The Burning (29 page)

Stephan stepped up to the front door, his cape swirling around him in the wind. It was a heavy affair of iron-strapped wood with a lock meant for a great iron key. After the squire sent down women to clean it they had locked up so it wouldn’t become a place for thrill-seeking young people to picnic or provide refuge for petty human criminals. But they hadn’t stopped at that. No, they’d nailed the door shut with great six-inch spikes. Several were still scattered on the portico.

A flash of failure overwhelmed him. He hadn’t been able to use his new power properly against the nest. He’d been forced to fight the creatures with conventional means. He had been stronger than usual. The training had given him that much. But he’d barely escaped with his life, and he’d not been able to kill them all. Now he was feeling emotions over the damned girl. His power would be weakened even
further. How could he win against even more of them when Kilkenny brought his army back for vengeance?

Stephan pulled at the door until the nails shrieked, the metal of the lock protested and gave way. The minute it creaked open, he could smell the blood. It still lurked in cracks and crevices and corners. Stephan wondered if he could bear to wait for Kilkenny here. He roamed through the house. The dining room was empty. A flash of how he had last seen it snapped through his brain; filled with shards of furniture and broken glass, blood and severed heads. He had not been able to use his full power that night, to his shame, but he had caused carnage enough. Or almost enough. They must have taken the wood out back and burned it. Through the overwhelming smell of blood, Stephan had the scent of burning wood . . . and cinnamon.

Dread crashed through him. He pushed it down savagely. Emotions were not allowed, now least of all. Wishes, though—one was allowed to wish, wasn’t one? He wished with all his heart there were not too many of them. He stepped into the front parlor silently. Among the dust-covered furniture he stopped where he could see the front door, swinging wildly on its hinges in the wind. He went still, that he might feel the vibrations of the newly made and count them.

What he felt instead was that hum at the extreme edge of consciousness indicating very old vampires.

He took a breath. His heart galloped in fits and starts in his throat as a tall, graceful figure slid through the open doorway.

“Hello, Deirdre,” he said with outward calm. He was the Harrier now. He did not have to kneel to her. “What are you doing here?”

She was dressed in a heavy wool cape, black, lined with black satin. She pushed back the hood from the dark mass of her hair. Behind her, Freya stepped out of her shadow. Freya too wore a black wool cape, though hers was lined with
shimmering white satin. Their eyes were hard, cold as they looked him up and down, saying nothing.

All the reasons they could be here darted through his mind. He sent a phrase of the chant through his thoughts to banish fear. Could they mean to help him, knowing he would be overwhelmed? They did not look like eager warriors . . .

“I can smell the stink of emotion on him, Freya.” Deirdre’s voice cracked out, clear against the howling wind.

“It’s a good thing we came.” Even Freya’s voice was unforgiving. And why would they forgive him? His last failure at Mirso had cost them a sister’s love.

“Why are you here?” Stephan repeated, making his voice reflect his will, implacable.

Deirdre eyed him up and down. “To clean up the leavings, when you fail.”

That hit him hard. They were so sure he would fail? He wouldn’t ask for their help. He couldn’t blame Rubius for needing insurance. But to send his own daughters out into the world, away from the protection of Mirso? Rubius too must think he’d fail, and be desperate, indeed.

“I’ll try to do you out of a job.”

“Like you did with the ones who were staying here?” Freya’s words slapped at him.

Guilt bent his head. He took a breath and raised his eyes to theirs. “The one that escaped will bring Kilkenny here, where I can get at him.”

Deirdre’s expression of disdain was like an arrow in his heart. “Don’t tell me you let his second in command go by design.”

The one that got away had been Kilkenny’s second? How did they know that? And . . . now he came to think on it, how did they know where to find him? It had been only two weeks since he had written to Rubius about coming to Cheddar Gorge. It would take far longer for the note to get
to Mirso and the Daughters to travel to this remote corner of England. Unless . . .

“You don’t think Father trusted you, do you?” Freya asked, apparently reading his question in his face. “After what happened at Mirso?” She looked . . . disappointed in him.

