Night of the Vampires (23 page)

Hot, dusty and worn, Cole returned to the church where Father Costello informed him that both Daniel and Megan were resting peacefully in the church itself.

“I've wondered,” the holy man said. “I've seen the graves disturbed, and I thought at first that it was some sick joke by Confederate soldiers or Union soldiers or even the few adolescents who remain in the area. Once Daniel came to me, I stayed in at night. But I have seen things that…” He shuddered, stiffened and asked briskly, “What do we do now?”

“None of this was happening at Harpers Ferry until the war began, is that right?” Cole asked him.

“No. In fact, not until rather recently.” He looked at Cole and shook his head. “And don't think that Daniel caused any of this—because he
did not,
” he said firmly.

“Daniel was actually with you several days—weeks?—before it began, is that right?” Cole asked him.

“I'm telling you. It wasn't Daniel.”

“Father, I'm not trying to blame Daniel. I need a time frame because it's important that we save time. We're going to dig up every grave from the last several weeks—the period of infection that we can determine, at least—and I want to be thorough, but I don't want to waste time,” Cole explained.

Father Costello nodded. “I believe that Harpers Ferry
was free of this scourge until recently, but I can't give an exact date.”

“We'll go to May seventh, to be safe. That was the last day of the Battle of the Wilderness,” Cole said. He charged Costello to find all the burial records from that date forward, and left with Dickens to return to the makeshift archery range. He would have to let Megan rest where she was. He was too angry to deal with her anyway.

Upon returning to the field, he was pleasantly surprised to discover that the troops were enthused with the new challenge of the bows and arrows, and that many of the soldiers, though not adept at first, were able to grasp the trajectory of the arrows and learn to string a bow and shoot with damned decent aim.

When they finished up, the light was waning, and he knew that he had to get back to the graveyard quickly. He brought Dickens and his four-man crew from Washington.

At the church he was annoyed to discover that Megan had returned to the house, but he couldn't afford the time to engage in a renewed battle with her. Daniel Whitehall was standing on his own. He looked like an altogether different man. He had bathed and groomed his beard and mustache, and even trimmed his hair. He intended to help them that night, even if it all he had the strength for was carrying the picks and the shovels.

In the cemetery, Father Costello, armed with an incense burner and receptacles of holy water, led them to every recent grave. The dead were disinterred. Some were in coffins. Some had been lowered into the ground with only shrouds around them.

It didn't matter how they had been buried, nor their
dress, sex or age. Coffins were burst open with the pick. And though it pained every man there, even the heads of children were separated from their bodies. Each body taken from the grave, beheaded and returned, received a prayer from Father Costello for their souls. The sun sank as they neared the end of their task, and it wasn't until they came to the last of the graves that its occupant burst out of the earth, lunging for the closest man.

That was Dickens. But he had learned well and stepped back, letting Cole slide by him with mallet and stake. The vampiric dead had been a Rebel soldier, returned here perhaps from a faraway battlefield. He went down with an expulsion of dust and earth, and, like the others, the men decapitated him and he was laid back to rest.

“There's just one more,” Father Costello said, reading from his book of records. “Twenty feet or so to your left. You should see that the grass hasn't grown over it. Betsy Jennings. She died a few weeks ago of tuberculosis. Poor thing—she was only eight years old. How young to have acquired such a devastating illness!”

Cole followed the priest's directions but when he came to the plot indicated, he discovered that the earth was greatly disturbed.

The grave's occupant was long gone.

He took his shovel and dug furiously around the area, to no avail. There was no corpse in the grave.

And all he could think was that Megan was alone at the house.

 

M
EGAN FELT FINE
. She had indulged in another of the canteens, which worried her some, but then, they wouldn't keep forever anyway. She had allowed herself the luxury of a long and relaxing hot bath with the help
of Mary-Anne Weatherly—easy enough! They had a lovely supply of fresh water, thanks to the rivers, and she had even sipped at a sherry. But none of it made her feel any better about the way that Cole had looked at her that afternoon.

