Night of the Vampires (25 page)

He took the glass from her hands and indulged in a sip himself. “Whoever owned this house certainly enjoyed fine whiskey.”

“Cole?”

He turned to look at her again, and his curious half smile was in place on his features, and she thought that he had to be the most charming and yet most masculine man she had ever met. From just being near him she felt fire ignite within her, and she suddenly wished that she hadn't come to want him, even need him, so very much.

“I think you're amazingly strong and resilient, and that you have been blessed with extra strengths—and weaknesses,” he told her. “If I had ever thought of you as a puma, my love, I'd have never been with you.”

“Cody made you come,” she reminded him.

“Cody never
made
me do anything,” Cole assured her. “Every move I've made, I've made because I chose to.”

“Yes, you chose to, but not because you actually trusted me,” Megan said quietly. “You were going to come no matter what—despite me. We want things for different reasons. You nearly lost a town over an—invasion, or infestation, however we decide to look at it. You came with Cody to D.C. because you knew that you were needed. You came here for the same reason.”

He stood up, walking to look out the window to the street. “The drummer boy,” he said slowly. “I promised that I would find the drummer boy.”

She waited.

He shrugged. “The world is an amazing place, full of hopes, dreams, ideals, indignation, wants and desires. And then people don't agree on what is right and what isn't, and suddenly, you're at war. But then you're looking at the person, the human being, who should be your enemy, and that person is just another human being, flesh and blood, and he's your enemy, but if someone told you to shoot him, stab him face-to-face without battle surrounding you, no cannons blasting and gunfire exploding, no pretty banners and slogans, you'd realize that all we're doing is murdering one another. And worse, your enemy is someone you admire maybe, and someone who even touches something in you that makes you want to achieve greater things, fight the braver fights in life.”

He paused, turned and saw that she was watching him curiously, and he looked away again. “I've never claimed to know whose side God might really be on in the war, but I felt the agony that Abraham Lincoln, the
man,
was feeling, and I felt his loss for his child—and his agony that children suffered at all. Well, we saw a little girl tonight who had been coached into being a truly frightening monster. Somewhere out there—or so Mary Lincoln believes—there is a little Confederate drummer boy. He's been turned into a monster, surely, but his soul is crying out for peace. Mary Lincoln's son comes to her in dreams, and he has told her as much. I'm going to find the little drummer boy.
We're
going to find the little drummer boy,” he amended. “We're going to stop this.”

Megan stood, feeling a new surge of commitment, a sense of real purpose and a need to stand by him. He hadn't left her; he'd been angry, but not angry enough to leave her.

She walked over to him and stood on her toes, brushing his lips with a kiss. “We have to be at the general's now,” she said huskily.

He nodded, touching her cheek. “Do you think there's a prayer you'll ever listen to me?”

“Yes,” she said, searching out his eyes. “But, it would help if you would listen to me, too.”

“I was right, though,” he told her, though softly.

“But the way it turned out, I wasn't wrong. Daniel—Daniel fought the ravenous hunger of what he might have become. He has incredible strength, Cole. And those creatures attacked at the school—what happened today would have killed Daniel and the father if we weren't there.”

He shook his head. “I believe that the attack on the church came
because
you were there.”

“
What?
Why? Why would anyone be attacking me? And, for the sake of the argument, we'll leave my father out of this. Why would anyone be trying to destroy me, particularly?”

“Maybe because you are unique. When your strength is at its greatest, they can rip and tear at you, but you'll heal. You have the power of the vampire, but not its bestial side. I don't know. Maybe I'm wrong. I'm guessing. But someone attacked you in the chapel in D.C., and now here, when they could have easily had Trudy instead,” Cole said.

“We're seventy miles away, almost,” Megan said, but something about his words made sense to her.

“Listen to me enough to stay close from here on out, please?” Cole asked her. He looked down at her with tenderness in his gaze, and with a husky passion in the lilt of his words.

She moved closer to him, and his arms came around her, pulling her close. He held her there for a moment, her head against his chest, his chin on her head. Then he murmured, “We need to go, before you reply—because trying to convince each other that we're right could become lengthy discussion!”

She nodded, and he eased away from her. She decided not to argue anymore, and he took her hand and they started down the stairs.

