by Lorelei Bell
“Is everything alright?” he asked. “Do you want me to carry your bag for you?”
“Oh, no. I'm fine,” she said. “I just needed a little moment to rest. It's a long way up.”
“I'll wait with you.” He glanced up at the sky. “Beautiful night.” The torch behind, and a foot higher than his head had put his face in shadow.
“But chilly,” she said, pulling her cloak closer around herself, happy that she'd had Tillie buy it for her, she needed it here.
Myron stepped one riser down to come even with her. He reached for her cloak, his fingers brushing her neck as he did. With a sudden flinch, he snatched his bare hands back and stared at her looking slightly shocked. In the same moment she realized he'd taken his gloves off, and wondered why, since it was so chilly. Then she recalled his having to fumble to produce the gold for the men.
Myron was examining his fingers, as though he'd been stuck by a pin.
“What's wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing—er—maybe a pin stuck me? You're wearing something that pricked me,” he said, looking perplexed, and at the same time frightened.
Zofia loosened the tie on the cloak and made an attempt to look down at herself, but of course that was impossible. “I've only a necklace and a scarf. No pin.”
“There must be,” he insisted.
“No. Just my necklace.” Which was made of amber and silver. She glanced up at him, caught his gaze which had settled on her neck. He was staring at it unblinkingly. Licking his lips, he swallowed, looking like a dog longing to snatch the unattended meat on the table.
Great. Her warning signs were there; musky smell, absence of breathing, no fear of werewolves. He was a vampire. Why hadn't she deduced this sooner? Of course his complexion had seemed rather ruddy, when she first met him, but perhaps he'd just fed. Fortunately for them all.
“Myron?” Zofia said, and waved her hand in front of his face. “Woo-hoo, Myron!”
He blinked. “Oh. Sorry, I—” he said, refocusing.
Fists to her hips Zofia asked, “How long have you been a vampire?”
He blinked and then gazed down. Pivoting to shove his back into the wall he swore under his breath. He then made a fist and hit the rocky megalith with it. “Damn! I'm sorry, Zofia.”
Watching his emotional down-swing she could tell he was genuinely regretful. Either that, or he was a damn good actor.
“What tipped you off?” he wanted to know.
“I'm wearing a necklace with a lot of silver in it. You burned yourself on it, didn't you?”
He rolled his eyes and groaned, then hung his head.
“So, how long?” she asked again.
“About three weeks.”
“Three weeks?” she squeaked. “That's all?”
“Yes. Does it show?”
She gave him a pitied, pained look. “I don't know, really. I've only known one vampire, and he was one for five years.”
“Wow,” he said.
Zofia bit on her lip, realizing if she said any more, she'd be telling him too much, and had told him only that she'd known a vampire.
“So, he's bitten you?” he asked.
“Well, yes. Twice.”
“Figures.” He sounded disappointed.
“You really need to know that staring at necks is a really big clue.”
“I know. I know,” he said.
“Practically drooled.”
“I didn't though, did I?” he asked hopefully, touching his mouth as if drool dripped off him like a rabid dog.
“No. But you really have to practice the looking-in-the-eyes thing. That's how you enamor someone.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said, looking forlorn. “I've been just sort of picking it up as I went along.”
“You fed tonight, though, didn't you?”
“Yeah, I did. Before I got on the coach. The barmaid at that last inn.”
Zofia narrowed her eyes at him.
“What? She was asking for it!”
Zofia drew in a breath and rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Where are you originally from?”
“Leoshuna. Actually north of there.” Leoshuna was in the north section of the Provence, and was pretty close to the Oblast.
“How did it happen? I mean how were you turned?”
“I remember only that my brother and I went hunting up in the mountains. There were two half moons, so that was no problem. Weather was good too. We got separated. My horse spooked, and threw me. I never saw my attacker. I don't hardly remember it. Only after the initial pain, I felt—well—” If a vampire could blush, Zofia could swear Myron was doing so just then.
