Dawn Thompson (30 page)

“
Kyrie eleison,
” Milosh said again.

Raising her to her feet, Jon put Cassandra from him just as swiftly. “Stay back!” he gritted through clenched teeth.

“But what does this mean?” she persisted.

“I do not know,” he returned, “Except that we cannot trust anyone or anything.”

The sun that turned the sky to flame had disappeared behind a dense cloud blanket by the time Jon and Cassandra set out to collect herbs; no trace of the glorious crimson glow remained. Was that an omen of ill boding? Jon heaved a ragged sigh. Everything seemed to fall into that category now.

It took them until midafternoon to gather most of the specimens. Borage grew next to the cottage. They found milk thistle in the pasture that girded the foothills, where they also found plenty of broom. Rue was the hardest to find, for it grew on the mountain slopes. There wasn’t time to collect it on foot, so they hitched up the cart and found it growing in great profusion on the mountainside just off the path, the very same path that they would take tonight to perform the ritual. It was farther from the cottage than Jon had wanted to travel—especially now, with Milosh as he was. That phenomenon was nagging at his beleaguered brain, as if he needed more worries.

He had scarcely reined in when Cassandra hopped
down with the bucket and began collecting the tongue-like leaved herb. How lovely she was, with her honeyed hair blowing in the wind and her muslin frock billowing about her; how wraithlike and delicate. It was impossible to believe that this exquisite creature—the very same that had captured his attention and his heart on the crowded dance floor at Almack’s—was an infected vampire who could shapeshift into a sleek black panther or succumb to ravaging feeding frenzies. Those conjured images aroused him, so he shook himself like a dog—a mannerism he’d found himself adopting more and more of late, in a vain attempt to shake such visions loose before they triggered his own feeding frenzy. He shifted on the seat of the cart. His arousal was challenging the seam in his buckskins. He almost laughed aloud: That lethargy supposed to curtail lust during daylight hours was a myth!

Cassandra turned, and he thrilled at the sight of her laden with rue. How pale she was, how opalescent her skin, though the apples of her cheeks were lightly flushed; no doubt from holding her head down while picking the herbs. It was the first color he’d seen in her since the nightmare began. The sight of her thus took his breath away.

“I have it!” she chirped, waving a branch for him to view. “I am so glad we found it. Rue and barsa weed are the most important herbs in Milosh’s brew—and, he said, the most dangerous if the proportions aren’t right. I know where to find barsa weed. It is this I feared we wouldn’t find.” She bounded through the rue, which was swaying in a gentle wind; her frock spread wide, oyster white against a matching sky.

“Yes, well, time grows short. We must get back,” he said tersely. It was his only defense. It was that or seize her
then and there, and ravish her in the fragrant bed of rue. He couldn’t take the risk.

Cassandra tucked the herbs she’d gathered into the bucket, which contained a little water to keep them fresh. There were only two more herbs they must gather: skullcap, by the stream sidling like a lazy snake through the forest near the cottage; and the cresslike weed that grew in the water. The skullcap had been saved for last, to preserve its delicate, downy blue flowers that mustn’t be bruised else they fade and quickly lose their potency. They found it readily enough, and refreshed themselves beside the stream as well.

Returning to the cottage, Jon saw immediately that something was amiss. The door he’d taken such pains to fasten with a pivotal bar from the outside was gaping open on its wounded hinges, the bar in splinters on the ground. Letting loose a string of expletives, he snapped the whip over Petra’s head and the horse bolted forward. Praying that his eyes were deceiving him, Jon drove the animal relentlessly the last short distance, jumped down, and burst into the cottage, his eyes snapping in all directions. It was empty. Milosh was gone.

Cassandra rushed in after him, carrying their brimming bucket of herbs. She gasped as Jon straightened from the empty pallet with Milosh’s clothes in his hands.

“He has become a wolf,” he guessed dismally. “By the look of that door, he must have been desperate to leave here. He must be possessed of uncanny strength. I have never seen the like. All the other times he was quite docile . . . except for that one time at the crossroads, and even that was methodical unlike
this
.”

“What does it mean?” Cassandra asked. “He is hardly fit for such exertion. What do you suppose possessed him?”

