Every instinct told him to flee; he gripped the handle of the lantern tightly, as if its small weight could anchor him, and called out, "Phillips?"
A choking, gurgling noise answered. Dilby whimpered, backing up a step.
Anthony glanced at the younger man and met the horrified gaze that mirrored his own. He said hoarsely, "I should try to help him."
Dilby shook his head violently and took another step back. "I don't think—" He broke off with a shudder, the final words hanging unspoken but palpable between them.
I don't think he's still alive.
Anthony looked back at the cart. "I have to try."
As if seeing Anthony's determination bolstered his courage, Dilby squared his shoulders and nodded. His face was pale, the loose skin stretched tight with tension. His voice trembled, but he managed to say, "We have to try."
Anthony nodded gratefully; he didn't consider himself a coward, but he certainly did not want to face alone whatever waited for them—and if Phillips had been seriously hurt, Anthony would need Dilby's medical assistance.
He glanced at the sword bayonet the other man had found, and now held in a white-knuckled grip. Though the sturdy blade had a smooth brass handle, it was too short and awkward for effective hand-to-hand combat, but at least it offered them some protection. "Can you use that if you need to?"
"For Sarah and little Nellie's sake, I will," Dilby said.
Anthony's expression hardened, anger burning through the fear that had overtaken him. Dilby and he weren't soldiers; whoever hid in the cart had attacked unarmed and injured men.
He swept the lantern in a circle, looking for a weapon of his own. He found nothing, and delaying any longer wouldn't help Phillips—if Phillips could be helped at all.
In silent agreement, they rounded the cart, careful to keep a significant distance from it. They couldn't hide their presence; Anthony's lamp made them a target, as did Dilby's ragged breathing.
War hadn't prepared him for what Anthony saw; it wasn't the death or the mutilation that made the vomit rise in his throat, but the gleeful expression of the creature who waited for them. Naked, completely hairless, it lay on top of the bodies of the soldiers, their blood splattered across its pale skin. Its penis was engorged, as if murder had been an erotic pleasure. Its elbow was propped against Phillips's leg, and it rested its chin in its hand. It watched them, grinning, blood smeared around its mouth. Casually, almost like Caesar plucking grapes from a platter, it reached down and tore Phillips's thumb from his hand and began sucking the blood from it.
"Oh, God," Anthony whispered, and the creature laughed sharply.
"No," it said, and Anthony recoiled, his horror magnified that the thing could speak. Despite its shape, it had seemed more animal than man. "Not Him. But imagine how grateful I am that His humans decided to kill each other and leave this feast for me." It rose to a sitting position and tossed the thumb over the cart's side. As one, Anthony and Dilby stumbled backward. "And how fortunate that I should also find living prey."
Vampire. Anthony recalled reading about such folk tales with Colin when they'd been children and trying to frighten Emily with them. What could kill a vampire? Fire? Beheading? His mind reeled, trying to remember.
He must have spoken the word aloud; the creature shook its head, still smiling, and corrected, "Nosferatu. Unlike vampires, we originate from Heaven itself." Pride swelled its voice.
"From Hell, more like!" Dilby shouted, holding the bayonet in front of him; Anthony was suddenly struck by the absurdity of it. They needed to run—there was nothing here to save, only evil.
Long teeth gleamed in the lamplight. "They didn't want us there, either." Gracefully, the nosferatu stepped down from the cart.
It was playing with them, Anthony realized. It enjoyed their fear as it slowly stalked them, and if he and Dilby fled, it would catch them.
Unless only one of them went and one stayed behind to fight it. He could keep it busy, distracted, while Dilby escaped.
A leaden weight seemed to fill Anthony's chest. He thought of his family, of Colin and Emily, and swallowed past the constriction in his throat. "Run, Dilby."
Dilby turned toward him; Anthony saw he was preparing to argue.
"Don't be stupid," he said sharply, fearful that if the other man hesitated, his own courage would fail. He added softly, before Dilby could speak, "For Sarah and little Nellie's sake."