“I woke up in the ground,” he said, indignant. “But then, I guess, if I hadn't, I would have perished when Antares rose again the next day.”
Zofia nodded.
“So, I guess the vampire that bit me buried me so that I'd come back as a vampire.” He was looking down at his hands. “I felt totally different. I didn't feel dead at all. I felt strong. I mean really strong.”
“And hungry,” Zofia added.
He looked back up at her. “Yeah, like a strange hunger.”
“You found someone to slake your hunger?” she asked hesitantly.
“That took a while,” he said. “I was lost, wasn't I? Still in the woods, you know. But I did come across a small shack and—well—” he said with a shrug. “It seemed like a normal thing to do.”
“You wanted to bite me, just now, didn't you?” she asked.
“I was thinking about it,” he said, his upper lip slid up, revealing his slightly elongated fangs. “I mean, pardon me for saying so, but you're pretty and I simply couldn't help myself.”
Now it was Zofia's turn to blush and she bowed her head.
“Really, you are,” he said, seeming to think she were denying it with her slight moves.
“I've been bitten already,” she told him.
“I-I thought so, but I couldn't be sure,” he said. “I wouldn't want to be stepping on anyone's toes.”
She let it go at that.
“So, he's still around,” he said, pointing to her neck. “The one who bit you?”
“Oh, yes. He's certainly around. Might have followed me here, for all I know,” she said and knew that that had more truth to it than he could know.
“Well, you seemed like a nice lady, and I didn't want to just pounce. I just hate to feed and run while the lady is still in the throws of—” he cut himself off.
She nodded, knowing where that was going. “But now I know about you.”
“Yes. I'll have to move on,” he said. “Unless you can keep my secret?”
“Consider it done, since you've been so helpful,” she said.
“I'd hate to cause a panic.”
“Pace yourself. Take a little nip here and there,” she suggested.
He nodded. “I'll try and do that.”
They stood there quietly on that note.
“So, I suppose dinner is off?” he asked.
“Well, what will you do while I eat?” she asked him.
“Point taken,” he said.
“You were going to lure me, weren't you?”
He smiled. “Can't now.”
“Nope.”
“Are you sure you wouldn't want to—ah—never mind,” he said.
She arched a brow at him. No. She really wouldn't.
They were alerted by a noise coming down from above. The Gypsies were now scurrying back down, making no haste in doing so. The one with the hat stopped near Myron, and held out his hand. Myron payed him the promised second gold piece. He bid them a good night in their language, and continued his hurried pace to the bottom.
“They were in an awful hurry,” Zofia noted.
“Yeah.” Myron's gaze followed the two men until they disappeared around the bend.
“This place spooks them,” Zofia said.
“Probably the Portals,” Myron said.
“Yeah,” Zofia said.
As if to p
unctuate a really weird evening, a wolf howled somewhere off in the distance.
Chapter 15
“Superstitious!” Zofia's comment whipped in the air while she and Myron watched the Gypsies descend the steps of the Monolith, then dash across the cobblestone street and head back into the tavern.
Myron made a soft sound in the back of his throat. “Can't blame them, their werewolf relatives are out and about.”
Zofia narrowed her eyes at him. “As well as vampires.”
“Touché,” he said, making a slight bow from the waste, and on the way up handed her her books and leather portfolio. “After you, madam.”
Zofia took the books and portfolio from him, and Myron grabbed the two bags he'd left on the risers above, and they marched up the steps.
Moments later, they arrived at the very top. Breathless, Zofia stood beside Myron (who wasn't breathing hard at all. Damned vampires, anyway), and stared at a very heavy wrought iron gate that rose well above their heads. Myron grasped two bars in his hands and shook it.
“Locked, looks like.”
“Wonderful,” she said.
“Now what?”
