Dawn Thompson (7 page)

The plan was to return to the woad field, transform, and collect the clothing he’d left there earlier, so he could dress and feed before he returned to the Abbey. Cassandra was safe, now that he had put distance between them, and he was running free. Why did his heart ache so? There was no relief from it. Even as the dire wolf it ached. Ironically, it was his human side—that facet of Jon, the man that lived inside, still untouched by the evil, still untainted by the vampire’s kiss. How long would it live so? If only he knew. When he was the wolf, he saw himself as Jon, the man, through a distortion, as a separate entity. He heard his thoughts as if they were coming from an echo chamber. When he was himself and the feeding frenzy was upon him, it was as if he were two people under the same skin, shadow-selves always together though worlds apart. And when the bloodlust overcame him, the pinging in his brain echoed in his sex, bringing it to life in an unstoppable frenzy, leading him closer and closer to the ultimate climax—a sexual rhapsody of carnal
desire and lust after the very essence of life. The thirst was only to be slaked by sexual consummation at the precise moment of the making ritual.

Jon didn’t even know how such a ritual would take place, only that when the time came it would be involuntary, like everything else in his strange condition. He also knew he had to fight against it, and against Sebastian’s lust for the same consummation, that passion to “complete” Cassandra.

Pondering those thoughts on the bleak periphery of his shadow-self deep inside
canis dirus
, Jon failed to see the hunter raise his pistol. He failed to hear the crack and boom of thunder as the ball exploded from the chamber, riding a burst of blood-red flame. It was as if time stood still until the missile impacted, causing him to break his stride, lifting him into the air with a howl that reverberated through man and beast.

He came down hard with a thud in a cloud of yellow woad spores riding the north wind. The unforgettable pungency spiraled through him to his very core: deeper than the wolf, clear to the memories of his childhood, when the woad field was his secret place, his adolescent escape from the invisibility that was his lot as a second son. That is, until the scythes robbed him of it every Midsummer’s Eve, when the farmers cleared the field. That and the scent of blood—
his blood
—was enough to set him on his feet, albeit scrambling. Where was he hit? In the shock of that terrible instant he couldn’t feel pain, but he could see, through a blood-red haze, the hunter plowing toward him through the woad. The deep-throated rattle of a snarl poured from him as he sprang, driving the man down, sinking his fangs deep into that throat.

Soon, the hunter’s hands fisted in his fur fell away. Still the wolf drank—not too much, just enough to satisfy his craving without killing the gudgeon. Until that moment, Jon had not known that he could feed in wolf form. Was this a power he had always possessed, or was the condition changing again, heightening, taking him deeper and deeper into darkness? If only he knew what he was facing. That he didn’t, that was the worst of it.

Having slaked his bloodlust, Jon fell back on his haunches, panting. The man stretched out beside him had lost consciousness. He would wake in a daze, just as Jon had done when Sebastian fed upon him. Raising his head to the heavens, Jon howled into the night, never thinking that if there were other hunters he might attract them. He was beyond thinking. If ever a wolf could be deranged, he was that wolf now. Pain was coming in waves rippling along his left foreleg. Following an animal instinct older than time, he lapped with his long pink tongue at the blood oozing down, leaking a canine whine.

All at once he raised his head and sniffed. Something foul rode the air—something fouler than the woad; he was downwind of it. Hackles raised, his wound forgotten, Jon scrambled up on all fours, slinking toward the place where he’d left his clothes earlier. Could he even change back as he was? The scent grew stronger—not a human scent. A fresh growl rumbled up from deep inside him. That wasn’t wise. Whoever it was could follow the sound. He snorted. What did it matter? The entity that stalked him now knew where he was by instinct, by scent—the scent of his blood, leaking faster now that he’d put the pressure of his weight upon it by loping through the woad.

His clothes were in sight, a crumpled heap of yellow-dusted
finery reduced to rags in the dampness—at least that was how they looked to his wolf’s eyes, glazed over with pain. Again, he sniffed the air. The scent was stronger now. Only then did Clive Snow’s words jog his memory:
Sebastian was evidently once a righteous man before he was turned. If this is so, he will stop at nothing to corrupt you.
Then, sadly, too late:
Several parishioners 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 is no dog, Jon. You must take care, else you be shot down out there.
Why hadn’t he recalled that sooner?

