One With the Night (5 page)

“Better let me,” he said. “There could be others. Th’ claymore?”

She raised her brows in question, not certain what he meant.

“Th’ great sword, lass.”

Is that what it was called? “In the laboratory.”

He nodded, clutched the blanket about himself, and strode out, half-naked, into the night.

“Should … should we let him go in his condition, Papa?”

Her father raised his brows. “You may be able to stop him, but I certainly could not.” He turned to her. “Perhaps you should just go with him, though.”

Jane nodded. She swung her cape around her shoulders, picked up the stranger’s boots in one hand and her skirts in the other. Her dress was sticky with blood and fast stiffening. She hurried into the night after a man who was still, for all the vulnerability he had shown tonight, a monster with unknown powers who drank blood and had red eyes. Could she have red eyes, too? Her father had never said anything about it. Still, she had something in common with this man. Jane had no idea how to feel about that except frightened, and excited. He excited her because he had the key to all the secrets she didn’t know about herself. Only that.

CHAPTER
Three

Cold bit at Callan. April in the Highlands hadn’t quite forgotten the chill of winter. The crescent moon was pregnant with a shadow belly where it hung low over the loch. The laboratory was dark, lit only by that sliver of moon and the glitter of countless stars. That didn’t stop Callan, of course. His night vision was perfect. The door swung crazily on one hinge. Inside, butter churns and paddles were piled in a corner behind the shattered laboratory equipment. This must once have been the farm’s creamery.

Why did the damned doctor have to have a daughter like that? He must protect the laboratory and the doctor until he could produce the cure. The last thing Callan wanted was a beautiful woman near him, distracting him, tempting his unruly body. He’d managed to refuse temptation for nearly two years even though he was a vampire, but Lord knew he was not to be trusted since his experience with …
her.
He hated what he had become. But that was why he was here. How long would it take Blundell to find the cure? Would Blundell be willing to let him have a dose? He’d treat his daughter first. That was his right. Callan only hoped the doctor could make enough formula to cure him too. If the ingredients were not too rare, perhaps there would be enough for any vampire who sought it. Making it widely available just might be a cause that could provide him purpose.

His life had been one long search for such a cause. Probably he just used causes to borrow an identity. He wanted now to get back to who he was before he’d been infected. But did he really know who that was? As the youngest son of an impoverished fourth son of an impoverished Irish earl, he came from a long line of failures. His father had brought his hopeful family to Scotland, believing he could earn a living with his pen and making Callan an instant outcast among his peers. Was he Irish or Scots? He’d had to renounce the Catholic Church to get a scholarship to the University of Edinburgh on the recommendation of the local Presbyterian cleric. It was the only way he could afford an education. Catholicism wasn’t much loss. He wasn’t a Protestant either, at least in his heart. So he’d carved out an identity as a charming Irish rogue by day, drinking more, wenching more, and sharper of wit than his fellow Scots students, while by night he’d labored over pamphlets supporting his latest doomed political cause. He just never quite believed in them either. Now what he believed was that there were monsters in this world. Maybe he would never be that charming rogue again. He couldn’t imagine laughing that much, or trying that hard to be liked. He couldn’t imagine casual relations with women either, not after what
she
had done to him. His only cause now was trying to avoid becoming a monster just like her. And to that end, he needed this cure, if the doctor could find it.

He heard the girl’s footsteps behind him.

“If there are others, I can help.”

He didn’t look at her, but reached for the claymore, lying in the broken glass. Why did she have to follow him? Even now his body responded to her presence. “Not likely,” he muttered and strode off toward the trees, still barefoot. Perhaps she would just let him go. Not the time for his vaunted luck to desert him. But it did, for he heard her scurrying after him. Maybe she didn’t want to be alone. Better the monster you know … He headed to the left side of the copse, then worked his way quietly along the perimeter, trying to remember where he had left Faust. Damnation! All he could think about were those slow vibrations. They were her blood calling to his. He’d never find Faust at this rate. So he just stopped and listened. The girl stopped behind him. There—he heard movement. A grinding sound. He relaxed and let out a low whistle. A soft whicker sounded in return. He started toward the noise, the girl trailing in his wake.