The creature began laughing.
An indecisive, stricken expression slipped into the other man's eyes—then he flipped the bayonet around, its handle toward Anthony.
Anthony took the weapon; with a choked "Godspeed—and thank you," Dilby fled into the night.
The nosferatu chuckled. "I will be done with you in minutes and then I will track him down. Perhaps I'll keep you alive long enough to hear him screaming, so you'll know how worthless your sacrifice was."
Anthony didn't bother to reply; he simply waited. He knew he probably had only one chance to defend himself and that it wouldn't come until the creature moved much closer.
As moments passed, and Anthony failed to respond or move, the nosferatu frowned. "Run or fight," it commanded, its voice as petulant as a child with a disappointing toy.
Anthony silently stood his ground.
"I can smell your fear: so weak, so human." The nosferatu sneered, apparently hoping it would prick Anthony's pride.
They stared at each other for a long moment; finally, with a cry of rage, it attacked.
Even though he'd expected it to he strong, Anthony hadn't known it would be so fast. One instant it had been standing at the cart, the next it was on him, knocking the bayonet from his hand and grabbing him up into a crushing embrace.
Pain screamed through him but remained unvoiced as his ribs snapped under the pressure. Something tore inside him. I I wonder if Guthrie can fix this, he thought wildly, and would have laughed if he'd had the breath. Desperately, he swung the lantern against the creature's back, his one gambit for survival.
Instead of spilling oil and igniting its skin, the metal thunked solidly against muscle and fell from Anthony's hand.
The creature laughed again and dipped its head, fangs bared. Anthony closed his eyes, waiting for the nosferatu to rip at him, but as they pierced his neck the teeth were almost gentle.
The nosferatu pulled back, yelping in surprise and releasing him; Anthony collapsed on the ground. His ribs shrieked, and his lungs felt pinched by a vise, but he turned and tried to crawl away.
The creature caught him and rolled him onto his back. Its eyes glowed amber as it stared down at him. "Tell me where it is—I can feel its power; I can taste it in your blood," it said, crouching over him.
Anthony shook his head, not knowing what he was denying. He couldn't have spoken in any case; he couldn't catch his breath. A metallic, salty fluid flooded his mouth, but though his body convulsed, he couldn't cough it away. Lungs collapsed, he realized.
As if coming to the same conclusion, the nosferatu smiled, its eyes boring into his. "Show me, then," it commanded. Almost immediately, Anthony felt an insidious touch in his mind, a darkness that dug painfully at him, and tried to close his eyes against it.
He failed.
"Show me," it repeated.
In the library of Beaumont Court, he and Colin with the carl's sword between them, slicing shallow cuts into their palms and pressing them together. Blood brothers.
The creature frowned. "That is why I taste it, but you have more recent knowledge of it in a different location. Show me."
Anthony resisted when the first images of the memory flashed in front of him, unable to stand the thought of it—that abomination—seeing Emily as he'd seen her: her romantic idealism shattered, the devastation that had driven her to seduction.
The nosferatu simply pushed harder, tearing through his amateur defenses.
Anthony tumbled headlong into Emily's arms once more. Then darkness crawled in, obscuring her face, her touch; all that remained
was the echo of his vow.
And even that faded.
"Anthony," a voice said, and the darkness skittered away. The bright light that replaced it should have been blinding; Anthony automatically tried to squint against it but found his lids already closed.
Memory of the nosferatu rushed back.
It took a Herculean effort, but Anthony opened his eyes. He found himself lying on his side on the ground, the battlefield stretched out around him. The light surrounding him had washed its colors pale—and it originated, he realized, from the man who had spoken.
"Dilby?"
"He lives; your sacrifice succeeded—and it allows me to offer you a choice." The voice resonated through Anthony's body like music, painful in its exquisite beauty.
Anthony rolled over and looked up. He moved easily, as if the nosferatu had never crushed the life from him.
