Dawn Thompson (28 page)

His creatures,
she reflected. Of course they all were, and this was one standing guard. Praying that the dawn would break before Sebastian returned, and that Joss wouldn’t have to face that wolf, she resigned herself to the only thing she could do: wait.

The two wolves bounded down the tor—one gray, one white—following the trail of the phantom horse that had carried Cora away. They had her scent and that of the animal; that was the easy part. Time was their enemy. Whatever entity had her now, Joss prayed it would lose its power with the dawn. The object was to find Cora before the creature acted.

Sebastian,
Milosh growled, speaking with his mind.
I would know his foul stench anywhere.

Joss snorted.
He will kill her! He will make her his concubine.

Again Milosh growled.
That is not his objective here. He uses her to bait you, young whelp. I have seen it before. He did the same to your mother to trap your father. As I told you, in Jon’s absence, it appears that Sebastian will settle for you.

Joss raised his wolfish head and sniffed the air.
Listen
, he said.
They are near.

Milosh bobbed his head and leaked a low, guttural snarl. There was no need of mind speech as they cautiously prowled down the tor; the trail was easy enough to follow. The horse was traveling the snow-covered descent as if it had wings. They had nearly come abreast of the kirkyard when Joss broke the eerie silence.

How many are there, do you think?
he said.

Milosh sniffed the air.
More than what was in your lady’s coach. They have been busy.

The lumbering bulk of a shaggy black wolf suddenly slammed into them, breaking both Joss’s and Milosh’s strides. Its breath was foul. Its yellow-green eyes were rimmed with red, and its bared fangs were dripping blood-tinged foam. Its growl ferocious, it lunged first at Joss, then at Milosh, lips curled back and ravening.

Milosh dove for the black wolf’s sensitive hind legs,
biting first one and then the other. As it turned to counter, Joss sank his wolfish fangs deep into the creature’s neck.

Well done!
Milosh said.
You are learning, young whelp. Finish him!

Me? But—

Finish him!

But it was not all that easily accomplished. Joss had scarcely sunken his fangs into their assailant’s neck when another wolf sailed through the air and impacted him, driving Joss’s fangs into the throat of the wolf he’d been battling, severing the creature’s jugular. Blood spewed onto the snow in a heavy stream. The mortally wounded wolf leaked a garbled growl, convulsed and fell back in the snow.

Milosh took on the new animal, another black wolf. Joss stood in amazement as the white wolf chomped the newcomer’s neck in one viselike bite, whipping it through the air until the sound of its neck breaking ran Joss through with shudders.

I hope you have been paying attention,
Milosh said.
Watch closely now. Remember what we have just done here is not enough to kill a vampire. Remember that its head must be severed from its body to destroy it, elsewise it will only rise again. When you are in human form, you will have instruments for this, and you must keep them close at hand. When you are in wolf form, you must rely upon your animal incarnation’s . . . natural weapons—ergo those magnificent fangs of yours. Now finish your kill, while I finish mine. We waste much time.

Joss didn’t need the lesson. He’d watched in horror and disbelief as Milosh severed his quarry’s head, without ceremony, and now he did the same. It wasn’t something he was likely to forget. But Milosh was right; there was no time to lose.

A snort of approval leaked from the great white wolf.
A little sloppy, but well enough for a beginner,
Milosh said.

What now?
Joss queried.

We wait. They will revert to human form long enough for us to identify them, then either stay as they lie or melt away like the snow as if they have never been, depending upon the severity of their infection.

It didn’t take long before the shaggy, blood-soaked fur of the two felled wolves receded and they took on human form—two men of middle age; one fair, one dark-haired.

Do you know these?
Milosh said.

No,
Joss returned.
These were not in the carriage.

Milosh growled.
Like I said, they have been busy. Come.

If there had been a test, Joss had evidently passed. Blood was dripping from his fangs. It splattered on the blue-tinged snow, appearing black in the fractured moonlight. Joss plunged his wolfish snout into a drift, filling his mouth with the snow. He abhorred the taste of the blood, though the accompanying euphoria riddled him mercilessly. Again he routed in the snow, but it was no use. He could still taste it. Why hadn’t his parents prepared him for this?

