Dawn Thompson (36 page)

Blind passion moved Joss. A roar he scarcely recognized as having come from his own throat reverberated through the chamber. Sebastian’s eyes pulsated like glowing coals. He bared his fangs as if in anticipation of a contest, threw Cora down and surged to his full height
and true shape before Joss’s eyes. Joss had seen it thus before, in the stables, and by the root cellar. Though it was daunting, he was not cowed. The incarnation he had just seen holding Cora when he entered was by far more frightening, its grave-clothes shroud clinging to its emaciated frame, a grotesquely aroused sex protruding from beneath.

“Run, Cora!” Joss commanded. “Run
now!
”

But she could not. She tried to rise and failed. Cursing under his breath, Joss reached her in two strides, raised her up and started to lead her toward the door, when the creature’s right wing swished through the stale air and caught him unprepared, lifting him off his feet. He let go of Cora just in time, for the creature’s left wing caught him on the downswing and sent him crashing into the wall.

Cora fell to the floor, a scream on her lips, and crawled into the corner beside the wardrobe. Joss lay dazed, writhing at the creature’s taloned feet. Sharp, stabbing pain seared through his ribs. The distraction had nearly cost him his life. He shook his head to clear his vision. He was teetering on the cutting edge of consciousness, blinking back vertigo that blurred his enemy’s image.

Over Sebastian’s laughter, Joss heard the howl of a single wolf. Milosh? Why had the Gypsy left him? Where had he gone now that he was needed? Little more than seconds had passed since Joss had entered the master suite, though it seemed like hours. He groped the pocket of his buckskins for the little vial of holy water. It had scarcely come into view when Sebastian kicked it out of Joss’s hand, then crushed it with one vicious stomp.

A hideous laugh came from the creature. Its breath was poison. The whole room reeked of it. “You thought
that
would stop me—that piddling drop?” Sebastian said. “You think
you
can stop me? Your father could not. Your mother could not. Not even that fool of a Gypsy could manage it, for all his labor over the years. Not even the three of them together could! What makes you so special, eh?”

It hurt to breathe, much less to talk. This was to be a battle of wits, not words, and Joss wasted no time upon the latter. Borrowing a tactic from the wolf, he turned in a flash and sank his fangs deeply into the creature’s heel, the closest part of its anatomy within reach. Sebastian roared. His thrust-back head scraped the ceiling, and his wings expanded, flapping until a cyclonic wind roared through the chamber, lifting the draperies at the window and ruffling the counterpane on the bed. Cora cried out as the gust caught the open wardrobe door beside her and set it in motion, banging in its frame. She cried out again, drawing Sebastian’s eyes. In a flash he loomed over her, hissing like a snake.

“Let her be!” Joss cried out, his voice like thunder. “This contest is between you and me. She is not part of it.”

“Is that so?” the creature said. “I have tasted her sweetness. I always finish my meals. . . . Sooner or later, she will be mine. Oh, do not worry, Joss Hyde-White. It was only a taste . . . for now. But enough to mark my territory.”

Joss took aim at the creature’s other leg, but Sebastian seized him in sharp talons, lifted him off the floor and began shaking him like a dog shakes a toy. Sharp, tearing pain ripped through Joss’s rib cage. He could scarcely breathe. The creature had flattened itself against the ceiling,
dangling him precariously. A fall from such a height would be disastrous, and then Cora would be at the creature’s mercy. Sheer willpower kept Joss’s eyes from closing. He had to break free before the creature dashed him to death against the floor, the walls or the hearth, but he dared not let go. He was close to the fire; too close. The heat of the blaze narrowed his eyes. But the heat reached out to Sebastian as well, who shrank from it, sliding down the wall when it came too near his wings.

Closer to the floor, Joss fought the creature’s grip with all his might, but he still could not shake himself free. The halberd wound in his shoulder had begun to bleed again during the struggle, and Sebastian focused upon the blood running down his arm.

The creature’s long, pointed tongue licked at the blood glossing over Joss’s Egyptian cotton sleeve. “Hyde-White blood,” it warbled. “I have a taste for it. One might call it a hunger.”

