The Burning (31 page)

As they passed the Hammer and Anvil, Ann smelled a whiff of cinnamon. Stephan? She wasn’t sure. It was . . . different. The sweet ambergris undertone was more pronounced somehow. She pulled herself up to peer over the side of the cart. There, in the doorway of the tavern, stood
two female figures, one tall, one shorter and compact. They were dressed in dark, plain dresses, but the drape of the fabric said it was expensive. Both figures wore gloves and veils. She couldn’t see their features. But their heads followed the cart as it passed. Ann repressed a shudder. A certain electricity vibrated in the air around them.

Kilkenny’s army looked to include female vampires, as well.

Of a sudden, it hit her. Kilkenny must be here! His army was gathering and Mr. Sincai was in danger! She must warn him. She raised a shaky hand to her forehead. But she would never have the chance. She’d be locked up until she could be married to Van Helsing. The vibrant feeling in the air subsided as the two dark figures were left behind.

Most of the town made the trip to Maitlands. The squire paced the cart on his hack. The crowd behind them strung out, their excited whispers a menacing murmur. Steadly stalked at the rear as though to make sure she could not escape. The way had never seemed so long. Ann could hardly think, let alone decide what might happen when they got there.

Jennings and Polsham and Mrs. Simpson were waiting for the procession of cart and horses and crowd on the portico of Maitlands. The servants were obviously frightened, whether for her or for themselves, she couldn’t tell.

“Get down,” the squire ordered.

She climbed from the cart and steadied herself against a wheel. Jennings came to hold the pony’s head. The squire motioned to the door. Ann stumbled up the shallow stairs and pushed through the entryway under the classic pediment and into the foyer.

“I should like to see Lord Brockweir,” she heard the squire announce to Polsham.

“I am afraid he is indisposed, sir,” Polsham muttered without real hope.

“Will you make me search the place?” the squire threatened.

Polsham made no further objection, but opened the door wide to whoever wanted entrance. The squire pointed to Watkins, Mrs. Scrapple, Steadly, and the Reverend Mr. Cobblesham, who had joined the crowd somewhere along the way. “You four come with me. I require witnesses.” He motioned Ann ahead of them.

Polsham led the party upstairs and opened the door to her uncle’s room. Mrs. Creevy screeched, dropped her knitting, and scuttled for the dressing room door, slamming it behind her.

Ann watched her uncle gather himself and push up to sit against his pillows with obvious difficulty. “What do you mean by this, Fladgate?” He came to her defense without hesitation. She loved him for that.

“Your niece, sir, has been wreaking havoc with her witching ways.”

Her uncle didn’t even look at her. He speared the squire with his gaze. “Did you touch her? You know better than that, Fladgate.”

“We can’t have this menace in our town, Brockweir. I charged you with locking her up.”

“I lock her in at night. What more can you want?” Her uncle glanced at her with a look that was meant to be reassuring.

“I’ll order her incarcerated until a suitable asylum can be found.”

“Lord, man, she’s a slip of a girl! What harm can she do?” Her uncle flushed in anger.

The squire’s brows drew together in fear and disapproval. He glanced nervously to Ann. “Lock her up, Brockweir. Bars on her windows, all doors bolted, or I’ll clap her in irons in the cells in the village.” His outrage ramped up. “She doesn’t wander, day or night, do you hear me? And that’s just until I can think what to do about her.”

“You won’t take her from me, as long as I live.” Uncle Thaddeus’s face turned almost purple. He heaved himself out of his bed.

“Don’t bestir yourself, Uncle,” she said, lunging forward to kneel beside him.

“You’re lucky I’m letting
you
lock her up, Brockweir,” the squire hissed. “I could throw her in gaol this minute.”

Uncle Thaddeus drew a great breath to reply, and froze.

An awful drawing sound came from his throat, without any intake of air. His face purpled. He clutched his chest with his right hand, eyes bulging.

“Uncle,” Ann cried.

A murmur of horror rippled through the crowd.

“Do something,” Ann shrieked. “Get Dr. Denton.”

Mr. Watkins whirled and scrambled to the door. The rest of the crowd seemed stunned.

“Uncle!” But it was too late even then. The old man collapsed against the pillows, eyes still staring. But they didn’t see her at that point. They did not see anything. His hand slid, slack, from where it had clutched his chest. His mouth hung open but it no longer contracted, looking for air. Her uncle seemed to simply fold in upon himself until he looked small, like half the man who had been in their midst a moment ago. “Uncle . . .” Ann’s voice drained away.

The crowded room was silent. Steadly stalked up to the other side of the great bed and put two fingers to her uncle’s throat. “He’s dead.”

Ann reached forward and grabbed her uncle’s hand. Some idea of forcibly bringing him back into his body trembled in her, giving her courage in spite of all she had suffered that day from touching. But no cascade of painful knowledge overwhelmed her. She had no sensation beyond that which she got from touching objects. A faint impression of Thaddeus Trimble, Viscount Brockweir, passed over her and was gone; his last moment of pain and regret that he was
going to leave her in the middle of such difficulties. How typical that he had given his last thoughts to her. Sobs took her. She would never see him again, ask his advice, know his love. She was now alone against the village and—

“Such a crowd,” the hated voice observed behind her. “What’s the occasion?”

“Lord Brockweir has passed on,” the squire intoned.

Tears spilled down Ann’s cheeks as she rose and carefully placed her uncle’s hand across his chest and closed his eyes.

