Читать книгу Kiss Me Forever/Love Me Forever - Rosemary Laurey - Страница 14

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 shivers across her skin. After racing through the garden, sitting in a chilly basement wasn’t the smartest thing. For either of them.

It took three trips to carry pillows and blankets down to the basement. 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 cocoon 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. “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 grass. 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 grass 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 grass to hay. If she hadn’t found him, would he have burned? Hell 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 smuts 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 mass 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. Sheesh! 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 basement 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 hell 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 massive one.”

“How much is massive?” Emily told him. “What? You’re certain she made it?”

“Yes, Saturday 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’ hoard 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 prickled 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 leadership in the coven as their price of silence but Dixie was an avaricious, grasping little bitch.

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 basement.

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 basement. 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 amusement 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 mass 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 basement.”

“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, brushing 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 butt. Right now she wasn’t in the mood.

“The wound. It’s been festering since Saturday. 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 stitches.” 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 bloody. 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 brass 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 basement, 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 hit 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 shifted. 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 breasts. 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. Scrape by agonizing scrape 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. Damn 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.

“Okay now?” she asked, looking up at his eye that gleamed as it met hers. He smiled. She felt the sweat pooling between her breasts as she read the desire in his eyes, smelled the need on his skin, and saw his thoughts.

“You have blood on your lip.”

The words etched horror in her heart. She hadn’t saved him so he could feed off her! She took two steps back. He didn’t move. Could he? Would he? “You can’t stand here naked! Get dressed!” She waved at the blue plastic bag on the floor, her chest heaving so fast she had to spit the words out.

“Your blood…” His eye flickered and faded as it fixed on her lip. Her heart raced. Surely even he could hear the thumping.

“I’ve got you some blood. Upstairs!” She turned and ran up the uncarpeted stairs.

The door slammed at the top of the stairs but nothing stilled the fear that hovered in the air around him. He’d acted like the monster she believed he was. She’d saved his life. Heaven only knew how. He’d been barely able to lift his head by the time Caughleigh and his cohorts arrived around midnight. The coming dawn he’d sensed through his fog of pain, and as the sun rose…He shuddered at the memory. Somehow Dixie had spirited him from the garden of hell.

She’d brought him here to rest until dusk, removed the witch blade from his side, and he’d frightened the dickens out of her by lusting after her blood. He stared down at his recovering body. Abel! No wonder she’d fled. She probably thought he was going to rape her. He owed her a dozen explanations, and he could only spare a couple at the most. But first he’d better dress. The blue plastic shopping bag lay on the floor where she’d dropped it.

She was right, it wasn’t his style, but it beat nakedness. He took out the black sweatsuit. Reaching into the bag, he found underwear, socks and a pair of soft-soled cotton slippers. Bless her! She’d added a brush and toothpaste, a comb and a disposable razor, even travel miniatures of deodorant and shaving cream. The only one he needed was the comb. She had a lot to learn about vampires and the longer she stayed ignorant, the better for all of them.

“Dixie?” he called as he pushed open the door at the top of the stairs. He didn’t want to scare her again.

“Hello.” She looked up and smiled. Her shoulders relaxed as he stepped through the door. Had she expected him to burst through naked? Probably.

“Thanks.”

She smiled, as if unsure of what to say next. “I got you some blood.” She nodded at the glass jug in the center of the scrubbed pine table.

His feast beckoned, the aroma heady and intoxicating. Driven by instinct, he hefted the jug in both hands and chug-a-lugged. He savored the sweet taste on his tongue, as richness and nourishment flowed down his throat, warming his core. Renewed strength flooded to his extremities as he drained the last drops from the tilted jug, and his eye met Dixie’s over the glass rim. “Sorry. Should have done that in private. We’re not an elegant species when it comes to feeding.”

She nodded, her face visibly paler than before. “Want a napkin?” She handed him a paper towel. He didn’t doubt he needed it.

As he sat down and wiped his mouth, a hideous thought shook him. “Was that your blood?” He’d had over a pint. How could she have…?

“Chickens.”

“You never got that much from a chicken.”

“No, I defrosted twenty-five pounds of chicken liver. I’ve done some odd things since I came here, but today’s been positively surreal.”

