Dawn Thompson (11 page)

Cassandra was silent apace. She couldn’t bear his closeness. The scent of his blood was always a torment. Yet his earthy, masculine scent threaded through her nostrils
as well, and she breathed him in deeply. That clean blend of citrus, musk, and leather was the first thing that drew her to him when they’d met at Almack’s. She closed her eyes and she was there again, gazing into those mercurial eyes hooded beneath their sweeping lashes, captivated as he bowed over her hand. She lived again the thrill of his lips on her gloved hand, of his caressing fingers on her arm leading her toward the dance floor, quickening her heart, shortening her breath.

With a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, she relived the ache in her heart when Lady Elizabeth Revere jerked her out of Jon’s grasp and wound his arm through her snippy daughter’s instead, and the mortification that ensued when Lady Jersey took her aside to define her place in no uncertain terms. She never thought she would see Jon again after that, but he’d found a way.
Love will go where it’s sent
, her grandmother always said. Did he still love her? He hadn’t touched her—hadn’t made love to her since their wedding night, and even then he hadn’t consummated the marriage. Would he ever take her now? Would she ever feel his magnificence inside her? How could he make love to her after this?

“Do you not want me anymore because of . . . ?” she said in a small voice. “I wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t.”

He stiffened as though she’d struck him, and tilted her face until their gazes met. His eyes were wild feral things searching her face. Cassandra held her breath. She’d never seen that look before.

“Want you?” he said, gravel-voiced. “It is all I can do to keep from ravishing you, Cassandra. I cannot take you as I wish, not until we’ve settled all this. Suppose you were to conceive. Can such a thing occur as we are? We don’t even know that! And if it did, what would our offspring
be? You want children . . . so did I, but what would our child be? Do we dare take the chance to find out? You think all this isn’t killing me—tearing my heart out? I ache to live in your exquisite body. And to lie next to you in this bed and not touch you, not hold you? I am running mad for want of you.”

“Then, why?”

“You know why!” he gritted through clenched teeth. “Aside from all the rest, you are in far more danger from me than you are from Sebastian because I am here with you. I’ve tasted your blood—”

“As I have yours,” she interrupted him.

“Yes, and that makes it worse.” He stroked her face with the back of his hand. “What if I cannot stop? What if this accursed disease takes over and I finish what Sebastian has started? What if I cannot help myself? I would rather die than cause you harm. Want you? My God!”

Gathering her close, he swooped down and took her lips with a hungry mouth. Her breath caught as his silken tongue glided between her teeth, between the budding fangs that she hadn’t been able to retract since he took her in his arms. Did he notice? She couldn’t tell, succumbing to his deep, ravenous kisses.

Capturing her hand, he drove it down to his sex, crimping her fingers around the thick, hard shaft, his riveting silver eyes dilated with desire. “Does that feel as if I do not want you?” he panted against her lips, meanwhile raising his hand and sliding it along the length of her arched throat. When it reached the gathering ribbon at the neck of her sheer muslin nightshift, he slipped it down over one shoulder, exposing the breast beneath. His lips hovered there, his hot breath puffing on her skin and
sending waves of shivers snaking along her spine in anticipation of his skilled tongue descending.

Her heart was pounding so violently, her whole body shuddered with the vibration. She could bear no more. Arching her spine, she reached toward him, clasping him around the neck, pulling him closer still until, a hair’s breadth from her hardened nipple, he resisted.

Groaning, he seized her arms, put her from him, and staggered to his feet. Tears misted her eyes, and her hands flew to her lips. She stared at the needle-sharp fangs that had descended from the canine teeth in his handsome mouth. He loosed a bestial howl. When he raised his fist to sink those fangs into his own flesh again, she seized his wrist in both her hands.

“Don’t!” she cried. “My God, Jon . . . don’t do that again. I
beg
you. Don’t.”

“What else am I to do?” he asked. He let out a mad, misshapen laugh. “I’ve precious little flesh left upon these arms and hands that I haven’t bitten to avoid biting
you
, ’tis true, but what other alternative but pain have I at my disposal to cancel the bloodlust? What else but pain will stop the feeding frenzy? I don’t dare leave you to feed elsewhere for fear you will open that window . . . or this door here”—he waved his hand toward it—“and blunder into danger or death at that creature’s hands during one of your ‘dreams.’ You should have told me!” He dropped his head into his hands. “Want you?” he sobbed. “Bloody hell, Cassandra.”

