Dawn Thompson (4 page)

The vicar refilled the glass and faced him. “You are not undead yet, m’boy, if I’m reading this rightly,” he said. “Where is the girl?”

“She’s safe . . . for the moment, at the Abbey. She’s going to be staying there from now on. It was foolish of me to think she could stay at Emma Broderick’s boardinghouse while I sorted this out. After what occurred at the Abbey just now . . .” Recalling how close he’d come to stomping Cassandra to death in her alternate form, he shook his head and bit back the rest of the thought.

He hadn’t introduced her to the vicar as of yet. That was supposed to have taken place tonight, and would have done if Cassandra had been at the crypt earlier as they’d arranged. Jon hadn’t even had a chance to tell his
mentor the whole of it yet. He wondered how he ever could now. It was too bizarre. If Sebastian hadn’t followed him to the very kirkyard gates, if the vicar hadn’t witnessed with his own eyes the vampire’s inability to set foot upon consecrated ground in his pursuit, he mightn’t have told his mentor anything at all. Since then, Clive Snow had formed his own conclusions, and confirmed Jon’s greatest fears.

The vicar didn’t press for an explanation. “You cannot mean to keep her there unchaperoned?” he breathed, incredulous.

“What else am I to do with her, Clive? How else am I to keep her safe from the demon that is stalking her—that is stalking us both? We did not exactly part on good terms, Sebastian and I.” It was a facetious remark totally out of character for him, and it raised the vicar’s brow.

“What of her family? Surely someone will miss her—come looking for her. What then?”

“By then it shan’t matter . . . if you will help me,” Jon said, his eyes pleading.

“I?”
asked the vicar. “What can I do?”

“Much, my friend, if you are willing,” Jon replied. “That is why I wanted her to meet me at the crypt, where she would be safe until I could join her . . . so I could bring her here and we could discuss it with you together.” He gestured with his snifter. “You’d best have another as well,” he said. “I fear you shall need it before this interview is done.”

The vicar stood his ground, his amber eyes riveting. “Speak your piece,” he commanded. “I want the truth, Jon—all of it. Who is this girl? How did she become . . . involved in this madness?”

Jon set his snifter aside. “Cassandra is the daughter of a
captain who passed on to his reward from wounds sustained on the Peninsula,” he said. “She was the paid companion to Lady Estella Revere. I met her in the company of the Reveres at Almack’s in April. So help me, Clive, I was smitten from the moment I first clapped eyes upon her.”

“Go on,” said the vicar.

“She’s led a very sheltered life, much of it in an Anglican convent in the Midlands until she took the post with the Reveres. She wasn’t suited to the order. She has no one now. Her mother passed just before I brought her here. The Reveres think she’s gone home to Cornwall for the funeral.”

“So, they do not even know that she is here?”

Jon nodded. “If you will help us, by the time they find out it will be too late to pose opposition.”

“Did you . . . cause her affliction? I want the truth, Jon.”

“No—I’ve told you,
no
. Though I may as well have. If it weren’t for me . . .”

“All right, let’s have it from the beginning,” the vicar said, sinking into the wing chair across the carpet. “Where did you meet this Sebastian?”

Jon hesitated. He didn’t want his friend and mentor to feel responsible. “In an East End gambling hell searching for Ned Stoat,” he finally said. Nothing would be served by a lie.

“And you struck up an acquaintance with this . . . person?”

“Of course not. Ned wasn’t there. Sebastian introduced himself, followed me outside on the pretext of pointing out another gambling parlor where I might find him, then did his worst and left me for dead in an alley down by the wharf. I shall spare you the bloodthirsty details. Suffice it to say that there was something about his
eyes. When I looked into them . . . I don’t know, it was almost as though I had no will of my own.”

“Were you conscious while it was . . . happening?”

Jon leaned forward on the lounge and nodded his head, which he’d taken in his hands. “Barely,” he said. “I saw him disappear into the fog when three lightskirts came on from the public house down ’round the docks. They didn’t see where he left me in the shadows, and I dragged myself back to the street and took a hackney cab back to the family townhouse. I was in no shape to ride, Clive.”

“You didn’t realize what had happened to you?”

“I was in a fog. I didn’t realize anything untoward had occurred until Archer, my man at the townhouse, pointed out the marks on my throat when he shaved me the next morning. Then I vaguely remembered . . . something. It still isn’t altogether clear.”

