Dawn Thompson (23 page)

“Thank ya’, then,” Otis said with a nod, trudging on toward the stables.

Joss stared at Milosh, slack jawed. “Why did you confess to that?” he said. “I’ve taken great pains all these years to keep my wolf a secret—only venturing out at night for the most part, keeping to the wood, to the shadows—and you dare so much. Why?” He was incredulous.

“Folks haven’t been so keen on gunning down animals
‘all these years,’ I’ll wager,” Milosh said. “I’ve already been shot once. I’d rather not take any more lead if I can avoid it. It may be necessary for me to go about in wolf form more than I do on two legs, Joss. At least now Otis won’t be gunning for me—but
you
will need to be more careful than ever. Your silver wolf with its dark-masked face looks nothing like mine.”

“My wolf has a mask’?”

Milosh nodded. “A handsome one, like dark smoke about the eyes and face, just like your father’s. It has a smoky saddle, too. As you resemble Jon in human form, so you resemble him in your wolf incarnation. Side by side, it would be nearly impossible to tell you apart.”

They said no more, leading Titus and slip-sliding halfway down the tor to the naked rowan tree, standing like a petrified sentinel, its twisted arms pointing toward the kirkyard at the bottom. Between them, they hefted the coffin into the sledge. The old conveyance was badly damaged on one side, but the seat was intact, and they tied the coffin in place and fashioned a makeshift hookup to hitch Titus to what remained of the framework. The horse shied and complained at first, but finally gave in and let Joss attempt to climb up in the seat.

“Will it hold the two of us, do you think?” Milosh queried, eyeing the awkward repair skeptically.

“I hope so, but you needn’t come. I can manage on my own. The sexton will lend a hand once I have it below.”

“Oh, but I must,” Milosh said. “Listen.”

Joss raised his head. Titus had finally stopped complaining, and in the absence of the wind, he heard the wolves clearly, howling in the distance. It was an eerie sound that riddled him with chills.

“It will soon be dark,” Milosh observed. “We go together. Sebastian is somewhere in that number. He bides his time and waits. You have no inkling of his power. If your father, your mother, and I together could not bring him down, how can you hope to do so alone? If your parents knew I was here and let you come to harm, how could I live with myself? I have eternities to live through, young whelp, and I will not suffer them with you upon my conscience. Move over.”

Cora rested her head against the velvet draperies at her bedchamber window, inhaling the faint musty odor that lingered about the thick burgundy fabric. She’d watched Otis trudge toward the stables, and followed Joss and the enigmatic Gypsy, Milosh, with her eyes until they disappeared beyond the slope of the tor. She couldn’t see them now, nor hear the mixed vibrations of their speech through the snow-frosted pane. Then she heard the wolves howling out of rhythm—one . . . two . . . three distinct feral voices, plaintive and sad—and she backed away from the window. Soon it would be dark. Joss and the Gypsy would never return in time.

Oddly, she took some comfort in the fact that Milosh was with Joss. Madness! There, in the lonely confines of the master bedchamber—
his
chamber—staring absently toward the bed—
his
bed; the bed she’d nearly made love with Joss in but hours before—she could no longer deny her heart. Vampire or not, she was worried about him. His Gypsy friend was also concerned.

The fire was dwindling in the hearth.
Mustn’t let it go out. A bat won’t fly down a lit chimney. . . . But what about all the other chimneys in this house?
The vampires that had gained access were dead. But did the invitation extend to the rest, since they were evidently all this vampire
named Sebastian’s creatures? That thought was too terrible to think, and Cora shrugged it off and tossed several small logs—the last of the wood—into the hearth. Watching sparks rush up the chimney, she stirred the fire back to life with the poker. When the knock came at the door, she lurched so violently that the poker slipped from her hand and crashed to the hearthstone with a clang.

“W-who is it?” she said.

“It is Parker, miss,” came the valet’s hoarse voice from the other side. “I’ve brought more logs for the fire.”

Cora threw the bolt and let the valet in. He was carrying fresh wood in a leather sling, which he set down with a grunt and began stacking in a container beside the hearth.

Cora went again to the window. The snow had stopped falling, and the light was fading. Where could they be? Had Joss and Milosh found the sledge and the butler’s body and driven it below to the kirkyard?

“Did the master say when he would be returning?” she asked Parker, who rose from his chore.

“We spoke only briefly,” the valet said. “He wanted to be back before dark.”