She had been right: Daniel might have died if she hadn't come. And beyond that, the infected dead had risen to attack the church. If she hadn't been there—if Cole hadn't guessed that she might be there and arrived—truly horrible things might have happened. The good father would have died trying to protect Daniel.

She had been right to do what she had done.

And she continued to have a hollow feeling at her core.

She was still sipping the sherry, waiting for darkness and the men to return, when she heard sobbing outside the window.

Looking down, she saw a child sitting on the sidewalk. A little girl with long dark hair, a doll clutched in her arms. The sobbing was heart-breaking, and she wanted to run right out to the child.

Something however, stopped her, when she leaped up to do just that. There was something incredibly sad and poignant about the scene, and very disturbing. She hadn't seen any children in the streets of Harpers Ferry before. She had hardly seen any civilians for a town this size.

But then the sobbing seemed to strike something in her heart, and she moved about preparing to get the girl with an unnatural haste. There was danger inherent here, no matter what, and so she quickly filled her pockets with vials of holy water before heading down to the sidewalk.

Trudy Malcolm, notepad in hand, had apparently heard
the sobbing as well and was already heading toward the child. “You poor little thing!” Megan heard Trudy crooning in a gentle voice. She reached for the girl.

Suddenly, the situation seemed wrong to Megan.
This was the first child she had seen. And even a child, a sobbing child, might have been a victim…

Might have been turned!

“Trudy, wait!” Megan cried, and ran toward her, but Trudy had already picked the little girl up and held her in her arms, staring at Megan as if she had lost her mind.

“Megan, she's just a little thing, so skinny and lost!”

The girl was dirty. With her keen vision, Megan could see that even though the light on the street was poor. Megan did slow as she came forward, wanting a good look at the child, not wishing to startle Trudy further. The little girl had her head leaned against Trudy's. She stared at Megan with giant blue eyes. No signs of fangs, no movements to take a bite out of Trudy's neck.

“Honey, what's your name?” Megan asked. The child continued to stare at her.

“I'm going to take her up to the general's quarters,” Trudy said with a joyfully matronly sense of purpose. “Maybe one of the men will have an idea of who she is. I believe some of the officers do have their wives and family staying here.”

“No,” Megan said. “Let's take her up to my apartments, and see if we can get her to talk to us.” She reached for the child.

“Miss Fox—I have her! Oh, I know I look like the wind could blow me away, but I'm stronger than I look.”

“Trudy, I don't doubt your strength, but you know that people can be very sick. She might be infected…. Trudy, you've seen what can happen.”

“But she's just a little slip of a thing!” Trudy said.

“Still…”

Trudy set her jaw at a stubborn angle. Megan slipped an arm around Trudy, leading the way as they headed back to the house and then up the stairs to the parlor area she shared with Cole.

“All right, set her on the sofa, please, Trudy?” Megan begged.

Trudy did so, kneeling down before the child and smiling. “Honey, we really need to know your name.”

The little girl wiped at her face. She shuddered, staring at Trudy.

“She's filthy,” Trudy said. “Oh, the poor little thing! She must have been wandering around lost forever. Megan, do you have a washcloth? Maybe we could clean up her face?”

“I'll stay here with her. You can find a washcloth in my room,” Megan said.

The little girl sniffled. “Betsy,” she said. “I want my mommy.”

“Oh, poor child. We just have to find out who your mommy is, Betsy, and then we can get you to her,” Trudy said. She glanced up at Megan. “Oh, Megan, I can't just leave her. Please, you can see that she's all right. The—the—
things
turn into rabid beasts and attack. She's just a lost little girl.”

Megan headed toward the bedroom backward, wanting to keep her eyes on Trudy and the child. She understood that poor Trudy seemed to be living a lonely life. She had work to keep her living well enough, but that work was at the beck and call of Lisette Annalise, who treated her with absolute disdain.

“Trudy, move away from her for a minute,” Megan said firmly.

