Night of the Vampires (21 page)

And then…

She wanted more. There was wonderful energy running through him. There were things happening with his size and shape, the tension in his muscles, and the feel of his sex tight against her, constrained within the long johns and yet so…insinuative.

His hand ran down the length of her back, and they were closer still. And then his lips parted from hers once again and he was looking at her, and husky, whispered words escaped him. “You're my best friend's sister,” he said, with a hint of anger in his voice. But the anger was for himself, not for her.

She found her voice at last: she knew that she had to do so.

“Life is fleeting and short, and even bitter, and
I
chose this. We don't need his permission for anything. I adore my brother, but he's a man who didn't know he even had a sister until recently. I can tell about him—if he knew that we were here, together, if I've come to know him at all, he'd be glad that we were together. He'd never deny you or me something that felt so right.”

She had managed, somehow, in her confusion and longing, to say the right thing. Because she knew, as his eyes still touched hers, that he wasn't leaving.

His mouth found hers again, and his kiss was deliciously fevered and wet—searing hot—and it awoke every sense in her body as if she had never felt awakened before. His lips ran down the side of her throat, pressing against the pulse there, and down to her shoulder, and he slipped his fingers beneath the shoulders of the gown, and it slipped down her body, baring her breasts in the moonlight. His hands were callused, the hands of a man who handled guns, bows and arrows, saddles and reins, but the light and caressing way they circled and cradled her breasts made the touch more than she thought she could bear. She trembled beneath his touch, returning the sensation, feathering her fingertips over his shoulders and down the length of his back. He cradled her closer but she drew away from him, stepping from the gown,
and she didn't feel in the least ashamed that she should be with him so. She just wanted more.

She caught his hand and drew him toward the bed. He ripped the covers from it to bring her down upon the clean, fresh sheets, his mouth finding hers again. And then he rose over her, catching her eyes again, and he didn't smile. He seemed to be almost bleak for a moment, but then he closed his eyes and opened them, and said softly, “I don't know how I stayed away from you so long.”

She smiled and reached out to touch his hair, thick and rich and so dark. His head bent, and she threaded her fingers through the richness of it as his kiss found her throat again, the pulse there, and then lowered to encompass her breasts, tender and light and passionate, then her midsection. His tongue teased and laved her navel and traveled below, and she stopped breathing, just feeling and marveling, ever so slightly in shock, at the things the intimate touch of his tongue seemed to do to her, inside and out. She began to feel a rising of something almost like insanity, a need for more of his touch that was more desperate than any hunger she had ever known. It rose within like a spiraling fire. She'd heard whispers about this kind of desire, this kind of magnificence, but she'd never imagined that anything so spectacular and physical could really be… A magic that she had never thought that she might attain…

She arched against him, writhed with an ache that kept rising explosively, and then felt as if the world itself did ignite. A burst of a thousand stars…it was a feeling almost like ebony silk, shattered with a million crystals of light. It was like basking on clouds. And she felt the thunder of her heart and realized that the gasping she
heard was her own breath, and then his, for he moved over her, scrambling with one hand to rid himself of the ridiculously intrusive long johns, and then it started all over again, only more magical, for he was within her, their bodies were like one, moving, slowly…faster…

She clung to him. She was sure she whispered incoherent words.

She didn't care.

She knew that she was mindless, soaked with perspiration, striving again, hungry, wanting and yet aware now that a peak could be reached, more magnificent than any mountain crest, sweeter than any bubbling stream or flower-strewn lea. She was achingly aware of his every twitch of muscle, his pure physical being, and yet…

The world exploded again. Stars. Everywhere. Something so good and sweet it was almost agony. Incredible. Miraculous. A feeling of intimacy and fantasy that was so elusive…and yet, even as she drifted and eased to a sensible platform of knowledge and being, he was there with her, holding her at his side, and his breathing was erratic and his heartbeat was still thunder, and to know that it had been shared made it all the more wondrous. His hand, long fingered and strong, pulled her close to him. She felt the whisper of his breath against her neck, and the chill as their body heat cooled and the touch of the night air swirled around them.

Of course, a certain sense of logic returned to her then. Cole was a man who had known what he was doing.

It might not have been the magic of discovery for him.

He'd known other lovers….

She closed her eyes, and she lay against him, her heart pounding as she charged herself not to ruin the beauty
with flippancy and insecurity. And when he drew a finger down her back, she knew that she would not, for he whispered, “You're more beautiful than even I might have imagined.”