“I do not know, and we cannot waste time wondering. He hasn’t disturbed anything else. The water is boiling. The herbs must be prepared and steeped, then cooled. The draught must be strained after, and I see no sieve. I shall look in the wagon. Perhaps—”

“There is no need,” Cassandra interrupted. “My mother used gauze to strain her simples. My petticoat is made of such; a piece of it will suffice.”

Jon nodded and stalked toward the door.

“Wait!” she called after him. “Where are you going?”

“Outside,” he flung over his shoulder. He had already reached the threshold. “You mustn’t worry, I shan’t go far.”

“What if he should return?” Cassandra said. “Do not leave me, Jon.”

“If he does, I will get to him before he comes anywhere near this door. I will be right outside . . . at a safe distance. But trust me on this, Milosh is not the only danger facing you right now, Cassandra—nor is he the gravest.”

In a blink Jon was gone; only the sound of the heavy crunching of his boots on the soggy forest floor remained, and finally that grew distant. Cassandra shook visibly with chills. The last words he’d said had raised her hackles. He was speaking of himself, she knew.

Absently she reached to touch the pistol in her pocket. No! How could he expect such a thing of her? She wished she’d never touched the weapon, much less taken it. Did he think she could so easily put aside her feelings and do that? How could she, when all she wanted was to live in his strong arms? She hungered for his touch, for his kiss, for his sex moving deep inside her, something she had thus far only imagined. Of course he knew; she could see it in his eyes. She could hear it in his deep, throaty
voice through gritted teeth, whenever he struggled to keep his fangs from descending. It was the same for him, had been from the very start; she had seen it on the night when, to her horror, he’d plunged those deadly fangs into his own flesh rather than put her to the hazard. He knew the pull of the feeding frenzy. He didn’t trust either of them to resist it. And it would be worse now, when the sun set, because they could not feed. Milosh had said they must fast before the ritual.

Cassandra beat back her thoughts with the demands of the present. The sun had passed its zenith long ago and was already sliding low behind dense cloud cover. Soon they must begin their ascent, and the herbs had yet to be brewed; the water was carefully measured and ready to receive them. First the bristly textured borage leaves, then the sweetly fragranced broom tops, following the exact recipe Milosh had given her. With great care, for they were sharp, she peeled away the prickly milk thistle bottoms and added the hearts and seeds to the cauldron. Next came the skullcap—the whole herb. The delicate blue flowers blended with the yellow blossoms of the broom, turning the draught a brilliant shade of green. Last but not least she added the fresh rue and barsa weed leaves, counting carefully.

Tart sweetness and earthy scents rode the steam rising from the cauldron as she stirred. Inhaling alone was intoxicating, and she stood back from the hearth and let the brew simmer. Her head was throbbing. Nausea overtook her. The room began to spin, and she dropped into the chair beside the hearthstone, bent forward with her elbows propped upon her knees, and lowered her head into her hands. She felt weightless, as if she could float up to the rafters if she didn’t find something to hold on to.
Why wouldn’t the room stay still? Why was everything all wavy, like the fabric of her best moiré evening frock? It was as if the cottage were alive, had a pulse. She shut her eyes and it echoed in her ears—
thump . . . thump . . . thump
—like the blood-chilling knocking at the cottage door that came in the night, riddling her with gooseflesh. If breathing the steam could have this effect, what on earth would drinking the stuff do? She gagged at the smell. What if she couldn’t keep it down? Milosh hadn’t prepared her for
this
.

She tried to rise but couldn’t. Her legs wouldn’t support her. She wanted to call out to Jon, but she couldn’t do that either. Forcing her eyes open, she tried to see, but all that met her gaze was the thick, corpse-white mist drifting toward her from the cauldron. Then all at once her vision narrowed and a shape took form; a large white wolf with a silver-gray streak down its back, its redrimmed eyes staring through the steam and glowing.

The animal was so close. It looked so real, but it wasn’t; it was only a vision—or so Cassandra thought until its lips curled back, exposing long, curved fangs. They were dripping with blood. The wolf raised its head and howled toward the ceiling. It was a silent howl. No sound came from the beast as it howled again, then stood upon its hind legs and drank from the boiling cauldron.

Why didn’t it burn its paws, its tongue? The cauldron was scalding hot. Stark terror found her voice and Cassandra screamed, vaulting out of her chair, but her trembling legs wouldn’t work as she started to run. Looking back toward the cauldron, she fell to the floor and screamed again. The wolf specter evaporated, drifting upward with the steam before her very eyes . . . and disappeared.

