"Forget your simples and mixtures. We're using more reliable methods."

"Sebby, no magic. None of that stuff. I won't do it."

"You will. Sally's met her commitment. We need yours. Tonight." He pulled back into the village hall car park. Emily had her uses. Several of them, in fact, but he had no time for her inane scruples. She'd help. She had no choice. She was in as deep as he was.

As he pulled up beside the building, Sally's face appeared at the car window. "I did what you said. It worked, but I need help to lift him. He's a dead weight."

"And soon he'll be permanently dead," Sebastian replied, stepping out beside her. He neither spoke nor looked at Emily. He pulled at Marlowe's shoulder, smiling as his opponent groaned. "The last trick's mine," Sebastian said. Getting no response, he ripped off the leather eye patch; Christopher's neck jerked as the elastic yielded and revealed the whorl of scar tissue that filled the spot that had once been an eye.

"You k-killed him," Emily's shaky voice stammered out.

"Not yet, my dear. Soon. When the time is propitious."

"What d-do you m-mean?"

"We'll let him keep until Monday. Let him enjoy a little misery before he goes to h.e.l.l."

"Sebby." Her hand grasped his shoulder like a claw. "Why Monday?"

He didn't waste time looking at her. "May 30. The day he died. The day he's the weakest. He's been slowly losing strength the last week or so. Sally's well-placed blade just helps him along. He'll get weaker and weaker. By Monday he'll be unable to move a muscle but he'll feel and know everything. He won't enjoy the dawn but I will. And as he fries, we gain his strength.

Think what we can do."

"This isn't what we stand for." Emily's voice rose in her panic. "Do no harm! That's what I was taught! We don't destroy. We use our power. We don't take others'."

"Yes, we do! With his strength, we have a chance of knowing and running everything, just like the old women did." Sebastian turned to Sally. "Open the back. We'll take him to a nice, undisturbed haven."

"I'm not coming with you."

Sebastian laughed at Emily's attempt at non-involvement. "I know. You're driving his car home for him."

"No!"

"Don't waste my time." He searched through Marlowe's pockets until he found the bunch of keys and tossed them to Emily, snorting with impatience when her fingers closed over air. Her hand shook as she picked the keys off the ground. "Park it on the side of his house the way he always does. Then meet me at my office." She'd never refuse that offer.

"Sebby..." The last mewling protest escaped her thin lips.

"For G.o.d's sake, don't crash it or get stopped. Banks don't care for car thieves on their staff. Now, shut up and help take his legs."They heaved Christopher into the back of the Land Rover. A deep groan wrung from his pale lips as they dumped him on his face. Sebastian reached for a rug from the back of the seat and tossed it over him. "No point in risking anyone seeing him."

"What if he bleeds on it?" Sally asked. "They can match and trace everything these days."

He laughed at her anxiety. "I'd love to see how he does in a DNA match."

They dumped Marlowe in Sally's storeroom. He'd be safe, if very uncomfortable, among the mops and gallon cans of floor wax. By the time her employees arrived on Monday morning, Marlowe would be up in smoke. Sebastian wondered how literally that end would come. Pity he couldn't hang about to watch. But all that really mattered was the revenant would perish and the coven would absorb his power and strength. Now if they could only acquire the Underwoods' knowledge... They would. He could wait out Dixie LePage. She might linger for a summer, but how long would she last in that barn of a house without central heating? He just couldn't see her heaving buckets of coal and riddling grates.

Christopher felt the concrete damp under him and fought to stem his rising panic. He couldn't sweat, so what was the moisture on his body? Was his life force draining? The pain in his side radiated in great swamping waves. He knew the cause. He'd felt a knife before but not even the dagger thrust in Deptford had pained like this. As he clenched muscles, the blade s.h.i.+fted, raking forgotten nerve endings. Had he ever been this weak in his first life? Who remembered that far back?

He slept. Dozed. Pa.s.sed out. He never knew which. Blackness receded after a while, and cold, damp and pain returned. He couldn't even sense light or warmth. Where was he? Underground? Inside a lead casket? Impossible! The s.p.a.ce didn't embrace like a coffin. Willing strength into his right hand, he tried to dislodge the blade. His efforts succeeded in sending painful flashes down his leg and nerve shocks up his shoulder. The truth dawned. He was dying and this time he faced true death and judgment.

Behind him, a door opened. Outside this cold h.e.l.l, sunlight beamed. The door closed. A mortal stood over him, breathing hard, and exuding hate. He knew that smell-Caughleigh.

