Dawn Thompson (31 page)

Cassandra climbed down also, raising the hood of her indigo cloak, while Jon untied the tarpaulin that had protected everything during the last storm, and began rummaging beneath it.

“What are you looking for?” she queried.

He lifted out the small bundle of kindling and handed it to her. “Here,” he said, “keep this dry. We need it to light a fire to melt the sacramental oil.”

She had nearly forgotten. Tucking it beneath her cloak, she watched while he raked some straw into a similar bundle and handed that to her also.

“We shan’t need the beakers Milosh bought from the tinkers,” he said. “We have enough to carry. We can drink from the flask. We shan’t need the rope, either, to scale this peak. It’s no steeper than the tor at home, and there’s plenty of gorse and bracken.”

All at once Cassandra staggered. The eerie vision of the white wolf drinking from the cauldron flashed before her eyes, and she gripped the side of the cart for support. Jon didn’t seem to notice. Still rummaging, he collected several other tools, including the deadly cleaver, and was just about to tie the tarpaulin down again when something caught her eye: a curved-sided wooden trencher.

The cryptic vision came again. This time, she was prepared and paid closer attention. Though the vision’s rampant flashes were debilitating, she tried to extract whatever message lurked beneath the surface. The wolf’s red-rimmed, yellow-green eyes blazing through an iridescent veil were haunting. The bared fangs dripping blood were terrifying. The bone-chilling flashes had begun when she first glimpsed the trencher. As she reached for it, Jon arrested her hand with a quick grip on her wrist.

“Leave that,” he said. “It’s still a good distance to the summit, and we shan’t need it.”

She wriggled her arm free. “We need it,” she said. Claiming the trencher, she tucked it under her cloak with the rest.

“What for?” he asked. “We shan’t be eating up there, Cass. It’s just one more thing to carry.”

“We just do,” she said, moving out of his reach. She sighed. “By the look of this rain, we shan’t need any of it.
What will we do if all this hides the eclipse?” The conversation needed changing. She could tell him about the visions, but he would think her a complete ninnyhammer. Besides, how could she convince him it was anything but her imagination if she wasn’t convinced herself? Still . . . it was passing strange.

“Have you ever seen an eclipse of the moon?” he asked. Cassandra shook her head.

“There was one when I was at university,” he said. “ ’Twas a beautiful sight—it lasted for three hours. The moon was ghost-white when it began, but when it sank into the earth’s shadow, it turned orange. Then, when the eclipse was total, it became blood-red. ’Tis an eerie sight. It is at that stage we must drink the draught. It is also then that we will be most vulnerable to other vampires . . . and to each other.”

Cassandra ignored the last. “But how will we know when the eclipse is total if we cannot see the moon?”

Jon gazed at the heavens. The rain was slackening, and the clouds were zipping along at a steady pace. “Unless I miss my guess, the storm will pass over,” he said. “I only hope it is in time.”

They said no more during the climb, and Cassandra was thankful for that. It was full dark when they reached the summit, a flat plateau, an under-cliff with a shallow jutting crag that made a perfect shelter from the rain. The natural rock formation afforded a perfect seatlike ledge upon which to rest, and Jon saw her to it, and busied himself preparing for the ritual.

None of this was visible from the land below. From there, it had appeared just as all the other mountains. Now they were on the far side of the peak: the side that showed the vastness of the mountain range like jagged
teeth stretching as far as the eye could see, with what appeared to be a deep, bottomless gorge between.

Jon was keeping his distance, pacing the flat table of rock tufted with patches of green. She knew why. She felt the feeding frenzy beginning; he must as well. It was stronger tonight—stronger than it had ever been. Was that because they had fasted, or was it the pull of this blood moon they couldn’t even see? Gradually, the rain slowed, then stopped altogether but for a stubborn drizzle. Nearly an hour passed before that faded, too, the only noise an occasional hollow splat as rain that collected in puddles on the rocky overhang above dripped down.

Jon had been watching Cassandra from the edge for some time now. She tried not to make eye contact with him, but she couldn’t help it. That quicksilver gaze of his drew her own like a magnet. The condition had progressed in them both. Would they be able to resist the bloodlust coupled with a desire that was palpable even at this distance? Was he thinking the same? A tremor passed over his hooded eyes as if he’d read her thoughts, and he prowled closer, until she could inhale his evocative woodsy scent stirred by the wind, until she could smell his blood. She tried to steel herself digging her fingertips into the rocky bench she sat upon, her body gone rigid. Instinct told her not to look him in the eyes.

