The Burning (40 page)

Ann watched Kilkenny walk into the shadows through filled eyes. She had never seen a man so alone. Even the comfort of his ideals had been stripped from him. In some ways they had been his protection from what Asharti had done to him, and what he had done in her name. Now he had no refuge left. She and Stephan both understood the need for refuge.

She looked down at her bleeding palm and then up at Stephan. Her own refuge was gone forever, too. Why had she taken such a momentous step on an impulse? What kind of future had she let herself in for—outcast from all she knew, drinking blood . . . eternity, for God’s sake? And where did God stand in all of this? Was she even one of God’s creatures anymore, or had she crossed to the dark side?

Stephan smiled at her. Such a tiny, tenuous smile.

No, she had not crossed over into evil. She had crossed to Stephan’s side. The last barrier between them had been cast aside. Whatever the problems ahead, what she had done was the next step on a journey she undertook when she found the courage to touch him in the cave. That had been an impulse,
too, one that took her outside the comfort of her isolation. She would never regret it. Stephan’s form began to waver around the edges. Her vision blurred. It was not just that her eyes were swimming with tears. She was hot, too, come to think of it. Extremely hot.

Concern darted into Stephan’s eyes. He swept her up into his arms. “We need a safe haven. You will become very ill for a while.”

“A refuge?” She closed her eyes and smiled. She was so tired. “We’re short of those just now.” But he was right. “The cave?”

He looked down at her and settled her in his arms. She must be very light for one as strong as he was. “It may come to that. But you would prefer someplace familiar to you, yet with more creature comforts.” His eyes had that red glow in them she had come to find beautiful. She laid her head against his shoulder and felt the bulge of muscle against her cheek. Underneath the smell of blood was the wonderful cinnamon scent.

She felt darkness whirling up around her and then it was inside her head.

“This may be uncomfortable, but it will only last a moment,” she heard him say. But it was far away. Then nothing.

Stephan pressed his translocation as far as he possibly could. He was surprised to see that he had made the crossroads at Sidcot, a good five miles from the lodge. Only a very powerful vampire could translocate so far, and weakened as he was from wounds and carrying Ann . . . Had her joining with him somehow increased his strength? His Companion still sang in his veins.

Good. Then he would press even harder this time and make it to Maitlands in two tries. He glanced down to Ann. Her sickness was progressing more rapidly than he would
expect. She must have blood equipped with immunity quickly, before the Companion could wreak havoc on her body. She needed his blood.

Come to me!
he called to his Companion.
Bring all the strength you have
.

The crossroads and the carriage that approached from Upper Langford were washed with the familiar red film as his eyes glowed with the power of the one who shared his blood. Darkness whirled up quickly, a searing pain ripped through him, and the darkness drained away, revealing the ruined Gothic arches of Maitlands Abbey stabbing the midnight sky around them. A night breeze made gooseflesh on his bare torso, but Ann was hot against his chest. The rooms of Maitlands were dark. He saw lights only in the servants’ quarters and a dim glimmer in the distant chapel—no doubt the candles marking the vigil for Ann’s dead uncle. But outside it was a different story. He spotted guards around the building, several carrying torches. To keep him out? To guard Van Helsing? The fool must know a few guards couldn’t stop him.

Even as he watched, a horse trotted up the drive. It was Van Helsing. He knew the rider’s identity long before one of the guards held his torch high and made his challenge.

“Who goes there?”

“The future owner of thish pile.” Van Helsing sneered as he dismounted. “Give way.”

“Well, if it ain’t Mr. Van Helsing,” another guard said as he sauntered up. Several others were also gathering. They seemed to be a surly lot, with several broken noses and cauliflower ears between them. “Whater you doin’ here at midnight?”

“I’ve come to shee my coushin.” Van Helsing was foxed.

“Well, she’s hired us to tell you she don’t want to see you,” the leader of this unlikely band of protectors said. He grabbed Van Helsing by the shoulders to turn him
around. The blackguard spun out of his grip, then staggered.

So, Ann had sent him to the right about.
Good girl,
he thought.
I knew you had it in you
.

“She thinks she’s too good for me?” he muttered. He straightened in an exaggerated motion. “She’s a loon!”

