The Burning (37 page)

“You can’t stand to touch people!” Erich accused. “Is that normal?”

“I don’t like to be touched, it’s true.” She couldn’t get around that. Everyone knew it.

“Personal preferences do not mean a person is insane, Mr. Van Helsing, else you would be locked up for those pantaloons.” Mr. Yancy frowned. “I think Miss Van Helsing has a very sane grasp of her situation, and it would take an action at law to try to prove otherwise. It is a case I should like to see a barrister try, as I’ll assure you, you would lose. Now, Miss Van Helsing, what can we do for you in the most immediate sense?”

“You could escort these gentlemen out, if you would. I shall ask Jennings to bring Mr. Van Helsing’s things to the tavern.”

Erich looked from one to the other. Mr. Cobblesham rose hastily and made for the door without more ado. The squire’s pace was considerably more measured, but he was clearly routed. As his two allies went out the door, Jennings and Polsham came in, and Erich knew this round at least was over.

“You have not heard the last of this.” He pushed past Jennings and Polsham.

“Oh, I think she has.” Mr. Yancy’s calm voice chased him out the door.

Ann sighed as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. “Thank you. Thank you all.” She looked up at the five people in the room. She hadn’t been friendless after all.

“Damned grasping jackanapes!” Mr. Brandywine exclaimed. “Who does he think he is? Bad branch of the family . . .”

“On a practical note, I’m going to send to Bristol for some extra help for tonight,” Yancy remarked. “They may arrive late, and they may look like the bruisers they used to be, but don’t worry. Johnson is as trustworthy as they come and he’ll bring some lads up to make sure that Mr. Van Helsing doesn’t haunt the place.”

He didn’t have to say that, coming from Bristol, they wouldn’t be subject to “superstitions.”

“Did you mean it about the house in Grosvenor Square?” Mr. Brandywine asked.

“I did,” Ann said. “It’s time I faced the world and got out of my nursery.” She saw looks of dismay cross her retainers’ faces. “Of course, I shall want to take all of you with me. And . . . nothing can happen until after my uncle’s funeral.”

It hit her then, how alone she was, how much she would miss her uncle. But she managed a smile. “Unless you three would rather stay here and see the place put to rights. I shall need someone I can trust to supervise the whole. It’s time we got this house out of dustcovers and the grounds put into order. And London is not to everyone’s taste.”

They started to speak, but she held up a hand. “No need to decide now.”

“I’ll take care of arranging your uncle’s funeral,” Mr. Brandywine said.

“I expect it will be a small affair,” she said. He deserved more.

“Surely you jest, Miss Van Helsing.” Mr. Yancy chuckled. “Lord Brockweir was well liked. And everyone within driving distance will want a look at the richest woman in the county, superstitious or not. It is your burden, my dear.”

She thought about what she might or might not be doing in three days, when it came time for the funeral. She swallowed. “Then I’d like to do it right. Polsham, can you contact Mr. Watkins? I’ll sponsor a supper and refreshments from the Hammer and Anvil, since there is no time to prepare the house. You and Mrs. Simpson will know what to order. Spare no expense. Mr. Brandywine can arrange for payment. Jennings, can you arrange for the procession from the house to the chapel? I shall provide the epitaph. And . . .” Here another thought intruded. There was the matter of Maitlands.

“Mr. Yancy, I want to make certain arrangements for Maitlands. Expect to receive a letter with instructions.”

“You are a remarkable woman, Miss Van Helsing. I wish I could shake your hand,” Mr. Yancy said. “I’ll be in contact with the details of the settlement on Van Helsing.” He bowed crisply and made for the door. The others followed.

The door closed. She allowed herself one moment of fear. It was all so much! But what was behind her was lost, and the only way to what she wanted most lay down that fearful road. She had no choice.

Now she must get to Bucklands Lodge before sunset.

Nineteen

Ann had told Mrs. Simpson she was taking the dogcart. Since Jennings had taken Erich’s things into Cheddar Gorge, she had harnessed the Haflinger pony to the cart herself. The ten miles to Bucklands had been over good road until the last half mile. Now the narrow track wound through woods. The sun had set and evening gloom invaded the trees, making the way even darker. Full night was close now. She glanced behind her and clucked to the Haflinger. What did she expect to see? Shadows gliding between the trees? Bodies drained of blood littering a forest floor soggy with dead leaves?

But she saw nothing like that. Only fingers of mist curling through the tree trunks. She heard only the soft thud of the pony’s hooves, the creak of the harness, and the shush of the wooden wheels on the damp earth of the track. Ahead was the lodge. She would be able to see it from here if there were lights on. But there were no lights. All around her was sinking into darkness. She dreaded approaching it. Every unfamiliar object in it would be drenched with the evil ones who had been there, the horrific deeds that had been committed
there. Ahead was blood and pain and horror in the floor, the walls, every object, anything she might touch.

Was Stephan there? He had to be there. He knew Kilkenny would come looking for him there. Kilkenny and however many others. She shuddered and it wasn’t from the dampness crawling along the forest floor. He would try to make her leave. And if she was right about how he was mistaken, she wouldn’t be able to let him do that. She wondered if there was any way to make Stephan Sincai do something he didn’t want to do.