Except in his nakedness, the speaker was nothing like the creature that had attacked him. His bronzed skin seemed to glow with its own luminescence. His black hair had been cut brutally short; his face could have been sculpted from amber. Obsidian eyes stared down at him, and Anthony had to look down again, away from that penetrating gaze.
"Who are you?"
"They call me Michael," he replied. He spoke the name as if it was an explanation in itself.
Understanding dawned as Anthony took in the rest of the figure before him: black feathered wings spread elegantly out from bronzed shoulders.
His eyes flew back to Michael's, and the denial sprang from Anthony's mouth, "I made a promise that I have to keep."
Michael shook his head and held out his palm to assist Anthony to his feet. "I cannot give you that. You must be thought dead to everyone you knew before. I can only offer another choice: become as I am—a Guardian, an immortal protector, or accept your death and all that comes after."
Dead to everyone you knew. Grief touched him, but it could not grab hold. This could not be death. This could not be an end.
Anthony took the proffered hand, feeling absurdly small and weak next to the Guardian. He offers me a choice to become like him? "It appears a simple decision," he said.
The reply could have been carved from stone, along with the grim smile that accompanied it. "Appearances are almost always deceiving," Michael said.
Chapter Three
A demon wields despair like a sword, cutting deep into the afflicted human.
— The Doren Scrolls
Derbyshire, England
December 1811
It was odd, Emily thought, that she could so calmly receive the news of her twin brother's impending death; her hands did not shake, her lips did not tremble. She remained still, at once proud and saddened the physician's prognosis had not evoked in her an overwhelming, incapacitating grief. Surely Colin deserved such a reaction, but it would do him no good right now.
"Are you absolutely certain? Nothing you can do will cure him?" And yes, those were her words, spoken without the hint of a sob—her voice, serene and composed, as if she were discussing the weather instead of the death of her sibling. When the fire had taken half her family, she had wept for days. But now, despite her bond with her twin, despite a lifelong tendency to be swept away by her emotions, she could not summon a tear. Fear, she imagined, did that to a person.
Dr. Johnson folded his hands, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. The whiskers along his cheeks and jowls undulated as he seemed to search for words; Emily supposed he was torn between his need to reassure a member of the fairer sex and his professional duty. All the physicians who had examined Colin had been similarly conflicted, particularly upon realizing the extent of the manor's—and Emily's—isolation.
The lack of servants had apparently escaped Dr. Johnson's notice, however, and as Emily was the only family member with whom he could consult, duty prevailed. "Regretfully, I do not believe any other outcome is possible," he said. "His condition worsens daily, and the poison within him has not seemed to decrease, despite the bloodlettings. And the leeches…" He trailed off, shaking his head in puzzlement. "I have never read of a sickness having that effect."
Emily smoothed her fingers over her bombazine skirt, willing away the memory of the leeches lying, pale and withered, against Colin's skin—as if his body had sucked the lifeblood from them. "How much time does he have?"
"As always, these matters are difficult to judge, but I would predict no more than a week. Days, perhaps."
"Days," she repeated softly and shivered. She could survive the days—surviving the nights was less certain.
She had not told the doctor everything she knew of Colin's condition: his sharp, frightening hunger after the sun had set, the unbelievable strength his emaciated form possessed, and the speed at which his injuries had healed. Nor had she told him—or anyone else—the truth about the assault leading to Colin's sickness, nor the method of their escape; it had not been a dog that had bitten him, but something far worse.
Something that, try as she might, Emily still couldn't quite believe—but she knew if she shared her memories of the attack, they'd be dismissed as grief-induced hallucinations—or worse, considered a sign of madness.
No, trusting the doctor with complete information was impossible; if she had only herself to think of, she might have told him, but she couldn't risk Robert's future by exposing herself. She was fortunate her reputation in society had remained as unscathed as it was, considering her romantic… indiscretions.
