The Burning (17 page)

Awareness claimed him in a burst of recognition. He had let last night happen. Shame washed over him. Was he so easily lured to lust? How many times had he pleasured them? He lost count. His cock had been roused again and again, even if he didn’t match them orgasm for orgasm. They were insatiable. But he? He was demoralized by despair and by guilt. That made it easy to lose himself in the transformation of physical pleasure. He should have had more spine
.

But surely it was over. Last night would have quenched any thirst they might have for sex. They would leave him alone now. Wouldn’t they? He wanted to start his training. The real training, not what had happened last night. The last numbness faded. Words from last night echoed in his mind
. Obey. Eagerly. Highly sexed. Control. Punished. Banished. Sexual energy. Increased. Suppression.
The words crowded together into new combinations of meaning
.

That was what Rubius had said. “We all have the power in us. It must be drawn out. If you suppress that energy, it increases your power . . . Learn my daughters’ lessons.”

An awful realization drenched him. Rubius meant
sexual
energy. Last night was not an aberration. His daughters’ lessons would use sexual energy, increase it, teach him to suppress it, use it to become Rubius’s killing machine? He inhaled a raw breath
.

In the corridor outside he heard steps. Several men approached. They carried something awkward. He smelled beef and charred vegetables and the yeasty scent of ale. The bolt at the door was drawn back. With a shock, Stephan recognized the monk who appeared at the door
.

Brother Flavio glanced at Stephan and motioned to those who followed him. They carried in a tub, which they set in front of the fireplace, and went directly to build a fire. A line of monks trailed in with buckets of steaming water in either hand. They poured the hot water into the tub and turned to leave. One laid a towel over the side. The last in line had a plate piled high with food and a tankard. None of them took notice of Stephan’s nakedness
.

Brother Flavio said nothing to him. His eyes did not meet Stephan’s. The monk’s long nose and narrow face, his prim mouth and kind, dark eyes were as familiar to Stephan as his own. Of course they were. This was the man who had been his caretaker, his tutor at Mirso, as near as he had ever had to a father during the time he had grown to the point of manhood where all aging stopped so many centuries ago. Stephan watched the others go. Brother Flavio arranged the plates. In a moment he would finish. Stephan couldn’t let Flavio walk out without some signal, even if it was only recognition
.

“Brother Flavio, do you not know me?” His voice was raw
.

Flavio still did not look at him. “I know you, boy.”

Stephan looked up at him. His eyes felt raw from lack of sleep. He had frolicked in this man’s wake as Flavio tended the monastery’s flock of geese. He had provoked Flavio’s smiles by teasing and pulling on the cord that tied the monk’s robe. There was no smile now, only judgment. He was a criminal to Flavio, to his kind. And to himself
.

“You are ashamed of me.”

Flavio’s shoulders sank. Stephan knew that it was true. “But you will make me proud again,” he whispered. “You can still redeem your sins.”

Stephan’s throat constricted around any response he might have made
.

Flavio straightened. He fished in the pocket of his habit and produced a bar of soap. “Eat and wash,” he ordered, submerging into the role of servant/guard once more. “They will be here soon.”

In fact, Stephan could feel the sun setting. He looked down at the soap. The strong scent of lye permeated the room, mixing with the smell of pitch oozing from logs in the fire and the scents of olive oil, cooked meat, and ripe fruit from the food. Flavio turned and hurried out as if afraid that he had already given the Penitent too much solace
.

Stephan took a breath. In some ways this was more a moment of decision than his commitment to Rubius last night. Now he could guess the fearful road ahead. The weight on his shoulders of Flavio’s judgment and his own was earned. The prospect of bathing and eating to make himself ready for them was unbearable. Would he refuse the only way back?

He wanted death
.

But they would not reward him with death. Death was not atonement
.

The steam of the bath filled the air and lay heavy in his lungs. It made the room feel claustrophobic
.

Atonement was doing what was unbearable
.

He raised his head, with effort. He stood, soap in his hand, and stepped into the bath
.

Stephan jerked his head up at Mrs. Simpson’s snort as she settled herself more comfortably in the chair. There was no point in dwelling on these memories. In fact, the emotions they raised in him told him that even now his training was not complete. He must push them down, concentrate on what his purpose was.

The candles guttered. It must be close to dawn. He blew them out. In the dark, the girl’s small form looked even more vulnerable, more isolated. He glanced over to Mrs. Simpson. She would not be able to watch over Miss Van Helsing. What did it matter? The girl was in a state only once removed from death. And he had his mission. He would wait in his room at the tavern, preparing with chants and meditation. He had no obligation here. He was obligated to Rubius and his daughters who had worked so hard to make him what he was. He was obligated to his kind and their future, and his own future of refuge at Mirso.

He watched Mrs. Simpson’s head nod onto her chest.

It would not do. He took a breath and let it out, realizing what he intended.

Then he went to stand in front of the old woman. He raised his power just enough to make the room go red, and shook her shoulder. She gasped awake and looked around, frightened. But as she fixed her gaze on him, he had her. The fear drained away.

“You do not need to sit with her. She sleeps the night through,” he said, his voice low, commanding.

She nodded.

“You and Mrs. Creevy will see to her needs during the day.” He watched her nod again. “Now go to bed, good woman.”

