Seven for a Secret (13 page)

What’s the matter? The pack too fierce?

He fled like a darting hare, cover to cover. Though she and her sister slavered at his heels, the others racing behind, she could not quite catch him, even when she strained, snapping at his heels, Adele beside her. When he plunged down the stairs to the crypt she exulted—now I have you!—but then remembered.

She must not catch him. He was here for her. She must—

But she did not know how to lose him, with Adele beside her. She had no choice; she must give it her best effort, and run him to ground.

And with the lust for blood in her teeth, it would be easy. Easier to kill than to stop. Easier to rend than to protect. It was dim and red behind her, what she had intended.
Kill him. Kill the enemy
.

…except the dim whisper of reason would not let her. She thought she heard her Zayde’s voice in her ear. She turned and snapped, as if at a clutching hand, and saw Adele shy in confusion behind her. And then the flap of cloaks, two now, wait—they darted like schooling fish and when she lunged for one, the other was there, cutting across her path. She lunged again, grabbed with one hand, swung her improvised mace. Adele jabbed with the broken pole; there was a flash of hair like fire as the wampyr’s hood tore off. And then she—it was a she, behind the mask, and she was laughing—ducked aside and the first one was there before them again, so Ruth pivoted and leaped for him—

And something hit her in the ribs, hit her hard and knocked her sprawling. She rolled into shadows, gasping, her breath struck away, and pushed herself up on her elbows to chase a flickering shadow that smelled of cold and—very faintly, as if from long ago—cologne.

But he turned there by the gap between pillars, pressed a fingertip to his mouth—
shhh
—and mouthed
Godspeed
at her.

She checked herself.
Do not kill
. Though the wolf slavered in her. Do not kill.

She had promised her Zayde something. She would remember it.

Old oaths superseded new. She would remember who she was. She gritted her teeth, closed her eyes, determined. When she opened them again, Adele crouched beside her, sniffing heavily, the shattered pole in her hands slick with some dark substance. It did not—exactly—smell like blood.

Ruth put a hand on her haunch. Adele glanced over, panting like a train, the gold in her eyes dimming now.

„Damn,” she said. „I think they’re gone.”

Abby Irene was there to meet Sebastien when he staggered into the hall. He leaned heavily upon the redheaded wampyr’s shoulder, a handful of tattered black cloth wadded in his hand and pressed against his side. Abby Irene wheeled her chair forward, shouting for Jason and Phoebe and Mrs. Moyer, but Sebastien raised a and to keep her back.

“Uncomfortable close to a staking,” he said. “Give me a little time to recover.”

She stopped, and rolled her chair back. She was not afraid of him, or what he might do in his blood-lust, while injured. His control was a thing of legend—and in her weariness, she could have thought of no better way to die than feeding him. She was old; let her do something useful again.

Except it would break Sebastien’s heart, whatever lies he told himself about her, and she knew that.

Abby Irene looked at the damned red-headed wampyr with her smooth translucent skin, her clear eyes, her strength to bear Sebastien up as if he weighed nothing at all. Abby Irene opened her mouth to order the wampyr to bring Sebastien inside, and the words caught in her throat.

For the first time in her life, she envied a wampyr.

And then she shook her head.
Soon
, she promised herself.
As soon as there is a King Phillip in England once more. You can let go then.

She already heard feet on the stairs, but it didn’t matter. Raising her voice again, she yelled, “Damn you, Phoebe, put on your slippers! Where are you?!”

She blinked stinging eyes behind the thick lenses of her glasses, and looked the deathless creature who was Alice Marjorie for now in the eyes. “Bring him into the parlor,” she said. “We’ll lay him down on the divan.”

The wampyr followed her orders, as if there had never been any question at all.

Lieutenant Grell, her black wool uniform spotless from white blouse collar to spit-polished boots, disembarked the train in Berlin. She had expected Lieutenant Kneeland to meet her at the station, but while a crisp glance from one end of the platform showed many uniforms moving with brisk direction, none of them embraced the lean form of a Sturmwölf.

Someone said in her ear, „She had car trouble.”

It was a dark-haired man of slightly more than medium height, slender, eyes shaded from the harsh glare of electric lights under a rakish bowler hat. He smiled, just a little, when he saw her.

Her nostrils flared on the cold, distant scent of undeath.

„Nothing serious?” Her palms should not sweat so. She was his equal, in strength if not in age.

The smile broadened. „Just a few loose wires. She’ll no doubt be along before you have time to find a cup of coffee.”

„So you met me at the station. How kind. That must have been hard traveling.”

He winked, and quipped „
Denn die Todten reiten schnell.
”

She laughed. „Fast indeed. Did you have yourself shipped? Well, Count, I know you did not seek me out only for conversation—”

„I came,” he said, „to give you a last chance to change your mind. And join your mother in New Amsterdam.”

„And leave all this?” A bitter sweep of her gloved hand took in the garishly-lit station, the bustle of soldiers. „Not to mention Adele—”

„You did not give her the powder?”

Lip-biting, Ruth shook her head. She had not thrown it away, either, though she had meant to toss it from the train. She groped it from her pocket and thrust it at the wampyr, whose hands stayed stubbornly by his sides.

„Take it.”

He tucked his hands behind his back. „Adele will not forgive you.”

Lieutenant Grell nodded. „I’m not going to brainwash her.”

„The Prussians already have. You lose her either way, you know. And this way, perhaps you lose your life as well.” But he put his palm out and let her lay the pouch across it.

Ruth said, „So I will enjoy what I have, while I have it. Thank you for your offer. But no. I have my orders.” She patted her pocket to make them crinkle. But those were not really the orders she meant.

He stepped back. „Failing that, I came to give you a name,” he said, quietly. „A name you can find me under. Come and find me when the war is over. And you are alone. If you live, Ruth Grell.”

It stopped her, that certainty. She raised her eyes to his. Where his hand had closed around the pouch, she brushed the back of his glove with the back of her own.

She swallowed. “If I live,” she said in English. “I will.”

She believed she was lying. But he thought she would be surprised, when everything was ended, when she had lost her Adele. She would be surprised to discover she had told him the truth, after all.