Sorrow and regret rushed through her. She could have confided in Anthony; he might have thought her fanciful and silly at times, but he had never doubted her word. If a treatment for Colin could be found, Anthony would have braved Hell itself to locate it.
But Anthony had been dead these eight months, and soon Colin would join him.
Unaware of her thoughts, Dr. Johnson rose. Clutching his bag, his expression sorrowful, he said, "I shall return next week, my lady, after I consult with my colleagues in London."
She nodded agreement and walked with him to the foyer, but she knew there was nothing he would find, nothing that could be done. Colin would likely be dead before he returned.
Emily pushed the heavy door closed behind him and then turned to lean against the wood with a sigh. Dr. Johnson had been the fourth physician from London to examine Colin in as many weeks, and his conclusions had been no different from the others'. She'd hoped one of the doctors would have recognized Colin's illness for what it was, instead of what she'd told them—but it was either too rare for them to have seen or heard of it before, or as horrifying and as unnatural as Emily feared.
If it was the latter, then God help Colin—and her.
Deliberately delaying her return to Colin's room, Emily returned to the front parlor and began clearing the tea service. The pale green walls and the peach damask upholstery on the sofa and chairs were bright and fresh; ten years had passed since Catherine, Henry's wire. had decorated the room, but the fabric showed little sign of wear, as if untouched by visitors or family.
If I had come, alleviated her loneliness instead of playing the whore, perhaps they would not have been in London when the fire struck. I should have roasted with them.
The thought rose unbidden, and Emily determinedly shook it away. She'd had similar macabre ideas over the last several weeks, brought on, she assumed, by the fatigue and stress of caring for her brother under such unusual circumstances. Her tired and frightened mind had been giving truth ghastly twists: Colin and Emily had been infrequent visitors to the manor, each preferring the excitement of London to the dullness of country life—but Henry and Catherine had been in town for the end of the season, not because of loneliness, and certainly not because they'd discovered that Emily had taken lovers.
Though she had once wanted her father to discover her indiscretions, to feel the same bitter disappointment in her that she once had in him—to feel anything for her—now she was grateful that her family had not died amidst a scandal. Except for Colin, her family had never known what she
'd done. Emily had thought she would never forgive herself for being in the arms of a man when the house had caught fire. Nor had she thought she could live up to the trust Robert had bestowed upon her when she and Colin had found him, saved by his nurse taking the rear stairs to the exit.
Yet she had.
After the fire, for Robert's sake, Colin and Emily had remained in the country for the summer; except for the brief trip to London that had ended in attack and catastrophe, they hadn't intended to return to the city until the next season.
"To find a wife for me, and a mother for Robert," Colin had laughed. Emily had been amused then; but now, looking around the room that should have been comforting instead of sterile, its springtime motif an ineffective respite from the dreary Derbyshire winter, she wondered if any wife of Colin's choosing could have made this a true home for Robert.
Or now that he would never marry, if she could provide the support Robert needed. She had never imagined herself a mother, yet circumstances were forcing her to become one.
The delicate teacups rang sharply against silver as she set them down. She lifted the heavy tray—then nearly dropped it when her housekeeper appeared silently beside her.
"Mrs. Kemble!" Emily gasped, laughing at the startled jump of her heart. The silver tray wobbled but then steadied under the older woman's sturdy hands. Emily gratefully passed it to the housekeeper. "I thought you, Sally, and Mr. Davison had already left for Hartington for the evening."
"No, ma'am," Mrs. Kemble said. Emily felt the other woman's concerned—and slightly disapproving—gaze upon her face. The servants had accepted Emily's order that they leave the manor at night and to return only after dawn, but they felt the sting of her demand—particularly Mrs. Kemble and the other servants who usually lived in the house. Emily paid their lodging expenses at a Hartington inn, but they were not pleased at being forced from their home, even temporarily. "Mr. Davison was delayed in the north field, and he has only just returned. We are leaving now, unless your ladyship would prefer we stay?"
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