She turned into his arms. She looked searchingly into his eyes. “You were never afraid,” she said softly.

He gave her a curious smile, frowning slightly. “Afraid?”

“That I might have gone mad, taken a chunk out of your jugular?”

His smiled deepened. “It would have been worth it.”

She started to turn away, perplexed, disturbed.

He wouldn't allow it. He pulled her back to him, rising above her on an elbow. “I was never afraid,” he said softly. “I trust you completely.”

Tears threatened to sting her eyes. She couldn't allow such a show of emotion.

“Thank you,” she said, and her voice sounded ridiculously prim.

He looked at her searchingly. “Is that why…you never took a lover before?”

She laughed softly, the sound hollow. “Ah, well, not that I was much of a believer in the behavior of a woman in fine society…” she began. But she wanted to cry inside, for he'd discovered the truth.

She thought that now he might draw back.

But he didn't.

He kissed her tenderly on the lips, and then kissed her forehead.

“My poor, dear girl,” he said softly. “My poor, dear Megan.”

“Not poor at all,” she said. “Just a choice I made.”

He eased back down beside her, pulling her close
again. “I will always trust you,” he said, “and admire you and care for you, for all that you are.”

They were beautiful words, of course. She found herself imagining that he had said,
I will always love you.

But, of course, he had not. Trust was earned. Love…

How did love come to one? Was it something like this feeling of wanting to be with someone, and then knowing that you wanted to be with them always…?

Wake with them in the morning? Every morning?

She swallowed, knowing it would be far too easy to feel that way about Cole. And she wasn't stupid or naive. Wanting someone sexually did not mean that you wanted to wake up with them every morning.

And still…

She had spoken the truth. They had both seen just how bitterly short and brutal life could be. She was happy beside him, glad to be where she was, and she would cherish the moment.

Moments…

His fingers were running down her spine to the small of her back.

And it was amazing that the sweet and agonizing feeling could begin to sweep through her again so easily….

She turned into his arms. She didn't want to question or wonder.

She just wanted to cherish the night.

“M
ARYLAND
H
EIGHTS, ACROSS
the Potomac River, Loudoun Heights, across the Shenandoah,” General Bickford pointed out on the map he now had spread out across the dining room table.

It was bright and early in the morning, but they'd been summoned bright and early because the general hadn't had much sleep that night, so he had explained. Besides, he was a man with a great deal of energy.

The general had just informed them that the area was only temporarily under his command; he'd been brought in not long ago himself, being a Marylander who knew the area well and might have an understanding on how the strange attacks were happening, or just what kind of beast might be ripping men to shreds. When the situation was under control, he'd be back in the main action with Grant, a commander who knew how to hold his guns and move forward, without becoming cautious and failing to pursue the enemy after a victory, as so many of the other Union commanders had done.

Bickford himself was a man who intended to make things happen. He would get to the heart and truth of a situation.

They had been summoned to a “strategic meeting,” but it included breakfast—and the women. Lisette Annalise had made it clear that she'd come as an agent of
the Pinkertons, and that her office was under direct command of the president. She
would
be there. If she was there, Trudy was there. And Megan Fox had been sent specifically with Cole; he knew there was no way she was going to be absent from this meeting.

And so, with their meal cleared away, maps were strewn out on the dining-room table.

“Here we sit in Harpers Ferry, on this little triangular spit of peninsula. You might say at the confluence of the two rivers. Here's the armory—what's left of it. The railroad. Back over here, one of tunnels through the mountains, and here, the bridge—destroyed to smithereens after the siege, put back up by the corps of engineers. And right here, the engine house. Heading up the hill you've got Washington Street. You keep going and you're on some of the old battlefields, and then on out of the town. John Brown came in from the Kennedy Farm over here, in Maryland, and took the railroad bridge on over, utilizing a lot of the track you were on yesterday.

“Stonewall Jackson had a major victory here after the 1862 siege—but he and his troops came in from the west and from Maryland, creating a circle in that battle arena and putting a choke hold on the place. Then he moved on with the campaign and joined up with Lee at Antietam. The destruction you see now mostly comes from that siege—like I said, the bridge was blown to bits—and it's a miracle so many of the houses still stood at the end of it. Thing is, holding the place is a nightmare. The manpower needed is horrendous—probably one of the reasons President Lincoln, with all he has to deal with, took note when I said men were disappearing.

