One With the Night (18 page)

All emotion drained from his face and his eyes as he purposely pulled the mask down over his features. “Aye, guilty memories.” He returned to currying the mare.

She would not let him escape so easily. “And are you a criminal?”

“Aye.”

She was half surprised he’d answered her question. But it certainly wasn’t a satisfying answer. She clenched her fists at her sides. “And a traitor?”

“Aye.”

This was
not
what she had pictured on the way up to the barn at all. She’d imagined him telling her his past in detail, so she could judge him. Because if she had been so wrong about him then the world was a different place entirely and … and she didn’t know what she’d do. But she couldn’t judge his character if he was going to admit to everything in a single, unsatisfying syllable. “To England, or to vampire kind?”

“Both, I expect.” His shoulders bulged with muscle under his half-dry shirt as he worked the currycomb over the mare’s glossy hide. Missy stood quietly. As Jane watched, she touched her nose to Kilkenny’s elbow and blew softly on him. Missy liked him.

God help her, so did she. That was why she couldn’t quite believe Miss Zaroff.

“How about the corpses?”

He looked ill. “Aye, that too.”

“Are you going to tell me about it?” she asked finally, in exasperation.

“Nae.”

She sucked in a breath. “They implied that you’re evil, and you don’t even defend yourself, and … how is one to know what to believe?” She felt her voice rising.

“Believe them.” His voice was so low even she could hardly hear it.

“Fine. I’ll believe them.” She turned on her heel and strode from the barn.

*   *   *

Callan snatched up the rag and the oil and began to rub her saddle with fierce strokes. She’d think the worst of him. What did he care? He had no business caring what she thought. He wasn’t even human anymore. And it wasn’t just because of the thing in his blood. He’d become less than human when he’d given in to Asharti, and all the useless efforts to deny his true nature that he’d engaged in over the last two years couldn’t change his cowardice, his … aberration. He clenched against that pain. If he thought about that he’d go mad. He couldn’t afford to go mad at the moment. He took a breath. He’d think about his current problem.

He didn’t believe anyone from Mirso Monastery would want a cure for vampirism. The whole power structure of the Elders was built on the fact that vampires couldn’t kill themselves. If they could simply take the cure and live a single mortal life, or even commit suicide, why would they need Mirso’s secret chants or the Elders? Elyta Zaroff and Brother Flavio, and perhaps Clara, too, had another reason for wanting the cure. Did it matter? Once he was cured, and he had a copy of the formula, they could do what they wanted with it. He’d copy the formula from the doctor’s notebook as soon as he was cured. Then he’d be gone.

Could he leave the Blundells to the tender mercies of Elyta Zaroff and Brother Flavio?

Of course he could. Why not?

He refused to think about that. He worked on Faust’s saddle, concentrating on the feel of the leather under his hands, the smell of the neetsfoot oil. He had to distance himself from the Blundell girl. When the time came, he’d take the formula and go. What he couldn’t do was let her presence distract him into doing what they’d done tonight. He’d better stay up in the barn all night, to keep away from her.

Hell and damnation! What he needed to do was explain his crimes to her in detail. Then she’d know how bad he was and turn against him. She’d never want to be in his company again, and he’d be safe from her. He slung the saddle into the tack room and blew out the lamp. No time like the present.

Callan let himself into the farmhouse kitchen. He heard movement in the room at the far end of the hallway upstairs. The Zaroff woman in her room. Was Jane already asleep an hour before dawn? But either she wasn’t here or she was already asleep. He couldn’t hear her. He’d have to postpone his confession. The next best thing was to barricade himself in his room so he wouldn’t have to see her. He took the stairs two at a time, not caring if Miss Zaroff heard him. He strode down the hall toward his room, past Jane’s door. And stopped. Was she inside? Even if she was asleep he should be able to hear her breathe. Nothing.

He’d never actually seen her room. An impulse took him. If she were gone it would be safe. He turned the knob. The door swung open silently. For one brief moment of hope and dread he thought she might be there after all, laid out upon her bed, in her night clothes.

