Dawn Thompson (17 page)

Milosh took up his shirt and began to shrug it on.

“Wait,” Joss said, taking up the bandage linen. “Let me bind that.” Tearing off a length, he wound it around the wound, secured it in place, and helped the Gypsy ease his shirt back on.

Milosh sank back in his chair and lowered his eyes, pressing his thumb and forefinger against the bridge of his nose. Joss took his measure. Were those tears seeping from beneath his fingers?
Yes
. The Gypsy’s jaw muscles had begun to tick, and his lips had formed a thin, crimped line. When he glanced up, the stricken look in his misted eyes was so devastated that Joss sank down on the edge of the lounge.

“What is it?” he asked, almost afraid of the answer.

“We haven’t had a chance to talk about your . . . situation yet,” Milosh said, clearly striving for composure. “I haven’t only been watching Lyda. I was also watching you. Whatever your concerns, young whelp, you are
not undead
—at least not yet. Not
vampir
in the conventional sense. If you’d had the bloodlust, you would not have been able to dress my wound as you just did without reacting. I do not know what I would have done if you were. You see, my wife and unborn child were infected centuries ago, though it hardly seems that long. I believe that is because I am so haunted by the memory that it was I who had to kill them in order to save their souls.”

“You had to . . . ?”

The Gypsy stayed him with a gesture. “My friendship with your parents extends to you because I knew you before you were born. I was able to save them with the blood moon ritual. That is a rare occurrence, only possible in special circumstances. It called for willingness and blind trust, which they did possess, and we—all three—nearly died! Had we not succeeded, I would have had to do to them what I did to my own flesh. I am a vampire hunter, after all. If I were faced with a similar decision regarding you . . . I do not know if I could have borne it. I am getting old, young whelp.”

Joss gulped. “You may yet be faced with that decision,” he said. “As I said, my condition is changing, and I neither know why nor how.”

“Explain.”

“I know my parents’ situation. They never kept it from me. Up until recently, the only power I possessed was the ability to shapeshift into the wolf.”

“When did that begin?”

“When I reached puberty,” Joss said. “My father taught me the way of it so that I could do so safely. We often roamed the fells together. We did so enjoy it.”

Milosh smiled. “Your father loved his wolf incarnation—the freedom of it. It was the only aspect of his condition that he did love. I am not surprised that he has taught you to love it also.”

“When nothing else manifested,” Joss went on, while he had the courage, “they thought that was the only symptom I had inherited. So did I . . . until just recently, when the fangs appeared.”

“But there has been no bloodlust—no feeding frenzy?” the Gypsy interrupted. He seemed desperate that there be none, which rattled Joss’s confidence.

“N-no. None,” Joss returned. “The fangs appear when I have need of weapons, just as they did tonight. They also appear when I am . . . aroused. It is a very uncomfortable thing.”

“But you do not drink the blood,” Milosh said, answering his own question, again as though he needed reassurance.

“No.” Joss hedged. The rest was too personal, and he hesitated to speak it to this virtual stranger, but it was, perhaps, the most important thing of all, and this was Milosh—the legendary Milosh, the mysterious, larger-than-life hero he’d heard tales of since his first conscious memory. If he could not discuss it with him, who then? “There is no bloodlust,” he said, “but the sight and smell of blood sometimes . . . arouses me,” he admitted. He wouldn’t confess, however, that it was especially
Cora’s
blood that had such an effect upon him. “What does it mean? And why has it taken until now to surface? Am I becoming as my parents are? I am their son, after all. How much of their infection was transmitted to me in the womb?”

The Gypsy gave it thought. “This is what troubled your mother when she first realized she was carrying you, and she asked me the same question that you ask now. I do not know the answer, though I have a theory.”

“Tell it then!” Joss cut in. “Anything that might shed even a glimmer of light upon the situation.”

“You were conceived of two infected vampires after, or very possibly during, the blood moon ritual,” Milosh said. “It may well be that the ritual extended itself to you in the womb, and thus, while it couldn’t spare you vampirism, it has spared you what it has spared your parents—the bloodlust. A potent herbal draught was drunk beneath the blood moon to bring it about. It is
an ancient rite taught me in Persia centuries ago. I an Romany, and the eastern lands hold many mysteries known only to my people, who originated there.”