“So you were sent to follow me from the first,” Stephan said matter-of-factly. He felt once more like the humble Penitent not allowed to speak in their presence. Their certainty he would fail was like a knife in his belly. He could not let them see that. “Why didn’t Rubius just send you to kill Asharti’s remnants in the first place?” he asked.

“We are his daughters,” Freya said, drawing herself up. “He does not want to risk us.”

“Freya,” Deirdre snorted. “How can you still be naïve after all these years? The truth is, Harrier, our talents are not for killing. No, we are the way to make more weapons like you. He does not want to endanger his capacity to create Harriers.”

Freya sniffed. “It is a measure of his desperation that we are here at all.”

“Your power in its current state will get many, but not all,” Deirdre said. “Our job is to assess the degree of your failure and know how many more of you to create.”

“Well, you’ve had a long trip for nothing.” He got himself in hand and managed insouciance. “I’ll kill them all. You should have more faith.” He took a breath and made his voice light. “You’re staying at the Hammer and Anvil? I trust you find it comfortable. You should perhaps return there, unless you have some final words of wisdom for me.”

Deirdre smiled. He had never seen her smile. He didn’t like the sensation now.

“Here are my words,” she almost whispered. “Prepare yourself for your task, if you are to have any chance to return to Mirso.” Then her eyes went red.

For an instant, Stephan thought she was going to take
hold of him, tell him to strip and give him a lesson in obedience and control right there in the drawing room of Bucklands Lodge. But the blackness only whirled up around her, followed an instant later by Freya’s own power, and they disappeared the way they had come.

Stephan was left standing in the darkened room alone. His stomach churned. They would not have gone far. They would want to know when Kilkenny and company arrived. Stephan had enough control not to move. He did not pace or run his hands through his hair. He simply stood.

Why had they revealed themselves to him? To shake his confidence further? To ensure he would not succeed? To punish him for what he had done . . . ?

He pushed the thoughts, the memories away.
Sithfren, hondrelo, frondura, denai
.

Air into his lungs, air out. He breathed. Better. He couldn’t be afraid when Kilkenny came. He couldn’t doubt himself. Damn the Daughters! Damn the Van Helsing girl. He had been indulging in emotion entirely too much lately.

He turned and sat in a huge wooden chair, one of the peculiarly uncomfortable carved Tudor thrones. It suited his purpose admirably. He wanted to be uncomfortable. He would sit here until dawn or until Kilkenny came, drawing his power, practicing his control. Preparing.

Ann’s mind was in turmoil after Mr. Sincai disappeared. She couldn’t possibly sleep under the circumstances. She had to think what to do about Van Helsing, about her uncle, about Mr. Sincai . . .

He came to her bedside. He was naked. She saw his chest and shoulders clearly, but his nether parts were in shadow. He was bulky with muscle, dangerous and strong. His long dark hair swirled about his shoulders with a life of its own. He didn’t say anything. He just stared at her. He was
sweating slightly. His skin was damp. His nipples peeked out through a light dusting of dark hair. His eyes burned her. He was going to touch her . . . everywhere and she wanted that. As a matter of fact, she had a peculiar, full feeling between her legs and his touch might cure that. Or make it worse.

How had she come to bed naked? But she was, and he knelt beside her on the bed. He pressed his body alongside hers, touching the whole length of her, and feathered her neck, her lips with kisses, until she began to throb between her legs. She knew she would be wet there, but that was not a thing to regret. His hands roamed her body, touching her with an exquisite, firm, strangely masculine touch. She couldn’t describe it, but it wasn’t what she expected at all. She wanted more.
Needed
more. She lifted her hips against him, wondering what would happen next. But he just kept touching her, kissing her, until she wanted to scream. Her nether parts were clenching. She put her own hand down to stop them from doing what they were doing, but somehow, as she searched for the place that itched with need, she couldn’t find it. She kneaded her mound, trying to press away the throbbing. Then a wrenching sensation contracted her whole body.

With a shock, she woke, gasping. Her hand was between her legs, even as she throbbed with . . . what? What had happened? She jerked her hand away. Her thighs were wet. Her fingers smelled of her own musk. God, had she damaged herself somehow? Was that . . . Wait! She knew of such things. It was called “the little death.”

