Dawn Thompson (3 page)

“Did you know before . . . it happened that something untoward was occurring inside you?”

“I did feel strange—as if my bones had turned to jelly. My head felt as light as air, and white pinpoints appeared before my eyes. . . .”

He nodded. “When that occurs again, remove your clothing. You must be naked to transform. To shapeshift clothed, you court all manner of dangers just like this here now when you became tangled in your frock. It could mean your life to be hampered thus before a greater creature. If you were not entangled in the gown, you would have escaped the rat before it bit you.”

“Will it always be like this?” she asked, her eyes pleading.

“I do not know,” he said, “but I think not in your case, unless . . .”

“Unless what?”

“Unless someone were to finish your making,” he said. “I mean to see that such a thing does not occur, but you must do exactly as I say. You did not tonight, and look what happened. You were to meet me at dusk at the crypt—”

“But you weren’t there,” she cried, “and I was afraid.”

“I was . . . detained.” There was no need to go into detail. She didn’t need to know he’d all but drained a light-skirt in the town square. His conscience still nagged at him for feeding upon the slag, but better her than the woman who now stood before him. No . . . he wouldn’t tell her that. “When I arrived there and you weren’t waiting for me, I nearly ran mad. You would have been safe in the kirkyard. Full-blooded vampires cannot tread consecrated
ground, which is why I wanted you to come there before dark—before Sebastian was abroad to finish what he started with you.”

She hung her head. “I didn’t go gadding about,” she defended. “I hurried here straightaway when you didn’t come.”

“Which was wise but risky,” said Jon. “Sebastian is not barred from Whitebriar Abbey, though he cannot enter unless it be by invitation. Still, he could have lain in wait anywhere between the kirk and here to pounce upon you. He needs no invitation in the open. You must do as I say. I cannot be about the business of putting things to rights while worrying that you will blunder into danger. Bates is unaware of the true nature of our . . . situation, but he has been instructed never to admit
anyone.
How you charmed him I will never know, but you can bet your blunt I will have it out of him before the night is done. Come here tomorrow before sunset. I will instruct Bates to let you in, and stay here until I join you.”

She started toward him, but he reeled out of her reach. “No!” he said. “Do not touch me! I want you to climb into that bed and sleep. You have that luxury in the night. I do not. I must be about my business under cover of darkness, when I have the strength I lose at dawn. Bates will let you out once the sun has risen . . . when you will be safe. You can still bear to be abroad in the daylight, can you not?”

She frowned. “I can,” she said, “though it makes my head ache, and my eyes! It’s like I’m seeing through a curtain of blood.”

“Yes. It is thus with me as well. If that symptom doesn’t worsen, I hope it will fade in time, please God. If anything should change, however, you must tell me at once.
At once,
Cassandra. Is that clear?” He couldn’t bring himself
to tell her that if Sebastian had his way with her and finished what he’d started, if she became a full-blooded vampire, daylight would likely kill her. Seven days ago, he wouldn’t have credited that there even
was
such a creature as Sebastian. He was still having difficulty accepting it, but he was no longer in denial. This loathsome manifestation was no figment of his imagination; the nightmare was real.

She nodded.

“Good!” Jon said, striding to the door. He gripped the gilded handle. “I must pay a call upon Vicar Snow. Now, lock this after me and go to sleep,” he said. “Let no one in until Bates knocks at dawn—not even me. Especially not me. Good night, Cassandra.”

Jon sprinted down the stairs and went in search of Bates. He found the man banking the fire in the coal stove in the kitchen. The butler and his wife, Grace, were the only servants he’d kept on; the rest he had let go when the nightmare began. It was hardly fair to the faithful butler, who had no inkling of the dark depths of the situation, even though the man seemed willing. Jon could hardly tell him the truth entire, else he risk losing the butler as well as his wife, who served as housekeeper at Whitebriar Abbey. He needed them.

“Bates, I thought I told you to admit no one to White-briar Abbey,” he said. “I think we needs must be clear upon that before another hour passes.”

“Ya did, sir, but I knew you’d want me to admit the lass. Did I do wrong, then?”