The vicar’s eyes flashed. “Can you still stand the sunlight?” he asked, giving a lurch.

Jon nodded. “Yes, though it hurts my eyes and gives me dreadful headaches. It’s as if I am viewing everything through a red veil. And I’m lethargic during the day. Much like several symptoms Cassandra complains of now.”

“Go on.”

“You know the rest. The cravings began—the hunger for raw meat running with blood; the insatiable thirst that nothing but thick, warm blood will quench. At first it was small creatures: rabbits, squirrels . . .”

“Have you . . . killed—taken a human life?” the vicar murmured.

Jon shook his head. “No,” he said. “Just animals. I have thus far been able to stop short of killing humans.”

The vicar’s posture relaxed somewhat. “Have any of these symptoms begun to intensify?” he asked.

“Slightly. Do you—”

“I want to know how much time elapsed once you were bitten before that occurred.”

“I-I don’t recall exactly. Is it important?”

“I’m trying to estimate how much time we have before you will no longer be able to come here for sanctuary if this condition is progressive in you. Have you not wondered why Sebastian could not tread upon this sacred ground while you can?”

“Of course. What are you getting at?”

The vicar hesitated. “You say that the girl is not fully
made
,” he said. “I don’t believe that you are, either. I pray not. It is either that, or your condition is simply manifesting itself gradually, in stages, and sooner or later you, too, will be denied sacred ground.”

Jon’s scalp receded and his eyebrow lifted. Was there hope? “My God, is it possible?” he murmured.

“I know not, Jon, I know not. That is why you must be honest with me. You say what has happened to her is your fault. How so?”

Jon hesitated. His mind was racing with more than he could take in. “The Reveres had pegged me for their daughter Estella, not Cassandra, her companion,” he said. “The attraction was mutual between Cassandra and myself, and we took to meeting on the sly. No! It wasn’t like that, Clive,” he hastened to add as the vicar’s hands clenched. “You know me better than that. We met in public places. We had ice at Gunter’s, took a stroll in Hyde Park—quite acceptable, though at Vauxhall Gardens there are secluded walks that lend themselves quite well to assignations of an amorous nature. It was in one of these that Sebastian found her waiting for me. I was going to tell her I planned to travel to Cornwall and seek
her mother’s permission to wed her. I had no idea then of the magnitude of my situation. I was detained at White’s. I was with one of my colleagues from University, who had been gaming, and there was a dispute over vowels. Twilight had fallen by the time I reached our trysting place. Sebastian had hold of her—he was draining her. I can still see it, Clive. He had her on the ground . . . she was semiconscious. I flew at him, caught him unaware. We fought, and he bit me again in the struggle.”

“Did you lose consciousness?”

“No. Neither did she.”

“And Sebastian?”

“Others were near. We heard voices and he ran off—disappeared. It was my fault she was attacked. He’d been stalking me. He knew who she was. It was deliberate. If I hadn’t told her to meet me there . . .”

“You aren’t to blame,” said the vicar.

“I am, Clive. She knew I would come. She never would have stayed past sunset but for that. She knew such places are dangerous after dark for a woman alone. She wanted to tell me that her mother had passed and she was returning to Cornwall. I hired a chaise and brought her here. I couldn’t let her go as she was, and I couldn’t go with her as I am.”

“You haven’t told me how you think I can help,” the vicar said.

“That should be fairly obvious,” Jon replied. “I want you to marry us. That will put paid to the nonsense of her having been compromised—not that such a thing even signifies, considering the rest of this. It’s ludicrous!”

“What? You actually mean to go back to London for a special license?”

“How can I now, when I have no idea how long I will
be able to go abroad in daylight, as you say? They do not issue special licenses at night, Clive.”

“Even if I could perform the ceremony and post the banns, it would be four weeks, Jon, before you could wed. By then, the Reveres would be banging your door down at the Abbey. This, of course, is hypothetical. What you ask is impossible. Why, it would be sacrilege!”

“The Devil take the banns, Clive! I’m asking you to join us—here, in that kirk out there, tomorrow night. Once we are wed, there is naught anyone can do. We cannot be separated—not now, not ever. It is the only way. I cannot abandon her to this . . . whatever it is. That would be unthinkable! I want to protect her, care for her, give her the life we planned. And as to sacrilege, you are guilty of that already, and have been since you gave me sanctuary on holy ground.”

