"Don't let them find me, Dixie. Not until I've regained strength."

"No one's going to find you, but you'd better explain everything. Tonight." His eye closed. He looked terrible. The concrete floor had a healthier color than he did.

She was shaking, whether from cold or tension, she'd never know. She tucked the blankets around him, draped towels over the narrow windows to obscure any possible light and left him in the dark.

A soak in a hot bath should have relaxed her. It didn't. Her mind raced in crossed circles. She tried pinching herself in case she'd been dreaming. She wasn't. Reddened knees from scrambling about the cellar floor and a broken toenail, to say nothing of scratches all over her body, convinced her that, though this might be a nightmare, she sure wasn't sleeping through it. She had a dying vampire in her house. Was that possible? Wasn't he dead already? Or undead? Was he dying at all? He'd muttered something about being okay after he'd rested. He should know.Someone had tried to kill him. Would they search for him? What if they came back to gloat over his charred remains and found nothing?

She jumped out of the tub, dripping water on the mat. She'd better cover Christopher's tracks. Before "they" came back.

She raked over the wheelbarrow tracks, which had flattened the gra.s.s. She could close up the garden door and hope the loosened ivy didn't look too disturbed, but what to do about the remnants of rope dangling from those hideous stone erections?

She shuddered and chuckled at her unconscious choice of word. Looking closer, she noticed the gra.s.s brittle and yellowed where Christopher's shoulders and hips had pressed. The blades crumpled in her fingers. The heat of his body had dried the gra.s.s to hay. If she hadn't found him, would he have burned? h.e.l.l if she knew! But that was the myth and it was all she had to go on.

She had a garden broom handy and the hose connected in case the fire got out of control. With the Swan Vestas from the kitchen and the gas she'd bought for the lawn mower, she worked away. She poured trails of gasoline for each arm and leg, a blob for his head and a rough rectangle for his trunk. Some masterpiece. It resembled a pyromaniac toddler's stick man more than Christopher's manly shape but it would do. She hoped. As a last touch, she put a match to the remains of rope, and watched amazed as they flared to ashes.

She could keep him safe until sundown. What then? And what about whoever had tried to kill him?

She needed a second bath and a shampoo to rid herself of the s.m.u.ts and smell. It was almost lunchtime before she sat down to coffee and the turmoil of confused thoughts. What if Christopher died despite her efforts? What if he didn't? What was she going to do with a vampire? He'd muttered something about "feeding." That she didn't want to think about. He wasn't snacking off her, but she couldn't stand by and let him die. He needed sustenance. That much was obvious. Since she'd no idea of the right way to revive a vampire, she might as well go on guesswork now and worry about it later. Time to shop for his supper.

The smell of blood sent her stomach heaving. Raw liver slid between her fingers and dropped in soft wet thups out of the plastic tub. This was why she never touched meat. Disgusting wasn't the word-but disgusting or not, she'd spent the afternoon defrosting the mammoth tubs of chicken livers from the freezer center in Leatherhead. She hoped it worked.

She drained the revolting ma.s.s in an antique jelly press. From the six tubs she had a pint and a half of blood. Pints were bigger here than at home but it didn't look enough to make a man's supper. But Christopher wasn't a man. Shees.h.!.+ She had a headache from thinking about it.

She shut the pantry door on the jug of blood and the pan of liver, and scrubbed the sink with bleach. Slathering her hands with cream, she looked at the clock. Only late afternoon. Hours before dusk. Why was she waiting? Hadn't Christopher come over that Sunday during the day? Maybe all that dusk and dawn business was a figment of Hollywood's imagination. Maybe this whole day was a figment of her imagination.

One look at the inert body in the bas.e.m.e.nt told her it wasn't.

"Didn't I tell you not to call from work?" Sebastian resisted the urge to slam the receiver down. He'd talk to Emily briefly and then not see her for several days. She'd soon get the message. A week of enforced celibacy would bring her back to heel.

"It's urgent, Sebby. I'd never have called otherwise. I'm at work, too."

"It had better be good."

"It's terrible! You know how I random check journal entries?"

He didn't and didn't care to. "Go on.""Just now, barely five minutes ago, I had an awful shock. I couldn't believe my eyes. I had to double-check to make sure, but there was no mistaking. It's not every day you see the name Dixie."

That caught his attention. "What the h.e.l.l are you wittering about, Emily?"

The phone amplified the sucked-in breath. "I'm not wittering! At first it just surprised me. Then the full implications dawned. I had to sit down for a couple of minutes, my legs were shaking."

Her teeth would be, too, if he'd had her in the same room. "Emily, get to the point. I have an appointment waiting. If it's important, tell me. If not, get back to your Nescafe."

She sniffed. Over the phone it sounded like a seal lion honking. "Oh, Sebby, listen. You have to. It's terrible."

Now it was his turn to inhale. "What's so terrible?"

"I've been telling you! Dixie's deposit. A ma.s.sive one."

"How much is ma.s.sive?" Emily told him. "What? You're certain she made it?"

"Yes, Sat.u.r.day afternoon. In the money machine."

