Dawn Thompson (37 page)

Sebastian screeched as smoke rose from his anointed brow, his nostrils, and his bulging rheumy eyes, which rolled back in his head so that only blue-veined white was visible. All at once his body began to spin as if caught in a whirlwind. The force threw both Jon and Milosh against the wall, and the vampire dissolved into a whirring, squeaking, flapping swarm of bats—dozens of them;
hundreds
of them—soaring up the staircase helterskelter to disappear into the darkness of the upper floors.

“You cannot escape me,” echoed through the chamber. But there was no laughter. Their foe was weakened, in pain, but this was not over; it was far from finished. There was still a little time before dawn. They had to find Sebastian’s resting place and destroy it before the sun rose.

Milosh attempted to right himself. Jon was beside him in seconds, lending his arm in support. “Are you bitten?” he asked.

“No,” Milosh replied, shaking his head. He knew well how to protect himself from bites; he’d had centuries of practice. “My wounds,” he explained, “they are not yet healed enough for doing battle.”

Jon stood him up and dusted him off. Behind, the panther, too, was on its feet. A loud roar turned them both toward the great cat.
Follow me,
Cassandra’s mind spoke, evidently to them both.

The panther padded past them into the tunnel. Nonplussed, the men stared at each other, then followed her into the narrow space.

“Good God!” Jon cried at sight of the crypts. “
You
found these? We have searched the castle top to bottom looking for Sebastian’s resting place, and you . . .”

Not quite “bottom,”
Cassandra corrected him.
I found these before he found me.

Jon went to the sack he’d left by the stairs and fished out her frock.
Do you want to change back?
he asked her.
I will stand guard while you do
.
There’s no need for mind speech now. We’ve much work to do.

In a little while
, Cassandra replied.

Why? You haven’t been bitten . . . ?

No, I think I might be . . . of more use as I am. For now.

Milosh gripped Jon’s arm. “Let her stay as she is for awhile,” he said. “She will change when she’s ready. Come! We have much to do, and so little time to do it.”

He studied Cassandra’s eyes. He dared not use mind speech now to voice his questions, as Jon was close enough to hear also. What if she couldn’t change back? No! He wouldn’t even entertain that thought. He hated secrets, though he was good at keeping them. But there was no time for that muddle now. There were more coffins to burn.

Jon stared down into the coffin, at the soil spread over the bottom, and took a chill, remembering how he had collected earth from Whitebriar Abbey for himself before he
and Cassandra embarked upon their journey. That was before he knew he wouldn’t need it. He had taken some with him on the
North Star
, and kept it close just in case. What had become of it? Had it ended on the bonfire with the rest of his belongings? It didn’t matter. All that seemed a lifetime ago. He plunged his torch into the coffin, then shrank back from the stench of the subsequent blaze. The flames smelled foul, of Sebastian, and bile bubbled up in Jon’s throat. It must have affected Cassandra as well; still in panther form, she had crept back under the staircase, and was quietly retching.

Milosh was torching the coffins on the other side of the tunnel, while Jon set fire to the two remaining on his side, and the Gypsy flung the remains of his flask of holy water into the midst of the fire. The moment the flask hit, a crack formed in the floor and the alcoves began to shake.

Crumbling rock and the heat of the flames drove both men dancing around the fissure in the center of the tunnel. Great clouds of sooty smoke belched toward them, filling that narrow space, spilling into the little chamber that housed the staircase where Cassandra waited. There was a door at the far end of the tunnel. Coughing, Jon staggered toward it and flung it open to the night air. It, too, opened on the sheer-faced drop, but he was more careful this time, before Milosh called out to warn him. The floor beneath his feet began to shake, and loose rocks rumbled down the mountain.

Slowly, from where the coffins blazed in their crypts, the smoke began drifting out through the opening. Once it had dissipated enough so they could see what they were doing, Jon and the Gypsy, with the help of the tools in their sack, broke the hinges on the door: They were
rusted through, and it wasn’t long before it went tumbling down the side of the mountain.

“Now when Sebastian or his minions come here for sanctuary from the sun, it will flood this tunnel to greet them,” Jon said, clapping the dust from his hands. “Do you think there are more coffins stashed away somewhere?”