“So you think I am tainted, but . . . exempt from the worst of it?”

“I
know
you are tainted,” Milosh corrected him. “We both do. It remains to be seen how severely.”

“Why has it taken until now to manifest itself?”

“You are the age your father was when he was infected. I presume that is why. Your mother was younger when it happened to her, and she was bitten less severely. I can come up with no other explanation offhand. Vampirism is not an exact science, and much is contradictory. Believe me, I know. I’ve had nearly four hundred years of experience in the field. I must confess, however, in all my years I have never witnessed such a situation where a child experienced the effects of the blood moon ritual from the womb.”

“When will we know?” asked Joss.

“The ritual must be renewed at intervals. This your parents must do, or they will revert back to the bloodlust. Even I must do it. Having taken your infection from the womb—and the blood moon antidote as well—you may be exempt. If not, we will learn of it. We can address it then. Perhaps the fangs are nothing more sinister than a child’s second teeth appearing, and you can be taught to control them. Time will tell.”

“But how
much
time?” he pressed.

“Patience, young whelp,” the Gypsy replied. “Believe me. Unless I miss my guess, we will know very soon indeed.”

Cora yanked the bellpull and waited, pacing the carpet. It was late—too late for what she had in mind, but that didn’t matter. She was overexhausted. If she were to sleep at all, a nice warm bath was necessary. Neither Joss nor Lyda had returned. She could manage the bath herself, but she needed someone to carry the water up. It was Rodgers who answered her summons.

“I want a bath,” she said, with as much authority as she could muster. Judging from the footman’s expression, it was enough. “I wish the tub in the dressing room filled, if you please. Have Parker help if needs must.”

“Yes, miss,” the footman said. “Will you be wantin’ your abigail?”

“Where is she?”

“Below in the servants’ hall with the others, miss,” he said. “The coffin’s come. The master’s goin’ ta take the butler’s body down to the kirk in the sledge tomorrow, and they’re makin’ it ready.”

“Don’t disturb her in that case,” Cora said. “I can manage on my own.”

“Very good, miss.”

He bowed and left then, and Cora went to the window. The glass was etched with frost like delicate lace framing the panes. Somewhere, a dog or a wolf howled at the absent moon. The voice of another joined it, echoing in the distance, and cold chills inched along her spine. She was grateful that the new sickle moon had slipped behind the clouds again; she didn’t need to see the paw prints in the snow to know that wolves were closing in upon Whitebriar Abbey.

She would never sleep without it, but all at once she began to have second thoughts about the bath. Suppose Joss returned. No, he would not come now, not at this hour surely. But what of Lyda? Had she passed the test? Why hadn’t Joss come to tell her? Cora had given over trying to sort out the motives of her strange host.
If it were anything serious, he would have come by now,
she reasoned. So she would have the bath and go to bed. Tomorrow would be time enough to sort it all out.

By the time she had brushed out her hair, Parker and Rodgers had filled the tub beside the fire in her dressing room. Once they’d gone, she stripped off her frock, thankful that her corset had been burned with the rest of the clothes she’d arrived in, otherwise she would never have been able to undress without help. Exchanging the frock for a fine voile wrapper as thin as a cobweb, she sprinkled the steaming tub with rosewater and eased herself into it. She always bathed thus: demurely robed, as her mother had taught her. It was a point of modesty, though the gossamer gauze of the bathing wrapper hid nothing.

The fire in the hearth provided the only light, though it did little to chase the drafts that snaked their way over
the floorboards, teasing the flames in the grate. The wind outside seemed to have a voice of its own, moaning about the ledges and crevices and pilasters of the manor’s ancient architecture like a woman wailing her sorrows in the night. Combined with the distant howls of whatever animals roamed the frosty darkness, the effect was bone-chilling despite the warm fragrant water she’d submerged in to the neck. Rose-scented steam ghosted through her nostrils, lulling her to sleep, and she had nearly drifted off when the sound of a door gently closing and being latched vaulted her upright in the freestanding tub, sloshing water over the side onto the parquetry. For a moment she held her breath, her heart hammering so violently in her breast that ripples formed on the surface of the water.