“Well, well.” Erich rubbed his hands together. “A sad event, but not unexpected. Did all of you come to witness his passing? Mr. Cobblesham might have been considered sufficient.”

“We
came
to see your cousin locked up until we can decide what to do with her.” The squire glanced to her uncle. “But now—”

“I shall see your wishes executed,” Erich said with businesslike efficiency. “If there is anywhere in the village I can procure some iron bars and locks . . .”

“Dedham, the blacksmith, will oblige you.”

Ann felt absent from it all, as though it did not concern her. All she could think of was that this discussion was going on over her uncle’s body as though his death didn’t matter at all when it was . . . everything. It changed everything. The world would never be the same without Uncle Thaddeus in it.

“Still . . .” Squire Fladgate hesitated. “Since she inherits, she is mistress here.”

They talked about her like she wasn’t there.

“Did she not tell you?” Erich put on a fair imitation of astonishment. “We are betrothed.”

“I perform the banns tomorrow,” Mr. Cobblesham confirmed.

“You’re going to marry the witch?” Mrs. Scrapple asked, incredulous.

“Who else can protect her?” Erich stepped forward and
faced the crowd. “And who better to protect you from her?”

The squire had a grim set to his mouth. He had no love for Erich, but he thought Erich was right. He would not interfere. Mrs. Scrapple had a self-satisfied smirk on her face.

“Not before I talk to her,” the runner barked, “about Sincai’s disappearance.”

“What?” Erich’s face went white.

Steadly shook his head. “Your foolish preparations were superstition only, man. Garlic and flowers and crosses couldn’t hold him in that cell.”

“That should have worked,” Erich muttered, chewing his lip. “Someone let him out.”

“I agree,” the runner said softly. “And locked the door after him. Are you sure you want to marry her, under the circumstances?”

Now it was Erich’s turn to look grim. “Very sure.”

The runner shrugged and made for the door. “I’m getting a few men together to search for him, but she’d better be here tomorrow for questioning.”

“Get up to your nursery,” Erich ordered Ann. “Polsham, bring a hammer and nails. We’ll need to block her door until the blacksmith can get here.”

Mr. Cobblesham moved to the bed to murmur the last rites. Squire Fladgate took Mrs. Scrapple’s arm and led her away. Erich pointed toward the door and followed after Ann.

Ann turned at the threshold and stared once more at her uncle, now drained of color.
Good-bye, dear friend,
she thought. The tears came unbidden. They rolled down her face and left salt on her lips.
You gave up a life of your own to protect me. Love was all I had to give in return
.

She turned and trudged up the stairs to her rooms.
Go to God, Uncle
.

Sixteen

Stephan sat in the darkened sitting room at Bucklands Lodge feeling the sun arch across the sky outside. A candle gleamed on the small writing desk in the corner. It was the room’s only light. The draperies were pulled tight against the day. Kilkenny and his crew did not appear last night. Perhaps tonight. He had been thinking about the Van Helsing girl. It must mean he was tired. He had practiced raising his sexual energy, suppressing his reaction to it, controlling the consequent power all night. There had been no glow of power. It
must
just be that he was tired. Now, when he called on the sexual energy, the image that came to mind was Miss Van Helsing’s ethereal white hair, her clear gray eyes and pale, almost translucent skin. Indeed, the easiest way to raise the energy was to imagine her soft flesh under his hands as he washed her. This way lay madness, and failure.

She wouldn’t leave Maitlands Abbey. She wouldn’t stand up to Van Helsing. She’d be married to the devil, perhaps today—certainly by tomorrow, and more trapped than ever. The brute would get her money and the right to dispose of
her person. And if he took her virginity? She was right to fear madness. And no court would say him nay. There was no one to protect her.

Stephan paced the room in front of the cold ashes of the fireplace. Bloody hell! Here he was feeling anxious about the girl. He couldn’t afford feeling
anything
right now. Nor could he stay his mission. Stopping Kilkenny meant changing the fate of the world, most likely. It meant redemption. He couldn’t sacrifice that to help one single girl.

But maybe if he settled her problems he could banish the emotion she caused in him.

He’d go in the daytime. Kilkenny and friends wouldn’t be here until twilight at the earliest, if they came at all tonight. He stopped pacing in front of a desk in the corner of the sitting room and pulled a quill and an inkbottle over to some sheets of foolscap. He scribbled about half a page on three different sheets and signed his name to each one, then folded them and warmed a stick of wax over the candle flame. He let it drip onto each paper then pressed his ring into the gooey mess. He would prod her to have the courage to go. He’d provide everything else, money, introductions, all the arrangements. Besides the draft on his bank, he could give her coin of the realm when he saw her. He always traveled with a great deal of money. Who would steal from the likes of him? He grabbed another envelope and filled it with banknotes from his purse.

He pulled on gloves and hat then fished some dark blue spectacles from the pocket of his coat. Even in late afternoon the journey would be uncomfortable.

He shimmered into view in the garden under the Gothic arches that marked the ruined portion of the abbey. Maitlands was a hive of activity. Half the workmen in the county must be swarming over the fourth floor. Long ladders leaned
onto the roof gutters. Shocked, he saw that metal bars had been placed over the nursery windows.

“ ’At’s it then,” a man in dirty nankeen breeches with enormous forearms yelled from the flagstone terrace as he craned his neck to the work above. “She’s done. Come on down.” He must be a blacksmith. They were always built like that. “Let’s get out ’o here ’fore dark.”