Jon’s posture collapsed. “Yes . . . no . . . Leave that and sit, Bates,” he said in exasperation, gesturing toward the stove. How to explain without frightening the poor man out of his wits? But maybe that was just what was
wanted—at least it would ease Jon’s conscience to go as far as he dared with the truth. “You acted rightly admitting Miss Thorpe, and I want you to continue to do so—she’s going to be staying here now. I’m simply concerned that you might admit . . . someone else while acting upon your own initiative. That cannot be. No one must cross that threshold below and enter this house unless I bring them myself, or unless it should be Miss Thorpe coming or going, no matter what they tell you. The person that attacked her still stalks her. I have reason to believe he has followed her here from London. He will seek her out and attempt to finish what he started. He will most certainly come here seeking her. He cannot enter unless you admit him, but he is very cunning. He will try to trick you. You must trust no one now. Making matters worse, Miss Thorpe and I contracted an ailment in Town that . . . seems to be circulating of late, and special circumstances may arise. It’s past the contagious stage, so there is no risk to you or Grace. I know how difficult this must be for you, and if you wish to leave like the others, I will certainly understand—”

“Beggin’ your pardon,” the butler interrupted. “I will never leave you, sir, and I speak for my lady wife, too. She may not have the fancy ways with food that Cook did, but she’s a fair hand in the kitchen, and you’ll never go hungry.”

Jon smiled. “I hoped you would say that, Bates,” he admitted, “but you both must search your consciences thoroughly in the matter. Staying here puts you in danger. Not from me—never that—but from outside influences that I do not myself understand and therefore cannot warn you against. You have been a faithful servant in this household since I was little more than a lad. I couldn’t
bear it if anything happened to either of you and it was my fault.”

“I’ll be careful, sir,” said the butler. “There is one thing, though, beggin’ your pardon. The young lady needs someone to attend her—not just to see to her creature comforts. The missus is too hard-pressed with all o’ the rest o’ her duties since the others left ta lend her hand ta that. If the young miss is goin’ ta stay here at Whitebriar Abbey, she’s goin’ ta need a chaperone, a ladies’ maid at the very least. She’s compromised as it is. . . .”

Jon almost laughed. Proprieties as dictated by the
ton
were the last thing on his mind. Bates was right, of course, but he had plans for that. It had all happened so quickly. . . .

“I agree,” he said, “but for now, we must make do. We cannot have outsiders in as things are. As to the proprieties, I shall see to that. I have a plan. Now then, are we clear upon who gains entrance to the Abbey?”

The butler nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said. “No one but the young miss.”

“Very well, then—and that includes
animals
, Bates. Admit no stray dogs or cats . . . or any creature. Is that clear? This . . . malady seems to affect animals as well.”

“Y-yes, sir,” the butler said, his scalp receding as his eyes grew wide.

“See to Miss Thorpe’s needs—that she is fed and made comfortable in my absence. There is nothing to fear from her, Bates. She is no threat to you or Grace as she is, only to herself in her innocence . . . and her ignorance of this damnable situation. She must not leave the Abbey after dark. She is . . . unfamiliar with the lay of the land hereabouts. She knows this; just be sure she adheres to it—however needs must.”

“Y-yes, sir.”

“You are sure you understand?”

“I do, sir.”

Whether he did or he didn’t, there was no more time to waste over it. He’d made himself as clear as he could without sending the poor gudgeon screaming from the Abbey, coattails flying. He would be more specific with Clive Snow. He had to be. He needed the vicar’s protection, and his help.

It was still fairly early. He knew Clive would be waiting. Leaving the Abbey, Jon hesitated on the threshold, sifting the mist with keen eyes able to perceive images as they had never done before: another heightened sense. All was still, and he darted off toward the stables.

Jasper Ott, his stabler, was unaware. Jon would not take him into his confidence. Jasper kept to himself in the stables. There was no need for him to know, just as there had been no need for any of the other servants to know when he let them go. None questioned his excuse that he would soon be residing at the rectory, that the Abbey would be closed up or let now that the bishop had approved his appointment. The fifty-six-day waiting period was almost up, and he would shortly be read in so he could take over when Clive retired. Then there would be no need to keep a full staff at Whitebriar Abbey.