“It’s not been an average day for me, either.”

Her chuckle brought light and amusement to the tension that lay between them and reminded him of the gulf wider than humanity. “You look better. Your color’s returning. You were so white…” She broke off and bit her lip as understanding clouded her eyes.

“I was pale because I needed to feed. Lack of nourishment combined with the torture nearly finished me.” He reached across the table, his will urging her not to draw back. He closed her warm fingers between his cold hands. “I owe you my existence, Dixie. Anything you want, just ask.” What else could he say? As if the rescue wasn’t enough, she’d spent the afternoon defrosting liver to gather blood for him—and she couldn’t bear the thought of eating a bacon sandwich.

“You could start by answering a few questions.”

And he could end by putting her in danger when they discovered he wasn’t dead. “You might be better off not knowing.”

Eyebrows rose over those bright green eyes. Most mortals would flinch at the sight of his disfigurement. Not his Dixie. “I’ll decide about that.” She moved her hand from his. Cold filled his empty palms.

“Dixie…” he began.

“No. Listen. You’re a vampire, right?”

He nodded. Safe enough question; he only confirmed what she’d undoubtedly worked out herself, hours ago.

“Who tried to kill you?”

“People who want me dead.”

Her eyebrows almost met. “Smart-ass, how about a nice, stra…” She stopped mid-syllable as the doorbell rang. She turned to the doorway, then back to him, her eyes creased with worry. “I’ll see who it is.”

The front door closed and Dixie came back, balancing a stack of blue booklets. “It was Emma. I got rid of her by agreeing to deliver parish magazines.” She dumped the stack on the edge of the kitchen dresser and sat back down. He wished to heaven she hadn’t. His hunger was piqued rather than eased by the blood he’d swallowed, and now he smelled hers. He heard it coursing under her warm skin. He imagined it warm against his tongue. The thought of her lifeblood sent his mind into a spin. He wanted nothing more than to tip her head back, bury his fangs in her soft skin and drain her dry.

And probably kill her. He clutched the table edge, fighting back his physical need. He had to leave. Fast. Before Caughleigh and his cronies discovered the lack of vampire remains. Before someone knocked on the back door and found him in a tête-à-tête with Dixie. And before survival instinct overrode respect for Dixie’s life. He’d flit right now, but he barely had the strength to stand, much less transmogrify—or even drive himself.

She reached across the table to him, her soft hand over his clenched fist. “You still look terrible, Christopher. Anything else you need?”

This was no moment for the whole truth. He paused. “I need your help. To get away. I can’t stay here. For both our sakes.”

Concentration replaced the worry in her eyes. “You want me to take you somewhere? You can hardly go back to your house.”

“I need you to drive me up to town. To London.” At Tom’s he’d be safe. He’d worry later about Tom’s reaction when he drove up to the front door with a mortal.

She didn’t hesitate a second. “Right. I’ll have to check the map Stanley gave me. Or perhaps you know the way.”

“I know the way.”

She drove carefully. Just as well. He slipped in and out of consciousness like a drifting leaf. “I’ll owe you forever for this,” he said.

“I’ll collect when I need to.”

“Tell me when we get to Hyde Park Corner,” he said and slumped against the seat.

Dixie hoped they’d get that far. She was tempted to ignore his insistence and take him to the nearest hospital, but he was right. She couldn’t drive up and say, “I need help for an injured vampire.” They’d lock her up.

Cold panic hit her at a roundabout, but she negotiated it and would have patted herself on the back except she needed both hands to maneuver a lane change. The traffic got denser with every mile. Stuck in a jam somewhere near Wandsworth, she glanced over at Christopher. He looked gray as doom.

The streetlights cast odd shadows, highlighting the empty socket and his sunken cheeks. She drove on through the massed traffic. If this was evening, she didn’t want to see rush hour.

“We’re at Hyde Park Corner, Christopher.”

He didn’t open his eyes, but he’d heard her. “Go up Piccadilly.” She had to concentrate to hear his voice above the noise of the traffic. “Now left here.” She noticed the name, Half Moon Street. “Now left…. Second right…. To the end, then left.” A narrow road turned abruptly by a pub at the corner, The Red Lion. “Through the gateway.” There were high walls behind and houses in front, and at the end, another wall with a black garage door. “This is Tom’s. You can park inside.”

