One With the Night (12 page)

“But he is quite indispensable to my experiments,” her father chuffed. “No, I couldn’t possibly do without him at this juncture.”

Jane turned in surprise. She had almost forgotten her father. That wasn’t true of course, but it was kind of him to defend Kilkenny.

Miss Zaroff asked sweetly, “And why could he not be replaced?”

“Kilkenny is my test subject. I tested my newest formula on him today. I intend to test the permutations every day. There is a significant amount of pain involved. It’s also possible the subject might die, so of course I could not use Jane.” He raised his eyebrows at the others. “Unless one of you would care to play that role?”

Jane saw from the grim line of Kilkenny’s mouth that it was true. “You let him poison you?” No wonder he looked haggard earlier this evening. They had concealed it from her. Her father must have known she’d want to bear her share. Which she did! She felt betrayed.

“Well, I can’t do without Clara. Your daughter is precious to you.” Miss Zaroff shrugged. “So Kilkenny has his role. We will see he does not shirk it.”

“I dinnae need compulsion.” Kilkenny was white around the mouth. What did he mean, “compulsion”?

“We’ll decide that.” Miss Zaroff’s smile was knowing and smug and … cruel. She only looked the frippery female in her modish clothes. Jane wondered just how old these vampires were. Miss Zaroff looked to Jane’s father. “You work in the daylight, I suppose?” Her father nodded. “Then we have interrupted your rest. Jane can show us to our rooms.”

“Ye’ll not stay here.” Kilkenny issued it as a challenge.

“How else can we protect the effort?” Brother Flavio asked. “There will be more the next time. Khalenberg and his followers are quite determined not to let the cure survive.”

Kilkenny set his lips.

“Can you accommodate us, Miss Blundell?” Miss Zaroff asked.

Jane nodded. “We’ve six bedrooms but no servants. Not what you’re used to, I’m sure.”

“Clara will help with whatever we need.” Miss Zaroff rose gracefully.

“In the matter of … blood.” Jane cleared her throat. “The villagers make blood donations to my father’s work. I can provide. But I would ask you not to take it in the village.”

“As you will.” Miss Zaroff nodded. “We have no immediate need. Flavio, my trunks?”

Kilkenny looked as if he would protest, but thought better of it and spun on his heel. His boots echoed through the kitchen. Jane heard the door to the yard snap open and slam shut. Brother Flavio left by the front entrance.

“Well,” Jane said with feigned brightness. “Let me just go up and air the sheets. Then I’m afraid Mr. Kilkenny and I must go out and gather the herbs my father needs for his experiments. Rude, I know, to leave you to your own devices.”

Miss Zaroff smiled. “Do what you must. Do you need Kilkenny with you?”

Strange question. “Yes, I’m afraid my father does not rest easy if I am out alone. We mustn’t let worry distract him from his experiments.”

“Very true,” Miss Zaroff said. She smiled again and motioned for Jane to precede her.

*   *   *

Kilkenny strode up to the barn, fuming. These three were from Mirso Monastery without a doubt. He knew of Brother Flavio from Stephan Sincai, the Harrier Mirso had sent to kill him. He should be grateful for more protection for Miss Blundell and the doctor. But he never felt easy around born vampires and if these were from Mirso they were born, not made. The only reason he was still alive was that he was needed to produce the cure. He thought from their intense scrutiny that they knew who he was. What born vampire did not know of Callan Kilkenny and his reputed army of vampires? To them he was a traitor, carrying on Asharti’s mad scheme. They wouldn’t kill Miss Blundell. That would upset the doctor, and they couldn’t afford that, at least before the formula for the cure was found. Even killing Callan would upset the doctor, and worse, delay the coming of the cure.

They hadn’t told the Blundells what they knew of him. Probably, they thought the doctor would throw him off the farm if he knew the depth of Callan’s depravity. Whatever the reason, the result was good. He didn’t want the Blundells to know his past. They couldn’t deny him the cure since he’d be the first to experience it. But they might refuse to trust him with the formula so he could distribute it to others, and then he’d have to take it by force. The look of betrayal he would see in Miss Blundell’s eyes when she discovered he had stolen the formula and left …

He pushed into the stall and began to saddle Miss Blundell’s mare. Still, he now took his promise to the doctor even more to heart. He wouldn’t leave Miss Blundell alone and vulnerable with born vampires about, no matter the torture to his damnable cock to have her near.

He heard the footsteps long before they entered the barn in spite of the shushing movement of the animals through their straw and the skitter of mice looking for grain. The smell of cinnamon and ambergris did not have Jane’s peculiar twist, and the footsteps were too heavy.