Milosh shrugged. “We must hope not,” he said. “Feel the floor shake beneath us? This whole section has been undermined by the first fire. It is not safe. And soon it will be light. We have done all that can be done here.”

They had just begun to part the last tufts of smoke belching along the tunnel when Cassandra met them halfway. She had shifted back, and she floated toward them in a cloud of white sprigged muslin—soiled and somewhat the worse for wear, thought Jon, looking at her in dismay. Her confrontation with the vampire had altered her. She was as white as milk. There was no color whatsoever in her cheeks, and her gently bowed lips were as chalk.

“No! Don’t come!” Jon called. Rushing her into his arms, he led her back along the corridor to the safety of the little room at the end of it, but she pulled back when he attempted to kiss her.

“What is it?” he asked, searching her face. “What’s wrong?”

She gestured. “Your fangs,” she said. “I saw them—on both of you. It didn’t work . . . the blood moon ritual . . . It didn’t work for any of us.”

Jon burst into laughter, his head thrown back. “Silly goose, is that all?” he said.

“That is much, considering,” Cassandra snapped.

“You had best tell her,” Jon said to Milosh. “She’ll never believe it coming from me.”

Milosh cleared his throat. “The Blood Moon Rite
has
worked,” he assured her, “but it does not prevent the fangs from descending whenever the need arises. Did you have the bloodlust when your fangs appeared?”

“Well, no. But—”

“Did you see a feeding frenzy in us here tonight when ours did?”

“N-no . . .”

“We are all still vampires, Cassandra,” Milosh pointed out. “Nothing can change that. The fangs are part of it. But this is not all bad. They will always be at our disposal—at the ready if needs must—whenever we have a need to defend ourselves.”

“I thought, I . . .” She trailed off.

Jon crushed her closer still. “You see, Cass?” he said. “It’s going to be all right.”

Were those tears in her eyes? He frowned at the strange glance that passed between his bride and Milosh. He couldn’t read it, it was too fleeting, and her arms clutching him close called him back to the soft pressure of her embrace.

“Look!” Milosh said, turning toward the gaping hole where the door had been. “The sky is lightening. Come . . . move into the shadows, where we can wait and watch what the dawn brings. Our work is done down here.”

The plan was to wait until the sun had risen before leaving the castle. Ideally, they would receive proof positive that Sebastian was dead. Cassandra was relieved about the fangs, but a greater press was weighing upon her now—the premonition. If she’d ever questioned, she questioned no longer. Milosh knew.

“Are you sure you are all right?” Jon said. “You’re trembling, Cassandra.”

She couldn’t help herself. Her whole body was shaking in uncontrollable spasms.

“I will be once we leave this accursed place,” she said. “I want to go home, Jon—back to England. Please . . . take me home.”

They had reached the shadowy staircase at the end of the corridor, but they still had a perfect view of the flaming coffins. Milosh hung back in the shadows of the landing to give them privacy. From above, shafts of fractured sunlight beamed through the high-set windows, casting puddles of pink-gold sheen at their feet. Frowning, Jon stopped and turned his wife toward him, cupping her face in his hands. How strong they were, how comforting. She could not help but turn and kiss his palm. Its rough texture against the softness of her lips set her pulse racing. It tasted of salt, and of him, of his own true essence—of musk and lime, of leather, and of the earth—just as he had before the nightmare began, before the condition tainted all with the bitter, metallic taste of blood.

“The minute our work is done here, we shall leave for home,” he said, rubbing his thumbs on her cheeks. “I promise you, Cassandra.”

Her tears spilled down; she could not prevent them. She nodded her head in his hands. Drawing a ragged breath, she opened her mouth to speak, but a sudden chorus of blood-chilling shrieks and wails coming from the burning alcoves froze her, mouth agape, as the floor began to tremble. Milling bodies cloaked in smoke and flame swarmed through the corridor and were soon swallowed up as a great fissure rent the rocky floor in two, burying them beneath a mountain of slag and rubble. The buttress
in that sector had collapsed, and the fissure was widening, spreading toward them.

Slipping his arm around her waist, Jon rushed her toward the landing and Milosh, who had come forward from the shadows as the walls began to shake.