“I don't know,” she said, peering through the gates beside him. She could make out trees and bushes and boulders, and perhaps some sort of low den of some sort, but she couldn't be sure what it was through the trees. She noticed the covered bridge, and heard the rush of a waterfall. Having read The Traveling Wanderer, she knew that the main castle was just beyond the covered bridge, but she couldn't quite make it out even in the pale moonlight.
A sweet scent from something blossoming nearby, cascaded over them, and the distant rush of the waterfall filled the air.
“I don't see any bell pull,” Myron said, searching the outer wall and gate.
Zofia inspected their surroundings. Surely there would be a way for outsiders to announce themselves when they arrived, wouldn't there? How else would anyone know someone was at the gate?
“I'm sure there must be some way to get inside, or announce ourselves,” she said, slightly perplexed by this dilemma. “Are you sure that the gate is locked?”
Myron shook it again. It clanged and clanged. It wouldn't budge.
Chewing on her lower lip, Zofia realized that she wasn't really in any rush to meet the very mysterious count. It was late. Maybe it was best not to intrude at this shadowpass. Perhaps in the morning things would look better.
Cold night air touched her cheeks, and slithered up her cloak. Chilled, she pulled her cloak up tighter, wrapping her arms about herself to hold in the warmth.
Myron stiffened, and stepped away from the gate.
“What's that?” he asked.
“What—?” She didn't get the words out before a strange feeling that began at the nape of her neck caught her off guard. An odd chill drew through her, and then a sudden warmth. It rushed over, through, and around her. It was fluttery. Then became more tremulous and grew from there. Before she could react she felt a tug just behind her naval. It all happened very quickly. She was aware only of being swept along, and yet could not see by what. At the same time all of her being felt as though condensed into one small speck. All sound, all sensations had come to a halt, only her thoughts existed, and even they were in question.
She was aware of someone screaming. Then she realized, when everything stopped fluttering and whirling around, the screams were coming from her, and she quit screaming. In the next few seconds she found herself standing in a dark place.
Gradually her eyes adjusted to the low lighting. She knew she was somewhere inside, but where that was, she wasn't quite sure. The chill of the night air was gone. The distant sound of music—which she hadn't totally acknowledged—was now stilled. Her heart rate, however, had multiplied ten fold. She was tasting something coppery in her mouth.
Looking around, she was immediately aware of the stone floor where she stood. A stone wall rose before her. It was solid stone, not a wall made of stones. A piece of the monolith, perhaps, with a few cracks running parallel as well as horizontal while her shadow bisected it. At least, from the looks of things, she was still in one piece.
Movement beside her made her twirl. Realizing Myron stood next to her—a look of confusion twisting his face—she stifled the gasp that swelled inside her.
“What happened?” she asked.
“I was about to ask you that,” he said.
“I'm not sure,” she said. But she had an inkling she did. A Portal probably had just transported them to this spot—wherever this was.
“One moment we were outside, in the cold,” he began.
“Next we're inside somewhere?” she finished for him. “I'm certain it was a Portal, and I'll bet it just transported us into the castle—at least I hope it's the castle.”
“Me too,” he said, looking around. She watched him turn, and move. The ever wary vampire, sniffing his surroundings. He would know if they were alone or not, just by his greater senses.
“Is anyone here?” she asked.
“Hello-o-o!” he called out.
Zofia did another eye roll. “You don't sense anyone, I mean?”
He was looking at her quizzically. “No. I don't think so. At least not in the past ten—” he was sniffing the air “—fifteen minutes.”
She breathed in the scents. The first thing she smelled was the tang of old stone. Wood smoke imbued the gloomy atmosphere. Turning, she found herself facing a very large fireplace. To the left loomed a large and very solid wooden door. The rest of the room opened up as she turned a little more. She paused to listen. Where was the count? His servants? Where they in the castle? Or had they been taken somewhere else entirely, as had happened to poor Barty, who had wound up across the border into the Oblast, at least twice during his stay here.