Faust was all pricked ears and flaring nostrils, waiting where Callan had tied him to a sapling alder. Callan leaned the claymore against the bole of a large oak and ran one hand over the horse’s hide. “Ye’re well?” he asked the animal. Faust blew softly on his neck. When Callan had satisfied himself that Faust had not been harmed, he dropped his blanket to unfasten the valise tied to the back of the saddle.

He heard the girl swallow and went still. What was he, daft? The battle and the process of healing must have taken more out of him than he thought. He had two choices—grab for the blanket and look ridiculous or brazen it out and put the onus on her.

He turned his head just enough to see her and raised his brows in inquiry.

She whirled, turning her back to him. “Sorry.”

Callan dressed as quickly as he could in his other breeches, stockings, shirt. Too bad he hadn’t brought his boots. He threw the blanket over Faust against the chill.

As he turned to the girl, he saw that she was carrying his boots. He’d been wishing her away when she’d just been trying to help him.
Ignore her effect on ye. She does no’ ha’ ta know about it.
His touch on her shoulder made her jump.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, turning round. Her eyes ran over him. He felt a flush rising and brusquely exchanged the reins he held for his boots. She stroked the gelding’s soft nose as she watched Callan pull on the boots.
Get hold a yerself, man!
he admonished. He hefted the claymore and took back the reins. She fell in step with him as he strode from the copse.

Everything about her was feminine, in spite of the fact that she wore a gray gown with a round collar that did nothing to flaunt her femininity. And at the moment she was far too close. He thought he had better control. He looked down at her blonde hair streaked in a dozen shades of gold and tied in a knot at her crown, with wisps at her temples and her nape. She was a good eight or ten inches shorter than he was and had a handsome figure, worse luck. In spite of his best intentions he couldn’t be trusted around her. Even now his body betrayed him. Best he hope Blundell found the cure quickly, so he could get what he came for and get out.

Blundell hadn’t agreed to share his formula with Callan though. He glanced at the girl. He could take it by force, but that could be ugly. The girl might stand in his way. He could kill if it suited his purposes. No one knew that better than he. He pushed down the wash of guilt that threatened to drown him. Best find out where she stood on the subject.

“Ye’re new,” he said without preamble.

It took her a moment to know what he meant. “Oh. Nearly five months.”

“How?” He slowed, so that she could keep up with him better.

She took a breath and let it out. “My father had several vials of infected blood from a patient. Someone vandalized his laboratory. I was cut by a broken vial of the tainted blood.”

She was lying. He stopped and turned. “Tell me the truth. Who made ye?”

She looked taken aback. “No … no one made me.”

“Dinnae lie ta’ me. Ye need vampire blood ta give ye immunity, else being infected with th’ parasite kills ye. A vampire made ye with his blood.”

“Oh,” she said. “I see what you mean. In that case I suppose Ian Rufford made me. He was Papa’s vampire patient. It took Papa some time to realize that my only choice was to acquire immunity or die and that I could get immunity from Mr. Rufford’s blood. Rather like a foal getting immunity through its dam’s first milk. Papa infected more blood with the parasite from the remaining vial of Mr. Rufford’s blood, and fed that to me.” Her eyes darkened, remembering. “I shouldn’t like to go through that again.”

“Turnin’ is painful,” he agreed, keeping his voice neutral. He envied this girl. If one had to be made vampire, better to be made by a vial and nursed through the experience by someone who cared for you, than be made as he had been. She was a vampire once removed. How much did she even know about her condition? He thought back. She hadn’t drawn her power tonight when the vampire attacked. Unless she had been taught by her father’s patient, she might know very little. What was his name?

“Wait, I know this Rufford!” The pain came washing over him. He mustn’t let her see it. “He freed me from th’ woman who … who made me.” What possessed him to tell her that? She might know of Asharti from Rufford. He looked away before she could see his devastation. The last thing he wanted was her sympathy. She said nothing, just looked thoughtful.
Damn me for a fool!
He’d be spilling his guts and mewling like a babe in another minute, likely. He started back to the house before he could reveal anything more. He was tired, that was all.