“We've held it now for nearly a year, but the place has changed hands six times, I think. Not as bad as
Winchester, though. I saw action there, and it changed hands a few times in one day. But, that, my friends, was a situation we could contend with. Here, we thought at first that we'd awakened some beast, like an unknown, particularly cunning bear or a wolf pack, when the men started dying, when scouting missions failed to return. And that's what it was at first—men just disappearing. Then, we had the situation where they were being ripped up practically before our noses, with the worst being the night before you arrived—seven men dead. And now, last night, a quiet night, a peaceful night.”

Cole looked at the maps with a sinking feeling. The Union had repaired so much of the damage that the little spit of land that wound down to river was easy to approach from just about every direction. Throw in things that can move with the wind, and it was especially vulnerable.

Still, it seemed that the attacks had been started with a
strategy
requiring but a few “troops” to create pure havoc. Chew up—infect—a few men, and they'd arise to do the next round of death and terror, and then it would all spread like wildfire. But before the deaths two nights ago, according to Bickford, the attacks had been confined to the small scouting groups out looking for guerilla bands and supplies.

Bickford was staring at Cole. “I'm not a man to sit around and wait for this kind of an attack, sir. I'm suggesting that you take the battle out there, to whatever it is that comes in here and tears into all these good people without mercy.”

Cole studied the map again. He'd spent his time in the East, and he'd spent his time at the finest military school in the country. He knew something about the terrain, but
not extensively. He thought about the ragtag troop he had with him; the sergeant who limped, the nearly deaf private, another minus a trigger finger, another weakened by malaria.

He looked up; he could feel Megan watching him. Her eyes met his, and he could see that she thought the general was right. As it was, they were all just sitting and waiting to be attacked. And, by doing so, they might just create the perfect environment for a different kind of siege.

Cole had to force himself to draw his eyes from Megan, to remember that they were fighting an extremely fierce battle here, possibly with the fate of the country more in their hands than either side in the official war.

He'd always known that she was beautiful and filled with fire, but he hadn't known just what kind of a heart might beat within the perfect body of such a creature, or what depths could exist within her soul. Or, for that matter, and in all honesty, what sensuality could come alive within her, and how she could steal his senses and his mind and make him long for the world to go away, just so that they could be alone together.

The world wasn't going to go away. Every moment of every day had to be treated with the utmost importance during these troubles. He had to give his mind over to the task at hand.

“Dickens knows this area like the back of his hand,” Bickford relayed. “He'll go with you. He'll be your guide.”

“I've seen enough to work with the men here,” Lisette said gravely.

Cole nodded. “First thing, though, is to gather the men
and set up some targets. General, you've arranged for the archery setup I mentioned last night?”

“Down by the river, past the guardhouse. I'll give the orders for assembly and we'll rally there at ten hundred. Dickens will get some men to gather the supplies you want out on the field. Then you can instruct them how to fight these things and how to defend themselves.”

“Then, sir, I'm happy to follow your orders and let Dickens guide us on a hunt, but, today, I'd train the troops who will remain here. And we'll see that we pass another night quietly,” Cole said.

“A sound plan,” the general agreed.

Cole rose, ready to leave. Megan joined him. But she paused before the general. “Sir, what news have you heard this morning?”

“News? War news?” the general asked, and his voice then made a sound that seemed older than the hills that surrounded them.

“From Washington, specifically, sir.”

The general seemed to soften. “A quiet night in the capital, my dear. A quiet night.”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

Out on the sidewalk, they saw that the town, with its few civilians and heavy troop population, was awake and moving. Troops drilled on the spit of land near the engine house. A baker delivered boxes to the house where they lodged. A woman in a white apron was moving up Church Street, possibly headed to the Catholic church.

Dickens met them on the street. “Sir! What are your orders, sir?” he asked Cole.

Cole decided that Dickens was going to call him
sir
no matter how he tried to protest, so he told him, “Go to Sergeant Newcomb and tell him we're going to have archery
practice. He'll tell you what supply boxes need to be delivered to the field. We meet there at ten hundred.”

“Aye, sir!” Dickens said, and, turning on his heel, made haste to find Newcomb.

“We could have done that ourselves,” Megan pointed out.

“Yes, but I think we need to take a walk up Church Street. I want to meet Father Costello.”

She nodded. “I believe they're using the church as a hospital.”

“Yes, and I think we should definitely see the injured.”

Cole slipped an arm around Megan as they walked uphill to the church. For a moment, they both paused, noting the beauty that not even the bombardments on the city could destroy. The rivers moved below in crystalline fantasy, and the majestic mounts surrounding them were rich with greenery. The church sat high upon a rock formation and seemed to be a beacon to the weary. They approached, and the door was open. Entering, they noted that crosses adorned both sides of the doorway.

