Dawn Thompson (30 page)

Cora didn’t look behind; she didn’t have to. The gray wolf’s speed told her the others were still in pursuit. They sped over the fells, past the kirkyard and the rowan tree at the bottom of the tor, its skeletal branches, like outstretched arms, clacking in the wind that had again risen. It wasn’t until they started to climb toward the top of the tor that the full impact of what they were facing loomed before them. Lazy plumes of smoke still drifted upward, though the bonfire had died to embers. No red glow tinged the night sky, though the air was heavy with the stench of char and burnt flesh. It impacted Cora’s nostrils, threatening to make her retch. They started to climb, but it wasn’t until they’d nearly
reached the summit that what they were truly facing came into view. Strange two- and four-legged creatures prowled what was the courtyard buried beneath the snow. Whitebriar Abbey was surrounded, and it was still hours until dawn.

Joss skittered to a halt in lee of an ancient crag.
Now what do we do?
he asked Milosh.
The dawn is still awhile off.

The white wolf snorted.
That matters not. There is no telling how many of that number will still be abroad in the light of day.

We are hopelessly outnumbered,
Joss grieved,
and I cannot communicate with Cora as you and I do. We must get her back inside the Abbey, where she will be safe.

Will the rear door be open?

Parker would never lock the door while I’m out of the house
, Joss assured him.

And the front entrance?

Joss snorted and shook himself.
It’s locked,
he said.
Parker will answer, but it will take awhile. He would be asleep at this hour.

The rear entrance, then,
Milosh said.
I will distract them, while you reach it.

You can’t mean to take that number on single-handed.
Joss was incredulous.

The white wolf bristled.
Much of that number is Sebastian
himself,
Milosh said.
He challenges us—makes mock of us. I have seen this many times before. He has the power to divide into an army. And besides the wolves you see there prowling on all fours, other wolves will soon join them, walking upright depending upon the level of their infection.

Then we are doomed,
Joss said.

Not doomed, young whelp,
Milosh said.
We are in need of reinforcements. We are a brotherhood, remember. Now, make straight for the rear door and see your lady safely inside!

Joss started to make an objection, but the white wolf darted out into the open and streaked up the tor toward the front of the Abbey. There was nothing for it but to follow Milosh’s direction, and he bolted from behind the crag and rushed up the incline toward the rear door.

He had almost forgotten that Cora was mounted upon his back, and she nearly slipped off as he raced up the grade. Her two tiny hands fisted in his wolfish ruff, and though they pinched, they put him at ease and he snorted, hoping she would understand the sound as praise for her quick thinking.

They reached the rear door without incident, Milosh having diverted attention away toward the front of the Abbey. Skittering to a halt, Joss shook himself in an attempt to shed Cora, but she only held tighter. Joss shook himself again, and when she still clung tenaciously, stood on his hind legs and slammed his front paws against the door.

“I won’t leave you!” she cried. “You cannot fight that out there—not even with Milosh at your side. No!”

There was no time for argument. Joss sprang through the air, bones, fur and sinew stretching in a silver streak, a strenuous motion that used to be a painful experience. Now he scarcely felt the pain of transition. Cora
cried out as she was dumped unceremoniously in the snowdrift beside the rear door. Joss reached her in two strides and lifted her up none too gently. Things had been much simpler when he was dodging porcelain pitchers.

“I am sorry, Cora, but you must do as I say.
Now
.” He threw the door open and handed her over the threshold. “You must go inside and
stay
inside.”

“What is happening?” she shrilled, resisting.

How much should he tell her? He had to tell her something, but the truth was too hard to believe, and a lie would not suffice—not now, when he stood before her stark naked and having just transformed from wolf to man before her very eyes again.

“We must ride this out until dawn,” he said. “Then we will know how much of what you see and hear out there is real, and how much is vampire glamour. If all those wolves are truly
vampir
—creatures Sebastian has infected—it is one thing. Milosh believes they are Sebastian himself, as Sebastian has the power to divide into legions. Either way, we are surrounded. You must leave it to Milosh and me, Cora. I have no time to explain more, but I will once the sun rises. Then we will know—
I
will know . . . how and what we will do. You must trust me in this. Stay in the Abbey. Do not interfere. You have too little fear of the danger we are facing here. Milosh diverted their attention so I could see you safely inside. I cannot leave him alone out there with that.”

