Night of the Vampires (11 page)

The table went silent at the child's grave wisdom.

“Well, then, Master Artie, some time you must bring your mother and your sister and come out and visit us in Victory,” Cole said.

“Yes, that would be most pleasant!” Brendan Vincent said energetically.

Megan lowered her head, hiding a smile. She hadn't realized the older Brendan was quite smitten by their hostess.

Supper was cleared away and when it was done, nobody made the usual suggestion that the gentlemen retire to one room for brandy and cigars, the ladies to another for a sip of sherry. They had all grown quiet while clearing after the meal, and Megan excused herself to go to bed.

She was exhausted, and worried. She wasn't at all sure that she wanted to leave Washington—not since she had seen the shadow again. Something about it made her think it might have something to do with her father. Maybe she was just being the hopeful daughter…but she longed to meet him.

And she was afraid for him.

She tossed and turned, but exhaustion overwhelmed her.

She slept, and she woke, and slept again. Visions tormented, and she wasn't sure if they were patches of nightmares or thoughts that came unbidden to her mind.

Alex had dreams that sometimes foretold the future.

The President of the Union, Abraham Lincoln, had dreams—visions—of what might come to pass.

She saw something in her own mind's eye, so vivid it was that she didn't know if she was awake or asleep. She saw Cole, and he was lying on a poor cot, someone moving toward him. Megan tried to see who it was, but all she saw was a shadow.

She needed to warn him, but she was afraid that he was expecting the visitor.

The visitor was a woman.

Embarrassed, flushed, Megan wanted to move away. But something held her in place.

It was dark. It was night. The woman had come for a clandestine appointment. And still Megan couldn't move. She watched, and a sliver of moonlight cast a soft glow over the scene.

It was in that glow of moonlight that she saw…

Something shining, something glittering.

It was saliva, dripping off fangs….

Megan jerked upright. She was trembling.

She groaned softly. The vision had been terrifyingly real. It was a dream.

But, still…if the man was idiot enough to fall for a rabid fanatic like Lisette Annalise, that was
his
mistake.

Lisette Annalise was not a vampire. She was an actress turned Pinkerton agent.

And still…

Megan realized that she was never going to go to sleep unless she checked on Cole. She silently crawled out of
bed and to her door. She listened for a moment, then opened it and went out into the hallway.

She tiptoed down to the door to Cole's room.

She listened again.

Nothing.

And then…

H
E WASN'T DREAMING
—it was real, right?

He had just lain down. Therefore, he wasn't dreaming.

Some hint of sound at his window had disturbed him earlier, and he had found himself up again, securing the house, looking out to be certain that the carriage house sat in peace in the night darkness.

But his vision came to him that night.

Then again, it wasn't
precisely
his dream.

She wasn't naked.

Cole saw his door open and, in the dim sliver of light afforded by the one gaslight they kept burning in the hallway through the night, he saw her.

The pale light filtered through the light cotton of the nightdress she was wearing, making a perfect silhouette of her figure. She might not have appeared half so tempting if she had just slipped it off altogether.

Actually, maybe naked would have been just as arousing.

And she stood there, staring at him from the doorway. He didn't move. He watched her.

Had he been right to mistrust her all this time? Was she standing there, assuring herself that he was asleep, so that she could easily, silently, slip in and sever his jugular?

He waited, hoping that the darkness was deep enough that she wouldn't realize he was watching her as he lay there. She wouldn't. His eyes were barely open.

She tiptoed in.

And stood over him.

She had said that he smelled good once.
Good enough to eat.

He could have returned the—compliment? He breathed in her scent, and it was lavender soap, clean sweet flesh and that hint of an individual that made them different, that called to him on every basic level. With his eyelids low and his vision down to tiny slits, he still saw her face and her eyes, and to his amazement, he saw something tormented within them.

She just stood there.

Was she debating a meal?

He knew he couldn't maintain his dead-still secret vigil forever. And he didn't intend to give her the first chance to move—that might be dangerous.

His eyes flew open and his arms stretched out in the blink of an eye. He bore her down beside him, leaning over to pin her on the mattress.

She didn't scream; a gasp of surprise and dismay escaped her, but nothing more.

She didn't fight him; she just stared up at him.

If she had fought, could he have won? Yes.

Or at least, he wanted to think so!

If she had screamed…

He could just see the explanation.

Yes, your newly discovered sister is in my bed, yes, beneath me—but honestly, it was all her fault.

“What in God's name are you doing? Or, should
God's
name be invoked?” he asked her, his whisper tense as he leaned over her.

She stared back at him with no alarm, and almost as if she didn't comprehend his words.

