Читать книгу Kiss Me Forever/Love Me Forever - Rosemary Laurey - Страница 13

Perched high in the elm tree, Christopher watched Dixie lock her car and then go in the front door. He’d replayed their conversation a dozen times since she left. She didn’t trust him now, just as well. He was nothing but bad news. But how he ached for her—his own fault. If he hadn’t tasted that one time he’d never have known the warmth of her soul and the sweetness of her lifeblood, and now he’d spend eternity missing her.

He had no choice. He had to leave Bringham. Tom was right—it was getting too dangerous. If he stayed, it was only a matter of time before Caughleigh sussed the situation. And the thought of Caughleigh weaving Dixie into his machinations…Christopher’s fists balled up at the idea. He’d take up Tom’s invitation to stay in South Audley Street. Soon. He sagged against the tree trunk. By Abel! He was weaker than a fledgling. He shouldn’t have gone out this afternoon. The sun sapped his strength and it would take more than a day’s rest to restore him.

He had to feed. Sebastian’s new hunter wouldn’t match Dixie’s sweetness, but the prospect held a certain satisfaction.

Clicking her seat belt as Sebastian closed the door, Dixie wondered why she’d agreed to come.

He seemed to have no doubts at all. “I feel lucky tonight. I think we’ll win.” He flashed white teeth at her.

Win or score? She’d play Whist and that was all.

The same people she met at the Whytes’ filled the village hall. Hardly surprising. This village made a small town seem like a metropolis, but there was a certain security in placing names on familiar faces—Emma with Ian, Sally, who looked very different with her hair cut short all over, Mark Flynn, the bank manager, and Emily Reade.

“Emily!” Sebastian almost hissed the name as she toddled towards them, a tin tray of sherry glasses in her hands.

She beamed at Sebastian. Dixie merited a polite nod. “Settled in your new place, are you? Have a sherry. We’ve sweet or dry. What do you prefer?”

Dixie chose dry. It suited her mood. She took two sips from the thick-rimmed glass and then almost gulped it all. Christopher was here! She scanned the hall but didn’t see him.

“Looking for someone?” Sebastian smiled. He was at her elbow, close enough so she could smell his aftershave. She didn’t care for his aftershave. “Anyone I know?”

Something told her he wouldn’t appreciate the truth. “Just admiring the building.” She looked up at the high ceiling and age-darkened rafters. “It looks like an old barn.”

“It is.” Emily was back. “An old tithe barn. They planned on demolishing it between the wars but the parish bought it.”

By the look of the two of them, another war wasn’t far off. Dixie remembered Emily’s hurried exit to meet Sebastian after the Whytes. What was going on and how had she ended up in the middle? If Emily imagined some sort of duel for Sebastian, she could put her weapons away. Dixie wasn’t interested.

“We’re at the same table. Isn’t that nice? I can talk to Dixie about her house. I’ve always wanted to see inside it. Your aunts were reclusive. They never invited anyone over.”

“Drop by sometime.” They reached the table and Sebastian held both their chairs. Dixie sat down, and again the certainty hit her—Christopher was very close. Was she going lightheaded from skipping lunch? Was sherry stronger than she thought?

“Got a partner, Emily? Or are we playing three-handed?”

Emily giggled. “We’ll have four. Emma said there were several odd people.”

“How unkind of her. She may call me eccentric, but I take exception at ‘odd.”

At the familiar voice Sebastian hissed, Emily popped her eyes, and Dixie felt a warm glow inside. “Hello, Christopher. You never said you were coming.”

“A last minute decision.” He settled himself in the empty chair. “Well, Caughleigh, you look ready to cut.”

Thank heavens they weren’t playing Bridge. She’d never be able to concentrate in this company. Testosterone sparked between Sebastian and Christopher, and Emily smiled in a way that suggested Lucrezia Borgia. Come to think of it, the big opal on her finger suited the part.

Sebastian cut spades as trumps and dealt in silence. Dixie was fanning out her hand as Christopher asked, “Play to win and take no prisoners, right, Emily?”

He and Emily won the first three hands.

Dixie played carefully and remembered discards but her play couldn’t match Christopher’s. Even when she held four trumps in the last hand, she only managed to take two tricks.

“You’re some card player,” she said as Christopher trumped her last ace.

“I’ve been playing for years.” He smiled.

“Make a living by it, do you?” Sebastian asked.

Christopher looked over his cards. He did look like a card shark in an old movie and every muscle showed he resented the insinuation. “I have, on occasion. We must play for high stakes one day, you and I.” They both looked ready to stake each other.

“Are we playing Whist or War?” Dixie asked. It was like sitting between a pair of eighth graders.

“Peace, Dixie.” The way Christopher smiled suggested they shared secrets. “I once fought over cards. Never again.” With a smooth movement he played a king.