The vicar was silent apace. Jon couldn’t read his expression. It was often thus; Clive Snow always seemed to be able to read his thoughts, but it was never the other way around.

“Do you realize what you are asking?” the vicar said at last, rising from his chair.

“I am asking a dear friend and mentor for help,” Jon said.

The vicar gave a stricken look, then turned away from Jon’s eyes.

“You are asking that I take you and the girl into that kirk next door and sanctify the unholy before God. How are you in a state of grace? How long before you may not even be able to set foot on holy ground?”

“I am asking for your help, Clive,” Jon repeated.

“Anything. Anything but this.”

Jon surged to his feet and began to pace the length of the carpet before the vacant hearth. He didn’t feel unholy.
He hadn’t asked to be rendered thus, though he had left himself open to the evil that had possessed him. If he were guilty of anything, it would be carelessness, recklessness, gross stupidity.

“I love you like a father, Jon,” the vicar went on, “and my heart is breaking for you, but you are asking me to seek God’s blessing upon evil. To attempt to sanctify such a union upon holy ground would damn us all.”

“What am I to do, then? I love her, Clive. I planned to press my suit. I’ll be damned indeed if I make a whore of her. That’s what you’re condemning her to—a life of living in sin.”

“The blacksmiths at Gretna Green are bound by no such strictures as those to which I must adhere,” the vicar said. “Anvil weddings are performed there night and day, no questions asked. All you need do is declare your wish to join before a witness for it to be legal and binding. It’s just over the border, Jon. If you were to leave at sunset, you could have it done and return well before dawn—now, while you can still bear the light of day, should you be caught behindhand.”

“I know how far it is to Gretna Green. It is possible, yes, but only barring the slightest setback. Uncooperative weather, a broken wheel, an encounter with a highwayman—all are more probable than possible, mind. And I am a dead man should my current situation change, Clive. Have you forgotten? We do not know how long I will be able to bear the light of day.”

“No, I haven’t forgotten, which brings up another thing: You must make a secure place for yourself at the Abbey—a dark place, without windows—just in case this condition of yours escalates before we can discover a way to prevent it. Do it now, while you are able to be abroad
both night and day. You shan’t be able to use the crypt any longer.”

Jon flinched as if he’d been struck. “You despise me that much—or is it that you fear me?” he asked. “That horse out there was bad enough. It all but trampled me. Even Gideon bared his fangs at me earlier, but you? I never thought I’d live to see the day that you would turn against me, Clive.”

The vicar shielded misty eyes and turned away. “I haven’t turned against you, Jon,” he murmured. “I’m trying to save you. The tragedy in all this is that you were not just a scholar accepting his lot with the clergy as a dutiful second son. You had a genuine vocation. I saw it when you were but a child.”

“You speak of me in the past tense?” Jon murmured. Tears stung his eyes. This could not be borne.

The vicar turned his gaze away. “I never should have sent that missive,” he said with passion, ignoring the question. “If only I hadn’t . . . I should have let Ned Stoat steep in his own bumblebroth. I thought that, since you both were there in Town, you might seek him out and send him home before his poor wife miscarried for worry over the dust-up that sent him there. I thought it would be beneficial to you both. You would face many similar experiences as vicar of this parish; I was glad of an opportunity to give you some firsthand experience in domestic matters.” He gave a lurch. “Oh!” he cried. “Speaking of parishioners, several have sighted what they perceive to be a large dog prowling the moor, and many of the men have taken to going about armed. We both know it’s no dog, Jon. You must take care, else you be shot down out there. Only a silver bullet can stop a vampire, but you are not exempt from injury.”

Jon scarcely heard. He asked, “How can my access to
that crypt in the kirkyard pose a threat to you? You’ve said yourself you do not think I’m fully . . . made.”

The vicar spun toward him. “Not me,” he said. “The threat is for
you.
Other aspects of your condition seem to be progressive. What happens if one day you try to reach the crypt and cannot walk on consecrated ground? You’ll die—incinerated by the light of day. And anonymity is paramount here. This is a small parish. Someone would see what’s going on and rumors would start.
On dits
would abound. As it is, I live in constant fear that one of the parishioners will blunder into you coming or going while they’re visiting a loved one’s grave. Use your head, boy. It’s
you
I’m thinking of. Make a place for yourself at the Abbey, at your home, where it will be safe, where you will be safe from prying eyes.”