They had nearly reached the end of the graveyard gate, when loud howling pulled them both up short. There, among the tilted gravestones, three gray wolves were milling about in the snow, their acid green eyes wreathed with red, moisture running from their flared nostrils, their drool sullying the pristine snow.

Joss’s gray wolf growled.
Shall we separate
?

Those in the Brotherhood do not separate in a situation such as this, Milosh replied. Besides, you are in training. These are dangerous because they are of the type that can trod upon sacred ground. Look sharp, and do as I do, and above all take care not to get bitten!

All Joss saw, in the blink of an eye, was a silvery streak of displaced energy as the white wolf soared through the air, over the spiked iron kirkyard fence and slammed into the wolves he’d caught off guard, fangs bared to sever arteries.

Now!
Milosh said unequivocally.

Joss howled into the night. Could he do
that?
He’d never tried. It was nearly twice the distance he had jumped in the stable. Suppose he missed and impaled himself upon that deadly spiked fence, or miscalculated and landed on one of those tilted headstones? There was no time to worry over it. He took a deep breath and in one swift, silvery motion joined the snarling, growling ball of hackle-raised fur rolling over the kirkyard.

His impact separated the others. Two fled yelping, and the third went down wedged between two headstones, where Joss pinned it, while Milosh killed it.

Well?
Milosh said, backing away from the beheaded wolf. It was changing into a portly, older man before their very eyes.

Joss snorted.
No,
he said.
I do not know him either.

Come, young whelp, those that have scattered will soon return.

The words were scarcely out when a swarm of bats took flight, sawing through the air from a stand of pines that hemmed the kirk to the north. Almost simultaneously the vicarage door swung open, a lemon-colored shaft of lamplight spilling out around the spindly silhouette of the vicar in his nightshirt, an antiquated blunderbuss in hand. The weapon was leveled at them. The vicar had taken dead aim, and Milosh lunged, striking Joss a blow to the shoulder.

Make haste!
he said.
Do not stand there gaping. A moving target is harder to hit. Run!

The crack and boom as the gun fired set Joss in motion,
and not a moment too soon. Hot lead parted the hair on his hackle-raised back. Another half inch and it would have drawn blood.

They were quickly out of range, and they kept up their pace. Joss’s intuition cried danger. More shots rang out behind. The other wolves must have returned. And then there were the bats.

Sebastian often takes the form of a swarm of bats,
Milosh whispered across his mind. Joss gave a start. Would he ever get used to the Gypsy answering his thoughts?

You mean, he separates into many?

He does. He takes many forms. Once in Moldovia, when your father and I approached his castle stronghold, he took the shadow form of more than a dozen wolves that blocked our path. On that occasion I taught your father how to leap . . . a gift he did not know he possessed. You have that gift also, Joss Hyde-White, and you must perfect it. One day it may save your life.

They reached a field at the edge of the wood. Behind, more gunshots echoed through the quiet, but the shooter was not shooting at them, and Milosh slowed his pace. Eyes flashing in all directions, Joss slowed with him. The trail led into the wood. It would be harder to track them there, where the great skirted pines shut out the light of the misshapen moon. They would have to rely upon their extraordinary senses of vision and smell with their normal sight impaired.

Look sharp,
Milosh said.
Sebastian is near. I feel it in my bones. Do not underestimate the creature he has become. He is almost undefeatable. I have been hunting him long enough to attest to that, young whelp. Oh, I have come close but not close enough, not even with your noble father at my side.

And I am not the man my father is—is that it, Milosh? Is that why you keep reminding me?

Only in that you lack practice. I have great hopes for you, Joss Hyde-White.

Silently they padded through the forest, weaving this way and that among the trees, keeping the trail in sight whenever the moon showed the phantom horse’s tracks; following their instincts, extraordinary senses, and the scent of horse and riders when it did not. But Joss was puzzled. If it was Sebastian that had carried Cora off, how could it have been him in the grove behind the kirkyard taking the form of a flock of bats? How could he be in two places at once?

Milosh gave a low growl that flagged danger.
He cannot,
he said in reply to Joss’s unspoken question.
He has hidden her somewhere to lure us to our death. Now, focus. He has been with us since we set out. Clear your mind. He, too, can read your thoughts, and it is a long while yet before the dawn is our ally.