“What is your name?” she asked, practically running to keep up with him. “You never returned my introduction.”

He sighed. Well, he was going to be here until Blundell found the cure. He might as well tell the girl his name. It wasn’t much of himself he was giving. “Callan Kilkenny.”

“Why, that’s an Irish name, isn’t it?” she asked with surprise.

“Aye,” he muttered. Now would come the questions. How is it that you have a Scots accent? Why didn’t you grow up in Ireland? Do you think of yourself as Irish or Scots? To forestall her, he exerted himself in conversation more than was his wont these days. “I dinnae remember yer name, miss. I was a bit under th’ weather when ye introduced yerself.”

“I’m Jane Blundell.” Her voice was strong and steady, her manner firm.

“Pleased.” He wasn’t of course. He glanced over to find her regarding him candidly with those great, dark blue eyes. It occurred to him that the only thing worse than having only power-mad evil to teach you about your new condition might be having no one to teach you at all. She must have courage to confront the horrifying effects of vampirism with no one to tell her how to go on. He felt sympathy rise in his breast, and pushed it down. It was not his job to play nursemaid to new vampires. He was only here for the cure. Once Blundell found it, if they didn’t want to share it, he’d just take it. No matter who he hurt.

*   *   *

He must have loved the woman who made him very much, Jane thought as she hurried beside him back toward the house. She had never seen such pain in anyone’s eyes. She felt small and petty for the lust that was circulating in her body even now. He had loved enough to transform him, and devastate him when it went wrong. Had the woman left him? Was she dead?

Lord, Jane, you simpleton! What use such speculation? He knows everything about your condition, and yet here you are wasting this opportunity.
Well, that could be rectified.

He turned up the path to the barn. “I’ll just take care of Faust.”

He wouldn’t get rid of her so easily. “I’ll help you.”

She pushed open the barn door. Inside she smelled animal hide and manure, the sweetness of summer captured in the hay, tanned leather and sweat, all the subtleties her new senses had revealed. A mouse darted into a hay crib and big animals shifted in the darkness, reacting to the scent of blood on his boots and her dress. He led Faust in past her. Too near! She could smell him; feel him moving inside his clothes. The throbbing became more insistent.
You are pathetic,
she told herself.
You don’t even care about men. You certainly didn’t feel lightning and thunder during that experiment two years ago.
But that was before she became vampire.

“The fourth stall is empty there on the right,” she said, and followed them.

He lifted off the saddle and bridle, saying nothing. She moved behind him, watching him. He bent to pick up some straw, then cleared his throat as he worked the twin handfuls of straw over Faust’s croup. He was uncomfortable. Perhaps he knew she wanted to ask him questions. She grabbed an armload of hay and let herself into the stall with horse and man to lay it in the manger. He had to move closer with the horse as the greedy creature stuffed his nose in the food.

She too cleared her throat. She had no idea where to begin. Perhaps with the events of this evening … “Why would a vampire want to destroy the cure? I would give anything to go back to the way I was.”

He set those marvelous lips. “I expect those born to th’ blood would no’ want ta be cured.” He thought a bit. “But that’s no’ true. Some would. They get heartsick or crazy and retreat ta’ th’ refuge of Mirso Monastery if th’ Elders who control th’ place let them in.”

“What is Mirso Monastery? Who are the Elders? Why is it a refuge?” Her questions tumbled over themselves.

For a long moment she thought he wouldn’t answer. At last he sighed. “Mirso Monastery is in th’ Carpathian Mountains. Th’ Elders who run it are verra old and powerful, I’m told.”

She patted Faust absently. The horse paid no attention, being wholly absorbed in his oat hay. The grinding of his great back teeth filled the stall. “Why do vampires want to go there?”

“They ha’ some secret chants that let ye go without blood for a long time. And through meditation, ye can maybe get peace with yer Companion.” He rubbed Faust briskly.

“Companion?” She pounced upon the word. He did know everything!

“It’s what they call th’ thing in our blood.”