"Sorry to disturb your Sunday afternoon nap. Just wanted to see how you're doing." A hand clutched his hair and pulled. Once, Christopher could have grasped that hand and crashed bones or willed Sebastian into silence. Now his neck stretched up in Sebastian's grasp and the movement s.h.i.+fted pain down to his hip. He felt his face contort as light shone in his eyes. "Feeling uncomfortable, old chap? Enjoy it while it lasts. It can only get worse."

"Why, Caughleigh?" Two words took more strength than climbing St. Paul's.

"Why?" A half-chuckle simmered behind the word. "Why should I tell you? Maybe I'll let you sweat it out. But, of course, you don't sweat do you? Don't eat. Don't drink. Don't p.i.s.s. Don't f.u.c.k. Don't do anything like puny mortals. Right?"

The light hurt his eyes. Was that weakness or some vestige of humanity returning? His lids closed until Sebastian shook his head.

"Listen to me, and listen well, Marlowe. It's almost over. You won't see beyond tomorrow's dawn. The circle closes tomorrow."

"Why?" He had to know. Dislike and antipathy were one thing, but why this hate?

"Persistent devil, aren't you? I'll be gracious and satisfy you. I hate you. You are a blot on the village. The Surrey Vampire. You need to be eliminated and I'm the man to do it. I did my homework. Read some of the books in the Misses Underwood's library. Figured out the rest.

"And why do I hate you? Your kind was made to war with mine. Old magic and your power don't mix. You got between me and the old ladies. Your interference kept the LePage woman here when I could have run her off. I've wasted too long over her. You'll perish in the sunrise tomorrow. I'll absorb your power by midnight and then..."

"And then what?" Christopher fought for thoughts and words. "You or the coven? You don't know what you're dealing with!"

"Neither do you!"

He was right. What happened with a dead revenant's powers? Could they be absorbed? Tom might know, he'd studied lore. It was a bit late to ask. "You're a fool, Caughleigh."

"And you've lost. You challenged me and lost. When you're gone, I'll have your strength and the old ladies' knowledge. I'll lead this coven and every other one for miles around."

Christopher heard cartilage crunch as his nose hit the floor. Despair choked him. He believed every word of Sebastian's threat.

The man was crazed with power. Caughleigh mustn't ever guess the way he felt about Dixie. Lord alone knew what form his revenge would take against her. Dixie! He remembered the warmth of her skin against his lips, smelled her sweetness, longed for her softness in his arms. The yearning shaped into a mind-racking torment. He needed to protect her, to save her from the taint and threats of Sebastian Caughleigh. Fat lot he could do immobile on his face on the concrete.

"Enjoy your despair, it won't last much longer."

Christopher heard the door slam. Darkness enveloped him but he found scant comfort in it. He couldn't even rest. Caughleigh had covered every wicket.

Almost.

Christopher smiled in his pain. Maybe he would die, but he still possessed enough power to protect Dixie and ensure Caughleigh never laid his filthy mitts on her. Draining every last vestige of strength, Christopher focused on her. There was darkness and confusion but suddenly, like a sunny gap in a mist, he felt the link. Their minds joined. "Go home," he commanded. "Go. Leave this place. Go back to where you belong. Go. Leave."

He ignored the answering question. Couldn't she just listen? But no, his Dixie wanted to know why. He blocked the question and sent one last urge. "Home. Safety." He pressed the thought through the boundaries of her mind. It took his last remaining strength but he felt her will hesitate under his.

He'd won. The effort drained his last consciousness. His mind shut down, depleted from the effort. His body shuddered and lay still.

Dixie looked back at the border she'd spent the last hour weeding. At least she could now see where the path ended and the border began, but she suspected she'd pulled a few plants among the gra.s.s and weeds she'd heaped in the wheelbarrow. It was a beautiful afternoon, perfect for gardening.

A black Jaguar pulled up at her gates. d.a.m.n! She'd be paying for weeks for her stupidity in accepting his invitation last night.

"Hi, Sebastian," she said as she stood up. She wasn't conversing with him on her knees.

"Dixie." He came up the path smiling. And what a smile. Wolfish was the only word to describe it. Did that cast her as Red Riding Hood? No way! She reminded herself what happened to the wolf.

She rubbed a dirt-encrusted hand on her jeans and looked at it. "I'd shake hands but I don't think you'd want to."

"I see you've found a nice little hobby."

He made her sound like a debutante doing Junior League work. "Seems more like sweated labor to me."He smiled. Maybe alligator suited him better than wolf. "I dropped by to ask you to dinner tomorrow. I'm planning a little celebration. Could I pick you up at seven?"