“It is nearly that now,” she said. “And listen. Do you hear that dreadful howling? Those animals are abroad, and the villagers will be hunting them. Suppose . . .” She couldn’t finish the thought, wouldn’t give it substance with words.

“You mustn’t worry, miss,” the valet said. “Young master is in good hands with Mr. Milosh. He is a good and loyal friend to this house, and his deeds are legend. He will let no harm come to young master.” He lit the lamps and shuffled toward the open doorway. “It was young master’s wish that you join him in the dining parlor
for the evening meal. I will come and fetch you when ’tis time.”

As he turned to go, Cora called him back. “Parker, wait.” She turned him around on the threshold. “Please forgive my behavior earlier.”

He waved her off with a hand gesture. “There is nothing to forgive, miss,” he said.

“No, there is,” she argued. “I was . . . distraught. I had no right to take it out on you.”

“Think no more about it, miss,” said the valet. “Will you require anything else?”

Cora opened her mouth to answer, but the hollow banging of the brass knocker funneling up from the main door below froze them both in place.

“Joss wouldn’t knock . . . would he, Parker?”

“No, miss. I will see to it. Please remain here.”

“You won’t let anyone in?” Cora panicked.

“Trust me not to do that, miss. No one will cross the threshold unless young master brings them himself, I promise you.”

The knock came again, three steady bangs ringing from the rafters that riddled Cora with gooseflesh. Sketching a bow, Parker shuffled off without a backward glance. She hadn’t missed his complexion turn gray of a sudden, or his silver eyes darken beneath their wrinkled lids and, almost without thinking, she tiptoed after him at a discreet distance.

Exhaustion was telling on the valet, and she pattered down the stairs before he had traveled the length of the Great Hall, and slipped beneath the staircase, where she could observe without being seen. Holding her breath, she swallowed her rapid heartbeat as Parker opened the door to find . . . Clive Clement!

“Yes?” said the valet—rather staunchly, Cora thought,
given his frail appearance. There was evidently more to the aging valet than met the eye. He had barred the entrance with his body, one hand gripping the door handle, the other clutching the jamb, and brought himself up to his full height.
Impressive, indeed,
she thought, though she still trembled with raw fear toward Clement, nearly toe-to-toe with him.

“Clive Clement, my man,” said the other. “I’m come for my son’s intended, now that the storm has stopped. He awaits her in the village. May I come in and warm myself while she readies herself for travel?”

Cora glimpsed two horses prancing in the drive through the open doorway. A frigid blast of wind funneling down the corridor swirled about her ankles. It ruffled the hem of her gown, riddling her with legitimate chills, and she gripped the burled wood staircase support.
No . . . please, no! Don’t let him in!
her mind pleaded.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the valet said. “The master isn’t in, and—”

“I haven’t come to see the master,” Clement interrupted. “I’ve come to take my son’s betrothed off his hands. Now, if you will kindly stand aside . . .”

Parker adjusted his posture, barring the way. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “I’ve strict orders not to admit anyone in the master’s absence.”

“Preposterous!” Clement barked, his white breath puffing against the twilight. “Stand aside! I am halffrozen, man. Is this the sort of hospitality you North Country folk extend to wayfarers?”

“I am sorry, sir,” Parker repeated with a grunt, attempting to close the door, but the other’s hand planted firmly on it prevented him. “I cannot go against the master.”

“I have never heard the like!” said Clement. “Do I have to fetch the constable’s men, or whatever you call them here in the north? I will, you’d best believe, if you do not let me in at once or fetch Miss Cora Applegate to me posthaste. I know she is here. The vicar in the village confirmed it.”

Parker held his ground. “Fetch whomever you like,” he said. “There is no law against barring strangers from one’s door. You will have to wait until the master returns to be admitted here. I haven’t the authority. He is expected shortly. You may wait in the stable if needs must, out of the weather, or come back another time. I have my orders, and I must obey them. Good evening, sir.”

It clearly took all the valet’s strength to shut the door in Clement’s face. Afterward, he threw the bolt and sagged against the ancient wood, only to lurch away from it as a methodical banging began at his back.

Cora rushed to his side from the shadows. “Thank you,” she sobbed, and then realized: “The rear entrance—is it barred as well?”

Parker gave a lurch. “I shall see to it,” he said. “Go back to your rooms and lock the doors. You shouldn’t have come down. Have no fear, miss, he shan’t get in, I promise you.”

