Embrace the Night (7 page)

Sister Mary Josepha nodded. "Poor child," she murmured. And bowing her head,
she began to pray.

Gabriel walked down the narrow hallway, his nostrils filling with the odor of alcohol and antiseptic, of strong carbolic and ether. Of blood. So much blood.

The hunger rose within him, stabbing at him, wrapping around him. Blood. Warm and sweet.

He turned down another hallway, and the lust for blood was overshadowed by pain. Sara's pain. She was unconscious, but her silent screams of agony reached out to him, tearing at his heart, his soul.

On silent feet, he approached the doorway. She was lying on a narrow bed, covered by a thin white sheet. An elderly nun sat in a straight-backed wooden chair beside the bed, a well-worn rosary clutched in her gnarled hands.

The nun glanced up as he stepped into the room, her rheumy blue eyes widening in horror. "What are you doing here?"

Gabriel said nothing, his guilt over what he was rising up to choke him in the face of the old nun's purity of heart and soul.

"Spawn of the devil," she whispered, "why are you here?"

Her words cut him to the quick. "I mean her no harm, Sister, I assure you."

Sister Mary Josepha clutched her rosary to her breast, her thumb caressing the ivory crucifix. "Be gone!"

Gabriel shook his head. "I must see her, if only for a moment."

Though she was aged and small of stature, the nun bravely put herself between Gabriel and Sara.

"You will not have her." Sister Mary Josepha lifted the crucifix, thrusting it toward him. "Be gone, I say!"

Gabriel took a step backward and then, drawing on his revenant power, he gazed deep into the nun's eyes, delving into her mind.

"Sit down, Sister," he said quietly.

Slowly, her movements stiff and unnatural, the nun moved to the chair and sat down.

Gabriel passed his hand in front of her face. "Sleep now," he said, his voice quiet, soothing.

He felt a moment of resistance, but the old nun was powerless against the dark power of three hundred and fifty years. Her eyelids closed, her head lolled forward, and she was asleep.

On silent feet, Gabriel moved to the bed and gazed down at Sara. Revulsion and a wave of pity rose within him as he stared at her, at the blistered skin on her arms, her hands. He drew back the sheet, tears welling in his eyes as he saw the ugly burns on her chest, her legs. Miraculously, her face had been spared.

She moaned then, a soft cry of agony that tore at the very edges of his soul. He placed his fingertip against the pulse in her throat. Her heartbeat was slow, her life force weak. She was dying.

"No!" The word was ripped from his throat.

And then he was lifting her in his arms, carrying her swiftly from the room, from the hospital, the power of his mind blinding those he passed to their presence.

With preternatural speed, he raced toward the abbey. Sara lay limp in his arms, hardly breathing. She seemed to weigh nothing at all and he carried her effortlessly.

"Please don't let her die. Please don't let her die."

The words were a prayer in his heart, even though he didn't believe that God would hear him.

When he reached the abbey, he carried her into his room and laid her on the floor. A blink of his eye started a fire in the hearth. Removing his cloak, he spread it before the fireplace, then placed her on it, his heart pounding with fear. She looked so still; her skin, what little hadn't been burned, was as pale as death.

With a sob, he slit the vein in his wrist, parted her lips, and let his blood drip into her mouth. One drop, two. A dozen. How much would it take?

When he judged she'd had enough, he drew the fur-lined cloak around her, then gathered her into his arms. Rising, he sat down in his chair and gazed into the flames.

He held her throughout the night, wondering how the fire had started, listening to her soft moans of pain, her erratic breathing. She sobbed for her mother, her father. Once, she cried his name, begging him to come to her, to help her.

"I'm trying,
cara
," he murmured. "I'm trying."

He felt dawn approaching and knew the time had come to leave her. He held her as long as he could, held her until his body felt drugged, heavy. Reluctantly, he laid her on the floor in front of the hearth, wishing he had a bed for her, blankets. Clothes. And hard on the heels of that thought came the hope that she would have need of those things, that he had given her his accursed blood in time. That he had given her enough. He had no food to give her, only a bottle of aged red wine. He left it on the hearth where she would be sure to see it if she woke, and then, having done all he could, he left her.

