Dawn Thompson (16 page)

Yes! She had evolved. Large enough this time to hold her own against a rat, she scattered the group with a hiss, then bounded up the spiral staircase and through the archway into the castle proper. With her heightened sense of smell, she was now able to detect the blood of the creature that had nearly made her his consort. Her head held high, one front paw suspended, she sniffed the stale, fetid air that reeked of death and decay . . . but Sebastian’s scent was not among the rest. As she was the
color of the shadows, melting into them, she crept along in search of either the exit or a hiding place he could not reach. He would not leave her unguarded for long. With that thought to drive her, she slunk along in the deepest darkness in search of just such a place.

“Do you carry
all
your belongings in this cart?” Jon said, picking through the garments in his traveling bag beneath the straw, while Milosh unhitched Petra in favor of a faster horse from among those tethered in the peasant barn. “Have you no community . . . no band to follow, like the Travelers we have at home?”

“I am outcast,” the Gypsy said. “This cart is my home.”

“I should think you would be applauded for the work you do.”

“Men fear what they do not understand. Is it not the same in your land?”

“Unfortunately, yes. But people in my homeland have no experience with this. That is why we have come. I brought Cassandra with me fearing for her safety if I left her behind, vulnerable to Sebastian. I had little idea he would follow us so far.”

Taking the Gypsy’s advice, he was exchanging his black attire for the buckskins, Egyptian cotton shirt, and conventional neckcloth he’d brought along. It wouldn’t
do to venture into a nest of vampires announcing his calling, not when clerics were so prized.

Having done, he shrugged on his greatcoat and felt the pocket to be sure of the holy water and oil. Then, scarcely giving the Gypsy time to climb up, he vaulted onto the seat, snapped the ribbons, and the cart lurched forward again toward the pass.

Unburdened horses would have been faster, but they couldn’t sacrifice the cart, and even though the new animal was more fleet-footed than Petra would have been, it was well past midnight and into the wee hours when they approached Castle Valentin.

They would not drive right up to the portal. Instead, they left the cart in the shelter of a narrow rocky ledge nearly a furlong below the mountain’s summit, and continued on foot. They hadn’t gone far when all at once tall shadows crossed their path, stretching across the width from rocky wall to sheer-faced edge—the long-legged, bushy-tailed shadows of a pack of wolves. But there were no wolves, only their shadows milling ahead in the moonlight and creating an eerie barrier.

The Gypsy’s hand upon his arm pulled Jon up short. “Ambassadors of welcome,” he said. “No, don’t!” he whispered, holding him back. “He knows we are come. Do not step into those shadows! They will devour you.”

“There is nothing there! How can shadows devour anything?” Jon asked.

“What made the shadows?” Milosh asked, still gripping his sleeve. “Just because you cannot see it does not mean something isn’t there.”

Jon reached for the holy water.

“No! Do not waste it. Use your powers.”

“What powers?”

Milosh stared. His eyes were like two coals gleaming in the night, his lips a solid, stubborn line beneath his twitching mustache. “Your
gifts,
then, if the word better suits,” he murmured through clenched teeth. “Jump over them.”

Jon stared. “How can I jump that?” he argued. “Those shadows are three deep. I would need wings to—”

Before he could finish, Milosh crouched down, then leapt into the air. Jon stood slack-jawed, watched him soar over the wolf shadows and come down again a good distance beyond on the other side, landing, knees bent, arms folded across his chest, like a Russian dancer.

“That is how!” he said. “You have gifts you do not even know of, Jon Hyde-White—now, jump!”

Following the Gypsy’s example, Jon crouched, sprang, and, to his utter astonishment, soared over the disembodied wolf shadows before falling to earth again somewhat less gracefully alongside Milosh.

The Gypsy’s eyebrow inched up a notch. “Your form lacks something in the way of finesse, but it will do.
Look
.”

Jon stared, and the sooty black wolf shadows shriveled before his eyes and disappeared with a burst of blood-chilling howls trailing off into the night.

“W-what just happened here?” he murmured. “No man can jump that high. . . .”

“No man, yes . . . but you are not just a man any longer, you are
vampir
. You have no idea of your capabilities. You cannot be cured of them, so use them to your advantage.”