“If they are right, he is
vampir,
” Cora said.

“Yes, miss,” Parker returned. “There was never danger of his entering without an invitation. I will check below, though . . . just to be sure.”

Cora held him back one more time as he shuffled past. “Parker,” she said, “Forgive me, but . . . are you . . . ?”

The valet offered a crimped-lip smile. “No, miss,” he said. “That I am not, and I have no desire to become
one. Now then, please go back to your rooms, lock yourself in, and let me see to house business until young master returns. Knowing you are safe will make my job all the easier.”

He shuffled off then and disappeared below stairs. Cora stared after him until she could no longer hear the patter of his feet on the back stairs before returning to her suite. Slipping inside, she locked the door and went to her bedroom window, hoping for some sign of the sledge returning. There was none. All was still and dark. The snow had stopped falling, but the clouds had not yet yielded to the moon, and the only glimmer of light was the glow of a lantern in the stable throwing dappled puddles of golden sheen on the drifting snow. The howl of a wolf cut through the silence. It seemed closer somehow. Another, more distant howl answered the first wolf’s call. Cora shuddered at the sound.

Drawing the draperies against the pending darkness, she sank down on the edge of the bed and dropped her head in her hands. She wouldn’t light the lamps. The firelight was all she needed while she waited for Joss’s familiar knock at her door.

Joss locked the crypt and climbed back into the sledge. “We’ll never make it back by full dark,” he said, snapping the reins. “Walk on!” he called to the horse, guiding him out through the graveyard gate. The howl of wolves, some near, some distant, made his blood run cold. “Listen to that,” he said. “What do you make of it?”

“They have been following us since we left the Abbey,” said Milosh. “We are being watched.”

“Sebastian?” Joss had heard blood-chilling tales of the
notorious vampire since he was old enough to comprehend them. Milosh was right. If he and his parents—all three—couldn’t destroy the creature, what hope had Joss of succeeding? It didn’t bode well.

The Gypsy hesitated. “He is near,” he said at last. “I have his scent. It is like no other, but the wolf is not his preferred creature. He usually shifts into the shape of a bat, and it is sure, swift and deadly. I have seen it tear men’s throats out. Keep your head down, and tighten that muffler. Protect your neck. It is no ordinary bat. We’re probably safe enough for now. Sebastian likes to toy with his victims, to torment them and break them down. He is ever confident of his powers, and well he should be. They have served him admirably enough for centuries. This is no mere vampire in the general sense. He is a ruthless, evil, undefeated creature, a former high official in the Romanian Church before he was infected. He—unlike your noble father, who was also a man of the cloth—succumbed to the lure of his maker and fell into the realm of outer darkness. He lusted after your father, and still does, since men of the cloth are a vampire’s greatest prize. Another might have succumbed, but your father resisted. And since he cannot have Jon Hyde-White, whom it is obvious that he has come here seeking, Sebastian has set his sights upon you. Our contest—Sebastian’s and mine—goes back over three-and-a-half centuries, and will continue until one of us is victorious. It is a bleak prospect . . . for all of us.”

Joss hesitated. The only sounds were the mournful howling of near and distant wolves, and the swish of the sledge runner slicing through the new-fallen snow. “So, what you’re saying is that there isn’t much hope I shall be victorious. Is that it?”

“I am saying that it is little reflection upon you if you aren’t,” the Gypsy said. “Your noble father nearly died in the attempt . . . and your brave mother. Hundreds have tried and failed in my homeland. I do not care to count and recount the times that I have failed to bring Sebastian low. One day someone will. With age comes complacence. Eventually that will be his downfall. All I ask is that I be there when it happens. Right now, needs must that we concentrate upon coaxing this poor beast up that tor. I am not liking the voices of the wolves. One cannot walk half one’s life in the body of
canis dirus
and not become that creature to some extent—think with its mind, understand the speech of its brethren. They make mock of us. That is not a good sign. Can you not hear it, young whelp? You, too, now belong to the Brotherhood of the Vampire Wolf, the only society that embraces
vampir
of all persuasions, all resistors whose creature is the wolf. Listen closely and look sharp.” He raised his hand as Joss opened his mouth to speak. “No—
listen,
” he said. “The power to discern may someday save your life. Beheading the abigail was your first accomplishment, but this is your first lesson.”