She took it all in, trying to decide whether this was part of the castle Barty had described or not. Walls were either solid rock, or flagstone, stacked and cemented in place. The floor was solid rock, slightly uneven, scattered with animal skin rugs. The ceiling, however, was heavily beamed, and wood planks suggesting that the interior used the stone as its main construction, but was not cave-like, as she'd first thought.
“We must be in the castle, somewhere,” Myron guessed, looking slightly less harassed than Zofia felt he should be. Where were her bags, her things? She'd only now realized that all of it had been left outside, behind the gate. Great. This sucked troll buggers.
Zofia paused, tasting that coppery essence again in her mouth and realize at once it was blood. She'd bit her lip. When had that happened? Before they were zipped inside, or after?
“How—?” the questioned died on Myron's lips as he turned back to her. Nostrils quivering, he made a motion toward her. Before she understood, or could react, Myron became a blur of motion. He grabbed and pulled her into a fierce hold. A demanding mouth covered hers, but not in a kiss. He was biting her, and damn it, it hurt. Arms pinned against him, she couldn't move. She realized in what seemed like a sluggish two or three seconds—as though they had been caught up in some insane time warp—he was sucking the blood at the wound site on the inside of her mouth. Sharp canines slid from the confines of his mouth against her lips. A low growl emitted from deep inside his throat. Possessed by that part of him which was vampire, the scent had drawn him like a shark in bloodied waters. Mouth held agape, fangs fully extended, the reared back. In that nanosecond, Zofia yanked one glove from her right hand and managed to shove it into the space between them, connecting her palm to his chest.
“Locomote!”
Myron zoomed across the room, crashed against the furthest wall, then dropped with a thud and a groan onto the cushions of the couch.
“Madam,” came a detached male voice. “Are you alright? And would you like me to put out the trash?”
“No, that's alright, Biddle,” Zofia said, swiping at the swath of dark hair which had fallen into her eyes. “How did you find your way inside?”
“Through the chimney, of course,”
he said. “Who is your blood-lusting friend?”
Zofia glanced over to find Myron shaking the cobwebs out of his head. Aside from looking rather like his brains had been knocked around a bit, he was fine.
“What the—” Frowning, Myron focused on Zofia. He didn't look angry as much as dumbfounded. “How did you do that?”
Biddle's wild, menacing laugh caught his attention. Myron looked around and then his eyes seemed to focus on some spot near Zofia.
“Who is that?” Myron asked, pointing.
Zofia turned, thinking Biddle had just suddenly become a solid form. But she could see nothing unusual. Biddle was just as invisible as always.
“You can see him?” she asked, astonished.
“Well, yes.”
“What's he look like?” She was curious.
“He's blurry, but in the general shape of a human. Is he a ghost, or a Ghogal?”
“Ghogal,” Zofia said. “I didn't know vampires could see Ghogals.”
“Some can,” Biddle said just then. “Dorian could see me.”
“Really?”
“Dorian?” Myron asked, sounding a little too curious.
Oops. Zofia pressed her lips together. She didn't have to tell him everything, and this was none of his bees wax.
“Shall I put him out?” Biddle asked again, reverting to his snobbish tone.
Cocking a hip and crossing her arms, Zofia eyed Myron. “Not if he apologizes.”
“I'm sorry about your, uh, lip,” Myron said, looking sheepish, and putting a hand to his jaw as if it hurt him some. She hoped so.
Zofia worried the wound on her lip with her tongue. Tasting the coppery tang of blood, she put a finger to it. It felt swollen. She imagined that her mouth must look as though a rat had bitten her. She wasn't feeling guilty about throwing Myron across the room one bit. In fact at the moment, she wanted to do it again, just for the fun of it.
He was touching the back of his head, now.
“Aw, did you bump your widdle head?” she simpered.
“I'm alright,” he snarled slightly, dropping his hand.