Jon swallowed, staring toward the place where the shadows had blocked their path. Nothing remained but moonlight silvering the gravelly ascent. Cold chills raced
the length of his spine, undermining his footing. Speechless, he stared at the Gypsy.

“Remember what you have just done,” Milosh went on, turning him back toward the looming castle with a firm hand on his elbow. “Sebastian Valentin has the strength of at least twenty men. You will need all of your ‘gifts’ before ’tis done.”

“There are more . . . ?” Jon murmured.

The Gypsy only laughed.

Casting more than one furtive glance behind him, Jon stumbled on, his knees still tingling from the leap. He and Milosh seemed to trudge on forever, until finally the turreted castle towered over them, standing four stories high, carved in slate-gray rock and fortified with battlements and flying buttresses. A faint glimmer of light flickered within. The source couldn’t be near these arched windows with no more breadth than arrow slits; the illumination was too diluted. Splintered rays beamed through the little amber-colored circlets in lead casings, throwing auburn puddles on the drive, if the path could be called such—it was so narrow that a coach would not have been able to turn around without risk of toppling over the precipice into the cavernous abyss beyond. Peering over the edge, Jon couldn’t see the bottom; it was steeped in mist. He could not resist dropping a sizable rock over the edge. Leaning after it, he waited for the sound as it hit bottom, but there was none. All at once, a hand fisted in the back of his greatcoat dragged him back.

“You cannot jump
that
far,” the Gypsy chided. “Come, we are expected. I can smell him. He is baiting us. If we can hold our own until daybreak, and can find his resting place, we can collect your lady wife, make an end of Sebastian
and this travesty, and get on with the real business at hand.”

“Which is?”

“Completing your initiation in the noble art of hunting vampires,” the Gypsy said. “You have no idea of the scope of the work that awaits you. Come . . . we mustn’t keep him waiting.”

Casting a last thoughtful glance over the mountainside, Jon followed the Gypsy, their bootheels crunching on gravel the only sound during their approach to the towering double doors. From somewhere off in the forest that hemmed the ridge along the rocky wall, an owl’s mournful hoot announced their presence.

“She is near,” Jon said. “I have her scent. Very near. It is strong of a sudden . . .”

“You have mastered that gift, have you?” Milosh whispered wryly. “I have had her scent since we left the cart below. You will hone your skills. You will have to if you are to live to do the work. Yes, this initiation may well be your greatest test. Look sharp and pay attention.”

Melting into the shadows that hemmed the castle’s cracked and broken curtain wall, they inched toward the doors. Jon said no more. His concentration was upon Cassandra’s scent.

All at once a swarm of bats swooped down from the battlements. In a steady stream they poured from the wounded crenellations and soared past where the two men had flattened themselves against the wall, then soared off into the abyss in a flapping fit of squeaking frenzy, their wings sawing noisily through the hot, still air.

Jon gulped. “Was Sebastian among them?” he queried.

The Gypsy shook his head. “Not likely,” he said. “That was nothing more than another show of his capabilities—a
vampire glamour, meant to dazzle and intimidate. He taunts us . . . Come. Unless I miss my guess, the doors will be open.”

Jon inched closer. He gripped the great iron rings and the doors fell open with one tug. The stale, fetid stench of death and decay rushed forward, and something more: rats—dozens of them, streaming past him onto the drive, a sleek black cat in their midst.

“Another show of force?” he asked, glancing behind. He looked again. The drive was vacant. Milosh was gone, his clothes in a heap against the castle wall. Then he saw the wolf—a real wolf now, and not a shadow; Milosh’s wolf, white, with a silvery streak down its back. It pounced upon the cat, clamping its jaws shut on the scruff of the animal’s neck, like a mother cat might do securing its kitten, then bounded off down the steep drive toward the ledge where they’d left the cart. The creature dangled limp, as if paralyzed, from his jaws.

This was no time for feeding!
Feeding?
Milosh didn’t feed. Jon’s heart sank. Could all that have been bluster? Was the enigmatic Gypsy no more spared the feeding frenzy than himself? Was the cat to be his dinner, despite the care he had taken to extract it? There was no time to make sense of that now. Cassandra’s scent was overpowering, and he stepped over the threshold into what he presumed to be the Great Hall, which was so dimly lit he could barely see the wooden beams, grand ornamental columns and buttresses of carved wood supporting the vaulted ceiling overhead, replete with elaborate plasterwork.