“Do you have the pistol?” he gritted through clenched teeth.

She had seen him fight like that dozens of times, mostly when he tried to hold back the fangs. It never worked; they always descended nonetheless. She swallowed. Yet the frightening thing was, she wasn’t afraid.

She nodded.

“Remember what I told you, Cassandra.”

How could she ever forget?

He pointed skyward. “Look . . .” he said.

Cassandra followed his outstretched arm with her eyes. Stars were peeking through the clouds in random clusters. Was that the upper curve of the moon? She blinked, continuing to stare.
Yes!
The clouds were racing before it, giving brief, teasing glimpses. The eclipse had not yet begun.

“Give me the wood and the straw,” he said, his hand extended.

Cassandra had forgotten all about the bundles beneath her cloak. She handed them over, being careful not to touch Jon in the process. Their hearts were beating in a similar rhythm. She could hear it—she could
feel
it. She had forgotten about the trencher, and in her haste it fell, making a hollow sound by glancing off several rocks.

Jon kicked it out of the way and raised her to her feet. “I cannot bear that look in your eyes,” he murmured, “but you are right to fear me. The bloodlust is so much stronger now. It could be the pull of the moon, or our progression . . .” He ran the back of his hand lightly across her cheek.

“I don’t fear you, Jon,” she murmured, instinctively kissing his hand. “I fear what will be if this doesn’t work. We cannot go on like this—loving each other, wanting each other, in terror of each other, afraid that our love will damn us.”

He put her from him, raking back his hair ruthlessly. “Help me with the fire,” he said. “We must both prepare this, Cassandra—and no matter what occurs, you must finish the ritual.”

“You are scaring me now, Jon,” she murmured.

He spun toward her, his eyes glowing in the reflected light of the moon, partly visible now. “And well you ought to be scared,” he snapped, flinging his arm toward
the heavens again. “It has begun. Do you feel it, the pull? Milosh never said it would be like this. I do not know if I can withstand it. And we are not alone on this mountain. I can sense . . . Perhaps once we build the fire.”

Cassandra felt it, too—a discernible presence. She thought of the creatures of the night that had pounded upon the cottage door, of Sebastian in his natural form, that hideous half-bat, half man, so huge his head challenged the cottage ceiling; and of her husband, ready to die to keep her safe from harm at his own hands. The moon, ghostly white, was nearly free of the clouds now, though a different sort of shadow had begun to cross its face. The eclipse had begun.

Cassandra was suddenly struggling with her demons, with her longings, with the carnal demands of a body over which she had precious little control. She pretended she didn’t see the flock of what appeared to be birds but which she knew were bats streaking in silhouette across the alabaster moon. She pretended she didn’t hear the plaintive howling of wolves. Did Jon see or hear? Did he suffer visions? Was that why he was so adamant about the gun? His demeanor while struggling with the fire was proof enough that at least some of her suspicions were correct.

She laid out wide a ring of straw at Jon’s direction. Meanwhile he stripped off his coat and cast it aside, then took up the tinderbox and the dry wood and started a fire in the center of the circle. He next propped the sacramental oil container near enough to the flames to melt the solidified oil, but not so near that it was in danger of catching fire; then he paced the flat plateau like a caged lion waiting for it to render. Once it had, Cassandra sacrificed another piece of her petticoat for Jon to hold the
tin so he wouldn’t burn himself, and he walked around the circle sprinkling the holy oil on the straw.

“It doesn’t matter if it hardens now,” he said, closing the circle. “This oil is flammable in any form.” The gauze scrap of Cassandra’s petticoat had become saturated with the unction, and he wrapped it around the end of a stick he’d set aside when he built the fire, then brandished it. “To ignite the circle,” he explained. “You do not want to get too near.”

“Should we ignite it now?” Cassandra asked.

Jon studied the sky. The moon was clearly visible, but only darkened by half. It had taken on a peculiar orange tinge. It was happening! But their mission would not be quickly resolved. It would be awhile before the eclipse was total.