“How do I get in?” As she spoke, the door rose and closed behind her as she pulled to a halt in a small yard behind the tall, dark shape of a townhouse. A tall figure made a silhouette against the light in the open French windows.

“Kit?” The voice echoed with worry in the night air. He bounded across the yard and wrenched open her door. “Who the hell are you?” he asked as Dixie stepped out of the car

“I’m Dix…” She could have been Ivanna Trump for all he cared.

“Kit,” he called, and then saw Christopher, slumped and unmoving in the passenger seat. “What have you done to him?” he demanded and vaulted over the car roof. Pulling the door open, he gathered Christopher in his arms. Fury sparked behind his eyes. “Be glad you’re a woman. If you were a man, I’d tear you limb from limb for this.”

“For what? For bringing him here? It’s what he wanted. Do something, can’t you? He called you his friend.” Dixie yelled. She hadn’t done all this to be griped at.

“Who are you?” The voice cut like a knife across the night as he strode towards the house, carrying Christopher as lightly as a plate of cookies.

“I’m Dixie LePage.”

“Oh.” He carried Christopher through the garden door. Taking that as an invitation, Dixie followed.

Christopher looked worse in the light. The color he’d gained earlier faded. He’d gone past pale to a green-gray color that suggested morgues and cold slabs. Her heart clenched cold in her chest. “Is he dying?” she asked Tom’s fast-moving back.

“He’s been dead four hundred years,” he snapped without turning his head.

That did it! Half leaping, she caught up with him and grabbed the sleeve of his shirt and walked across the room beside him. “You know exactly what I mean, smart-ass! He said you’d help him!”

The man stopped mid-stride and turned a pair of onyx-hard eyes on her. Tears welled up behind her lashes. She forced them back. She wasn’t crying in front of this bastard. Why had she ever come? If he did anything to Christopher, she’d clobber him. “He’s safe with me. I’d as soon harm myself,” he said, his voice strangely gentle, “but it may be too late.”

“No!” The word screamed like a tempest in her brain. “He said he’d be safe if I got him here.”

“Safe is not the same as sentient. You brought him here. I thank you for that. You’d best leave.”

“No way, José! How do I know he’s really safe with you?” She parked both hands on her hips, standing square in front of him to block his way. He never spoke. Just looked as if searching her soul. The burr of traffic and the scent of some night plant outside the open door hovered in the background as they fought for Christopher.

“You wouldn’t have brought him if you really doubted.” He angled his head to the open French windows. “I’m taking him upstairs. There’s nowhere down here to lay him.” She couldn’t argue that one. Wall to ceiling bookshelves, a massive antique desk, a computer, and a pair of swivel chairs were the only furnishings. “Shut the door. I don’t want the house full of mosquitoes or moths.”

“He’s dying and you’re worried about mosquitoes?”

“And neighbors who might summon the law if you keep shrieking.”

Was she shrieking? Probably. It was a wonder she wasn’t screaming the house down. She took a deep breath. Before she exhaled, he spoke again, “Shut it, Miss LePage. Do you want me to waste energy that might save Kit?”

There was only one answer to that. But by the time she turned back from shoving the last bolt home, he’d disappeared. He wasn’t getting away. She ran through the open door and up a wide, curving staircase. She ignored the three closed doors. In the fourth room, Tom bent over Christopher, two black shapes so close they seemed one through the blur of her tears.

Tom turned as Dixie approached. “Wait outside a couple of minutes. I’m getting him in bed.”

“I’m staying.” She closed the distance between them. Christopher looked worse, if it was possible. Moisture beaded on his face and neck. Sweat? “What’s happening?”

Tom didn’t even look up. “His life essence is evaporating. It won’t be long now. He’ll be gone before dawn.”

Choking back tears, Dixie grabbed Christopher’s shoulders; they felt like bits of chicken. Dead and lifeless. “Christopher, don’t. Not after everything!”

His eye opened, like the shutter of a camera without film. “Dixie, thanks.” He never spoke, but she heard him clear as bird song.

Her hands were shaking as Tom lifted them away. She half-noticed his fingers were bent and twisted. “Go outside a minute. Let me get him ready. I won’t be long.”