Where was Dixie LePage getting extra money? Selling off furniture? Not that sort of amount. She had to have discovered the old ladies' h.o.a.rd and started blackmailing. But who? "Cash?" he asked.

"No! That's what I've been trying to tell you." Emily was panting. He could picture the sweat beading on her upper lip. "She deposited a check. I couldn't believe it."

"Who wrote the frigging check?"

She squealed at the profanity but it got him what he wanted. "Mr. Marlowe. Mr. Christopher Marlowe." Cold sweat trickled down his spine and fear p.r.i.c.kled the hairline on his neck. If she got that much from Marlowe, he'd never escape for less than six figures.

"What are we going to do?"

"I'm going to think, Emily, and I suggest you stop squealing and do the same!" Sebastian slammed down the receiver. He wanted to scream or smash furniture, but decided to save his energies. His survival depended on swift action. He rather enjoyed the irony of Marlowe making a desperate payment so close to his end. If only James had found those files. The old ladies had been content to take leaders.h.i.+p in the coven as their price of silence but Dixie was an avaricious, grasping little b.i.t.c.h.

How he'd been fooled by her, all this while privy to her old aunts' files and planning on using them. That whole tale about never knowing her aunts had been a lie. Had they schooled her in the family business? The question was academic. Dixie would have to be taken care of. Professionally. It wouldn't be as satisfying as eliminating Marlowe but would pay dividends in savings, not power.

Dusk came at last. Only the day Gran died had dragged on this long. Dixie grabbed the sweatsuit and slippers she'd bought- he wasn't spending the night naked in her house-and went downstairs to face the monster in the bas.e.m.e.nt.

He was sitting up, his chest pale as ivory in the gloom. But he smiled, and her stern resolutions sputtered out faster than a match in the wind. "Where am I?" he asked, his voice edged with weariness.

"In my bas.e.m.e.nt. I found you in the backyard."His chest moved in a silent chuckle. "I must have been a sight for sore eyes."

"You didn't smell too good, either."

"Tell me what happened."

"I was about to ask you that." She dumped the plastic shopping bag on his lap. "I bought you some clothes. May not be your usual style, but they're the best I could manage, not knowing your size. You can't sit around the way you are."

"No?"

She chose to ignore the velvet note of amus.e.m.e.nt in that syllable. "No way," she replied in her best librarian's voice. "I always insist men get dressed after I save their lives."

A shaky white hand closed over the bag. "I owe you for that, Dixie."

"Then get dressed, come upstairs. I've got you something to eat." She turned to walk up to the kitchen.

A groan and a thud turned her around before she'd gone three paces. Christopher lay on his face, one knee crumpled under him.

"Christopher!" Her shrill cry echoed in her own ears. He lay in a quivering heap, as a suppressed whimper slipped from his clenched lips. The red burn of his skin had faded but he seemed so weak and frail. She tucked the pillow under his head to protect his face from the stone floor, and reached for the blankets. Then she saw the wound.

"What happened?" She stifled her scream but it reverberated inside her skull as she gaped at the hideous scar. With his entire body sunburned, she hadn't notice it. Now that his skin had faded to pale it stood out, a raised welt of pain. A ma.s.s of livid flesh closed over a two-inch-long cut. Redness radiated outwards like an infection and his whole hip appeared swollen and tender. "You need to get to a hospital."

"No! They can't help me."

Maybe not, but basic first aid wasn't enough. "You need help, Christopher. You're weak."

"I've noticed." He lifted his head and half-turned on one shoulder to smile at her. He still had a smile to raise dreams. But right now he needed to get some clothes on.

"Can you get dressed?"

"Since I can't stand on two feet, I doubt it."

"You can't spend the rest of your life nude in my bas.e.m.e.nt."

"Shame, it's a pleasant thought." He moved to sit up as he spoke and grimaced with pain.

"Still saying 'no' to a doctor?"

"My dear Dixie, haven't you worked it out yet? There's not a mortal doctor who could help me. I'm a revenant, a vampire. One of the mythical creatures you don't believe in."

That stung. "I worked that much out for myself. Now you tell me what happened."

His face twisted. "It seems I made some enemies." He pushed himself up on one arm and sagged back down on the pillow.

He'd end up dying while they argued."Christopher," she said, brus.h.i.+ng the dark hair from his face, "you've got to let me call someone." He'd gone from pale to gray and his skin felt loose as a chicken's.

"I'm fading, Dixie." A thin, wrinkled hand clutched at the air by her leg. "Help me." It came out like a mewl.

"How?"

In reply, he turned over and pushed the blankets off his back. Another time she might have admired his tight b.u.t.t. Right now she wasn't in the mood.

"The wound. It's been festering since Sat.u.r.day. There's a blade in it. Get it out. I beg of you."

"There's nothing in there. It's just a nasty gash. You need st.i.tches." Nasty wasn't the word. It looked like raw meat.

"Look closely. It's closing over, but it's there. I can feel it. I broke off the handle but I couldn't budge the blade."

