Dawn Thompson (22 page)

Milosh offered a heel-clicking bow that was somewhat less than effective executed barefoot in a makeshift toga, and Joss smiled in spite of himself.

“May I?” the Gypsy said, sweeping his arm toward the dressing room. “I make a better ambassador clothed.”

Joss nodded. “Help yourself,” he said. “Take whatever you fancy from the wardrobe.”

Milosh bowed again and left them.

“Y-your parents are . . .
vampires
. . . ?” Cora murmured.

Joss nodded. He dared not tell her more just yet. That would have to wait, as she looked as if she were about to faint. “It is a long story,” he said, “which I will save for another time.”

“W-where is the wolf?” Cora murmured.

“Many vampires are shapeshifters,” Joss said. “The white wolf is Milosh’s creature. He is centuries old, Cora. Believe me, we can trust his judgment and assistance. In fact, we require it.”

“He killed Father . . . and that impostor coachman.”

Joss nodded. “He killed them, yes. He had to. But they were already dead. He freed their souls and gave them peace. Destruction is the only way to free a made vampire, which is what they were. An ancient entity infected them, we suspect. Sebastian Valentin, the very same that infected my parents before I was born.”

“And you also,” she snapped.

Joss hesitated, his posture deflating. “I do not know,” he said. “That is something I am hoping Milosh will help me sort out.”

“I saw your fangs,” she said. “You would have infected me!”

“No,” he returned. “You must believe me. The fangs exist, yes, but there is no feeding frenzy. They come upon me when I need to defend myself—and when I am aroused.”

“How . . . if you are not a vampire?” Cora demanded.

“I do not know exactly, but Milosh and I have a theory.”

“Tell it, then.”

Joss cleared his voice and began to pace before the blazing hearth. “I was conceived after my parents embraced the blood moon rite,” he began. “I believe that when they drank the herbal draught necessary to the ritual—that is, when my mother drank it—some of its properties were passed on to me in the womb.”

“It cured their infection, then?”

“No. There is no cure. They are still
vampir
—but the rite makes it possible for them to live without the bloodlust. Like myself, their fangs appear when they have need of weapons.” Should he tell her that he, too, since he was thirteen, could shapeshift into wolf form whenever he willed? No, she was not ready for that truth. He wondered that she ever would be.

“I have only just begun to experience the fangs,” he said instead. “That is why I recently went to London, to our townhouse there seeking answers, but my parents had gone. I thought they might have come back here for the winter. It was while returning to the Abbey that I came upon your coach and this nightmare began.”

“And the Gypsy?”

“His arrival was unexpected, but welcome, considering. He could not have chosen a better time to pay his visit. I am hoping he will be able to sort my problem out for me.”

Milosh stepped back over the threshold, neatly dressed in buckskins and an Egyptian cotton shirt, and Cora gasped. Fresh blood was seeping through the fabric, where exertion had stressed his wound.

“He speaks the truth,” the Gypsy said. “You are infested here. Three have been so far released from their damnation and gone to their eternal peace: the abigail, Lyda; he who pretended to be your coachman; and your father. I am sorry. How many more have we to deal with, miss? How many more were in that coach?”

Cora had gone as white as the snow frosting the windowpane, and Joss took a step toward her, fearing she might swoon, but she stiffened and recoiled as he approached, so he kept his distance.

“The man I was to marry . . . and his father,” she stammered. “And the real coachman.”

“No others?”

“The passenger we picked up along the way who I’m told seems to fit the description of your . . . Sebastian. But none of this can be real! There are no such things as vampires! They are legend—
myth
!”

“Here in England, perhaps,” said Milosh, “but believe me, little lady, there are places in this world where people know how real they are, and you have just seen yourself proof positive of what I say.”

“No. I have seen some clever sleight of hand—some magic trick. I know there are those who can cloud the minds of others. . . .”

Milosh smiled. It did not reach his eyes. “Yes, I am such a one,” he said, “but not with someone as hostile as you, a true skeptic.” He began unbuttoning his shirt. “I could change back if that would help convince you,” he said. “I much prefer my wolf incarnation of late in any case.”

Joss suppressed a smile. It was plain Milosh was in earnest, and Cora’s slack-jawed expression was priceless.