She had rubbed herself to ecstasy while thinking of Stephan Sincai. A blush suffused her whole body. Wanton! She could not have the touch of a man, so she touched herself in her sleep? Pathetic. Sterile. Everyone she knew would call it sinful. Sadness came and sat on her shoulders. Not so much, unfortunately, because of her sin, but because that was all she would ever know of what made her a
woman. Stupid girl! If that was all it was, she could live without that.

It was still night. The draperies in her bedroom had not been drawn and branches tapped and scraped against the glass in the wind. Rain beat in staccato sheets and shimmied down the pane, making the world seem unreal. It must be near morning. She hardly felt strong enough to move. Weak flesh! She had drained her resources pleasuring herself when she should be thinking about her cousin, her uncle, not about Sincai. She could practically feel Van Helsing down in his room, polluting the refuge of Maitlands. Soon it would be daylight, and Erich would come to her room whenever he pleased or be waiting for her when she went to visit her uncle. She wasn’t sure he’d even wait for marriage. What was to stop him from taking her here, in her bed, in whatever disgusting way he pleased? It wouldn’t be anything like her dream about Sincai.

She had to leave this place. Not permanently—how could she contemplate that? But just for now. She rose and threw on her cloak, drew on her stout half-boots. She was for her cave.

The key turned in the lock of her door. Erich threw open the door to the nursery without even using the knocker she had installed long ago to warn her of intruders to her privacy. She hadn’t heard him on the stair. “So,” he said, eyeing her. He slapped a rolled paper against the palm of his opposite hand.

Ann turned and pulled her cloak around her. She felt the blood drain from her face. “How . . . how dare you enter without permission, sir?”

He strode to the center of the room, glaring at her. The snap of the rolled paper cracked at her senses. He glanced about the room. “And how do you get out, my willful loon?”

“Get out? Oh, you mean my cloak.” She swallowed. “I was cold.”

“What a poor lie. You were going out, even though your door was locked.” He looked around again, more carefully. “Let’s see, my loon, how you escape.”

To Ann’s horror, he went to a bookcase and began running his hands over the carved wooden edge. “Speaking of lunacy, whatever are you doing?” she croaked.

He whirled on her. “Where is it? There’s a secret passage, is there not?”

“You, sir, are a guest in my house, and you will leave my private chamber at once.”

Erich glared at her. Then his stare seemed to waver. Her heart fell into her shoes as she realized he was staring over her shoulder at the fireplace. “Priests’ holes . . . They’re always near the hearth, aren’t they? An old pile like this might have one. They’d need a plan to get the children to safety from the nursery in case of . . . wasn’t one of the Brockweirs a Jacobite sympathizer?” He strode past her to the fireplace. “Bonnie Prince Charlie and all of that.”

“You will leave immediately, sir,” she commanded with what authority she could muster as her knees weakened. He was going to find it. Even now he ran his hand over the stone carving . . . the knob at the center of the rose . . .

The door sprang open.

He spun, maniacal triumph writ large on his face. “I knew it!”

“And so?” Ann felt calm coat her, though the center of her boiled with anger and with fear. The secret door had been the only thing that kept her refuge from being a trap.

“So I shall have Polsham nail it up at both ends.” Erich drew himself up and went still.

“Polsham takes his orders from me.” But Erich seemed so sure of himself.

He let a slow smile spread over his features. It just didn’t reach his eyes. Ann had never seen a smile just like that. “Not any more, my own private loon.” He held up the rolled
paper. “The special license,” he announced. “And I received your uncle’s blessing today. Your retainers know that with a quick trip to Mr. Cobblesham tomorrow afternoon to make arrangements and two witnesses, by Thursday afternoon we shall be locked in holy matrimony.”

“And my fortune will be yours.”

Again the smile. “And by Thursday night, your body will be mine, as well.”

Ann’s eyes welled with tears. “You can have my fortune. I won’t make any trouble for you. But . . .” The word stuck in her throat. She tried again. “But . . . please don’t touch me.”

“A husband not claim his rights? Your high-handed treatment hasn’t inspired restraint.”

“I won’t be high-handed. I won’t be proud.” Her voice sounded small even to herself.