“W-who’s there?” she said, chilled by her own voice breaking the awful silence: she hardly recognized it. Despite Joss’s warning, she’d left the door unlatched for Lyda, but when no answer came, there was a heart-stopping moment of raw fright before the patter of familiar feet accompanied a reply.

“ ’Tis only me, miss,” the abigail said, skittering over the threshold. She gave a quick glance about the room. “How are ya ever managin’ a bath all on your own?”

“Quite well, actually,” Cora said, easing back in the tub. “Where have you been?”

“Making a fool of myself,” Lyda said dourly. “The master has another houseguest. He’s been injured, and he wanted me ta change the man’s dressing. I all but fainted at the sight o’ the blood. It’s done that ta me since I was a wee one. I ran outa the yellow suite like hellhounds was after me. Then, down below, they’re gettin’ ready ta take the butler’s body ’round ta the kirk
in the mornin’, and I lent a hand ta that chore. Here, bend your head back. Let me towel dry your hair, ’tis drippin’. . . .”

Cora lifted her wet hair over the back of the tub, and did as the abigail bade her. She shut her eyes, languishing in the pleasure of the soft, thick towels Lyda was using on her long hair. The abigail urged her head back farther still, taking up another towel and continuing to rub more briskly, babbling all the while.

“Ya have such pretty hair, miss, so long and thick,” Lyda said. “Hold now, while I get your brush, so’s I can stroke it till it gleams. Thick as it is, ’tis goin’ ta dry right quick in front o’ the fire.”

Cora uttered a soft moan as the abigail began to brush her hair. She was utterly relaxed for the first time since she’d entered Whitebriar Abbey. Lyda chattered on, her soothing voice nudging Cora closer and closer toward sleep. Then the abigail fell silent, and supposing that she had tired, Cora was just about to speak when Lyda wound her hair around her fist and jerked her head back sharply over the back of the tub.

Unprepared, Cora cried out. “Here! What are you doing?” she shrilled, trying to pry the abigail’s fingers free. “You are hurting me! Have you gone mad?” Twisting her body, Cora kicked her feet and thrashed until the painted tin tub began to wobble, but the abigail’s fist only tugged tighter on her hair, tethering her closer. From her vantage, Cora caught a glimpse of Lyda’s face, and her heart gave a lurch. She gasped. Lyda was bending over her, mouth open and revealing long, sharp fangs oozing drool.

“Lyda!”
she screamed. “What has come over you? Let . . . me . . . go . . . !”

Cora struggled with all her might, clawing at the abigail’s
hands and arms, but she was no match for Lyda’s strength, which had become almost superhuman. The fangs inched lower. They were aimed at Cora’s arched throat.
Joss was right!
she realized too late, and she screamed at the top of her voice again and again as she thrashed and twisted and floundered in the water.

Suddenly, a sound! She was making such a din herself she scarcely recognized her name being shouted, or the thunderous hammering on the master suite door. Again and again it came, and she answered it, shrieking at the top of her voice.

“He cannot help ya. I’ve barred the door,” the abigail gloated. “Don’t struggle so. ’Tis for the best, this. . . .”

But Cora only struggled all the more as the hammering at the door gave way to shattering blows, which she took to be Joss’s body slamming against it. Once—twice—three times before he came crashing through, setting the door off its hinges judging by the sound it made. Cora heard the rasp of metal and groan of splintered wood as it crashed against the foyer wall, heard the string of expletives he uttered as he charged through and into the dressing room.

Lyda tipped the tub—Cora and all—into his path, them skittered past him and out of the suite. The tub struck him in the legs, undermining his balance, and he slipped on the slick, soapy residue and fell hard in the midst of the spilled bathwater. But he didn’t stay down long. As he lifted the tub off Cora—it had pinned her to the floor—their eyes met for a brief moment, quicksilver jousting with shimmering blue. She may as well have been naked for the way the thin wrapper revealed her charms. His eyes were devouring her.

“Did she . . . ? Were you . . . ?” he panted, raising her to her feet.

Cora couldn’t speak. Her breath was coming in involuntary spasms. All she could manage was to shake her head.

Snatching an afghan from the dressing chest, he wrapped it around her and set her on the lounge. “Stay where you are!” he charged. “I’m going to lock you in this room where you’ll be safe until I’ve settled this. I will be back directly.”