“I was afraid for you,” she told him quietly.

“You were afraid for
me?
” he repeated her words as a doubtful question.

She nodded gravely at him.

“I—I had a dream that you were under attack.”

Her eyes fascinated him. He wanted to forget that he had anything to say to her. He couldn't begin to understand what in life and death, and all the miracles in between, managed to make her half human and half vampire. He knew that she was flesh and blood and bone beneath him, and that all of it was put together in a package as feminine and enticing as the libido could bear, and that she looked at him with eyes of gold in a beautifully formed face that was angelic and yet seemed to promise every wicked pleasure to be had by man.

Looking at her, he forgot his questions.

Forgot mistrust…

All he wanted to do was cradle her cheek, stare into those eyes…

And touch her.

He forced himself to think. “I was under attack—it wasn't by
you
by any chance, was it?”

She shook her head. He frowned, torn between the tension in his torso and limbs that informed him that he was an able-bodied, hungry male next to the vital heat and pulse of an able-perfect-bodied female—torn between that and the words that were coming out of his mouth. Lie, or truth? Those eyes…

“I saw you…and I saw…a creature. And you weren't
aware. You were vulnerable,” she told him. Her words remained quiet. Softly spoken, for they were in the shadows and the stillness of the night.

He did touch her face. His hand brushed past her breast, and the simple touch seemed to radiate streaks of fire and heat throughout him. Her cheek was soft beneath the exquisitely designed bone structure of her face.

“Sure it wasn't you?” he queried.

“Am I hurting you?” she replied.

Was she hurting him? God, yes, he ached in every fiber of his being—thin cotton and long johns separated them—and he was very afraid that it wasn't much of a separation, and she would notice very shortly.

Define that word!
he longed to cry.

He forced a certain harshness into his voice. “I was awake. You weren't expecting that.”

“I heard—noise. Noise, from this room.”

That was true; he had just looked out the window, closed and bolted it, and come to bed.

“I don't know what to do to convince you that I'm—
good!
” she said.

He knew exactly what she could do that might convince him she was very, very good, at least in one aspect….

He stood quickly, drawing the covers with him to wrap around his lower body. He was in a boardinghouse and this young woman, mystery though she still might be, was his best friend's half sister; the same best friend who was right down the hallway.

“I'm going to suggest that you refrain from sneaking up on a man when he's gone to bed for the night,” he said. “Go. I'm fine. Please, get out of here.”

She was up like a flash of lightning, speeding across the room and to the door.

“And don't come back unless you mean it!” he muttered sharply beneath his breath.

He had forgotten just how acute her hearing was. She stopped, frowning, looking back at him.

“What? I'm sorry, what does that mean?” she asked. But then, looking at him, somehow, she figured it out. “Oh…oh!” Her cheeks flamed a glorious shade of pink. Then she was gone, with the door falling slowly closed behind her.

To his astonishment, she was back, pushing it open but not coming in.

“I will remember that,” she said softly.

Then, she was really gone, with the door clicking behind her as she closed it securely.

He stared after her, wondering then what
she
had meant by the last.

And thinking that he'd never sleep—her visit had assured him a long time awake and in torment before he could get any rest from the trying day that had passed, and the longer days that lay ahead.

 

M
ORNING CAME
, a beautiful morning. Yesterday's rain had caused a dampness and chill, but the sun had risen and dispersed the dampness. The air was fresh, the breeze light and it was difficult to imagine that it was a day when men would fight and die somewhere in all the glory of spring.

Megan found everyone downstairs at the kitchen table. Apparently, Martha had already come and gone, the perfect hostess for a boardinghouse: preparing a feast for
her guests with apparent effortlessness and then moving on to other tasks.

She was surprised when Cole was the first to notice her, and when he rose to pull back a chair for her. Brendan and Cody had risen, as well. No matter what the situation, the men were unfailingly polite.

She murmured, “Good morning,” and took her seat.

A chorus of “good morning” came to her in reply as the three men took their seats again.

“Bacon?” Alex offered, passing her the serving dish.

“Thank you,” she said, helping herself.

“Blood?” Cole offered her, passing her a pitcher that had been set in front of Cody. She hesitated, irritated by his bluntness.

But then she smiled with feigned courtesy, accepting the pitcher and pouring some of the contents into the stoneware mug in front of her. “Thank you so much.”

Cody cleared his throat. He was staring at her, Megan realized.

“There's a carriage coming soon,” he said.

“Oh?”

“About thirty minutes from now. The president has asked to meet you,” Alex said.

She could have fallen off her chair.

“President—the
United States
president?” she asked.