Aroused, he seized her and crushed her close in a smothering embrace. His kiss was savage, his passion feral. He tried to hold back his fangs, but he was on the verge of shapeshifting back into the wolf and he could
not. Cora melted against him. He tasted her deeply, hungering for her honey sweetness. It was like balm on the frayed edge of his reason and, as if they had a will of their own, his trembling hands roamed her body, committing every curve, every soft malleable contour to memory. He was like a man possessed, but this was a luxury he could ill afford, and he tore his lips away and put her from him, searching her moist eyes. He couldn’t speak—wouldn’t speak. There was no need. He spun away, leapt back across the threshold, hit the ground running on the huge, thick pads of the sleek gray dire wolf, and disappeared in the darkness.

Stunned, Cora swayed on the threshold. She staggered back into the dimness of the lower corridor, staring long after Joss disappeared in the predawn darkness. She closed the Abbey’s rear door. There had been a chilling finality in Joss’s parting embrace, in the savage kiss that drained her senses and left her weak and trembling. It almost seemed a good-bye. No! She would not credit that.

So many emotions riddled her, she could hardly mount the stairs. When had she fallen in love with Joss? She hardly knew. But there it was. Her knees were trembling for fear she’d lose him. At the same time, anger fisted her hands and she pounded on the banister. Why hadn’t he confided all this to her before? What was really happening? That kiss . . . that desperate, feral, soulwrenching kiss . . . No! She wouldn’t believe it was good-bye. Providence had brought them together, and Providence was not so cruel as to separate them now. Not now. Not after all she’d been through.

Cora unclenched her fists when she reached the first-floor
landing and pushed the hood of her mantle back. It was wet with snow, the weight of it wearing her down. She had just begun to climb toward the second floor, when something slammed against the front doors of the Abbey. The sound funneled down the Great Hall and echoed through the corridors, freezing her in her tracks. The slow, methodical rapping came again before the shuffling of weary feet met her ears, and she backed into the shadows watching. Parker labored along the dimly lit corridor toward the racket in his nightshirt and wrapper.

“All right, all right. I’m coming!” the valet growled. The sound came again. It was a softer sound than the rasping metallic racket the door knocker made, and Cora held her breath as Parker threw the bolt and opened the door a crack, and then a little wider to admit a great gray wolf with a smoky mask. It bounded past him, disappearing along the servants’ wing hallway. The valet poked his head out for a moment, then closed the door with a wag of his head.

Though there was no sign of Milosh, Cora sagged in relief. Joss was safe inside the Abbey at least. The charismatic Gypsy certainly must know what he was about after four centuries of vampire hunting. She was just about to continue her climb, when another knock came at the door. Was this Milosh? She stopped in her tracks again, watching Parker turn back, muttering what could only be expletives under his breath.

“What now?” the valet grumbled, opening the door a crack.

“Let us in,” said a small voice. “It’s cold . . . so cold . . .”

The sound ran Cora through. Not even knowing why, she bolted from the shadows, ran down the stairs, raced along the corridor, through the Great Hall and, wresting
the door from the slack-jawed valet’s hands, slammed it shut upon what appeared to be a gathering of refugees from the storm, many mere children.

“Here, miss!” Parker cried. “What ails you?”

Cora threw the bolt and sagged against the door, only to dance away from it as the methodical knocking came again, reverberating through her body from the old, scarred wood. She shuddered and leaked a startled cry.

“They are
undead,
” she moaned. “I know little of this . . . situation, but enough to be certain you must not even open the door—not even a crack—to such creatures. They take it as an invitation to enter, and we are outnumbered!”

“I would not have let them in, miss,” the startled valet said.

“Hear how they knock?” Cora cried. “Like a drummer banging his drum in a funeral dirge.”

The sound came again:
thump . . . thump . . . thump
. Cora covered her ears with her hands. “I cannot bear it! Will the dawn never come?”