Trudy looked at her and frowned, but sighed and stood and took a step away. The child burst into tears and Trudy moved back to her, cradling her into her arms. “It's all right, little one. It's all right. Um, Aunt Trudy is here!”

Megan decided to make a quick run for the washcloth and water. She turned her back for one second.

And in that time, she knew.

She turned back around, to see that the child was behind her. The blue eyes had been filled with a glitter of evil laughter and cunning, and she stared at Megan, ready to fly at her. Trudy was lying at a skewed angle.

Megan vaguely heard the downstairs door burst open and Cole shouting her name while the child lifted from the floor as a black-winged shadow to come flying at her. She was prepared. She had the holy water out of her pocket in seconds, and flung it while the creature was still two feet away.

The scream that resulted was wild and shrill as the thing died in a thrashing pile of agony before her. She stared at it, detesting her own failure to read the truth—to insist on her instinct no matter what Trudy implored.

Cole saw the writhing mass and rushed to her, taking her into his arms. She allowed herself a split second of trembling gratitude that he still cared enough to hold her, but then she pushed away in fear.

“Trudy!” she said, pushing past him to where Trudy was being held up by Dickens.

“She's passing out!” Dickens cried, the sound of his voice helpless.

“Get her to the sofa,” Megan ordered. “Quickly, I have to see her throat!”

She fell to her knees next to the woman as Dickens laid her out. Cole hovered behind her and his Union troop came bursting through the door to their parlor.

She searched Trudy's neck for any sign of violence, but none had been done to her. “Cole, there must be smelling salts in the medical bag.” She looked back at him. He arched his brows at her, and she flushed. “I brought it
back
from the church. It's where you keep it—at the foot of your bed.”

He returned quickly and she found what she needed, wafting the little pellet beneath Trudy's nose. The woman began to cough and sputter, waving a hand in the air. Her eyelids fluttered and then she opened her eyes fully and stared at the group blankly.

“What happened?” she asked weakly.

“Sweet little Betsy
was
a monster,” Megan said. “You tell me what happened. You were holding her, and then she was attacking me.”

Trudy shook her head, giant tears forming in her eyes. “I don't know! She just burst out of my arms and I—I don't remember anything else!”

“She didn't touch you, didn't scratch you, didn't hurt you in any way?” Cole demanded, his tone harsh.

Trudy cringed, bringing her hand to her throat. “No…no. She just burst out of my arms with such strength that I fell back, stunned. I was on the sofa…getting up, and then I felt as if the world was rushing all around me and I was…oh, goodness. I fainted. Please! Don't tell Miss Annalise! She'll think me a worse fool than she already does. Please! Please!”

Trudy clutched Megan's arm, her eyes filled with such misery that Megan couldn't help but be touched, despite
her anger. In truth, she was angrier with herself than she was with Trudy. She should have tossed some holy water on the girl immediately. Had she been but a mortal, it wouldn't have hurt her; otherwise it would have clearly notified them that she was a monster.

“We'll see to the remains,” Sergeant Newcomb said, his tone that of the practical soldier. He paused, though, to put a gentle hand on Trudy's head. “None of us will tell Miss Annalise a thing, you can be sure.”

The men headed into the bedroom to collect whatever remained of the child. Cole walked over to the liquor stand and poured out a portion of straight whiskey. He paused, drank the first one down himself, and then poured a second for Trudy.

As she eased herself up to a sitting position, Cole handed her the whiskey. “Here,” he said, “drink this.”

“Oh, sir! Good heavens, I don't drink whiskey!” she protested.

“You do now,” Cole said.

Trudy looked at Cole with pure adoration. “Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you all so much.” She clutched Megan's arm again, her expression one of horror then. “My dear God, I am so sorry, Megan, you tried to tell me. But she was a child. A
child!
How could I possibly believe that such a pathetic little thing could be such a monster?”

“It's all right, Trudy. She didn't get to you,” Megan said. “I'm fine. It's all right.”