Mrs. Simpson rose and tottered to the door. She came to herself and let herself out, murmuring, “She’s all right. She’s sleeping the night through. I’ll just to bed now.”

Stephan drew the wing chair up to the bedside and sat down. He would stay just a while more. And he’d be back tomorrow night. He wasn’t becoming involved. That might lead to emotion. It was just something to do until Kilkenny came for him.

Nine

The shouting in the courtyard of the tavern woke him. Stephan’s eyes snapped open. It was nearly sunset. He was stronger today. He had fed near dawn twice. The fulsome widow and the maidenly girl had both been rewarded with sensual dreams to take the place of their memory.

“Murders,” a man yelled. “They’s been murders!”

“What? What’s that you say?” This was a chorus of voices.

“T-t-terrible,” someone else stuttered. This one sounded young. Stephan got up and went to the window. So, they had found the horror he had left behind at the hunting lodge. He cracked the draperies and pushed the shutters out just enough to reveal the scene below. Ostlers and denizens of the taproom crowded around a boy of perhaps sixteen. An older man with gray hair and a ruddy complexion climbed down from a cart pulled by an unassuming horse.

“Van Helsing had Dick here deliver supplies to Bucklands Lodge.”

Unfortunate that it was a boy who had come upon that
gruesome scene. The lad looked pale unto death. Stephan knew he would be haunted by his discovery for the rest of his short life.

“What is it, boy? What did you find? Murder, you say?” The crowd was growing.

“Blood.” The boy’s eyes were saucers. “Heads . . . and great gobbets of . . .” His voice slid up the scale, until he broke off and buried his head in his hands, sobbing. The older man put his arms around the thin, shaking shoulders.

“Now, Dick, it don’t do no good to dwell on it.” His own voice was unsteady.

“Did you see it, Will?” the proprietor of the tavern asked sternly, coming out to the yard and wiping his hands on his apron. “Or did the boy get foxed last night, and start seein’ things?”

“Oh, it were real, all right,” Will replied. “Dick come to get me. Somebody got tore limb from limb. Several somebodies.”

The crowd went silent.

“What could do that?” the proprietor asked quietly. “Tear men limb from limb?”

“An animal . . .” Will said into the silence. But he didn’t sound certain.

“Who was it in the hunting box?” This from a tall, hawkfaced man in work clothes.

Will shook his head. “Mayhap someone at Maitlands would know.”

Stephan grimaced. They might know who the men purported to be but not who they really were. The proprietor of the tavern shouldered his way to the front of the crowd.

“Will, take Dick over to the squire’s. Tell him I’m getting a party of men up to go down there. He’ll want to send to Bow Street for the runners, I expect.”

“Runners don’t hunt animals, Mr. Watkins,” a man Stephan recognized as Jemmy said plaintively.

The proprietor, Watkins, looked grim. “An’ if it turns out
it’s animals, we’ll thank ’em kindly and let ’em go home to London.”

Unexpected that they’d send to London for help. But of course anything like this was far outside the provincial experience of a small town. Two days to get here if they came immediately. One up to London, and one back. They’d certainly be here before Kilkenny. There was no evidence to link him to the murders. Inquiries would be inconvenient, nothing more. Still, he was an outsider. If Bow Street runners acted without proof it could be inconvenient.

He felt the sun set. He needed to feed again to keep his strength up. He’d search out Pillinger. The young agent could more than spare a pint or so. Then, Maitlands Abbey called.

There was really no reason to be here. The budding branches clacked above him in the March wind. The lights of Maitlands Abbey’s south façade winked at him across the wide swath of lawn. It was growing a bit rough in places. Apparently the place could not keep gardeners, either. The library blazed with light. A glow from the back said the kitchens were occupied. And one window on the fourth floor glimmered faintly. Maybe she had wakened. Perhaps she merely slept in her narrow bed with a candle at her side.

Why had he convinced Mrs. Simpson not to sit with the girl? It didn’t matter. He had. He gritted his teeth. He could feel the tug from across the lawns. She drew him to her side.

The Harrier, implacable executioner of the Elders’ will, was steadfast. He
would
be steadfast to his purpose. But in the meantime, he would keep the commitment he had made to watch over her. That was who he was. He drew the power, felt the wash of pain, and blinked into awareness in the darkness of her dressing room.

He peered into her room and received a shock. She lay,
pale and still, in the child’s bed. Over her hung a shadow. It was Van Helsing. Stephan slipped back into the shadows. Van Helsing came to himself and looked around. Fear grew in his eyes. So, he must be feeling Stephan’s vibrations, just beyond the edge of his senses. Well, let him feel this. Stephan ramped up his power. The room went red. He murmured, “You don’t feel anything.” Then he let his Companion slide back down his veins. Van Helsing shook his head. His attention returned to the fragile, insensate figure of the girl. He bent and lifted the corner of her coverlet.

“Oh, ho . . .” he whispered. “What have we here?” He threw back the coverlet.

The women had changed her shift. The worn but fine linen that covered her body was as thin as cobwebs. Stephan could see the outline of her breasts, the shadow of her nipples. Van Helsing cupped her right breast and thumbed her nipple through the cloth. His soft, plump hands caressing her skin made Stephan’s flesh crawl. He clenched himself shut. No emotion. He chanced control of weaker minds only to protect himself. This was not his business.