The room was empty. But she was there in every detail. More of her paintings hung on the walls. A tall shelf was filled to overflowing with books. The bed was covered with a richly embroidered coverlet in deep greens and blues like water in the evening just after the sun had set. He’d wager she had stitched it herself. She’d told him she could sew. Who else would be so bold as to use those colors when the fashion was for pastels and pristine white? He ran the tips of his fingers over the embroidery. Fishes and swirling kelp beds were stitched on rich brocade quilt blocks, an embarrassment of intricate design. Her bed was a vision of the sea. How was she capable of making such richness when she dressed only in black and gray? It was as if he was seeing her naked all over again. Being in her room, seeing her private things, was that intimate.

He should leave. And yet he wanted to breathe her in, know her. He turned his head. A magazine lay, open, on the little table next to a leather wing chair set by the hearth. He wandered over. It was open to a fashion plate. A frivolous dress in pink gauze with rows and rows of wide ruffles at the hem was drawn and colored in loving detail.

Jane read magazines with fashion plates? He picked it up, revealing a stack of several more. So her addiction to fashion plates was long-standing. He looked at the date. Six months ago. She couldn’t get the latest
London’s Ladies Magazine
up here in the wilds of Scotland. He flipped through the other illustrations of the latest fashions. “Straight from the Salons of Paris,” one caption read. “Pomona Green Is No More. Ladies of Fashion Prefer Sea Foam.” He dropped the magazine back to the little table and slipped hastily out the door. He must get out of here.

He was shocked. He was intrigued. He thought he knew her. He didn’t.

Did she know herself? It was of a piece, though. Her paintings were extraordinary. She loved beauty, wherever it was found, even in pretty dresses. So why did she deny it?

*   *   *

Callan took the beaker from Dr. Blundell. He didn’t let his hand shake.

“If this doesn’t work,” the doctor muttered, “I don’t know what will.” The man looked old today and worried.

Callan was naked in the dim laboratory. The windows were draped against the sun. Candles lit the winking glass around them. “Well, then, let’s hope this takes th’ trick.” Callan strove to sound more cheerful than he felt. He upended the flask and swallowed the thick, bile-green mixture in long gulps. It was sour, but he managed to get it down.

As he handed back the empty flask, Miss Zaroff pushed in from the sunlight outside. He cringed away, covering his eyes, and grabbed for his plaid.

“You new ones are so sensitive to a little sunlight,” he heard her say. “I had forgotten.”

Callan clutched a fist full of kilt to his loins. The door closed with a bang. Callan swung round. “What do ye want?” he rasped. A stinging feeling ran along his veins.

“To observe the results of the latest test, of course,” she said. “Dr. Blundell, would you mind an extra pair of eyes?” She wore a deep purple traveling cape as a shield from the sun, but her face was uncovered and she wore no gloves. She had not blistered as he would have.

“Of course not, my dear.” The doctor bustled to get her a stool. He called her “my dear” just because she looked younger than he was. Ludicrous.

Callan felt the familiar cramping as the poison took him. His skin broke out in hives. He sucked at air as his throat began to close.

“My! The effect is certainly immediate,” Miss Zaroff remarked.

“To the pallet, Kilkenny,” the doctor advised. “If you fall, you’ll break my glassware.”

Callan staggered a couple of steps and dropped to his knees, gasping. He tried to pull the kilt up about him so she couldn’t see his bare buttocks, but it was beyond him. He doubled over.

“May I get you some tea, Miss Zaroff? This is likely to go on for some time.”

Callan heard the words from a distance. He vowed not to groan. He hardly had air for it.

“Yes. Please. My, this is quite stimulating isn’t it? Does he always suffer so?”

Callan clutched his stomach. It felt like his intestines were being ground up with glass. He wanted to vomit, but his throat was so closed he thought it would choke him.

“One hates to cause such pain. But I’m afraid it’s necessary.”

“Absolutely, Doctor. Without question.”

Callan was writhing now. A strangled gargle issued from his throat. Sweat soaked him.

“Perhaps you’d better take that plaid from him. He’ll only soil it.”

“Dear me, I forgot myself. I should rather cover him, seeing as we have a lady observer.”

“Never mind on my account. Feel free to have him naked as the day he was born, in the spirit of science, of course.” That tone sounded familiar. But Callan couldn’t think. He tried to breathe. His flesh felt like it was being torn from his bones. The pain in his gut was worse than it had ever been before.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Miss Zaroff remarked. “Tea is just the thing.” Someone pulled the plaid from his clenched fists. “What is your strategy today?”

“Three poisons in combination. This is the strongest potion yet.”

