by the ordeal and the storm. He had raked his dark hair back from his brow, but a stubborn lock had fallen forward and cast his quicksilver eyes in shadow. The muscles had begun to tick along his broad jaw, and his sensuous mouth had formed a white, lipless line. He didn’t look at her, but she knew why. He was aroused, just as she was. He was clenching his teeth in an attempt to hold back the fangs. She had seen him do it many times, but it never worked; she could even now see the bulge of those fangs outlined clearly beneath his upper lip. The sight thrilled her, for her own had begun to descend.

Cassandra took a ragged breath. A crawling chill riddled her body with gooseflesh, one that had nothing to do with being soaked through. Jon was wrong. They wouldn’t be safe once they’d locked themselves inside the cottage—then, least of all.

It was well into the wee hours when they reached the cottage. Jon burst through the door, carried Milosh inside, and laid him on the pallet. The door hadn’t been locked; it wasn’t even closed. Open a crack, it gave as he hefted his weight against it and almost undermined his balance.

Cassandra went at once and filled Milosh’s cauldron with water from the stream, then carried it back to the cottage. She lit the cart lantern, sparking a flame with flint and the dry, combustible bits in the Gypsy’s tinderbox. Meanwhile, Jon unhitched Petra for the night, and rummaged through Milosh’s tools for some suitable knife to remove the pistol balls from the Gypsy’s back and shoulder. There were a number of suitable blades to choose from, and he carried the lot inside, bolted the door, and lit a fire in the hearth.

“It’s hardly cold enough for a fire,” Cassandra said, looking on as he fanned the flames with a nearby bellows.
“You will likely burn the cottage down. From the look of it, that hearth hasn’t been lit in ages.”

“We need it nonetheless,” Jon said, tossing in more wood from a pile in the corner. The logs were moldy, and he grimaced and coughed as green spores drifted up his nose. He thrust a rusty poker in between the logs to heat it, then hung the cauldron on a hook suspended above the flames. “Milosh’s wounds must be cauterized once I remove the pistol balls,” he said, adding a blessing over the water. “It will soon be light, and we also will need holy water for steeping the herbs we collect. Readying hot water now will serve two purposes: I will use some to cleanse the knives I must use on Milosh”—he gestured toward a bucket in the corner—“and the rest will be ready to receive the herbs for the draught.”