Jon hadn’t visited the stables since he’d returned; there hadn’t been time. There hadn’t been a need, what with running about in the form of a dire wolf, swifter than any horse on the place. Shapeshifting wasn’t a viable option now, however. He already had one set of clothing to retrieve from the woad field; there was no need to risk another with a magnificent Arabian stallion such as Orion at his disposal.

The horses seemed restless when he entered. Jasper carried the tack to Orion’s stall and began slipping on the animal’s bridle. Jon strolled closer, and the horse’s whinnies became shrill, its eyes flung wide as it watched him approach.

“I dunno what ails the beast,” Jasper gritted out, hefting the saddle. “He’s been outta sorts all day.”

Jon prowled closer still, but the horse reared in the stall, pinning the stabler against the back wall with its rump as the man tried to tighten the girth. Jon bolted forward, took hold of the bridle.

“Whoa, Orion! Down!” he commanded, but the horse reared back on its hind legs, its forefeet churning, resisting, as Jon tried to lead him out of the stall. Jon kept a close eye upon the stabler, pinned against the wall, for the man had taken a blow from the horse’s hindquarters and lost his balance. The other horses’ whinnies joined the din, and Jon called upon all his strength to coax Orion away from the fallen stabler.

“He’s actin’ like he’s got a burr under his saddle,” Jasper said through clenched teeth, trying to right himself. “I never seen the like!”

“Are you hurt?” asked Jon.

“No,” the stabler replied, scrambling to his feet, meanwhile dodging the horse’s deadly hooves, which staved in the backboards beside him. “I’m just shook up. Can ya hold ’im, sir, till I get outta here? He’s never done like this afore. Why, you raised this animal from a colt . . .”

Jon tugged with all his strength as the crazed Arabian bobbed its forefeet up and down, stiff-legged, then reared and bucked again, its screeches inciting the other horses banging about in their stalls to voice more strident complaints. He could smell the animals’ fright mingled with
the musky sweat permeating the already overwhelming stable odors of dung and fouled straw. Speaking in soothing tones and looking deeply into Orion’s fear-glazed eyes, after a moment Jon was able to lead the animal out of the stall, which was all but rendered to splinters behind, and Jasper Ott skittered out of the way of danger.

“Ya ain’t goin’ ta ride ’im,” the stabler said, incredulous.

“I most certainly am,” Jon said, one foot in a stirrup. He hefted his weight into the saddle and kneed the animal. “See to the others,” he called as he rode the shying Arabian out of the stable. “Orion is too long idle. A run on the moor should set him to rights.”

The stabler called something after him, but Jon didn’t hear. It took all his concentration and the Corinthian skills he’d learned in his Town Bronze days to control the animal underneath him well enough to descend the tor to the kirk below.

He knew all too well what ailed the animal. It sensed what he was—what he’d become. First his dog, now even his horse shunned him. He hated himself, hated the evil that had possessed him, abhorred the immortality he was doomed to suffer as a vampire. Most of all, he despised the undead, Sebastian, who had condemned him—him, an ordained man of the cloth—to such an unthinkable existence.

The horse beneath him danced crazily down the tor, bucking, complaining, and tossing its long, feathery mane the whole distance. Tethering the animal at the hitching rail before the vicarage, Jon bolted up the steps and addressed the door with a quick hand banging the brass knocker. Glancing behind while he waited, he saw that the horse had calmed, pawing the ground like a rundown toy, snorting through flared nostrils, exhausted.

The vicar’s housekeeper had left for the evening, and it was a moment and several more raps of the knocker before Clive Snow pulled open the door and admitted him.

“I’d all but given you up,” the vicar said. “I was just about to retire.”

“Forgive me if I’ve disturbed you,” Jon replied, “but ’twas you who insisted upon this interview.”

“So I did,” said the vicar on a sigh, leading him to his study. “I’m getting old, m’boy.” Once inside, he filled two snifters with brandy and handed one over. “Drink this,” he said. “You look ghastly, Jon.”

Jon replied with a mad, misshapen laugh and sank into the lounge opposite the vicar’s desk. “How should I look, my friend?” he added around a rough swallow from the snifter. “Should not the undead look a fright?” He drained the glass. “I used to like the taste of this,” he said, twirling the snifter by the stem. “It gives me no comfort anymore—no pleasure. It hasn’t the quenching flavor of blood.”