Dawn Thompson (29 page)

An eerie, hollow knocking at the door had begun, jarring him back to the present. The sound sent waves of paralyzing shivers up and down his spine.
Thump . . . thump . . . thump.
Over and over the sound came, in an impossibly steady rhythm. The table Jon had leaned against the broken door secured the bottom, but the door shuddered with every knock.

Cassandra rushed into his arms.

“Shhh,” Jon soothed. “They smell the blood, but they cannot enter unless we let them.”

She gasped. “Jon! The poker—quickly, before he wakes!”

Jon cursed under his breath, striding to the hearth where the poker had been heating. He carried it back to the pallet. He’d left it in the fire too long; now he would have to wait until it cooled a bit.

“Damn and blast!” he muttered, waving the poker impatiently.

Thump . . . thump . . . thump
. “I am so cold. Let . . . me . . . in . . .” a small voice said from the other side of the door.

Cassandra lurched as if struck. Her hands flew to her ears. “Is there nothing we can do? Is there no way to make them stop?” she cried.

“Morning comes soon,” Jon said. “Ignore it. It is naught but vampire glamour—the way they seduce their prey. It
isn’t real, Cassandra. They are vampires, and deserve no pity.”

“Is that what I will get?” she sobbed. “What
you
will get? No pity? That could be us on the other side of that door, us luring some unsuspecting soul to its damnation.”

Thump . . . thump . . . thump
.

“Pay no attention,” Jon said. “The poker is ready. Here, hold the lantern. I must do this now or we shall have to wait while I heat it all over again.”

Cassandra held the lantern while Jon cauterized the wounds. He stiffened during the knocking, but still he lowered the hot poker to the Gypsy’s back and shoulder. The stench of burnt flesh rose in his nostrils, and he coughed back nausea that threatened to make him retch. The pistol balls had come out whole, and the bleeding was stopped.

“You haven’t answered me,” Cassandra said as he discarded the poker.

Stripping off his greatcoat, Jon removed his empty holy water flask, his holy oil, and his pocket pistol, then laid the coat over Milosh. He straightened and faced her.

“Will we be like . . . like
that?
” she moaned, flinging her arm toward the door.

He’d been hoping she wouldn’t pursue it, but that was clearly not to be. He took her hands in his, ignoring the fact that the touch of her soft skin set his heart to racing and the scent of her ignited a firestorm in his loins. Would dawn never come and bring the lethargy that killed desire? It was becoming harder and harder to resist her. How long before he no longer could? He viewed her now through an iridescent haze, just as he always did when he was aroused. He had seen the same veil glaze her eyes many times, but never like now, with their mutual needs both at their peak.

He led her to the chairs that had rested by the table before he moved it and sat her down in one beside the hearth. Dragging the other chair to the opposite side of the hearth—as far as he could range himself from her and still be heard speaking softly—he set the pistol, oil, and flask on the mantel, and sat also.

Sweat was beading on his brow. He raked back his hair ruthlessly. How forlorn she looked! He longed to reach out and take her in his arms. Braced upon his knees, his hands were clenching in and out of white-knuckled fists, literally itching to seize her, to walk his fingers through her honey-colored ringlets, to kiss her misty eyes, to breathe in her sweet essence and never let her go—but he could not, must not. Were he to touch her . . . He drove back those provocative thoughts once more.

Thump . . . thump . . . thump
. “Let . . . me . . . in . . .” the child’s voice moaned again, bringing an end to his hesitation. Cassandra had nearly jumped out of her chair at the sound, as he had also, even though he expected it; even though he knew the undead hand that rapped on the door would continue to do so until first light.

“That is what we are trying to prevent,” he said steadily, “and why we must perform the ritual Milosh described. I only wish he were conscious. There is much I need to know before . . .” He hesitated. He was thinking aloud now. No, it wouldn’t do to give her more cause for alarm. They had enough to worry about. Praying that Milosh would come around before it was time for the ritual, he went on speaking in as positive a tone as he could muster with that incessant thumping—banging, pounding—breaking his concentration each time he drew breath. “No matter,” he said buoyantly. “I shan’t lie to you. I do not know what is to come. My first goal in all
of this is to find a means of arresting the bloodlust. We will still be vampires, Cassandra; there is nothing to be done about that. There is no cure. We are what we are. But if the blood moon ritual works, we can control ourselves, and together we can save many like us. And we can . . . commit ourselves to destroying those who are beyond our help for as long as we live.”