Alex nodded. “I received a note early this morning. I'm to accompany you. The carriage will be here in a few minutes.”

Megan frowned, tempted to grab her mug and down the contents in one swallow. She felt a strange unease. An uncertainty about her new comrades all of a sudden.

She folded her hands in her lap. “Does he— I don't understand. Does he know—what Cody and I
are?
”

“He knows that the world isn't always what it seems,” Alex explained. “I told you—he has dreams.”

“Does he want to see me as if I were some kind of…exotic beast?”

“Oh, no, dear child!” Brendan Vincent protested, which was a surprise. She had been certain that he hadn't trusted her much, either. Not because of
what
she was, but because of
who
she was. A child not of a vampire, but of Virginia. “You don't understand the man at all. He has a heart filled with goodness. He would never treat you like some curiosity!”

She smiled, not sure whether to thank him or not. She was still confused.

“Did something more happen last night?” she asked.

“No,” Cole said quickly, looking around at everyone smoothly and then back to Megan. “All was quiet. But while we were considering our next move, the message came. While you and Alex are out, we'll do some planning.”

She looked around at them. Well, it was obvious that her opinion wasn't important in the planning.

But she
was
going to meet Abraham Lincoln.

“Well, then, I guess all is decided. Sir,” she said to Brendan, “would you be so kind as to pass the eggs and biscuits, as well?”

Breakfast was relatively silent, the carriage arriving at the front before she had finished. She was too unnerved to really eat much, anyway. She did pick up her mug, though, and down the contents. She didn't want to meet
a man like Abraham Lincoln and be distracted by a pulse against a vein in his throat.

The men escorted them out to the carriage that awaited them. After Cody got Alex situated, he helped Megan up the step to the coach seating and whispered softly, “Behave now.”

She stared at him, but he was grinning. She found that she had to smile in return.

Megan had assumed that it might take them to a secret place where they'd meet the President in a dark basement somewhere, or in some clandestine spot.

But she was stunned to hear a deep, slow, throaty voice welcome her even as she was seated. “So, good day, Miss Fox. A pleasure to meet you. Though I thoroughly comprehend that your loyalties might lie elsewhere, I'm grateful for all that you're doing for the sake of humanity—all humanity.”

Even seated, the man appeared tall. He was gaunt, with huge sad eyes clinging to a face that was tired, lined and long. She had never seen a man who appeared to be so stoic, weary, resolved…and kind.

In the lull that should have been filled with Megan's own greeting, Alex leaned forward and said, “Megan Fox, please let me introduce you to President Lincoln,” in her most genteel manner.

Megan stared at him in surprise for a moment longer, and then faltered nervously. “How do you do…sir! It's a pleasure to meet you. Seriously. Yes, I'm a Virginian. But it's a pleasure. Well, certainly, some in the South think you're a monster, but the fighting men, especially the generals and higher officers, all know that you're a man with what you truly consider to be a mission of
righteousness.” She winced.
He
didn't think of
her
as any kind of a beast, but she had just called him a monster.

“I'm sorry, I didn't—”

“Miss Fox, please, I'm well aware of how I'm viewed in many a place by many a person. But that is neither here nor there compared with the great assault we have faced as the tragedy of this strange
blood
disease seeks to hunt down and kill all mankind.”

He tapped at the roof of the carriage and spoke to his driver. “A loop at the Mall, my good sir, if you will be so kind,” he said.

Again, Megan's jaw nearly fell. Alex was seated next to her, and she had to prevent herself from clutching her sister-in-law's hand. She was aware that the White House tended to be an open area. Lincoln had never been a stupid man, and he was surely aware of the inherent dangers in being the President of the United States amid such national strife. And she had always heard that he considered himself a man of the people, and that, as such, he should be available—
to the people.

Still, she had never imagined a carriage ride around the Mall with Abraham Lincoln.

It hadn't been that long ago that she had been hunting monsters in a D.C. prison.

He eased more comfortably back into his seat and stared at her.

“Are you a Rebel spy, Miss Fox?”

Her mouth seemed dry, filled with cotton. She shook her head. She didn't want to sit there stupidly staring at the man. “I have tried to be truthful since I met up with Cody, Alex—and their group. I was tending to the wounded on the battlefields, and, sir, I am gratified to say that I have not personally seen a doctor, nurse or medic
in any form intentionally inflict more pain or suffering on a soldier on either side of this war. I have, yes, upon occasion, carried documents from one camp to another…. But did I come to Washington, D.C., to spy on anyone or to bring information of any kind to the South that would harm any man or cause of the North—is that what you're asking?”