“Looks to me like a woman of sense if she don’t want you haunting the place,” one of the other guards remarked.

“Off with you, or the lads here’ll make your head feel even worse in the morning than it’s like to do from drink.” The leader of the guards made a menacing move. Van Helsing flinched visibly, if a little late, in response.

“Very well,” he said with exaggerated dignity. “I shall call on her in the morning.” He glanced up to the house. “The bitch.” He wavered, then leaned forward conspiratorially. “She’ll have me in the end. I’ve got friends. They’ll give her no choish.”

“Let me give you a hand, fellow,” a grinning guard said. Another picked up the horse’s reins. Van Helsing struggled getting his foot into the stirrup. Two guards heaved on his buttocks and somehow he got into the saddle. He trotted down the lane, listing first to one side, then another. The guards returned to their stations, chuckling.

Stephan was not so sure he shared their confidence. Van Helsing’s seat had been decidedly steadier trotting up than trotting out. The man was shamming drunkenness. It didn’t matter. Stephan had no time for him. He could feel Ann shiver in his arms. His brows drew together in concern. The fever was starting already? Too soon! He had not much time.

He glanced up at the dark fourth floor and summoned his Companion.

When he flickered into the low-ceilinged room, he laid her on her narrow bed. They had made love in this bed. She had given him both her virginity and the hope that sexual congress with a woman, at least with one woman, was not a shameful torture but a hallowed gift. It was some kind of
miracle he had not hurt her. And if he had been weakened for his horrible task by their lovemaking, still, at the moment of confrontation he had been stronger than he had ever been—also a gift from her. Together they had . . . what? He still wasn’t sure.

He stared at her, silver hair haloed on her pillow, skin pale as parchment and gleaming with perspiration. She had been right about the power. Opening himself at that last moment had been even more compelling than suppression. Or maybe only opening himself to her. When he saw her there, he had hated the creatures around him for exposing her to this horror, knowing they would turn on her next. He had wanted to protect her more than anything he’d ever wanted. Perhaps she didn’t need protecting. Or maybe together they were more than either alone . . .

God! What was he thinking? He shoved his hands in his pockets, as though to keep them from ever touching her again. She had given up
everything
she knew tonight and everything she was. The guilt of it ate at him. She couldn’t know what eternal life would mean; the endless struggle with who and what you were, the repetition, the exposure to every horror man could concoct again and again, until belief in anything was well nigh impossible. Two thousand years of experience made one into a cynic even cynics would find harsh. She on the other hand had never been outside the neighborhood. She had lived her life in these small rooms. He had added becoming a monster to the burden of her psychic ability. New vampires were prone to madness when they could not cope with the terms of their new life and the power the Companion conferred upon them. Wasn’t madness what Ann had been trying to avoid all her life?

He ripped her dress with a single tear and pulled off her half-boots. He unlaced her short corset. She seemed almost insensible. Then he threw back the covers and laid her gently between her sheets. Her shift was drenched with perspiration.
He felt her forehead. Burning hot. How could the infection progress so rapidly? Only in cases of infection by the blood of a very old and powerful vampire did such rapid onset occur. He might be two thousand years old, but that did not qualify him as old and powerful. He pulled the quilts up over her.

It was his fault. Touching him had sent her into the coma. If he had had the courage to stay away from her, she would not have found herself trying to warn him at the lodge . . .

Why? Why had she ripped her palm and pressed it to his bleeding flesh? He ran one hand through his hair in distraction. She knew what would happen! She knew everything. He sucked air into his lungs and went still. She did it for him. She said so. The air sighed out as he stared at her, tossing her head on the pillow. Her act had stopped him and Kilkenny from fighting. She was that selfless. He didn’t deserve it! He didn’t deserve her.