Silence fell over the table as Christopher’s uncanny knack of winning tricks had Dixie pondering the truth behind Sebastian’s insinuations. Emily made a couple of comments about play but silence seemed more cheerful than her twittering.

Dixie won the next trick by breaking trumps and decided to do her bit to keep the tension going. “Sebastian,” she said, “thanks for giving Christopher my organizer. I was glad to get it back.”

Sebastian stared, Emily gulped, and Christopher gave an innocent smile that wouldn’t fool an infant. What was going on? Had Christopher lied, just as she’d suspected?

“I told Dixie you gave it to me, knowing I’d be seeing her.” Christopher smirked. It was the only word for it. Sebastian gave him a look that could curdle milk. “You never did mention where you found it. Did you, Caughleigh?”

Sebastian hesitated, eying his cards before discarding a useless three. “James picked it up. I’m so glad it got back to you, Dixie.”

Sleazy James? How did he come into this?

“That’s right, your sister’s dear son. He’s not here tonight, I noticed. Left the neighborhood has he?” Christopher seemed determined to niggle.

“He’s in town for the weekend. If it’s any of your business.”

“None, really,” Christopher replied and took the trick. He also won the hand. He stood up. “Let the winner get dessert.”

“It isn’t over yet.” Fury seemed to seethe through Sebastian’s teeth.

“You think not?” He pushed in the chair. The table wobbled.

Dixie stood up. “I’ll help you carry them.”

“Lovely. I’ll stay and keep Sebastian company,” Emily said.

The desserts were at the far end of the hall. Christopher seemed in no hurry. In fact, he walked as if worn out.

“You like to win, I noticed, almost as much as Sebastian hates to lose. It’s only a game.”

“Card games can be more dangerous than duels.”

“Fight duels often, do you?”

He shook his head, his dark hair gleaming in the lamplight. “Not for a couple of hundred years.” She chuckled and looked up at him. His eye seemed hard and cold. Then he smiled and her toes curled inside her leather pumps. “You’re the only woman in years who’s been willing to look me straight in the face. It doesn’t bother you?”

“In a way. But not like that. I wish for your sake you had two.”

“I don’t miss it, except when it comes to looking at you.”

“What happened?” Should she have asked? She didn’t know him that well.

“I lost it in a fight. Years ago when I was young and foolish.”

“Not the two-hundred-year-old duel?”

He shook his head and grinned, “Long before then.”

“Trifle or cheesecake?” Emma asked, serving spoon in hand.

“You’re not getting any?” Dixie asked as he placed three servings on the tray.

“I need to be careful what I eat—allergies, you know.”

“Christopher never eats. That’s how he stays so thin,” Emma said.

Dixie felt inclined to believe her. Christopher’s narrow wrists barely filled the cuffs of his linen shirt.

“Jealous, my dear Emma?” he asked, with a twinkle in his dark eye.

Emma grinned. “Watch it!”

Dixie filled the thick white coffee cups from the urn on a side table. “Enjoying your evening with Caughleigh?” Christopher asked, his voice too quiet to be conversational. “I bet he doesn’t kiss like I do.”

At that, her hand shook and she sloshed coffee into the saucer. “I wouldn’t know,” she replied, trying to sound very English and proper but knowing she missed it by a mile.

“I knew it! You shouldn’t be wasting your time with him.”

“Right now I seem to be wasting it with you.”

“Nothing between us will ever be a waste.”

Hair prickled around the nape of her neck. She felt heat rising between them. “Coffee’s ready. Let’s get back.”

“Worried?” his voice teased. “You don’t want to give Emily too much space. She might take advantage of poor old Sebby.”

“I doubt anyone’s ever taken advantage of Sebastian.” The hum around them half-swallowed his chuckle but Dixie heard it all the same.

Christopher and Emily won the last hand. Sebastian appeared not to have enjoyed the evening very much. Emily almost bubbled with excitement as she claimed the centerpiece as her prize. The pink begonias matched her face.

“How was this as an evening of British culture?” Christopher asked Dixie.

“Come now, Marlowe,” Sebastian said. “Don’t put her on the spot.”

Sebastian wouldn’t answer for her. “Interesting. Like something out of an Agatha Christie. You know, cards in the village hall and someone found dead on the vicarage lawn in the morning.”

“Now you’re getting fanciful,” Sebastian said, his mouth tightening.

“You’re right,” Christopher said, smiling at Dixie. “But for that scenario you need a vast twenties vicarage, not the three bedroom bungalow Reverend James lives in, plus a parlor maid to find the corpse before breakfast.”

“Stop this, both of you!” Emily fussed. “There aren’t murders in Bringham. Dixie was just joking. Americans do that all the time, I’m told.”

Dixie wanted to ask who’d told her, but bit it back. All she needed was to get home. Alone. And she fancied Christopher planned to complicate that.