“Now, now, miss, don’t take on so,” the valet soothed. “Young master is safe inside, and Mr. Milosh knows what he’s about. There is none finer in such situations . . . so I’m told.”

The footman Rodgers came running, his wig askew and his hose twisted. The valet stayed him with a raised hand. “It’s nothing, Rodgers, go back to bed.”

“Who can sleep with that bangin’ goin’ on?” the footman said. “Who is it, then?”

“Just beggars from the village,” said Parker, “A . . . a band of Gypsy folk—tinkers. I’ve attended to it. Run on and leave it to me.”

“Don’t sound as if you’ve ‘attended to it’ to me,” the footman said as another round of knocks shook the seasoned
wood of the door. “It’s bad luck to send a Gypsy off without a coin. You’d best give them a tribute, or they’ll never quit that bangin’.”

“I need not remind you that young master left strict orders that
no one
be admitted here,” Parker said, sour voiced. “Especially Gypsies. Now, remember yourself! You know better than to argue with me. You are not to open the doors to anyone hereafter. Not so much as a crack,” he added, casting a sideling glance at Cora, standing with her hand over her mouth as the thumping continued. “Ask who it is from now on through the closed doors,” Parker went on, in what Cora believed must be his most authoritative voice, “and admit only young master and Mr. Milosh. Is that clear?”

“As a bell, sir,” the footman said, though it was obvious that it was anything but.

“Never mind,” Parker said, bristling. “I rescind that. You are not to answer the door—either door—
at all
until further notice, should Gypsies pound upon it till doomsday. And pass the word below. Ignore the door. I shall be responsible for it solely; no one else. That should settle the matter. Now, run on!”

Shaking his head, the footman shuffled off mumbling, and Cora’s jaw dropped as her hand fell away from her mouth.

“He doesn’t know, does he?” she murmured, stupid with astonishment.

The valet shook his head. “No one does, miss,” he said, “No one save Bates, rest his soul, and me. And I only know from what curiosity earned me over time.”

Cora gasped. “Is that wise?”

“It is necessary, miss,” said the valet. “Why, if the others knew, they’d run screaming from the Abbey. They are a superstitious lot—especially the women.”

“Are you telling me no one knew that Joss’s parents . . . that
he
. . . ?” She couldn’t put her thought into words. “How could that be possible all these years?”

“They showed no symptoms, miss, and took great care to conceal it. I can say no more. It isn’t my place to carry tales. You must ask young master these things. I’m sorry, Miss Applegate. Come away now. Pay no mind to that racket. None will get in.” He turned her away from the door, and guided her along the corridor to the first-floor landing. “Go on up,” he said. “I will have Rodgers fill the tub in your dressing room, and see if Amy can be spared to tend you. You are sopping wet. You must be chilled to the bone. You’re courting pneumonia in those wet clothes in this drafty old mausoleum.”

“You needn’t trouble Amy. I can bathe myself, Parker.”

“Very well, miss,” said the valet. Sketching a bow, he disappeared toward the servants’ wing.

Cora started to climb. Every muscle in her body ached. She hadn’t noticed until now how sore she was from head to toe, as she began dragging herself up that staircase weighted down with her cold, wet frock and mantle. She had scarcely reached the master suite when Rodgers and Parker appeared with water for the tub. She was almost sorry she had cried off having Amy assist her. She had done so hoping that Joss would come to her, and she was weary and would have welcomed the girl’s assistance. Still, the bath was heavenly, silkened with attar of roses and lavender oil, and she lingered in it until it had nearly grown cold around her, before wrapping herself in one of the thick soft towels the valet had provided and padding to the window.

Outside, the first gray traces of the dreary, snow-swept dawn had come stealing over the fells. It was an eerie, ghost-gray landscape as far as the eye could see. Cora
shuddered, despite the freshly stoked fire and the luxurious towel. Though she saw no wolves, nor any living creature, man or beast, she heard their mournful howls, some close, some near. Suddenly, above the rest, there came a howl like none other. It seemed to be coming from above—the voice of a lone wolf at first, then two wolves’ voices almost in perfect harmony drifted off on the wind.