"Sorry. I'm busy tomorrow night. Thanks for asking."

His eyes flickered and froze. Temper? Disappointment? "Tuesday, then?"

"I'm not sure..." That was a lie. She was as sure as her birthday came in November.

He nodded in acknowledgement. "Until later then, Dixie."

"Yeah, when I'm old and gray and desperate," she muttered to his back as he walked down the path. She heard the car door slam and refused to look up from the patch of ground elder she was attacking with her trowel. He'd taken the pleasure out of her afternoon.

"Go, home, Dixie!" a voice inside her head whispered. "Go home!" The voice echoed in her ears as a great wave of homesickness wafted over her. Why not? Home. Away from all this. The idea appealed, then faded.

Like h.e.l.l she would! She wasn't running off. She had a toehold in security here, a roof over her head, land-well a little bit anyway-and enough money to cover this woman's dreams. Sebastian Caughleigh wasn't messing things up. If he tried anything more, she'd... she'd report him to the law society or whatever the British equivalent was. Pleased at her decision, Dixie shoved harder at the tangle of roots and pulled with her left hand. It came up with a sudden jerk, spraying dirt over her face and arms.

Owls slept more than Dixie did that night. Just before midnight, she sat bolt upright, wakened by something on the edge of a dream. Foreboding rippled through s.n.a.t.c.hes of sleep. She tossed and turned and blamed the Bombay potatoes she'd eaten at the Barley Mow. A little after dawn, she woke for good.

Dixie shuffled on slippers and pulled her robe round her shoulders and felt a steady ache over her skin like poison ivy itch.

Whatever it was, she felt awful. She needed air.

She pushed up the sash to its limit and leaned out. Then it hit her: a soundless scream of liquid pain. She tore downstairs almost tripping on her robe. Shaking hands fumbled and rattled the key. Endless seconds later, she threw open the door and ran. Dew drenched her thin slippers; she'd have ignored snow and ice. Torrential rain couldn't slow her.

She never thought, just followed her instinct, her heart, understanding that scream for help. She'd have run over anyone barring her way, but only birds and a frightened rabbit witnessed her frantic race, across the uncut lawn, through the yew hedges and the orchard, to the looming brick wall and the gate by the potting shed. She'd steadfastly avoided that walled garden, telling herself she'd have landscapers in to clear it one day. Now she rushed through the gate, almost wrenching the hinges open.

She'd been right, sensing evil between these high walls, and it wasn't just phallic garden ornaments. She imagined a tortured animal, or some dark, satanic rite. The stench of burning flesh hit her first, gagging and choking, dredging hideous memories of her parent's car accident. The worst horror movie couldn't depict this. A creature inside her skin screamed. Her voice rising higher than pain in the morning light, great rising curls of anguish reaching from her core and grating her throat like sandpaper and searing her soul like acid.

But she wasn't screaming. The sound out of her mouth came from the writhing white figure in the gra.s.s.

She raced towards the stench of burning flesh and flung herself on the writhing form. He calmed as her body blocked out the sun's rays. "Christopher," she wailed without even looking at the contorted face. A strangled sound came from his swollen lips.

The heat of his skin burned through her cotton robe but as she lay panting on his burning flesh, she felt his body cool. He had to be moved. How? The sun shone with the warmth of a June sunrise. "Christopher, what should I do?"

Garbled, anguished syllables sputtered from his throat."Tell me, tell me," she wailed, but meaningless gurgles from his chest told her nothing except Christopher was dying.

Unless she did something.

Reaching across his supine body, she tugged at the knots that held his arms spread-eagled on the ground but the twisted knots in the plaited ropes refused to budge. They were anch.o.r.ed to the four stone phalluses. If they pulled out of the ground, she'd free him but they were cemented hard or buried deep. What now? Her frenzied mind raced at Mach speed. The sun burned him. She had to get him into shade, but first she had to free him.

The potting shed!

There had to be a knife there. She scrambled to her feet but as the sun touched his skin, he writhed and twisted from pain.

Dixie pulled off her robe and threw it over him. The thin fabric wasn't enough. She yanked off her nights.h.i.+rt. It still wasn't enough, but it was the best she could do.

She ran through the gate, ignoring the scratches and sc.r.a.pes from bushes and twigs. She skinned her knee, forcing aside the wheelbarrow as she fumbled in the semi-darkness. Her hand closed over a pair of secateurs. If they pruned old wood on rose bushes they'd surely cut rope.