“It is as I feared,” the Gypsy said. “If this was the only staircase leading below, they would have had to pass us to reach it. There must be another way into that tunnel.”

The shrieks still echoed from the tunnel, obscured now by great plumes of belching smoke, and Jon shoved Cassandra toward Milosh. “Take her up,” he charged, “away from here. More come! I want to see where they come from . . . if Sebastian is among them! Stay up there, and keep her there. Do not let her out of your sight!”

“Jon!” Cassandra protested, but Milosh was rushing up the staircase, and Jon had already become one with the smoke and shadows.

“It is all right,” Milosh said.

“Nothing is ‘all right,’” she snapped.

“Well,
I
am all right, thanks to you,” he returned. “I am in your debt, Cassandra. I was too weak to change back—just as you were down there. If you hadn’t brought that trencher . . .”

Cassandra looked him in the eye. This was probably the only opportunity she would ever have to ask the one question that was tearing her up inside, the question only he could answer.

“What am I going to do, Milosh?” she murmured.

“You have to tell him, Cassandra.”

“My God, will it be . . . as we are?” There! It was out. She held her breath, awaiting the answer she feared to hear.

“I honestly do not know,” Milosh said. “But I do know this: If you were as Sebastian is—fully made vampires,
undead—you would be sterile, unable to reproduce at all. As you are now, there is no way to know how the child in you will be affected. Not until it is born. I am sorry.”

“The children!” she sobbed, her voice filled with despair. “The children that came in the night, that terrible knocking. Is
that
what is living inside me? Am I to give birth to a creature who will one day rap on doors in the night, bringing terror to the good people inside?”

“No, Cassandra,” Milosh soothed. Gripping her upper arms, he gently shook her. “You must calm yourself. Those creatures were unfortunate urchins taken by vampires in their innocent youth.”

“And mine is a child conceived of two vampires! What else could it be? How could it possibly be anything else?”

“Two
infected
by vampires,” Milosh corrected her. “There is a difference, Cassandra.”

“Milosh, I am not as strong as you. If it were infected, I could not bring myself to . . . to . . .”

“Stop now!” the Gypsy said through clenched teeth. “This sort of speculation will serve nothing. What is,
is
. I have seen several cases such as yours in my lifetime; all were different. Just as the gifts differ among us, so do the effects of the infection differ. Were you undead, you would not be carrying that child in your belly. That you have conceived is a good sign, Cassandra. The nature of its condition will make itself known as time passes, and you will deal with it then.”

“The Blood Moon Rite . . . has that helped? Has it lessened the effect?” She was grasping. Her heart ached to give Jon a healthy, normal child.

Milosh hesitated. “From what I have observed, the child will neither be harmed, nor will it benefit from the Blood Moon Rite—that would only have been possible if
it were conceived before you were infected. I am not an expert in these areas, but I will not lie to you. The Blood Moon Rite works as an antidote. The child will likely be immune to the rite, if he attempts it himself, because of the effect the herbal draught has upon the system.”

“What am I to do?” she despaired.

“You must tell Jon,” Milosh said. “He has a right to know, Cassandra. It is his child, too. You cannot wait until he guesses on his own.”

Her eyes snapped at him. “Not until we are safely aboard a ship that has set sail for home,” she said, and meant it. “I will not have my child born here in this god-forsaken place. I want it born in England. If I tell him now, he will fear for me to make the voyage. Coming, the passage was dreadful—terrible storms with horizontal rain and lashing winds—and that was early in summer, when the weather was warm and the winds were balmy and fair. Autumn soon gives way to winter. A voyage now would be treacherous. He will not want to risk it with me increasing, Milosh.”

“That is, I fear, your coil to unwind,” the Gypsy said. “He needs to know. The longer you wait, the worse it will be.”

Cassandra nodded and said no more. He was right; it was her coil to unwind, and she would, in her own good and perfect time . . . When they were on the ship for home.

Jon reached the landing below as the walls began to tremble around him. The crack in the corridor floor was widening. Shielding his eyes, he stared through the flames and smoke and drifting ash for some sign of Sebastian among the mindless creatures falling into the gap; he had to destroy the vile monster, had to be sure. Sunlight
had just begun to trickle in. Those vampires who did not sink into the fissure were disintegrating before it.