The form of the lodge solidified in the growing gloom and the trees opened out. She pulled the pony and cart up the drive to the doorway and leapt to the ground. There was a stable out back, but she hadn’t time to take him back there. She tied his reins to the decorative metal post set for the purpose to the right side of the portico, then patted his warm, moist hide and whispered that she would be back.

The windows of the lodge had been boarded up. Scrambling up the three steps to the front door, she saw nails scattered about where they had been used to nail the door shut. It was not shut now. It swung invitingly ajar, though bent spikes still protruded from its edges where it had been pried open. Did Stephan think Kilkenny and company would come in through the front door? She took a breath and pushed it open, relieved she didn’t have to touch the knob. Nothing much came to her. A faint sensation of the workman who had nailed it shut, nothing more. It creaked open on darkness. Erich should have had it oiled. But if she were issuing recriminations,
she
should have brought a lantern. Her heart thudded within her. Could Kilkenny have already been here? Was she too late?

“Stephan?” she called out in a small voice. She cleared her throat and stepped inside, thankful that her boots protected her from the floor. “Stephan?”

A shadow loomed in the doorway off to her left.

“What are you doing here?” the familiar baritone rumbled.

She sighed in relief and ran to him. It seemed so natural to throw herself into his arms, to feel those arms circle round her. She felt the wash of fear he had experienced since he left her, the certainty that with all the emotion he had felt for her and his ejaculations, he had weakened himself so that the coming confrontation was hopeless. He wasn’t happy that he had given in to his feelings for her. He thought he had let down his kind, that he had failed before he started. That was daunting. But it didn’t change her own certainty. “Stephan, you’re wrong about the power. It doesn’t come from suppression.”

He held her away from him. “You must go, Ann. You can’t be here when they come.” He turned her round and walked her forcibly to the door.

“Stephan, listen to me! Those women may have trained you that way, but it’s only by opening yourself up that you are as strong as you can be. I know that.”

“You’re not making sense, my dear. You know nothing about it, and I don’t want you to know.” He swung the door wide and marched her through it.

“If only you’d—”

“Ann,” he said sharply, turning her to him again. “Do you know what will happen here? Can you imagine?”

“I don’t have to imagine,” she said quietly. “I know everything you know about what happened here before.”

That pulled him up sharply. He swallowed. “I had forgotten.” He gathered himself. “Then you know why you can’t be here.”

“Just hear me out, and then I’ll go.”

“I’ll do no such thing.” His voice was stony flat.

“Then I’ll go round the bend in the track and leave the horse, and walk back through the woods. I can be as stubborn as you are.” She folded her arms and stared back at him.

Stephan looked around in the night for any signs of
intruders. He could see clearly when she could not. “Oh, very well,” he said, exasperated. “Tell me quickly then.”

It wasn’t exactly enthusiastic, but she would take what he gave her. “Rubius told you that the power was anchored in your sexuality, and heightened by suppression.”

“Yes. And he was right. It took me nearly two years, but I learned his lessons, and I did increase my power.”

“But your power comes from connecting to your Companion. It has always been so. You know it and I know it through you.”

“Yes . . .” He didn’t see it yet.

“It is connection, openness, that makes you so powerful. You open that connection to the Companion. You could open yourself to other kinds of power and use them, too.”

“You’re talking nonsense, Ann. Their training
worked
. Empirical proof. Suppression made my Companion’s power more forceful. Would that I had practiced a little more suppression of late.” He looked disgusted with himself.

“I think they taught you suppression because they were afraid of you, Stephan.”

He smiled ruefully. “Rubius and his daughters are very old, Ann. They are far more powerful than I am.”

“They were looking for someone to be this . . . Harrier, weren’t they?”

He nodded.

“Well, why didn’t they take one of their devout monks and make him into one. Or her?”

He shrugged. “Who would volunteer for such a task?”

“So you think they chose you because they had something you wanted and they could force you to undergo years of what amounts to torture to get it.”

His mouth was grim. “Something like that.”

“Hardly admirable, are they? But what if they really chose you because you had more natural power than the others? What if the training was only to make you manageable?”

“I think it more likely they chose me to make an example of one who rebelled against the teachings of the Elders.”

“All right. Both then. A rebel with too much power.”

“Ann, you read too much into this. They had trained others before me.”

“Unsuccessfully.”

Now he was getting exasperated. “Only because they went too fast.”

“Look,” she said, her voice low. “You don’t believe you will succeed tonight using their techniques. What have you to lose? Open yourself to all your power—”

“I’ve heard you out.” He glanced out to the night-black forest. “Now go.” There was an urgency in his voice that had not been there before.

Then she smelled it. Cinnamon and, underneath it, just a hint of ambergris wafted toward them. She felt a trembling excitement in the air as of the vibrations of a dozen insect wings. The pony tied off to the post shrieked a frightened whinny.

They turned toward the forest just as the shadows walked out from whirling pools of darkness. There were six of them. In front of the others stood a man with dark hair, not red, and pale skin. He was dressed simply, in buff breeches and riding boots, a simple, serviceable coat without adornment. His features were refined in that Irish way of straight, almost-prominent nose and eyes that promised that they crinkled when he laughed. This man hadn’t laughed in a long time, though. His mouth, slightly wider than most, was set in grim purpose. He didn’t look as she had expected. There was no sign of evil in his handsome open features. He bore no mark of Cain.