Jon was at her side in seconds. Raising her up, he wrapped
a firm arm around her waist and led her out into the damp, sweet air. Gasping for breath, Cassandra shook her head, as if to disperse the visions that would not leave her mind.

“What the deuce happened?” he wheezed. “That ghastly smell—no wonder you swooned.”

“I didn’t swoon,” she snapped at him. “I saw . . . I mean . . . that is to say . . . I do not know what I saw, or
thought
I saw. A wolf, I think. At first I thought—but no . . . it couldn’t have been. I blinked and it was gone. Milosh said there would be visions when we drank the draught. He never said they would occur from breathing the steam.”

Coughing, Jon sat her down on a tree stump close by. “Do not move from there,” he said. “I’ll take the pot off the fire. It’s boiled enough. We shall let it steep and cool. We must set out before the sun sinks behind the mountains, anyway; the less time traveling after dark the better. In the open we will be vulnerable to attack. We must minimize the risk by covering as much ground in daylight as possible. Neither of us has slept, and our wits must be sharp for this.”

He strode off into the cottage then, and Cassandra’s posture sagged as she stared after him. Should she tell him about her vision in detail? No. There was no need. It was only a figment of her imagination induced by the potent steam; nothing more. Surely she was subconsciously worried about Milosh—about the fangs she’d seen protruding from his mouth. Had he reverted to a blood-lusting vampire? Were they in real danger from him now, too? Those thoughts were what had conjured the vision . . . weren’t they? Or had she just discovered another of her gifts—the power of premonition? If that were so, what did this vision mean?

No! She would think on it no more. It was pointless. Instead she gulped the sweet, pine-scented air and listened to the bird music coming from the trees. Slowly her head cleared. Though the nausea remained, the world around her no longer resembled moiré silk, and the sickening tart-sweetness that had overwhelmed her was purged from her nostrils by the heady scent of honeysuckle, rosemary, and wet pine. Removed from the fire, the contents of the cauldron ceased producing steam. Only the faintest tufts escaped now, and once the cottage was aired, she went back inside. Jon went with her.

He hefted the cauldron on top of the table, while Cassandra tore a length of her petticoat away and stretched it over the bucket. It took some time for the draught to cool. While they waited, Jon kept vigil just outside the open cottage door. All the while the sun was sliding closer to the horizon. Cassandra was thinking, What if after all this the ritual should fail? What if the clouds that had hovered all day refused to let the moon shine through? What if Milosh . . . No, she wouldn’t think of that. It was only an air dream brought on by lack of sleep and that deuced steam.

“Hold the gauze while I pour,” Jon said, snapping her out of her reverie. He was standing with the cauldron poised at the ready over the wooden bucket.

Cassandra shot out her hands and held the gauze, while Jon poured the pot’s contents at a trickle through the fabric, allowing time for the strange-smelling greenish brew to penetrate the cloth. Not a drop was lost, and once he’d poured it all, Cassandra took the flask that had once held holy water from the mantel where Jon had put it when he emptied his greatcoat pocket and, with the ladle, filled it to the brim with the brew.

A blustery wind was stirring, the sky’s slate-gray clouds racing before it. That could either mean that the predicted storm was imminent, or that the wind would chase the clouds away altogether. There was no time to waste worrying, however. It was time to go.

They didn’t bother to lock the cottage door. What was the use? If Milosh in wolf form could crash through a door barred on the outside, who knew what Sebastian and his minions could do when there was no one inside to keep them out? Taking the holy oil from the mantel, the tinderbox, and a handful of dry firewood and twigs from the chimney corner, Jon shrugged on his greatcoat and they set out in the cart to climb the mountain, which thankfully was no more than a glorified hill compared to others in the range.

It was a gradual incline, winding lazily toward the summit. They soon passed the patches of rue among the rocks that edged the grade where Cassandra had gathered the herbs earlier. From that point the path steadily narrowed until it was barely wide enough for the cart to pass. Several yards farther on, it ceased altogether. From there, they must continue on foot. It wasn’t far, but the sky was darkening, bringing the twilight early, and a stiff wind whistled through the crags. Jon climbed down just as the heavens opened and the rain came sluicing over them.