Picking their way among the thinning trees, they reached the thicket and saw the brake beyond, over-spread with all manner of undergrowth poking through the snow. They were just about to cross the span when the swarm of bats they’d seen take flight earlier converged upon them. Before their eyes, the many merged into the entity Joss had seen in the stable: a creature of towering height—half man, half bat, with a wingspan as broad as the sails of a ship and a head that scraped the midnight sky. Its eyes glowed red, pulsating like two live coals, and though they seemed all-seeing, they appeared dead, like a poppet’s eyes. The effect was jarring—and mesmerizing, Joss realized, quickly looking away.

Its grotesque legs resembled those of a man, except for the talons on its feet, while from the waist up its head—sporting long, daggerlike fangs—and barrel-chested torso were those of a bat. The mold-colored skin stretched over
its bones looked shriveled and dead, and gave off a putrid stench that flared Joss’s nostrils and backed him up a pace. Milosh, on the other hand, stood his ground, feet apart, head down, white ruff and hackles raised. There was no mistaking the enmity between the two. It took Joss’s breath away.

Another apprentice, Milosh?
the creature said.
The Brotherhood alive and well, eh?
Though it spoke to the Gypsy, Joss heard as well. Should he let on? While deciding, he inched around the vampire, taking its measure from all perspectives, looking for a likely place to attack. It was far too tall to go for the throat—or the wings either for that matter, unless he exercised his newly acquired gift of leaping great distances. He was contemplating just that when Milosh broke his silence.

Watch your back!
he said.
Quickly! Behind you!

Joss spun on all fours, and leapt aside as another wolf soared through the air. It would have landed on his back if he hadn’t dodged out of its way. The animal struck Sebastian instead, too quickly to prevent its fangs from sinking into one of the huge creature’s wings and disabling it.

A screech unlike anything Joss had ever heard escaped Sebastian. Blood leaked from the crippled wing, and the creature shriveled and disappeared before their eyes. Joss quickly felled the wolf that had inadvertently attacked its master.

There’s justice in that
, crowed Milosh.
Taken out by one of his own! Do I dare to dream? It would be so sweet after all that has gone before.

Do you think?

Milosh ground out the closest thing to a laugh Joss had ever heard a wolf utter.
I only wish
, the Gypsy said.
But no. He will lick his wounds and regroup. Look sharp now, young whelp. The one thing that beast cannot abide is humiliation.
He will strike back, believe me—and do not grieve over that wolf there you have just brought down. If you had not, Sebastian would have. If I know naught else, I know this entity. Remember, I knew him when he was a holy man of God, a bishop of the Holy Church. As pious as they come was Sebastian Valentin, and as arrogant. Some things he has carried with him into deep darkness.

Joss trotted toward the fallen wolf he’d flung a distance away into the thicket, to finish the kill.

Wait!
Milosh said, padding toward him.
I will do that. You have earned a reprieve. We must continue our search while Sebastian is removed. The dawn will not do our work for us. You saw those wolves in the kirkyard. There is no time to lose.

Horrified, Cora stared through the cracks between the boards. She couldn’t see much from her vantage, teetering on the shaky top step. If the root cellar hadn’t been wedge shaped and slanted, she wouldn’t have been able to see anything. As it was, what she did see was in brief glimpses through the gorse and bracken in what scant light the moon begrudged through fast-moving clouds rolling in from the north.
Another storm?
If fresh snow were to fall, it would bury her alive. She had to get out of this cellar.

The wolf was no longer guarding her, and the terrible creature she’d seen rise up out of the thicket had vanished. All she could see now was a moving streak of white against white.
The white wolf! Milosh? Could it be?
Every hair in its thick coat was burnished into her memory, from the dense ruff about its neck to the silvery streak down its spine. It
was
, and there was another wolf with it. They were prowling straight for the root cellar, noses to the ground. Of course! They were following the phantom horse’s tracks. Should she make her presence
known? Suppose she was wrong. Suppose that wasn’t Milosh at all . . . or suppose it was, and he wasn’t what he’d once seemed to be. She had to take the chance. She drew a deep breath, braced her tiny hands on the slanted door overhead and pushed with all her might.