He glanced behind himself. Flavio was silhouetted against the square of lighter midnight in the barn door. The monk was breathing hard, but not from the gentle slope up from the house. He had the reins of a carriage horse in each hand. Callan motioned to two empty box stalls.

The monk seemed to come to himself and led each animal to a stall and slipped off the bridle before he closed the door on them. Callan cinched the mare’s saddle and moved to Faust’s stall. Behind him, he heard the monk, still breathing hard.

“Is he dead?” Flavio’s voice was a coarse rasp. He meant Stephan Sincai, of course.

“I dinnae know.”

“God, man, tell me true! Did you kill him?”

“Nae. I told ye that.”

The monk ran a hand distractedly through his thick, dark hair. “Did your … army kill him? Don’t fence with me!”

“Army?” Callan snorted. “We were twelve. He was a Harrier. He killed all but me.”

“There was no army? I thought…”

“Ye thought what th’ Elders wanted ye ta think.” He lifted the saddle over Faust’s back.

“Then why didn’t he return? He wanted the refuge of Mirso more than anything.”

Callan sighed. “Why should I tell ye? So ye can hunt him down?” Flavio might have raised Sincai, but he still served the Elders. Callan felt the monk’s silence behind him. He snapped out the stirrup leathers and cinched the saddle. Flavio sat heavily on a wooden stool. Callan glanced back to see that the monk’s eyes were raw.

“I can’t believe you won. We made him stronger than any of us. You were newly made.”

“He took pity on me, if ye must know.” It was hard for Callan to admit, even now.

“He spared you?” Flavio was incredulous. “The Elders will never let him back into Mirso if he betrayed his mission.”

What did Callan owe this man? Nothing. He had no obligation here. And yet … Stephan Sincai had loved Flavio like a father and Callan had come to value Sincai. “He knew that. Mirso did no’ matter ta him in th’ end.”

“Why not?” Flavio’s mouth turned down.

Callan shook his head. “There was a girl. She … told me about him.” He took a breath.

Wait! Callan stiffened, thinking back to what he knew of Sincai and what Sincai had experienced of this man. He turned slowly. The rag dropped from his hand. “It was you who let them make him a Harrier. He … he suffered so in the training…”

Flavio sank his head on his chest. “You do know. I betrayed him. I thought … I thought he was our kind’s only hope against … you.”

“He did no’ blame ye. Only himself.”

“That was like him. He spared Asharti once and blamed himself for what she became.”

Callan winced at Asharti’s name. His suffering at her hands seemed like it had happened yesterday. But he never blamed Sincai for an old act of generosity.

Flavio took a breath. “It’s hard to think of him, wandering, alone, far from any refuge.”

Callan relented. “I dinnae think he’s alone. I told ye, there was a girl.” He grabbed a bridle from the stall door. “He found somethin’ more important ta him than Mirso.”

“Love? He found love?” The hope in the man’s voice was too tenuous to be crushed.

Sincai and the girl loved each other, all right. They both seemed … transformed. Was that possible? He hadn’t thought so, and yet … “Aye. He found love.”

Flavio relaxed his shoulders. A small smile played over his lips before he sighed. “No thanks to me. Still, I’m grateful.” He looked up. “Thank you. Thank you for telling me.”

Callan nodded once and buckled the throat latch of Faust’s bridle.

Behind him, he heard the monk rise, sigh once more, and leave the barn.

CHAPTER
Eight

“Mrs. Dulnan,” Jane called, knocking at the tiny cottage’s wooden door. She hoped the woman would admit her. “It’s me, Jane Blundell.” She pulled her cloak around her. She had thought she and Kilkenny might as well stop by Mrs. Dulnan’s cottage on their way to the falls.

The door opened a crack and the fearful face of a dour woman peered out just above the latch. “It’s late,” she complained.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Dulnan. The sun bothers me, you know. I couldn’t come earlier.”

“Aye, I ken ye dinnae like th’ sun.” She opened the door a crack wider. She must have seen Kilkenny standing at the horses’ heads in the road. “Who’s that?” she asked, suspicious.

“A patient of my father’s,” Jane soothed. This had the virtue of being at least a half-truth. “His condition is not contagious. He’s perfectly harmless.” Well,
that
was a lie.

The woman pursed her lips, unsure. Her wrinkles said it was a habitual gesture.

Jane smiled. “Could I come in and speak with you?”

“If ye must.” She peered out into the dark. “Him, too, if ye’ll vouch fer him.”