On feet that felt as heavy as lead, he made his way down to the catacombs and secured the door. With Sara in the house, he would have to take his sleep with the rest of the dead.

He rose as the sun was going down, the smell of rain heavy in the air. He took the stairs two at a time, ran down the narrow hallway to his room.

Sara lay as he had left her, her blond hair spread like a golden halo around her head.

Murmuring her name, he knelt beside her. Drawing back his cloak, his gaze swept over her from head to foot, and then he let out a long sigh of relief. She was healing. Not as swiftly as he would have, but she was healing. Her skin still looked raw in places, but the blisters were shrinking, drying.

Gently, he covered her once more, and then he closed his eyes as relief washed through him. She would be all right.

"Gabriel?"

He opened his eyes to find her staring up at him, her brow furrowed in bewilderment.

"How do you feel?" he asked.

"Terrible. What happened?"

"There was a fire at the orphanage."

"A fire! How did it start?"

"I don't know."

"Do you know if Sister Mary Josepha and the other nuns survived the fire? And the children… ?" She blinked back a tear as she thought of all the sweet dear children she had grown to care for. Had they been burned, as well?

"I don't know, Sara, but I'll find out."

"Thank you."

She glanced over his shoulder. "Where are we?"

"This is where I… live."

"Here?" She stared at the room, empty save for a large, thronelike chair. There was a faded space on one wall where a large crucifix had once been. She thought it odd that the room's only window was covered by a thick black cloth. "What is this place?"

"It used to be a monastery."

"And you live here?" She frowned as vague memories of the night of the fire began to surface. "I seem to remember being taken to the hospital. How did I get here?" She stared at him, waiting for an explanation.

"Are you hungry?" he asked, abruptly changing the subject.

"No. I want to know why I'm here."

"Thirsty?"

It was obvious he wasn't going to answer her, and she was too muddled by all that had happened to pursue the matter.

"I am thirsty," she said, her throat feeling suddenly dry.

With a nod, Gabriel poured her a glass of wine, and she reached for it, her hand halting halfway to the glass.

He saw the horror in her eyes as she gazed at her hand, at the reddened skin, the ugly yellow scabs left by the blisters.

"Sara…"

"My hand. What happened to my hand? My arm?" She threw the cloak aside, the fact that she was naked not registering as she looked at the raw red patches that covered her arms and legs and chest.

He saw the scream rising in her throat, the panic in her eyes, and cursed himself for not thinking to prepare her.

"Sara, listen to me, you're all right."

"All right? How can I be all right?" She stared at him, then slowly shook her head. "I don't understand. Why doesn't it hurt?"

"I…" He took a deep breath. "I gave you something to aid in the healing."

"Something?"

"A new medicine. Sometimes it works miracles." He drew the cloak around her. "Rest now,
cara
. Sleep is the best healer of all." He stroked her hair. "Don't be alarmed if I'm not here in the morning," he said. "I may have to go out, but I'll be back by nightfall."

She nodded, and then she closed her eyes and curled into his arms, as trusting as a babe.

He held her until he was certain she was asleep, and then he went out. She would need something to wear when she woke. Clothes. Shoes. Undergarments. A comb and brush and pins for her hair. A bed to sleep in.

Unmindful of the rain, he went into the city. The shopkeepers all knew him. His material wants were few, but he always bought the best, the most expensive, and the tradespeople were eager to serve him. The shops that had closed for the night eagerly opened their doors, anxious to do his bidding.

He bought bread and cheese, a variety of fruits and vegetables, a bottle of vintage wine. He bought a small curved settee covered in blue and green striped damask, a matching footstool, a small table inlaid with ivory, a box of scented candles, a Persian rug, a narrow bed with an elaborately carved headboard, sheets and linens, a pillow stuffed with feathers.

Entering one of the ladies' shops, he picked out several colorful frocks, undergarments, silk stockings, a pair of shoes with silver buckles. Ribbons in rainbow colors for her hair. A bonnet trimmed with feathers and lace. Perfumed soap for her bath. A dark blue cloak trimmed in ermine to keep her warm. A sleeping gown. A dressing gown of rose-colored velvet. He bought her a box of chocolates, a feather fan, a pair of gloves, another book of poetry, a bouquet of spring flowers, an elegant crystal vase to put them in.