“No!” Cora shrilled. “Don’t you dare!”

“Well, then,” Milosh said. “Are you prepared to admit that the undead walk among us?”

Cora gave a hesitant nod. Her lower lip had begun to tremble, and her eyes—those incredible, shimmering blue eyes—were awash with tears. How Joss longed to enfold her in his arms and soothe away the terror and the anger he saw. Instead, he held his peace and kept his distance. Milosh was in charge now, and he would bow to a higher authority. Nothing he could possibly offer would sway Cora’s thinking, and he was wise enough not to test it. Perhaps in time she would soften toward him, but in this moment it didn’t seem likely, and he heaved a sigh.

“You are in no danger from me, little lady,” Milosh went on. “I would have spared you much of this ordeal if only I had been able to scratch the lid off that coffin in the sledge and tether you until Joss arrived.”

“Hah! And what of
him?
” she snapped, injecting as much venom in her tone as she could muster judging from her up-tilted chin, and the tight-lipped mouth that delivered the words. How exquisite she was when anger blushed her skin and flashed in her bluebell blue eyes darkening them to a smoky hue. Nonetheless, as hard as it was to tear his eyes away from that beautiful face, they flashed toward Milosh.

The Gypsy studied him, hesitating. “I would stake my life on it that you are in no danger from him,” he said.

“It took you long enough to say so,” Cora noted.

Again, the Gypsy smiled. “He is his father’s son, young lady,” he returned. “His father suffered agonies you could
not possibly imagine to keep his lady safe before the blood moon ritual freed him from the feeding frenzy.”

“I am not his lady,” Cora snapped.

Joss winced in spite of himself. Those words stung.

Milosh blinked, then went on. “You are in grave danger, miss, but not from Joss Hyde-White,” he said. “I smell Sebastian Valentin. Believe me, he is near, and he is relentless. He has a grudge against this family, and he will stop at nothing to wreak his vengeance. What troubles me is the coachman I have just killed. I am told he was not your coachman, and he was not one of your party. Unless I miss my guess, he was Sebastian’s creature—one of the minions brought along to aid in this plot to bring low the house of Hyde-White. So!” he said with a flourish. “You can either trust us to protect you until we destroy the evil come among us, or strike out on your own. What shall it be?”

“How have I a choice, held captive here?” She asked.

“You are not a prisoner, Cora,” Joss interrupted. “You tried to set off on your own. How well did you fare? But for Milosh here, you would be one of them by now. And the whoreson that . . . attacked you is still out there, still lusting after you—only now his menace is a thousand times greater. He is undead! His bloodlust is unstoppable. You have no idea of the strength he has gained now that he has become
vampir
.”

“I saw his fangs,” she said, nodding toward Joss and shivering. “I
saw
them.”

“And you will likely see them again,” Milosh replied. “But there has been no bloodlust. Has he hurt you? No. He was conceived
after
his mother embraced the blood moon ritual, and while I cannot be certain yet, I believe as he does that the blood moon has spared him becoming
what they were before the rite. If we are correct, it has affected him in the manner of an antidote . . . or a preventative. It has done for him what it did for them . . . and for myself. The fangs will appear only when he is emotionally charged or in need of a weapon, but there will be
no
feeding frenzy—no bloodlust to drink from the veins of a living creature.”

“And if you are not ‘correct’?” asked Cora.

Milosh was silent moment. “We shall address that issue if and when it presents itself.”

“Do you think we’ve convinced her to trust us?” Joss asked, padding down the back stairs with the Gypsy at his side. It still remained to find Bates’s body before the new falling snow buried it, and to see it below to the kirkyard before dark; then the real danger would begin.

“We have given her pause for thought,” Milosh said. “For now, it is enough. I doubt she will run again—at least not today, though I would be more at ease if there were someone with her at all times.”

“I do not know how to thank you for your efforts,” Joss said.

“There is no need.” Milosh waved him off with a hand gesture. “What is her connection to the others in that coach . . . the ones still at large? I sense something other than the threat of vampires is distressing her.”