His skin burned under her hands. He had to be infected. Why were men so stubborn? Perhaps he was right about seeing a doctor, but what did he expect her to do? "I can't see anything but a very angry wound."

"Look closer. Open the cut."

The raised flesh felt as soft as the disgusting liver she'd handled earlier, but at least it wasn't b.l.o.o.d.y. Wasn't that odd? A cut this wide should have bled. Biting her lip, she rested her splayed fingers on either side of the cut and eased the wound open.

Something like a giant splinter lay deep within the swollen flesh. "Let me get a pair of tweezers. I'll be right back."

"It's a six-inch blade, not a thorn from one of your rose bushes. Tweezers won't work."

"What am I supposed to use then?" She hated to snap but forgave herself. Stress wasn't the word for the past twelve hours.

"Pliers." He gasped the word. She felt the edge of the "splinter." It wasn't wood. Could he be right?

The toolbox on the dusty workbench belonged in a museum, but tools were tools-even if they had embossed handles and bra.s.s decorations. She found two pairs of antique pliers. She'd try the needle-nosed ones first. "I found a couple of pairs," she called. "I'm running upstairs to sterilize them."

"Don't be silly!"

That did it! Here she was, preparing for battlefield surgery in her bas.e.m.e.nt, and he called her silly. "They're filthy, Christopher.

I have to go upstairs. I'll be back."

"Sepsis is not a worry right now."

"It might be later. Give me a couple of minutes."

He had the nerve to frown at her. "I'm immune to human infection. I'm not immune to this blade. If you don't get it out, I'll extinguish and solve the problem."

Not while she lived and breathed! With the cold stone hard against her knees, she looked down at his wound. It did seem redder and larger than before. She had to use both hands to ease the flesh open. Doubts. .h.i.t her like hailstones. Could she do this? Band-Aids and nosebleeds were one thing, but this... If she didn't, he'd-what was the word? Extinguish. A cold twist seized her heart. "I'm afraid I'll hurt you."

He half-turned on one shoulder, his eye pale in the gloom. "Dixie, my darling. Get it out. Please!" She pried open the engorged flesh over the wound. Deep in the rent, the rough edge of the blade moved as she applied pressure. She closed the needle-nosed pliers over the edge, gripped tightly and pulled. The pliers slipped and he caught his breath as the sharp point scratched the soft, swollen flesh.

"Sorry. I'd better use the big ones."

"And you thought tweezers would work."

"Quit complaining! You insisted on an amateur! I wanted to take you to a hospital." The nose of the pliers dug into the flesh on either side of the cut but they locked and held as she pulled. The blade s.h.i.+fted. A tad. "It won't budge. Let me get you to a doctor." She heard panic in her voice.

"Dixie, it's okay." He might have been an adult calming a scared child. "You can do it. Pull with all your strength. Remember how you tipped the table and gave James a meal to remember? You were strong enough then."

"How did you know about that?"

"Village telegraph." His chuckle turned into a grimace of pain.

"Lie back down. I can't do anything with you staring at me like that." Or rather her body did plenty but not what she wanted.

Pliers locked back in place, she tightened both hands on the ridged handle and pulled from her shoulders. "I think it moved."

Had she imagined it?

"About an inch. Five more to go."

"You can tell?"

"Oh, yes. Give it another tug." She ground her teeth and pulled until she grunted. The knife moved but she stopped when she heard a grating sound like stone on metal. "Why stop? It was moving."

"I hit something. Perhaps a vital organ."

"I only have one vital organ and I'm lying on it." Only a male could make cracks like that. Her hands tightened again. She tugged until she felt sweat beading on her forehead but the blade yielded, grating again, and then stopped moving. "It's jammed between my ribs. You'll have to pull hard."

"I have been pulling hard." Sweat trickled under her arms and down between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. This was harder than lifting weights.

"Don't give up on me. It's like acid in my flesh. Dixie... please..."

His agonized whisper ripped her heart in half. Here she was, worrying about sore hands, and he had a knife blade lodged between his ribs. With every muscle in her hands, she clenched the now-warm pliers. Bracing one knee against his side, she pulled. Sweat ran down her nose. The sinews in her neck tightened and pressed against her skin. Her shoulders shook. She tasted blood as she bit her own lip, but the knife gave. Sc.r.a.pe by agonizing sc.r.a.pe she worked it between his ribs, hoping he was right about no internal injuries.

Just as the blade narrowed to a point it jammed tight as if unwilling to concede defeat. She swore, first under her breath, then aloud as she braced her knee and shoulders for a last effort. For one awful moment, she feared it was stuck tight in the fissure between his ribs, then it came clean and she fell backwards, legs sprawled as she yelled out, "Got it!" And the pliers and blade shot out of her hand to clatter on the stone floor.

Christopher leaped to his feet. Still a little wobbly on his legs, his strength seemed to return as she watched and his two- hundred-carat smile lacked nothing. She stared up at his face, refusing to look lower. d.a.m.n him! Here he was, as naked as the day he was born, grinning down at her. Taking the hand he offered, she scrambled to her feet, looking everywhere but at the most obvious part of him.