“And how long might that be?” Cassandra asked. Her voice was harder—more scornful—than he had ever heard it.

He cocked his head sadly. “I do not know. Milosh has lived for centuries and has traveled all over the world. He learned of the blood moon ritual in Persia. He has been lucky in his travel, I suppose. It must be a lonely existence, otherwise. Such a life demands many sacrifices, because while those around us will change with age, we shall not, so long-time attachments won’t be possible. We will travel, too. We will be as Gypsies, and our journeys will take us to the far reaches of the world.”

“If when all is said and done we are still to be . . . what we have become, why do we need the ritual?” she asked. “Why can we not continue as we are? We have the power to resist the condition . . .”

“But for how long?” Jon said. Opening his mouth, he bared his fangs. She gasped. “Have you any idea what I am suffering right now just to keep from seizing and ravishing you—to keep from draining the rest of your very life force? You are still part human, and the . . . corruption in me wants to drain that humanity away. And I see the same bloodlust in your eyes—it gleams like green fire. Look, and you will see it. It is only a matter of time before we destroy each other if we do not act. Milosh is living proof that this ritual works. Have you ever seen him feed?
Have you ever even seen his fangs? No. This worked for him. Please God, it will work for us as well.”

“You still haven’t answered my question. How long will we live?” Cassandra asked. “I love you, Jon. All I want is an honest answer.”

Jon’s posture collapsed. “I cannot give you one,” he said. “I do not know the answer. If the blood moon ritual works, we will be spared . . .
that
.” He made a wild gesture toward the wounded door, which was vibrating under the assault of the fists of creatures caught between life and death on the brink of Hell itself. Cassandra covered her ears. The pounding came more desperately now, as if the creatures at the door had heard every word and were responding. The steady drone of the rain didn’t help matters; it made the knocking all the more melancholy.

Thump . . . thump . . . thump. Thump . . . thump . . . thump
.
Thump . . . thump . . . thump
.

Would it never stop? Still, Jon gave a pretense of ignoring it. “I need you to listen to me now,” he said. “Listen, and pay attention. This may well mean your life.”

She looked up at him with those haunting, doelike eyes. How could he earn her trust—and live up to it once he had earned it? Would she listen to what he was about to say? He almost laughed. Never had he met a woman possessed of such an unshakable mind of her own. Not once since this odyssey began had she done as he bade her. He had told her to stay in her rooms at Whitebriar Abbey, and she had promptly left them. He had told her to stay in her room at the inn, where she was safe, while he fed, and she had left that also, and started the chain of events that brought them to this hour. Even Milosh had remarked she must be “taken in hand” for her impetuous behavior, albeit bloodlust-driven. With all that had
gone before, dared he expect she would heed him now?

She didn’t reply, and he went on quickly. “You think Sebastian and his minions are your only danger,” he said scornfully. “Well, they are not.
I
am. And that I love you will not spare you. It only makes matters worse, because my craving for you is twofold, and I am fast losing my control.” He surged to his feet and snatched the pistol off the mantel, thrusting it toward her. “Take it,” he said. “We still have a day and part of another long night before the ritual is complete. You should be safe enough during the daylight hours, because of the nature of our condition, but just the same, I beg you, keep your distance from me. And this is the most difficult bit, because you’ve never once heeded me in the past and you
must
heed me now; but if I cannot control myself . . . I want you to use that. No! Do not speak. You must use it, Cassandra. You can go on without me if needs must—I know it; I have seen it. I saw your strength in that burning forest.” He closed her hand around the pistol and backed away as if he’d touched live coals. “Keep it on your person. It will not kill me—the bullet is not silver—but it will stop me, at least for a time. There will be much blood afterward. That will bring vampires and I will be vulnerable. If I am set upon, or if you . . . well, you know what you must do. You will find everything you need in Milosh’s cart.”

“Have you gone mad?” she shrilled.