Sergeant Newcomb and his men were playing poker at their parlor area table. They waved and bade them a good evening, interested in little but their game.

And yet Megan knew that Newcomb rose and came to the door and then the walk to watch them down the few steps to the general's lodgings.

General Bickford was pleased to see them. He had his aide-de-camp at his side, and while they sat immediately to dine—a very quiet Trudy and a hard-as-nails Lisette with them, once again—Bickford had Dickens read off a list of necessary considerations to defend against a full-scale attack. “Bows and arrows—archery practice to continue. All deceased to be decapitated and buried with Christian rights. Stakes to be carried by all soldiers in the vicinity. Each man to be supplied with several vials of holy water. Instructions given that all wounded undead must be thoroughly dispatched immediately—no prisoners to be taken among these types of assailants.”

“Yes,” Cole agreed, when the aide-de-camp finished. Megan watched as Cole set down his fork and leaned forward. “Your men now know the basics, but there's more that you must be on guard against. When a being has managed to remain in existence as the undead for a period of time, it can become incredibly clever.”

Bickford nodded. “Yes, Miss Annalise told us about the events with the child. We're aware that we must keep a careful guard against even our friends and fellows in the military—and, for some, even their wives, children, mothers and fathers.”

“It's easy to be taken in,” Megan said.

Lisette Annalise rolled her eyes and sighed impatiently. “Not if one uses a modicum of sense!”

Megan ignored her. “Trust me, General, it's easy to be deceived. Sometimes the diseased are simply maddened, and strike with the bite and rip of a tiger. And sometimes, the infected come, usually at night, but not always, to feed slowly and infect a person bit by bit. When the infected become weak, and then ‘die' after a time, they will gain renewed strength as the infection rules the body. Only they will be more cunning than their wild counterparts.”

“There were those in Victory, sir, and we never suspected. There was a clan out there with a leader who had taught his pack how to hunt. The leader can be very dangerous. He lets his minions take the risks, create the havoc—and clear the path for him to feed at his leisure.”

Bickford nodded sternly. “There's an old local graveyard across the river on Maryland Heights. Some soldiers, returning from the battles wounded and dying, have met their final resting places there. If you're hunting beyond the town, I'd think that might be an area where these
things
might hide out. There's an abandoned, deconsecrated church on the edge of the cemetery, and there is a forest that would afford fine protection for such a monstrous hunter to leap upon its prey—the unwary horseman who might be using the old trail to the bridge. I've
studied the terrain, and if there is a place where one of these
clans
might be forming, as you say, I believe this would be it. Dickens knows the terrain, as well. He will guide you well.”

“Then that's where we'll begin,” Cole said. He hesitated a moment, “I know that you've held a number of captives here. Tell me about the little Confederate drummer boy.”

“Ah!” Bickford said, easing back in his chair. “So much has gone on here that I nearly forgot…. That…that was right when all this was starting, wasn't it? That's where it really seemed to begin….”

“The boy died?” Megan asked, but her words were really a statement.

“Yes, well, you've seen how the houses are built up on the hills, and in some there are entrances that rise high above the landscape to the rear.” He paused and took a drink of water, slowly, as though lost in contemplation. “Billy! His name was Billy, though I do not remember his surname. In truth, the men loved the drummer boy. They did tease him sometimes, telling him that he needed to grow up and carry a gun rather than a drum if he was to fight
them
—good-natured soldierly jests. He lived with several of the men in the very lodgings where you're staying now, and he had become close to Corporal Nealy. When they were playing a rough game one night, someone pushed him too hard. He went out the back window and fell to the hard rock ground in the rear. He was pronounced dead and was buried. Nealy was inconsolable—he said that he hadn't gone to war to kill children. He began to tell his fellow soldiers that Billy came back to him at night, that he spoke to him—while he floated outside his bedroom window.”

“Perhaps I could speak with Nealy before we go,” Cole said.

Bickford shook his head. “You saw Nealy already. He was one of the seven killed prior to your arrival. Dickens reported that he has been decapitated and buried, with all due precaution.”

“Where was the boy buried? I don't remember such a grave in the church cemetery, and I just went through the entire thing,” Cole said.