“He’ll be docile as a lamb.”

“I ha’ no’ got any tea hot,” the woman warned.

“Then we’ll be satisfied with your good company,” Jane allowed, smiling. She raised her brows. Mrs. Dulnan hesitated, then nodded once. Jane motioned to Kilkenny who tied the horses’ reins to a holly bush. She ducked inside as Mrs. Dulnan opened the door.

Kilkenny bent to get through the door. The cottage was lighted only by a lamp set on a scarred wood table in the main room. Two straight-backed chairs sat at the table. A narrow bed served as extra seating along with a settle by the hearth, which was cold now in spite of the chill. A rag rug covered much of the floor. Through the two doors that gave off the room Jane saw a tiny bedroom, the bed covered with a finely stitched if worn quilt, and what must be a kitchen. That appeared to be the extent of the cottage. Mrs. Dulnan gestured toward a chair, her eyes never leaving Kilkenny. It occurred to Jane that Mrs. Dulnan might not be able to afford peat for her fire now that her son was dead. Jane knew the woman took in sewing when she could, but most families in the village were poor and had to make do with what their women could sew themselves. That didn’t leave much business. It was a hard life for a woman alone.

“Mrs. Dulnan, may I introduce Mr. Callan Kilkenny?”

“I … I ha’ a sweet cake, if ye’ve a mind…” Mrs. Dulnan said.

Jane didn’t want to take what little the woman had and was about to decline when Mr. Kilkenny rumbled, “That’d be verra nice.” He sat in one of the straight-backed chairs.

Mrs. Dulnan reappeared in a moment with a plate of tiny pastries, and surprisingly, a tankard of ale. She set them down on the table. “My boy always liked a bit of ale with his cakes,” she murmured, and then turned suddenly away.

Mr. Kilkenny took a bite of one of the cakes and washed it down with a swig from the tankard. “It’s been long since I had sweet cake,” he said, sighing in satisfaction.

“Very good,” Jane agreed, though the cakes were not quite fresh. “Mr. Kilkenny’s treatment is taking longer than he expected, Mrs. Dulnan. He finds himself short of clothing. I was thinking…” There was no way to say this without offending the woman or stirring her sorrow. “I thought you might have some for sale.”

The ghost of grief flitted behind the woman’s eyes. Mrs. Dulnan heaved a breath and steadied herself, then turned to Mr. Kilkenny and eyed his person. “Ye’re about th’ size.” She pulled a rough wooden box from under the bed, opened it and smoothed the clothes within. “I ha’ no’ got use for these now,” she said roughly. She took a linen shirt by the shoulders and shook it out, then tossed it on the bed. It was followed by three of its fellows and several wool waistcoats before she came to the tartans. “His plaid.” Her hand hesitated before she picked up the red and blue cloth. “D’ye object ta wearin’ a tartan not yer own, Mr. Kilkenny?”

“I’m Irish by birth, good mother. I dinnae ha’ a tartan ta call my own.”

“Ah,” she said, sharing his sorrow. She dug into the makeshift trunk. “My boy wore one not his own on occasion.” She pulled out a black and blue and green plaid cloth. “Forty-second Regiment of Foot, he was,” she whispered. “They called their tartan th’ Black Watch.”

“I hope ye will no’ think an Irish Lowlander unworthy ta wear it.”

She looked at him, appraising. “I kin spare it. But I will no’ accept a shilling fer it.” She tossed it on the pile and fished out heavy wool stockings and stout brogue boots that laced up the calf. Finally she added an ornate metal pin about two inches across and a leather belt.

“I canno’ thank ye enough, good woman,” Kilkenny said, his voice a low growl.

Mrs. Dulnan closed the trunk briskly and shoved it under the bed. Then she stood and took their plates into the kitchen without another word. Jane saw her wiping at her eyes.

“You have to pay her for them,” Jane whispered urgently.

“She’s made me a gift,” Mr. Kilkenny said under his breath.

“A gift in return, then. I can’t stand to see the poor woman in want. I’ve enough in my reticule to keep her for a month,” Jane protested, pulling open the small embroidered bag.

“Put yer charity away,” Kilkenny hissed as Mrs. Dulnan came in from the kitchen. He cleared his throat. “I was wonderin’ if ye might know someone who could help out at Muir Farm. Th’ doctor mentioned five shillings ta come three times a week. They’ve a sore need.”

What? What was he thinking? It wasn’t his place to contract for a servant for them. But it wouldn’t matter. Even for so handsome a wage, no one would come to Muir Farm.