All at once, a rumble echoed along the corridor outside. Vibrations beneath the vampire’s feet froze him momentarily, a sinister scowl spread across his face. The fireplace tools began to rattle in their brackets; the pitcher on the nightstand knocked against its basin. The crystal prisms dangling from the oil lamp began to tinkle, and a deep voice ghosted across Joss’s mind. Was it real . . . or was he dreaming?

Steady on, young whelp,
it said.
Brace yourself!

A streak of silver-white light sailed through the open chamber doorway, and the great white wolf slammed into Sebastian, head on, sinking its fangs deep in the creature’s enormous barrel chest. A whole pack of snarling wolves followed, pouring into the room behind. Sebastian loosed a cry so terrible that Joss lost his
hearing momentarily; then, in a blink, the creature divided into a swarm of black bats. Loose of Sebastian’s talons, Joss fell to the floor with a groan. He scrambled toward Cora, whose screams had nearly driven him mad. Like a man dying of thirst in the desert, he gathered her into his arms.

All around him, the room was in chaos. Snarling wolves of every shape, size and description leapt into the air, their great jaws snapping at the bats streaming through the open chamber door. Some of the bats fell prey to the lupine Brotherhood, their deaths wounding some part of the whole creature they masked, judging from the shrieks filling the air. But Sebastian would stay divided. He was far too clever to shift back into his natural state against such a formidable army. Milosh was right. Sebastian would not be destroyed today. He would be driven off to lick his wounds and bide his time until another opportunity presented itself.

None of that mattered to Joss Hyde-White at the moment. He clasped Cora to him like a madman, his trembling hands racing over her body, looking for wounds. He brushed back her long curtain of hair, exposing the puncture marks at the base of her neck, and leaked an agonized groan.

“How long did he feed upon you?” he gritted through clenched teeth as he always did when his fangs were extended.

“N-not long,” she sobbed. “He . . . it overpowered me. It was hiding in the wardrobe. It must have already been there when you locked me in. When it came out, it seemed like hundreds of bats . . . then it changed . . . and bit me.”

Groaning, Joss lowered his mouth to the puncture wounds upon her neck and sucked, as one sucks venom
from a viper’s bite, until his mouth was filled with her blood, then spat it out and crushed her close against him despite the searing pain in his ribs.

“Cleanse it with this,” said a familiar voice at Joss’s elbow. It was all he could do to raise his eyes from Cora’s face. The blood he’d drained from her had rendered her unconscious, and she lay limp in his embrace.

Milosh’s arm stretched out toward him. There was a vial of holy water in his hand. The Gypsy was barefoot, stripped to the waist, wearing only his breeches.

Joss took the vial from him and poured some of the holy water over the puncture marks on Cora’s neck. She didn’t move, though hot steam rose from her throat where the holy water touched her skin. Joss groaned and crushed her closer still.

“Am I too late?” he said. “Has he . . . infected her?”

“I have only seen such as this once before,” the Gypsy said, obviously avoiding the question. “Your father is able to make holy water. Yet when he touches it, it boils and steam rises though he doesn’t feel it. Curious.”

“Yes, yes,” Joss said tersely, “but
is she infected
?”

The Gypsy sighed. “You Hyde-Whites have a penchant for escaping full infection from the vampire’s kiss.”

“She is not a Hyde-White.”

The Gypsy snorted. “She is your soulmate,” he said succinctly. “However . . . unless I miss my guess, she did not resist. She
let
Sebastian taste her blood.”

“Are you mad? Why would she do such a thing?”

“So you would have no more reason to send her away,” Milosh replied. “So she would be as you are, whatever that may be, Joss Hyde-White.”

Tears stung Joss’s eyes. “If I believed that, I’d throw myself off the tor,” he said through clenched teeth.

“We shall see,” Milosh remarked. He lifted Cora out
of Joss’s arms. Carrying her to the bed, he laid her down beneath the counterpane. “You both need tending now. The truth of my suspicions will come out later, one way or another, I’m sure.”

“I thought you’d left me,” Joss said, staggering to his feet.

The Gypsy smiled his humorless smile. “I did,” he said. “To implement your strategy.”

“My strategy? I don’t understand.”

“I let the Brotherhood into the Abbey. Without them, you would both be dead. I told you Sebastian was a mighty adversary. When cornered, he becomes an army. There is only one way to take him, and that is by surprise. One day I will do it, but this is not the day.”