“Believe me, I have never been more sane, my love,” he murmured. “Because if I feed upon you again the way I did the last time, I will bleed you to death. I will not be able to help myself—to stop myself—and you will become like the entities in Sebastian’s dungeon—a mindless, soulless creature of the night, of the outer darkness, lost and damned forever. Now, promise me.”

Staring down, Jon watched her finger the cold pistol barrel. How fine her tender skin was. He could see the tracery of tiny blue veins on the back of those hands. They seemed to dance when she moved her fingers, drawing him like magnets.

He backed away.

Thump . . . thump . . . thump,
the knocking continued.

“Do you hear that?” he thundered, causing her to lurch in the chair. “Promise me,” he demanded.

She looked up. There were tears shimmering in her eyes. “I . . . p-promise,” she murmured, the words barely audible. She slipped her hand into the slit on the side of her skirt and pulled out the little pocket she wore on a cord beneath. Hesitating, she slid the little pistol inside and tucked it away again. Only then did Jon draw an easy breath.

“You have given your word. You must keep it,” he said, then said no more.

The blood-chilling knocks ceased at dawn. So did the rain, but a huge, fiery red sun peeking through the trees along the eastern slopes had turned the sky to flame, a harbinger of more rain on the way.

Cassandra kept her distance from her husband, who was clearly addled—if he thought for a minute she would shoot him, he had to be. She looked after Milosh, who seemed to be sleeping peacefully, tended his wound and moistened his lips with the few drops of water remaining in the cauldron, while Jon took the bucket to fetch more from the stream.

The fire had nearly died to embers, and Cassandra added more wood and stirred it to life again. They would need boiling water to steep the herbs they would gather. They would collect those together. As vehemently as Jon
insisted they keep their distance, he would not brook a far separation. Too much was at stake, and too much had gone wrong already.

“How is he?” he asked, striding in with a brimming bucket.

“I do not feel fever,” she said, brushing Milosh’s brow with the back of her hand. “He’s clammy-cold.”

Jon filled the cauldron, hung it over the flames, and blessed the water. “I must try to rouse him,” he said, striding to the pallet. “We cannot leave him alone without telling him what we are about. He will be disoriented when he wakes. If we are not here, he may think we’ve abandoned him.”

Cassandra stepped back, and Jon crouched down beside the Gypsy. “Milosh!” he said, nudging him. “
Milosh!
Can you hear me?”

A feeble groan replied.

“That’s right, open your eyes,” Jon urged, giving another nudge.

The Gypsy’s eyes opened. Shuttered and glazed, they slowly focused. “Am I dead . . . finally?” he murmured. “I feel so . . . strange.”

“No,” Jon replied. “You’ve been shot. We’ve doctored you. You’ll mend, but we must leave you to collect the herbs. Will you be all right until we return?”

“W-where . . . are we?”

“At the cottage.”

“Ah! Well done. Go.” He gave a bitter laugh. “I will be here when you return.” Jon gave a nod and turned to go, but Milosh called him back. “Jon . . .” he began. “Thank you.”

“Do not thank me yet,” Jon replied. “It’s far from over. I am not comfortable leaving you alone here, even now that
the sun has risen. I have in mind to nail a swivel board to the door, and to bar it from the outside when we leave. Will that keep any stragglers out, or do I waste my time?”

The Gypsy nodded. “Do what needs must,” he said. “I-is there more water?”

Cassandra took up the dipper hanging by the hearth. The water was still cool, having just been retrieved, and she scooped some from the cauldron while Jon worked on the door. Milosh had lost consciousness when she reached him. His mouth had fallen open, and she knelt to moisten his lips anyway, only to drop the dipper as she stared down at him in his slack-jawed oblivion.

“Jon!” she called in a hushed whisper, fearful of waking the Gypsy. “Quickly!”

Jon set the tools aside and approached the pallet, his frown evidence of his confusion. Milosh stirred but did not wake, and Cassandra fell back from her kneeling position on the floor. She crawled backward like a crab, away from the unconscious Gypsy, her finger wagging toward him.

“What is it?” Jon asked, squatting down.

“L-look!” she got out around a dry lump that had constricted her throat. “What does it mean?”

Jon stared down at Milosh’s gaping mouth, and at the deadly fangs that had descended, distorting the shape of his lips. The Gypsy muttered something unintelligible in a foreign tongue. Was it Latin?