Jon stood his ground and turned—feet apart, hackles raised—his glazed eyes sifting through the darkness for the image of whoever, whatever it was stalking him. His night vision was infallible, but the stalker presented no image, though the woad before him bent and flattened as the invisible feet approaching tamped it down.

Sebastian!
It had to be. Strengthened now, just having fed, Jon lunged at the invisible entity, but his snarling mouth closed upon empty air. A great bat soared out of the woad field and disappeared off into the wood.

A warning? A biding of time? Or was it that the creature knew he could not win? Jon couldn’t imagine that. He put no store in such a guess, and the true answer soon presented itself: The sky was lightening! The faintest streamers of gray were diluting the clouds to the east.
First light!
Leaking a whine, Jon surged to his full height in a silvery rush of displaced energy, and stood naked to welcome the dawn.
Yes!
He could still bear it. But where had Sebastian gone? There wasn’t time for him to travel far, even in bat form. More than likely he had found some dark sanctuary and was somewhere close by . . . waiting.

Wincing, Jon glanced down at his left arm. The
wound wasn’t deep, but blood was pouring from it nonetheless. The pistol ball had grazed his biceps. There would be a trail. He would leave his scent for Sebastian to follow. Come nightfall, the vampire would hunt him down. The creature’s heightened sense of smell would be able to detect the scent for days, unless rain came to wash it away. Not much chance of that, judging from the brilliant sunrise.

All at once his memory was jogged again. Cassandra would be waiting at the Abbey. There was no time to lose. Tearing a strip from the hem of his shirt, he bound his wound, cinching it tight with his teeth, and dressed himself. The hunter lay just as he’d left him, sprawled on his back in the field, but something caught Jon’s eye as he came abreast of the man. There was no blood upon him—not a drop—where he had been smeared with it before. Jon squatted down beside the man. Cold chills gripped him. How white the hunter was in the ghost-gray light of dawn—as white as a cadaver. He
was
a cadaver. Jon groaned, feeling for a pulse in the man’s throat. There was none. He was dead, but Jon hadn’t killed him; Sebastian had finished what was started.

It was daylight now, and Jon was himself again—as much himself as ever he could be anymore. Groaning, he murmured a prayer over the hunter’s body. Was it sacrilege to do so? It didn’t matter. It was who he was—who he
really
was, underneath the evil that had possessed him. There was nothing more that he could do for the man, and so he staggered to his feet and sprinted through the woad field toward the tor.

To all outward appearances, Jon and Cassandra were a typical couple en route to their anvil wedding as the
coach tooled over the North Road through the forest, speeding them toward the Scottish border and Gretna Green. They’d gotten a late start. Between the delay while Grace doctored Jon’s wound and Bates packed his trunks, and the side trip to the boardinghouse to collect Cassandra’s things, it was nearly noon before they set out. Now there were still at least two hours until dusk, yet all around them an eerie green darkness pressed up against the coach like a gossamer veil, letting precious little light filter through from the sky above.

Outside, the whip cracked incessantly. Jasper Ott had his orders. Each time it snapped through the air, Cassandra gave a start. Her nerves were shattered. Jon had come home wounded and wouldn’t say what had happened to him, only that it wasn’t serious and that they had to wed and leave the country without delay. That it had something to do with Sebastian was evident. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be so obsessed with covering as much ground as possible during the day. The scent of his blood in the close confines of the coach was torture. Would it always be thus?

Jasper Ott lit the coach lanterns well before twilight. It was impossible to tell the actual time; no glimpse of the sky was visible through the fragrant bower of interlaced pine branches that formed a vaulted ceiling overhead. Time and again, Cassandra caught Jon gaping through the isinglass window as the coach sped along in the artificial darkness. He seemed to be staring at the treetops. Finally, curiosity got the better of her.

“What
is
it?” she said, laying a hand on his arm as he inclined his head to look again. “What is out there?”

“Nothing . . . I hope,” said Jon, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.