He leaned back in his chair, causing the thin metal legs to scrape the floor. “We had one recent death at the vicarage.”

Sebastian hissed, and Emily paled before she flushed and snapped, “Oh, please! Not here!”

“What?” asked Dixie, looking from Sebastian’s tight mouth to Emily’s red face to Christopher’s smirk.

“You hadn’t heard?” Christopher asked.

“Heard what?” What did they all know that he wanted to tell?

“I thought Caughleigh would have mentioned it.” Christopher smiled at Sebastian. “Your great-aunt, old Miss Faith, died on the front steps of the vicarage. The milkman found her. She’d had a stroke.”

Something spun inside. No, Sebastian hadn’t told her. Christopher knew that and he’d chosen this moment to tell. Why? She was heartily sick of being used to get at Sebastian.

“She was an eccentric old lady, given to wandering. Probably felt herself taken ill and went there for help. I think your timing’s disgraceful, Marlowe. You’ve upset Dixie.”

“I’m fine, Sebastian.” He was halfway around the table and Dixie didn’t want his arm supporting her. Not at any price.

She offered to help Emma tidy up, glad of the chance to talk with her neighbor, and in the sneaky hope that Emily would convince Sebastian to take her home. She didn’t. Emily and Sebastian stood in a corner talking to Sally, while Christopher stacked folding chairs with Ian. By the time they loaded the last dish in Emma’s Range Rover, all Dixie wanted was her own bed. Alone.

“Ready?” Sebastian asked as Ian and Emma drove off.

“Yes, I enjoyed the evening, but I’ll be glad to get home.” She hoped the hint was heavy enough.

Emily stood beside Sebastian and Sally, looking from one to the other as if wondering what would happen next. “I need a ride. Could you drop me off, Sebby?”

Dixie grabbed the chance. “Of course. He can drop me off on the way.” She half-hoped Christopher would offer to take her, but he just stood there enjoying the performance.

They were all halfway to their cars when Sally swore, “Blast! I’ve got a puncture. It would be tonight when Robert’s away.”

“I’ll give you a hand,” Christopher offered. “No point in everyone hanging about here.” Dixie’s last sight of Christopher was his broad shoulders as he walked towards Sally’s Land Rover.

Christopher offered a ride home, but Sally insisted on a wheel change. “I need the car tomorrow and who’ll change it on a Sunday?” she wailed.

So he agreed. He felt sure Dixie was safe tonight. He’d sensed Caughleigh’s irritation but no spite. Besides, he could change the wheel in five minutes and stop by Orchard House on his way home. Sally helped, handing wheel brace and jack as he needed them, but her inane chatter got under his skin. If he heard one more, “I don’t know how this happened, Robert promised me they were new tires,” he’d be tempted to gag her with a wheel brace.

He hoisted the spare on the axle and felt the weakness in his muscles. He should be resting, not changing spare wheels for the local gentry. “All done,” he said as he tapped the hubcap in place and reached for a rag to wipe his hands.

“At last,” Sally whispered.

Christopher turned, something in her tone alerting him, too late. The moonlight showed something pale in her hand. A wrench she was packing away? He knew it wasn’t when he felt the blade against his skin. Slowed by his exertions of the last week, his reactions failed him. Searing pain ripped between his ribs and tore through him like fire. His hands clutched at the air.

“Got you!” she half-yelled her excitement. Like an echo, the words swirled around the deepening fog in his brain. He tried to speak, but darkness followed the pain. He stumbled against the car, slipped, and the gravel came up to meet him.

“I wanted to see the house. She’d have asked us in if you hadn’t insisted on leaving.”

Emily was beginning to get on his nerves. “She had no intention of doing so,” Sebastian said.

“Where are we going? Your office, Sebby?”

The woman was a fool. That’s all she thought of. “No, my dear, it’s time for you to do your duty by the coven.”

Her voice rose. “No more doctored food. It didn’t work. Ida’s didn’t work either. It’s too risky.”

“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 hell.”

“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 God’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 shifted, raking forgotten nerve endings. Had he ever been this weak in his first life? Who remembered that far back?

He slept. Dozed. Passed 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 space 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 hell, 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 crushed bones or willed Sebastian into silence. Now his neck stretched up in Sebastian’s grasp and the movement shifted 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 piss. Don’t fuck. 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 grass and weeds she’d heaped in the wheelbarrow. It was a beautiful afternoon, perfect for gardening.

A black Jaguar pulled up at her gates. Damn! 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 hell 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 snatches 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 grass.

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 anchored 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 nightshirt. It still wasn’t enough, but it was the best she could do.

She ran through the gate, ignoring the scratches and scrapes 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 basement steps and the shady side of the house. As she wrenched open the heavy hatch, she noticed her scratched arms and her bare breasts, 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.