“That's why I said that his death may be of extreme importance to you now,” Bickford said. “He was buried in the old local cemetery across the river—the one where you might find a haven or sanctuary for the diseased. The one where you might find the mass infestation that seems to watch, lurk over Harpers Ferry now, watching—toying with us, perhaps, as cats toy with rats before honing in for the kill.”

 

T
HE DAYS HAD
been long, but Cole was restless when they returned to their lodgings. Bickford had seen to it that they were treated akin to royalty—or very special agents, at the least. There would be little for them to do in the morning except begin their ride out to the heights across the river. Their supplies and their horses would be waiting for them, and they would be given another three soldiers, in addition to Dickens, to make their party a group of ten, small enough to travel lightly and quickly, large enough to battle a fair number of the creatures.

Bickford was comfortable with the knowledge his men had been given. He was confident that his guards could protect themselves through the night—
and
keep an eye out for Confederate forces.

Telegraphs arrived every morning, and they would
head out as soon as the morning's news was received from Washington. Megan was anxious that they should know that everything was well with Cody, Alex, Brendan and Martha and her children.

When they returned, however, Cole started into Megan's room, but she stood still, staring at the doorway. His heart sank, as he wondered if she had decided that the night before had been a mistake.

“There's still a bit of—Betsy…in there,” she said.

“Ah. Yes. We'll sleep in the other room.”

She offered him a rueful smile. “And all I can see in
that
room is Lisette crudely humiliating poor little Trudy. I know—how ridiculous. We're in the midst of war on many levels, and I don't want to sleep in either bed.”

Cole looked around. Newcomb and his fellows always kept their fire fed, and there was a nice expanse of hardwood flooring covered by a fine Persian rug in front of the fireplace. “I think I have a solution.”

He set about his task, heading into his room first for the quilt and pillows and sheets there, and laying them down on the floor for a base. Megan saw his intent, and gathered more pillows and bedding herself. When they had finished, they had created a lovely little pallet in front of the hearth, with the fire casting a soft glow upon it.

“Will this do?” he inquired.

“Beautifully.”

He stared across their newly made bed at her, and he felt again as if the world with all its horrors could just fade away. For a few minutes, or a few hours, it could be only the two of them, in this strange little haven.

He walked around to her, avoiding their bedding as if it were several feet high. He pulled her to him, entranced by the fire, and for a moment he kissed her, his lips
gentle, just touching hers, and he savored the feel of her warmth, the supple feel of her body against his own, the heat from the fire that enveloped and cradled them. But the wonder of sex was still so new and fresh between them that a moment of tender intimacy was not one that could be long maintained, and his kiss went deep and wet and hard, entangling them together until their need ignited and soared.

They were heavily clad, so many articles of clothing to be shed. But that too became a strange art in the arena of lovemaking that night. His coat was quick to go, as was her jacket. And then the tiny buttons at the front of her dress, dainty little things that seemed to tease and taunt and win against the size of his fingers.

They wound up laughing breathlessly as they tried to help each other disrobe, and it soon seemed that their hands were everywhere—caught in a tangle of petticoats and stays, working at her delicate walking boots and his heavier pair. But eventually, clothing was disentangled and tossed aside, and they were on their knees before the fire, and he was certain he'd never seen anything as beautiful or desirable as the woman before him on the pallet of quits and sheets and pillows. They paused there, just touching one another's shoulders and backs in another moment of wonder and tenderness, then they kissed again, and the kiss brought them down into the bedding, and they made love far more wickedly to one another. He knew that he had to feel every inch of the sleekness of her flesh, and she in turn brought him to a rampaging state, nearly madness, with the brush of her fingers and her lips against his body. This was something that truly seemed of another world, a greater world, or a greater existence, as the red-and-gold cast of the flames played
upon them, and then that world became vividly carnal and physical as he felt the draw on his body and his sex, as he felt the intimacy of her touch on him, as he returned it, as she rose above him that night, slowly coming down on him, moving and undulating with the fire creating a splendor of her damp skin and seeming to enter into her every movement, and his. The flames seemed to escalate before him and within, and he rose to climax in a wild extreme of need, everything within exploding amid a shattering moment of ecstasy that rippled the length of his body and left him trembling even as she collapsed against him and they lay still before the fire, cooling and still feeling the warmth, gasping, and yet even that sound, like a sweet music, drew them closer and closer. He smoothed her hair as she lay against him.