Forcibly he pushed away those thoughts. That way lay paralysis. Right now he had to get her his blood. He went to her dressing table and took up the little silver-handled knife she used to pare her nails. It would be too horrible for her to wake and find him tearing his own flesh with elongated canines. She needed a cleaner way to drink his blood. He caught a glimpse of his form in her nightstand mirror. God’s breath! He looked like a bloody gargoyle. His shirt had been ripped from his body except for a single cuff and the tattered remnant of the other sleeve attached to his collar. His flesh was smeared with dirt and half-dried blood. His hair was matted with the sticky goo. He did not want her to wake and see such a horror hanging over her, but there was no time to clean himself. He could drain blood from a cut in his wrist into a glass and have her drink. Very clean, that. The blood might be mistaken for a cordial, anything but what it was. She moaned. She seemed to be worsening so quickly! Fear
wound its way up from his bowels. There was no time for a slow drain from his wrist.

He sat beside her and felt for the pulse at the base of his throat on the right side. He thrust the knife deep into the artery then pinched the wound closed with one hand and tossed the little knife away. Still blood squeezed out through his fingers. He gathered her up with his other arm.

“Ann,” he whispered to her. Then louder. “Ann!” Her eyelids fluttered. “You must do as I bid.” Her eyes opened slowly. He saw them focus on him. A tiny smile touched her lips. “You need my blood.” He was prepared to force her.

“Stephan,” she whispered. Her body under the light shift was like a coal. She was slick with sweat. He held her to his breast. His hand on her slender neck helped her find the wound on his throat, and then he took his fingers away and let his blood spurt into her mouth. He made ready to hold her there when she struggled in revulsion.

She didn’t struggle. She nuzzled at his throat, making a small sound of . . . of satisfaction, he would swear. One hand stole around his neck. She was kissing, sucking, her breasts pressed against him through the thin, damp shift. He threw his head back as he felt his loins tighten. He had never felt anything as sensual as Ann, rocking against his body in rhythm with the beat of his heart and taking his blood. As his body healed, she pulled harder at the wound. He felt as though she sucked his soul with his blood. His loins were enflamed into a full erection now. The wound closed under her lips. He felt it seal itself.

She sat back. Her eyes were clear. It would be brief. “You need more,” he apologized. “The first infusion must be substantial.”

She nodded. Of course she would already know how it worked. He took up the knife again and found the artery in the other side of his throat. Arteries were always the
fastest. He waited for her to turn away, squeamish or horrified.

“If you can make this sacrifice,” she whispered, eyes big, “the least I can do is watch.”

He took a breath, plunged the knife in and held the wound closed. Still blood spurted between his fingers and sprayed her shift. She leaned in and first licked his fingers then as he freed the wound, she fastened on and gulped his life’s essence and the blood that would share its gift of immunity with her. Again his genitals throbbed as she rocked against him, sucking. This time the wound closed faster. He must be regaining his strength. But the flow had been strong. She had gotten enough.

She sat back, flushed and clear-eyed. She’d need more soon, but he was strong enough for what lay ahead. He had fed several times in the last week. Thank Pillinger and the girls at the tavern for that. If she needed the last drop of blood in his body he would give it.

“Thank you,” she said seriously, “for your gift.”

“There will be more.” Suddenly, he glanced down at himself, remembering his frightful state. Worse than the dried blood, his erection was subsiding only slowly. What business had he with an erection? She shouldn’t see him like this. “Let me clean myself.” He rose and turned his back on her hastily, knowing she must be horrified, hoping she hadn’t seen her effect on him.

He froze and stared at the dried blood on his belly. He was making another vampire. Icy water seemed to well up around his heart. He had sworn to himself he would never do that after the debacle with Asharti. He’d also sworn to kill made vampires. But he had let Kilkenny go tonight, too. A year of sunlight on the battlements of Mirso would not be enough to atone. Yet he would be punished in a way far more terrible to him. The sanctuary of Mirso was lost. Rubius would never let him in. He would pay the final price for his rebellion.

Very well, he paid it.

He took a breath. He would not change the course he had taken tonight even if he could. Kilkenny did not deserve death. And though he trespassed against Ann and Rubius together by giving her his blood, he could not watch her die the horrible death the Companion meted out to those infected without the gift of immune blood. His eyes filled. He ripped his collar and the remaining shred of a sleeve from his arm. Chancing a glance back toward her, he saw her all-seeing gray eyes watching him. He dipped a cloth in her washbasin and scrubbed ruthlessly at his flesh. He must make himself less abhorrent to her.