“Where is he now?” Joss asked, clutching his side as he sank down on the edge of the bed beside Cora.

Milosh shrugged. “Who knows,” he said. “But not here, not while the Brotherhood is standing guard.” Joss stared, and the Gypsy answered the expression with another of his curious half smiles. “Right now, they are searching the Abbey for any
vampir
that might still linger. Then, your mystic brothers will post guards at your portals. The siege is over . . . for now.”

“Is she going to be all right?” Joss begged, brushing the tendrils of hair from Cora’s pale, still face.

“She will,” said the Gypsy on a sigh. “In spite of you.”

Joss scowled, but made no reply.

“When you sucked her blood just now,” Milosh said, “what was your reaction? Did the taste of her blood . . . arouse you? Did it—”

“I spat it out, Milosh,” Joss snapped. “The way one sucks snake venom from a victim. That was all I could think of to do.”

Milosh heaved another sigh. “A laudable effort, but ineffective in such a case as this,” he said.

“I had to do
something
.”

“You took no pleasure in the taste . . . in the taking of the blood?”

“Not in the way you mean,” Joss said.

“In what way, then?”

“I took pleasure in her sweetness . . . and hope that whatever remained of her in my mouth, in my body, would make her mine and
not his
.”

“Another symptom. You are territorial.”

“I am
in love with her,
” Joss seethed.

“Well, what’s done is done,” Milosh said. “Right now you both need rest and tending. All that blood is from the halberd wound—you were not bitten?”

“No, I was not.”

Relief pulled the Gypsy’s posture down. “That is something, at least,” he said. “We will sort it all out. As soon as the
Brotherhood
makes a clean sweep of the house, you can release your servants. Your ribs are broken; they must be seen to and bound. If marrow taints the blood you could die, so mind whoever nurses you. I will instruct your cook in the preparation of an herbal draught that may be beneficial to you both. Meanwhile, you’d best brace yourself. . . . You have . . . company.” He nodded toward the open chamber door, and Joss’s head snapped toward a great black panther slinking into the room, its glowing eyes ablaze as it jumped up upon the counterpane and nudged him off the bed with a firm butt of its head and a guttural growl.

Joss straightened up and winced from the pain in his ribs.
“Mother?”
he breathed.

Milosh laughed outright, and this time it did reach his eyes. How handsome a man he was when he laughed—really laughed. But it was his mother who had Joss’s attention. He rarely saw her as the great cat; the sight of her thus thrilled him.

“Come,” Milosh said, leading Joss away. “Let her tend your lady. She is well able.”

“Where is Father?” Joss insisted, digging in his heels.

“You father led the charge,” Milosh explained.

“But how?” Joss cried. “They sent word that I was not to expect them. Where is he?”

“You will see him soon enough. Now, come. Sebastian is a fearsome entity, Joss Hyde-White, but you have no inkling of the power of the Brotherhood.”

“Bind those ribs tighter, Parker,” Jon Hyde-White barked. They were in the yellow suite. Joss was seated on the dressing room lounge, where the valet was able to doctor him with ease. A knock on the door sent Jon to answer. Amy stood on the threshold with a brimming cordial glass and a pot containing a malodorous chestnut-colored ointment on a silver salver. Joss grimaced. He could smell the awful stuff from where he sat.

His father took the salver and dismissed the maid. “You are sure you weren’t bitten?” he said, setting the tray upon the gateleg table.

“I’m sure,” Joss said. Conversing with a father who looked no older than he was was jarring at best. It had always been thus. Making matters worse, looking upon his father was like looking in a mirror. They both possessed the same quicksilver eyes, the same mahogany hair, angular features, and expressive lips; they walked with the same swagger and carried themselves with the same deportment. They more closely resembled brothers than father and son. It was passing strange. “What I
want to know,” Joss went on, “is how you came here—how you knew to come. I just received your missive to the contrary.”

“That was my doing,” Milosh said, crossing the threshold, his thumbs hooked in the waist of his breeches.

Jon strode to his side and gripped the Gypsy’s hand. The admiration in the exchange brought a lump to Joss’s throat, and almost took his mind off the stabs of pain ripping through his torso as Parker tightened the bandages. Neither his father nor the Gypsy spoke. There was no need. The bond between them went back over thirty years.