The pain went on and on. He couldn’t hear their words, though he knew they were talking. Breath grew harder to come by. Blackness ate at the edges of his vision.

*   *   *

Jane dashed up from the house with a blanket over her head. Her skin buzzed with irritation, though she was well covered. She’d spent the few remaining hours of night roaming the hills above the farm with her watercolors. But she couldn’t paint. She could hardly even think. Was Kilkenny as bad as he said he was? Miss Zaroff and Brother Flavio thought so. They thought him bad enough to deserve death. And what of their interlude at Urquhart? She was torn between her resolution never to see him again, so that she would never run the risk of succumbing to her desire, and remembering the feel of his skin, the glow in his gray-green eyes. She was, in short, a hopeless muddle. She’d only come up to the house when the sunrise chased her in. It was when she was taking off her half-boots that she remembered her father would be testing a potion on Kilkenny during the daylight hours.

Strangled cries and her father’s calm voice issued from behind the door as she burst through it. Kilkenny was writhing on the floor, naked, drenched in sweat, his face red and gasping. Veins stood out in his neck as he clutched his belly. Miss Zaroff sat on a stool sipping tea and her father peered at Kilkenny as he made notes.

“Jane!” Her father hastened up to push her back toward the door. “You mustn’t see this.”

She pushed past him. “What are you doing, Papa? He’s choking!” She didn’t wait for an answer but grabbed a rubber tube they used in transfusions and knelt beside Kilkenny. His breath came in horrible sucking sounds and his face was going purple. Welts stood out on every available patch of skin. That was the nightshade. Dear God, Papa had given him the root, raw!

“I think your poisons must have killed his Companion,” Miss Zaroff remarked. “Else he would have healed the welts that are closing his throat.”

Jane wanted to scream at her, but she had to save her concentration for Kilkenny. She pushed a hand under his head and clutched it to her breast. He struggled at first, but she could see his eyes swimming. She forced open his jaw and shoved the tube down his throat. She was probably damaging the tissue, but if this didn’t work the only thing left was a tracheotomy, and she couldn’t imagine thrusting a knife into his throat to open the airway. His chest went still. The tube pushed through the swollen tissue as she fed in more and more. She grasped the end and blew as hard as she could. His chest rose visibly. She took her mouth away and the air rushed out. She blew again, waited, and again.

His eyes jerked open and he began to choke on the thick tube. He flailed and struggled until his eyes focused. He quieted. Then his eyes went red. Power washed over Jane as his Companion surged into action. The welts on his skin faded. He scrambled to his knees, pulling frantically at the tube. When it was out, he stood, trembling, as he sucked in great breaths of air.

He should be angry. But he just dropped the tube on the floor looking … defeated. “Th’ show is over. Dinnae think ye’ve got th’ cure quite yet,” he muttered between gasps.

“You could have killed him, Papa!” Jane got to her feet. While she feared for Kilkenny’s life she’d paid no attention to his very impressive genitals, but now … She handed him the plaid. He had come to himself enough to color violently. She felt herself color in return.

“Always a possibility, my dear,” her father said, pressing his lips together ruefully. He turned to Miss Zaroff. “I feel I’m so close! And yet…” His shoulders slumped.

Kilkenny clutched the kilt around his waist and reached for his shirt.

“I must adjust my poison mixture. Rather less of the nightshade, I should think…” He wasn’t talking to them at all at this point. “Perhaps a soporific to depress the parasite’s reaction?”

Kilkenny ran his hands through his hair. It was damp with sweat. His jaw was covered in dark stubble, and the scars on his throat stood out. Jane had no idea what to say to him. Was this the kind of torture he must endure by day while she was sleeping peacefully in her bed? No matter how much a criminal he was, he didn’t deserve such treatment.

He bent and picked up a blanket from a pallet filled with straw and drew it around his shoulders. “I’ll be getting back ta th’ house.”

Jane watched him push past her and saw that Miss Zaroff was watching him, too. Her eyes were hooded, speculative. Jane smelled … lust on her. Her eyes opened involuntarily. Did she smell like that when she wanted Kilkenny? If so, he would have known of her desire for him from the first. Could Miss Zaroff and her companions smell what Jane and Kilkenny had done at the castle? Dear God! She frowned. Or maybe that was just as well. She didn’t like Miss Zaroff lusting after Kilkenny. Maybe she’d think he was already taken.