“No,” he said. “If we light it too soon, it will burn out before it’s needed. Besides, it must be lit from inside the circle, and we must stay inside the circle once it is.”

Cassandra nodded. “Where is the draught?” she asked.

“In my coat pocket,” he replied. Striding toward the ledge, he stooped to pick up his greatcoat. A rush of wind suddenly made the flames dance in the central fire. There was no time to give warning, though a scream spilled from Cassandra’s throat, and a black blur of motion slammed into Jon just as he straightened. The attack sent the greatcoat—draught and all—sailing over the edge of the mountaintop.

Sebastian!

Rooted to the spot, Cassandra screamed again. The sound reverberated in her ears as if it were coming from an echo chamber. Before her eyes, her husband and the vampire wrestled, teetering on the ledge, while overhead, the earth’s shadow crawled ever closer to eclipse the
moon. The sphere’s orange hue was slowly turning red. It was nearly time. Had this all been for naught? Cassandra screamed again.

“Get inside the ring and set it afire, Cass!” Jon charged. He had a grip upon Sebastian’s throat, but the vampire’s clawlike fingernails had shredded his shirt and gouged the flesh beneath, drawing blood. “Now, Cassandra! You’ll be safe inside the ring. He will not cross over fire and holy oil—”

“The draught!” she sobbed. “It’s gone!”

“
Light . . . the . . . fire
,” he repeated, gravel-voiced.

That command brooked no opposition, and so Cassandra took up the gauze-wrapped stick and stepped inside the circle. She was just about to touch the gauze to the flames when a bloodcurdling howl froze her. It ended in a vicious snarl, and Cassandra watched, mouth agape, as a great white wolf with a silver-ridged back streaked through the air and impacted Jon and Sebastian, still struggling on the brink.

For a moment Cassandra couldn’t believe her eyes.
Milosh?
It was; his wounds were clearly visible. Her heart skipped a beat. The conflict was so close that she couldn’t tell which figure the wolf was attacking, but then Sebastian roared and cried out in pain. Milosh had nearly bitten off his ear. Enraged, Sebastian grabbed the wolf by the throat and hurled him to the rocky ground. Milosh fell hard on his side with a pained yelp and could not rise.

Cassandra felt her fangs descending. The scent of fresh blood filled her nostrils from all quarters—that of all three combatants. The pull was unbearable. But so was the pull of the blood moon, nearly eclipsed; another thing Milosh had neglected to mention. It was as if an
unseen tether were reining her in, drawing her ever closer with each breath she drew, so great was the magnetism.

She plunged the oily, gauze-wrapped stick into the fire, but she did not ignite the circle. Instead, she sprang forward and set Sebastian’s greatcoat afire. The flames quickly spread to the clothes beneath, and the creature let Jon go, shrieking and peeling off the flaming layers as he shriveled to a silvery streak. A moment later he disappeared, roaring, into the night.

Cassandra knew but a brief moment of relief before her blood ran cold again, and she gave another scream. Jon had leaned over the brink, surged to his feet, and jumped! Scarcely able to put one foot before the other, she staggered to the edge and looked down, expecting to see her husband lying sprawled out dead somewhere below.

A string of involuntary shrieks poured from her, and her eyes flew in all directions, sifting through the darkness. The mysterious moon spared just enough light to show her Jon’s greatcoat. It had snagged on a petrified root cluster protruding from a narrow ledge jutting out from the sheer face of the mountain. Jon was standing upon that rocky shelf, stretching toward the coat, which was flapping in the wind just out of reach. Cassandra held her breath as he straddled the branch and shinnied out upon it until the coat was within reach. Her hand clamped over her lips, she watched him snatch the coat and shinny back to the shelf.

Staggering away from the edge, Cassandra looked up at the moon. Indeed, it was blood-red, nearly eclipsed. It was almost time—only minutes remained. She must light the ring of fire. But first she ran to Milosh, who lay panting helplessly, blood dripping from fangs he would not or
could not retract. There was no menace in that for her. And his yellow-green, red-rimmed wolf’s eyes were pleading.

The trencher! My God, is this the meaning of that cryptic vision?

She tossed the flaming stick down on the rocky ground and ran to the natural shelter where the trencher had fallen. Snatching it up from among the random tufts of grass, she spun around to find herself seized and swept into Jon’s arms.