She held her peace. Whether it was the anger or exhaustion or both, she didn’t know, but after a time his fangs receded. He got up from the bed and staggered to a Chippendale chair in the corner—as far away from her as he could range himself, she realized with sinking heart.

“It is still an hour or two until dawn,” he murmured, raking his hair back from his damp brow. “Get some sleep. We leave at first light, and God alone knows what we will be facing.”

His fangs had wholly disappeared, and she gestured. “H-how did you . . . ?” she murmured.

“I prayed,” he said, but no more.

Had he gotten through to her? Jon didn’t know. Not knowing what to expect was killing him. Just when he thought he understood his malady, something would happen to show him how very little he knew. The one ray of light lay in his vocation. Evidently, despite the evil that now tainted his blood, there was still power in his faith. How much power, he didn’t know, but it was enough to give him hope, and that drove him.

It was decided that Jon would sleep as best he could by taking naps in the chaise during the day, when it was safer for Cassandra to be without supervision. Then, he would watch over her through the night while she slept, whether they stopped at an inn for the night or just to eat, refresh themselves, and change horses. It seemed a workable plan, though if Jon had his way they would drive straight through. The allure of her sweet presence alone was enough to set his loins on fire, the condition notwithstanding. The sooner they reached the holy men of Moldovia the better.

The nights were the worst, when the bloodlust was upon them both. Human blood was not an option; there was no opportunity. Jon dared not leave Cassandra alone while he went in search of a subject, but most of the inns had grazing sheep that by nature brooked no opposition. It was not a wholly satisfactory option, because he’d had precious little else but animal blood since the journey began, and the effects of that were taking their toll upon him in more ways than one. He was becoming physically sick, to say nothing of irritable, and it was with great relief that they approached the Carpathian Mountains on the eve of the last day of their journey.

Jon’s instinct was to drive straight on, but the coachman flatly refused to chance the Dkula Pass at night, especially since a storm was threatening. Dry lightning was already spearing down over the mountains in the distance, and the dense cloud cover wouldn’t let the misshapen three-quarter moon shine through to light the way.

Leaving the coach to be attended by the hostlers, Jon and Cassandra entered the common room of the White Stag Inn. The evening meal was venison stew and brown ale. They could still eat regular food, though they seemed to take little nourishment from it—more by the blood they consumed were they sustained. This was especially true of Jon, who had fed upon animals the whole journey. The flesh of the species he’d drunk from was abhorrent to him now. Making matters worse, the animal blood did not satisfy for long, causing him to prowl for food more often, which meant leaving Cassandra periodically despite his resolve not to leave her unguarded.

Luckily, this was not so for Cassandra. Satisfied with small creatures, her needs were met more easily. They were so nominal, in fact, that he tended to forget them,
what with the rest of the thoughts weighing upon him. She never complained.

This night was no exception, and after their meal he saw her to their room, then left her to feed, so she would be safe in his presence while he watched over her through the night. That was the worst for him: the pull that made him a mortal threat to the one person on earth he most longed to protect.

Having duly warned her for the hundredth time of the dangers she faced—especially now, on what they presumed to be Sebastian’s home ground—he left her on her honor to admit no one and stepped out into the lightning-struck darkness in search of a likely animal.

His intention was to keep the inn in sight, just in case. That Sebastian was still stalking them he had no doubt; he’d felt the evil presence the entire length of the journey—especially now, when they were so close to an end. Surely the creature knew their intent. That the stalking seemed more urgent now gave him hope there was something to the supposition that the priests of Moldovia held the key. But the storm was coming closer, the lightning snaking down over the plains in white-hot flashes. Thunder accompanied it, frightening the sheep that, instead of seeking shelter from the storm in the barnyard or close by the stables, began to stray in the direction of the very thing they feared.

“Stupid creatures,” Jon grumbled, for they would draw him out into the open where the lightning’s glare made him very visible. The rain was imminent, and he swooped down upon a likely subject and proceeded to drain the animal dry.