“Something, I think,” she replied. “You aren’t being fair. I can face anything so long as I know what it is I am facing. You keep me in the dark and I am vulnerable. Have I not proven myself . . . coming on this mad journey with you in total ignorance of the situation? You need to tell me what’s happening, Jon.”

He heaved a mammoth sigh. “If only
I
knew what we are facing,” he said. “I am assuming that Sebastian cannot be abroad during the day as we can. But I’m not entirely certain of it. There is so much I am not certain of, I hesitate to broach the subject for fear of frightening you unnecessarily—”

“Better that than having me blunder into danger unaware,” she interrupted. Could he not see that?

“Last night, I was shot in the woad field,” he said, ignoring her gasp. “I fed from the hunter who shot me, but I did not kill him, Cassandra. Sebastian did. I’m certain it was he who stalked me in that field, and finished what I started. When I lunged at him, he shapeshifted into a bat, and flew off as the sun rose. That’s why I’m praying we only need fear him at night.”

“Yet you fear . . .”

“That he might be following us?” he said, finishing her thought. “Yes. I left a trail of blood behind me, needless to say. He has latched onto my scent. I was hoping to reach Gretna Green and have our wedding behind us before dark—for more than one reason.”

“W-what are the other reasons . . . ?” she murmured, almost afraid of the answer.

He pulled her close, in the custody of his good right arm. “It is our wedding day,” he said. “Granted, it isn’t the sort of wedding day I’d planned for us, but that cannot be helped, Cass. The other reason is that I want to make
love to you. But it won’t be safe after dark. You know what happens to me after the sun sets—you’ve
seen
it. I lose my powers during the day, so then we might chance it . . . or once I’ve fed. Oh, I don’t know . . . Clive believes Moldovia is the answer. He believes that if there is help to be had, we shall find it there. It is a dreadfully long journey over land and sea, and there are no guarantees. At the very least it is a place to start. I cannot hope to help us without the knowledge and tools to do so. I will not settle for this—for either myself or for you. If needs must, I will go to the ends of the earth to find a way out of this nightmare, Cass. I
swear
to you.”

Cassandra pulled him close. “My . . . ‘powers,’ if you can call them that, fade with the dawn as well,” she murmured. “I grow weak with lethargy.”

“We cannot go back,” he said, cupping her face in his hand. “The man who shot me will be found, and Clive will surely think that I have killed him when he sees where and the way he died. And there’s something else . . .”

“What?”

“I fed from him
in wolf form
. I did not know such a thing was possible. It has never happened before. My condition is changing, Cass. Either that, or I am just now realizing the scope of it. Other . . . peculiarities might surface. I do not know what will be, and while I want you with me so I can protect you . . . I may be putting you in graver danger than either of us could possibly imagine.”

She seized him, clinging to him with all her strength. “Don’t leave me, Jon!” she cried. “My God, don’t leave me!”

“I will never leave you,” he said with passion, lacing his
fingers through her hair. “But you wanted to know what is happening. Now you do. Better now, before we wed, than afterward. I will not deceive you.”

Cassandra said no more. Sadly, she watched him lean back toward the window, scanning the blackness for some sign of a bat. He seemed so like himself in some ways, like the Jon she knew. She watched the flickering light from the coach lamps play upon the mahogany-colored hair waving about his broad brow, about his earlobes. She saw it shimmer in those silver-gray eyes like dancing mercury, and watched it collect in the thumbprint cleft in his chin. The heady scent of pine seeped in through the closed coach windows. She inhaled deeply, praying that the soothing scent would chase the fever racing through her veins, the insatiable lust for blood that, contrary to Jon’s belief, was growing stronger in her, not fading as he had hoped. It was best that he didn’t know. The scent of his blood overpowered the rest. It had replaced his natural scent, though she remembered leather and lime laced with musk—clean, of the earth and the wood. She would never forget, though all she could smell now was the enticing aroma of blood, thick and dark and mysterious, wafting toward her from his wound, albeit bound. She tried to steel herself against the lure of it—against the lust. If fighting these terrible urges would keep them at bay, she would fight with her dying breath. It was a place to begin, and she was resolved.