He was on his way home when he passed a toy shop. The doll in the window immediately caught his eye, and he bought that, too.

Loading all his goods into a rented wagon, he drove back to the abbey.

Sara was still asleep in front of the fire. Moving quietly, he carried the furniture into the room, placing the bed against the wall where the crucifix had hung. He made the bed as best he could, smoothing the linens over the plump mattress.

Sara stirred but didn't wake up when he carried her to the bed. Removing his cloak, he drew the sleeping gown over her head, trying not to stare at her softly rounded curves. He tucked her in, pressed a kiss to her cheek, and then carried in the rest of the furniture. He spread the rug on the floor, placed the settee and the footstool in front of the hearth.

He put the table by the bed, then placed the chocolates and the book of poetry on top, within easy reach, along with a glass of water. The flowers added a touch of color to the drab room.

He filled a small basket with bread and cheese and fruit, covered it with a napkin, and placed it upon the table, as well.

He left the clothing in the boxes, anticipating her excitement when she saw her new finery. He put the doll within reach of her hand where she would be sure to see it upon waking.

For a moment, he stood in the center of the room, pleased with the changes he'd wrought. Amazing, what a rug and a few pieces of furniture could do, he mused. But it was the woman who gave the room life, the woman who drew him, her life force beckoning the revenant within him while her goodness, her innocence, enticed what little was left of the man he had once been.

Helpless to resist her, he knelt beside the bed and took her hand in his, wanting to be near her for as long as he could.

The fire burned brightly, but it was Sara's presence in the room that warmed him.

She woke slowly, still caught in the web of her nightmare, and then, as if someone had doused her with cold water, she remembered that it hadn't been a nightmare at all. There had been a fire at the orphanage.

All too vividly, she remembered waking up, her throat burning, her eyes stinging, as tongues of fire licked the edge of her bed. Unable to escape the flames, she had screamed until she was hoarse, sobbing for Gabriel, her angel, to come and save her. She remembered the awful horror that had coiled within her, the terrible certainty that she was going to die. And then the flames had touched her, licking at her skin…

She held up her arm and stared, disbelieving what she saw. The skin, which last night had been raw and red, was almost healed.

Throwing back the covers, she examined her chest, her legs, but saw only the glow of pink healthy skin.

It was impossible. A miracle. She lifted her hand, turning it this way and that, unable to believe the proof of her own eyes.

She frowned a moment, bemused to find herself clad in a modest white sleeping gown. A faint blush heated her cheeks as she realized that Gabriel had dressed her for bed, that he had seen her unclothed while she slept.

And then she saw the doll and she forgot everything else.

The ballerina was made of fine china, her face beautifully painted. Her eyes were big and blue, her lips a delicate rose. She wore a tutu of pale pink tulle; dainty pink ballet slippers covered her feet.

"Oh…" Reverently, Sara reached for the doll. It was the loveliest thing she had ever seen. "Carlotta," she whispered. "I shall name you Carlotta."

Sara glanced around the room, hoping to see Gabriel. It was then she noticed the pretty little table beside the bed. Wide-eyed, she stared at the flowers, the book, the heart-shaped box of chocolates, the wicker basket covered with a linen cloth.

Pulling herself into a sitting position, she reached for the book, carefully turning the pages, and then she reached for the chocolates, her mouth watering.

Candy of any kind had been a rare treat in the orphanage. She quickly gobbled down two pieces, and then laughed. The whole box was for her, to eat at her leisure. She touched the flowers, her fingertips caressing the velvety petals. Flowers. No one had ever given her flowers before.

Feeling like a queen, she nibbled a third chocolate, then took a drink of water, wondering all the while where Gabriel was.

After a time, she drew the basket onto her lap and peeked inside to find a small loaf of honey bread, a wedge of cheese, grapes and apples.

Such luxury, she thought, to sit in bed and indulge. She spent the rest of the morning reading. When noontime came, she finished the food in the basket, then took a nap.