They hacked it. Rope this strong should be sold to mountaineers. Now she had his hands and feet free but it did no good. As she tried to pull him up, his legs crumpled under him and he fell, pulling her down with him. The soles of his feet were blistered and raw. He could never walk, but she had to get him out of the sun. Even these few minutes heated his skin until it burned red like scalded lobster.

The wheelbarrow!

Leaving him in a heap where he fell and stopping only to cover him again, she sped back and pulled the ancient wheelbarrow into the light. It looked old enough to have carried fuel for Armada beacons. Who cared? It had a wheel and she found a folded tarp under the dirt and dust. She shook out the tarp. Full of holes and thin places, it would still shade Christopher from the worst of the sun.

Getting him in the wheelbarrow almost defeated her. A dead weight, she couldn't lift him, but she finally tilted the wheelbarrow and half-scooped him up like a heap of prunings, then righted the barrow so he half-slumped in, half-dangled out. The tarp covered him. Just. After tucking in the edges so they didn't snare the wheel, she heaved with all her strength and ran through the orchard as if the furies followed.

She made it to the bas.e.m.e.nt steps and the shady side of the house. As she wrenched open the heavy hatch, she noticed her scratched arms and her bare b.r.e.a.s.t.s, to say nothing of the rest of her. Thank heaven for high walls and thick hedges! She had to get Christopher out of sight before she gave the milkman a thrill. She did stop to pull her robe on, but by now it was so tattered it barely seemed worthwhile. Far better to use her time getting Christopher out of the light.

Getting him down the worn steps seemed a bigger challenge than loading him in the wheelbarrow. She could hardly tip him down like a load of coal. She spread the tarp on the ground, dumped him onto it and dragged the tarp down the stairs. She felt his pain as his head bounced and his limbs jerked down the steps. If only he'd moan or scream again, she'd know he was still alive. Alive? She bit her lip to stifle a hysterical giggle.

She'd just saved a vampire's life, and when she'd got out of bed this morning she hadn't believed they existed.

Chapter Seven.

Previous Top Next The stone floor rubbed her knees roughly through her tattered robe. She barely noticed. Her shaking fingers searched for a pulse until she laughed at the futility. If her guess was right, there'd be no pulse, no heartbeat, no breathing. What should she look for? She needed some signal that he wasn't dead. But he was. Very. Cooling sweat sent s.h.i.+vers across her skin. After racing through the garden, sitting in a chilly bas.e.m.e.nt wasn't the smartest thing. For either of them.

It took three trips to carry pillows and blankets down to the bas.e.m.e.nt. She tried reasoning through the fragments of vampire lore she remembered from Dracula movies. If Christopher slept through the day, would he recover by tonight? Would he turn into a bat? Darned if she knew. Red Cross First Aid hadn't covered vampires.

She couldn't rustle up a coffin, but she did manage a coc.o.o.n of blankets. She rolled him over, they way she'd learned, and tucked a thick pad of blankets under him. Resting his head on a pillow, she brushed the dark hair back from his eye. Her heart twisted at the sight of the gnarl of proud flesh that had once been an eye. What doctor left a scar like this? If this was British medicine, she'd get on a plane if she needed surgery.

His eye might have been butchered, but there was nothing wrong with the rest of him. The muscles on his arms and chest rippled under the sunburned skin. Her fingertips smoothed the springy pelt of dark hair that covered the curves of his chest and then trailed down to his navel. There they stopped, but her eyes didn't. This wasn't the behavior of a Southern lady. But how many Southern ladies found vampires in their gardens before breakfast? And Christopher was a feast for the eyes.

A flat stomach gave way to strong thighs and shapely legs and between them, nestled in the dark hair, everything a man needed. Her hand brushed his thigh; her breath caught as she watched the change there. He might lie as still as a stone crusader in the church, but he wasn't dead. Not yet.

"Didn't your mother tell you it's rude to stare?"

She almost choked, whirling round to meet his gaze, blood surging to her face. "Here," she said, "I brought you some blankets."

She dumped the rest over him and made a pretense of tucking them in, not wanting to meet his eye but determined not to look where the blankets tented below his waist.

He didn't say a word. In the silence, she heard footsteps up the path and the clink of milk bottles. She hoped to heaven the trap door over the steps wasn't ajar.

Christopher tried to lean up on one elbow but collapsed back on the pillow. "Look all you want, Dixie. I owe you that much."

She wasn't about to discuss that. "Are you going to be okay?"

"Eventually." He paused as if exhausted. "I have to rest. Until dusk. Then feed." His chest heaved with the effort of speaking.