He had barely straightened from the dead sheep when a bloodcurdling racket coming from the area of the stables
nearly stopped his heart. Above the din, a woman’s screams rivaled the thunder.

Cassandra?

Other voices carried, too—angry, accusing voices. Cassandra screamed again. Wiping the blood from his lips, Jon bolted toward the sound, his knees threatening to give way beneath him. Scaling the hillock north of the inn, he scanned the scene below with narrowed eyes, and in the rain that had begun to fall, cold chills raced along his spine, puckering his scalp and suspending his shuddering heartbeat. Cassandra was surrounded by an outraged group of men and women, their number steadily growing. Some were wielding what appeared to be clubs or wattles. But for the lightning picking out her sun-painted curls, he could barely see Cassandra for the press of bodies converging upon her.

Half running, half stumbling, Jon raced down the hillock, slip-sliding on the slick wet grass, crushing the blades, releasing their oils until the strong, breath-stealing scent rose up and flared his nostrils. His heart hammering in his breast, he raced toward what had escalated into an ugly mob, and the surly brool—a low, sinister murmur—rumbling through the gathering crowd raised the fine hairs on the back of his neck. Cries of
revenant
and
vampire
leaked from the people, riveting him so severely he had to swallow the heartbeat that had risen in his throat.

Elbowing his way through the crowd, doling out shoves with little regard for how those in his path were dispersed, Jon reached Cassandra, backed against the stable wall, and he seized the arm of a peasant woman set to lower a branch upon his bride where she crouched over the dead rat she’d been feeding upon. The rain had
washed most of the blood from Cassandra’s face, but enough remained to show him what had obviously occurred. Disarming the crone, he threatened the others with the branch, holding it high, carving wild circles with it in the rain-swept air, meanwhile raising Cassandra to her feet.

“Stand back from my wife!” he demanded, swiping at random as he parted the crowd with long-legged strides and led Cassandra away. “Stand back, I say!”

Out of the corner of his eye, he spied the chaise they had come in speeding northward, the coachman wielding his whip over the heads of fresh horses. Their trunks were still lashed on top. All that remained of their belongings were in the small valises they had carried to their room, also lost to them now. There was nothing to be done. Getting away from the angry crowd was all that mattered. Jon carried his currency on his person; at least they had that. Still wielding the branch, he continued to fight his way through the sea of incensed locals, who crowded closer despite the lightning streaking across the hills and the rain falling hard on a slant from ink-black clouds.

“Vampires!” a woman’s shrill voice accused. “They are vampires!”

“Revenants!” a gruff voice echoed from deep in the crowd. “Don’t let them get away!”

Other accusing voices rose above the racket, and Jon pulled Cassandra closer. “Hold on to me,” he murmured. “We must escape, there are too many. And the coach has left us.”

“I am so sorry, Jon,” she sobbed.

“No,” he said. “This is not your fault—it’s mine. If I hadn’t left you . . .”

Several of the threatening clubs came swishing through
the air too close to be brooked, and Jon began swinging his branch in earnest now, with little regard for those in the way. Suddenly, something wet was flung in his face. It steamed upon contact, though it did not burn him.
Holy water
. All at once he remembered the wineskin filled with holy water in their room—another thing lost to him now.

Screams rang out from the crowd as steam rose from the hurled water. It didn’t seem to matter that it had no other effect; the phenomenon of the steam was enough to cause a panic, and clumps of turf and mud lobbed at Jon and Cassandra created a new press, though the peasants now kept their distance as they hurled. Their accusations proven, the mob began to fall back en masse, though their irate shouts of “
Vampire! Revenant! Nosferatu! Vampir!
”—as well as other words Jon could not understand in his limited knowledge of the dialect—continued.

They were soon running south, out of range of the lantern light seeping from the inn and stable. Only the lightning betrayed them in random flashes. The mob was no longer in pursuit, but Jon took no comfort from that. He and Cassandra were found out, and an army of vigilantes would surely follow. They were hopelessly outnumbered. All he could think of was putting as much distance as possible between them and the danger they’d just fled. But then, what of the other dangers? They were out in the open now, and unarmed. If Sebastian were about, he would not need an invitation to attack. Jon had no idea how far it was to the Dkula Pass, or to the priory they sought on the far side of the Carpathians.