His heightened senses were screaming. Easing the vial of holy water out of his pocket, he pulled the stopper with his teeth and held it at the ready as he parted
the still-flowing sea of rodents. The first things that captured his attention were shadows. Reminiscent of the shadow puppet plays he’d seen performed in Drury Lane, whole scenes played out upon the walls. The shadow shapes of wolves roamed over one. Sebastian’s emaciated form in ill-fitting clothes was unmistakably slinking across another. The creature was surrounded by female worshippers—there was no other word to describe the demeanor of the partially clothed figures cavorting about him in lewd postures.

Jon’s heart nearly stopped. Was Cassandra among them? He forced himself to look.
No.
Air rushed into his lungs again. He wasn’t even aware he’d been holding his breath.

Growing taller, the shadow shapes seemed to pulsate obscenely, but just as the wolves on the drive had been, these were only shadows, with no clear corporeal substance. As quickly as they had come, they slithered away like snakes to disappear in the darkness in the direction he was traveling. What did it mean—that the images were mere illusion, or that the wolves, the gyrating females, and Sebastian were there in the flesh, but invisible to him in all but shadow? There was no time to analyze. He flung holy water on the walls where the images had appeared, and staggered back as hissing, spitting steam rose from the splashes.

Screams and howls and blood-chilling laughter echoed through the musty halls, pulling him up short, but only for a second. A brief glance behind showed him no sign of Milosh, and he continued down the hallway, his eyes looking in all directions, half expecting Sebastian to materialize before him with every cautious step. Cassandra’s scent was stronger here—not only her human scent, but
the scent of her blood. It was all around him—in
him
—drifting through his flared nostrils. It was in the very air he breathed. Her fragrance alone aroused him.

A broad archway loomed before him, and beyond, a spiral staircase steeped in shadow led below. Snatching a torch from one of the wall brackets, Jon held it high and, taking silent steps, climbed down to a large chamber wreathed with alcoves. One by one, he thrust the torch into each, progressing slowly through what seemed to be an antiquated dungeon. Each recessed space was outfitted with various rusted iron restraints. After stepping into the third as he progressed, he jumped back. It was occupied. A young woman—all eyes, as pale as milk, her fair skin crosshatched with a tracery of feathery blue veins—gazed up at him, moaning. She was shackled to the wall by the wrists, her bare breasts gleaming in the torchlight as she strained against the tethers.

Jon searched the floor for some means to free her. “Do not fear,” he said, “I will set you loose.” He spun around and held the torch high. “Are there others?” he asked. He needn’t have spoken. Several more similarly tethered figures on the opposite side shrank from the blazing heat of the torch as he thrust it toward them.

“H-help me!” the blonde girl pleaded.

Jon returned to her, still searching for some means to break her chains.

“C-come nearer,” she said. Jon bent closer. “Nearer,” the girl groaned.

But as he moved within range, she lunged, fangs exposed, with full intent to sink them into his chest.

Jon fell back out of reach and scrambled upright, mindful of the torch that had nearly spiraled from his grip. Sebastian’s creatures—all of them—their moans and cries
and blood-chilling laughter rang in his ears. A spurt of holy water from his flask sent the blonde skittering into the corner hissing like a snake. He should have known! He would have to harden himself against his compassionate nature if he were to survive here.

Cassandra’s scent was overwhelming. Was she among them? Deliberately he forced his right foot in front of his left and staggered around the perimeter, his heart hammering against his ribs. Anticipation of the horror he would surely find—his Cassandra, become one of these, lost to him forever—nearly drove him insane.

He passed three more alcoves before he came to an empty one. No, not empty; something lying on the floor caught his eye. Ignoring the racket the vampires were making behind him, he dove for the scrap of white muslin cloth and blue spencer. He raised the cloth to his nose and inhaled deeply.
Cassandra
. And there was a spattering of blood upon it. He called her name, and it sounded back to him in an echo from every recess, every nook and corner. Standing in the center of the chamber, he reeled in circles, observing the voluptuous females shackled in their alcoves on beds of straw. They were beyond redemption. These were Sebastian’s creatures, companions he had made for his eternal pleasure, and those of whom Milosh had spoken. Young bodies housing entities eons old—he smelled the age of them, as old as the grave, and saw into the empty shells that once had housed their souls.