The air inside was cool and carried the scent of incense. For a moment, they stood, adjusting to the light.

If the church was a hospital, there were no injured here now.

There was, however, a man in a priest's robes, kneeling at the altar. He remained there for a moment, and then rose, smiling as he came to meet them. He appeared to be in his late twenties, and he had a countenance of serenity unlike any Cole had witnessed in a very long time.

“Welcome. I'm Father Michael Costello, and you are a guest in St. Peter's,” he said. His accent was Irish and melodic.

Megan murmured a shy greeting. She seemed awed, unusual for her. Cole shook the priest's hands, introducing the two of them in return.

“It's a remarkably beautiful church,” Megan commented.

“Yes, I think so, thank you,” Father Costello said. “God's hand drew the palette upon which we sit, and he created a place of majesty here.”

“And we understand that you have maintained the building by raising the Union Jack,” Cole said.

Father Costello smiled and shrugged. “The Confederacy hopes to be recognized and perhaps assisted by the British. The Union officers don't want to create any problems with the British while they fight the war—and when an election is at stake. The bombardment here in '62 was so severe that many thought not a tree or bush would remain, but this church did stand while some of the others were badly shelled. Some believe that God was watching out for us, which is true, but I also believe that God leads us to do things that might be clever when necessary,” he said, his humor evident.

“Father, you're aware of the disease striking the area,” Cole said.

“Indeed,” Father Costello said gravely. “There have been times when I have gathered what remains of my flock here so that they might seek sanctuary from the night.”

“But you have also utilized the church as a hospital.”

“After the battles. And sometimes, when we have injured men, they are brought here.”

“Have you ever had injured men here who—who left in the night?” Megan asked him.

Costello looked at Megan and seemed to study her eyes. He smiled. “I have a deep belief in God giving us the gifts and the strengths we need to get through times of heavy travail. You must understand that, to me, death is not the end, and there are many fates worse than death. I have had injured who have passed into God's hands here, but this is His sanctuary, and none pass these doors who are not in His grace, no matter how they may choose to worship. I have not had the kind of trouble you describe, nor do I expect that it will seek to come here.”

Cole nodded and hesitated for a minute. “Father, we may be needing a great deal of holy water in the days to come.”

Father Costello's handsome smile deepened. “Mr. Granger, I must say that I'm delighted that you have come to see me. Men of great faith may be fighting in this war. They may even be leaders in it. They may all pray to God that their cause wins. But, I must say, you are the first to come to me, relying on what services a priest may give. I will see to it that my reserves are plentiful and strong.”

“Thank you,” Megan said.

“Come,” Father Costello said to her. “Come to the altar, if you will, whatever your faith, and allow me to bless you both.”

Cole felt a little awkward. He had attended chapel years ago as a cadet, and he hadn't been averse to attending services when preachers out in the West had what they referred to as “go-to meetings.” But he wasn't Catholic and wasn't at all sure of what he was supposed to do.

But he followed Megan and Father Costello and knelt down as indicated. The priest's prayers were in Latin at first, and he didn't understand a word. But he had
learned the power of holy water, even if he wasn't sure how it worked. So when the priest formed crosses on their foreheads with the water, he couldn't help but feel that it gave him a greater sense of his own abilities and determination.

He knew as well that the creatures turned away from crosses and other symbols of deep faith. And when they were leaving, Father Costello pulled the large silver cross he had been wearing over his head, and put it around Cole's neck.

“I see that Megan wears a large gold cross. This is one you may need, my friend,” Costello told him.

Cole thanked him. “We have to be on the field in a matter of minutes, Father. Thank you. We deeply appreciate your help.”

The man seemed to be watching them, and weighing them as individuals once again.

“Is there something more, Father, that you think you should tell us?” Megan asked quietly.

Father Costello was thoughtful. “Yes,” he said, making his decision. “I do have one soldier who is convalescing here.”

“Oh?”

“A Confederate lieutenant of cavalry. You will not see him in uniform—I am tending to him as if he were a civilian. He was among my flock when the war began, and he found his way back to me after some of the recent bloodshed at the Wilderness.”

Megan cast Cole a quick, worried look.

“May we see him?” she asked.

“Yes, you may. I have told you the truth, and I haven't lied to others. The Union officers know that he is here,
but don't know that he should be a prisoner of war,” Father Costello explained.