Joss heaved a sigh. “Her father arranged a marriage between her and the young man in the carriage, but it was the young man’s father who took her innocence after drugging her and her abigail. They were on their way to Gretna Green in Scotland, where marriages are
performed no questions asked, when their coach became bogged down in the snow. Not all the animals hereabouts walk upon four feet, Milosh,” he added sadly.

The Gypsy growled. The feral sound raised the short hairs at the back of Joss’s neck and riddled him with gooseflesh. After centuries of shapeshifting, Milosh had evidently become more wolf than man—even in the way he moved, which brought another concern to the fore. As he’d noted before, Milosh was more than three and a half centuries old and yet looked not a day past a striking, virile forty, youthful and darkly handsome still. Joss couldn’t help but wonder how it would be with him. Would he stop aging, too? But there were too many pressing concerns to address that now, though it remained under the surface like a splinter, just painful enough to annoy.

“They were planning to
share
her?” Milosh asked.

“No,” Joss returned. “It was hardly a love match. Cora wasn’t in love with young Clement, and his affections lay . . . elsewhere. The marriage was a cover-up, to take suspicion off the son while the father took his pleasures whenever he wished. He planned to get an heir on her and pretend it was a legitimate successor. The son—Albert was his name—was rumored to be sterile since a childhood illness. The old man meant to cancel those suspicions.” There was no need to go into further detail, and he did not.

Again, the Gypsy growled. “And these are aristocrats?” he said.

Joss nodded. “But they are hardly exemplary of the British aristocracy. There are lowlifes in every class—a different sort of vampire, eh? But vampire nonetheless, bleeding the innocence of young maidens.”

“What sort of father—?”

“A desperate one,” Joss interrupted. “Either he stood to gain a staggering sum for the sacrifice, or the bounder had something on him. Not even Cora knows for certain, and it hardly matters now. What does matter is finding the rest of the creatures among us, and destroying them before more harm is done.”

When they burst through the rear door into the snow, falling softly now, at last showing signs of stopping, Titus was still standing as Joss had left him. He jerked the reins free of the bracken he’d tethered the animal to and stroked its muscular neck. He was just about to lead Titus toward the stables to saddle another mount for Milosh when Otis appeared on the crest of the tor leading a limping horse.

Joss left Titus and ran toward the stabler. Milosh sprinted alongside. What was the man made of that he could be so athletic come so soon from suffering a bullet wound?

“I’ve found . . . poor Bates,” Otis panted. Bending at the waist, he gripped his knees and gulped air into his lungs. “He’s lyin’ below . . . not far from the old rowan tree. I drug him back inta his coffin and I righted the sledge, with old Gideon’s help here, though I fear I’ve maimed the poor beast doin’ it, but . . . I couldn’t get the coffin inta the sledge on my own.”

“We’ll do it,” said Joss, taking hold of the stabler’s arm to steady him. “Go on and rest. You’re worn to a raveling.” Still gulping air, the stabler glanced at the Gypsy, and Joss rose to the occasion. “I’m sorry,” he said. “This is Mother and Father’s friend, Milosh from Romania, come for a visit. Milosh, this is my stable master, Otis McFee.”

The Gypsy sketched a respectful bow.

“You’ll want ta get old Bates below before dark,” said
Otis. “Them wild dogs have started howlin’ again. I’m goin’ ta fetch my pistol. They’re comin’ closer to the Abbey.”

“I hope you will exercise discretion before you fire,” Milosh said. “I have brought my . . . own dog along, and I would not like him peppered with lead.”

“What does he look like?” Otis said.

“He is large and wolflike—white, with a streak of silver-tipped fur down his back. I believe you met him earlier.”

Otis gave a start. “The animal in the sledge?” he cried.

“The very same,” the Gypsy said. “He can be quite precocious at times, I’m afraid.”

“Well, I’m sure glad ya told me,” Otis replied, “ ’cause I was set to give him a taste o’ lead. I never seen a dog do what he was doin’ in all my life. It was like he was tryin’ to open that coffin!”

“I shall do my best to keep him in control in the future,” Milosh said. “But at least now you know which dog not to shoot, hm?”

“Aye,” said the stabler, glancing between them. “Are ya sure ya don’t need me?”

“You’ve done enough,” said Joss. “Go and rest. We can ill afford any more casualties here now.”