Dixie wanted to laugh. Or scream. It hardly mattered. “It’s a bit late for modesty. I think I’ve seen everything.” He just looked at her. She was tempted to scratch out those piercing eyes. “I found him. Naked. And got him out of the sun. I also yanked the knife blade out, among other things…”

“What blade?” His hand grabbed her wrist until it hurt. His hands might be deformed but his strength was—like Christopher’s used to be.

“The one someone stuck in his ribs. And don’t ask me who put it there. He didn’t say.”

“Where?” He pulled the sweatshirt from Christopher’s waist.

“On the side, roll him over.” He did that as easily as turning a page. Dixie pushed up the sweatshirt and stared. Now there was just a small knot and a shadow like a fading bruise. “There was a wound. A great gaping one. I didn’t dream it. I swear.”

His awkward fingers smoothed Christopher’s side. “I believe you.”

“What happened?”

“He healed and used up his last strength.” If she opened her mouth, she’d bawl. Tom didn’t comment as she helped pull the sweatshirt over Christopher’s head and the pants down off his cold feet. If he had, she’d have swiped him, vampire or not. They pulled the covers up to his chin, the crisp-ironed linen making Christopher’s face appear even grayer. Tom turned to her, his eyes softened. “There’s a bed in the next room. This is your time to sleep. I’ll watch and call you when the time comes.”

“I’m not leaving him.” To demonstrate the point, she sat down hard on the edge of the mattress. The bed sagged as he perched on the opposite side.

“It won’t take long, he’s fading fast.” The choke in his voice made her turn. She wasn’t the only one heartbroken. “Tell me what happened.”

She condensed the wildest day of her life into half a dozen short sentences. “I thought bringing him here would save him,” she spat out the words with anger and frustration.

“You did save him—from slow death by torture. Wouldn’t you rather pass away surrounded by friends than scorched slowly by the rising sun?”

She shuddered hot and cold at the idea. “I thought vampires were supposed to be immortal.”

“Didn’t Kit answer that one?”

“We never got the chance to talk about it.”

He shook his head, as if to shake away tears. “No, I suppose not. It’s quite simple. We’re beyond life and death, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be extinguished. If someone’s determined and knows the way…With Kit, they took no chances: sunlight and an incision.”

“But I took out the knife, and he slept all day in the dark. Why didn’t that cure him?” She’d given up trying to hold back her tears.

“He was already weakened when they took him.”

“How?” Shaking fingers tried to dry her cheeks but tears came as if her heart were draining. Maybe it was. He pushed a folded handkerchief into her hand. Another time she’d have appreciated the luxury of wiping tears with silk. “How was he weakened?” she repeated.

“A combination. The immediate reason, it was the time of his borning, the anniversary of his transformation. We’re always weakest then, and they knew that. They knew to pierce him and drain more strength that way. Also…”

“Also, what?”

The dark shape shrugged. “He’d transmogrified—changed shape—a couple of times the past week or so. That drained him. And he doesn’t feed like a sensible revenant. His stupid scruples.”

“What do you mean?” Christopher had no hesitation about draining that jug on the table and it had restored his color, for a short time. “Should I have given him more? I had no idea how much.”

Tom reached over to steady her shoulder; she found the twisted fingers strangely comforting. His voice gentled as he looked across the bed, “It’s nothing you did or didn’t do. Just his stubbornness. He has an aversion to taking human blood. He’s fed off animals for years.”

“And that’s a substitute?”

“From day to day, yes. I feed from animals myself, sometimes, but on a long term, no. Add that accumulated weakness to the torture he endured…No revenant could survive both.”

Kit seemed to shrivel as they watched. Fear skittered up and down her spine. Dixie leaned over to kiss him. He felt as cold as Gran in the casket. She’d just met him and now she was losing him. Did everyone she loved have to die? Tears coursed down her cheeks. She didn’t bother to wipe them anymore.

The mattress sagged behind her. Tom had moved to her side. His arm wrapped her shoulders. “He was my friend, too,” he whispered, his tears wet and warm on her neck. “We were young together.”

Night passed with only the buzz of endless traffic outside the curtained window and the tick of the marble clock on the mantel to mark the time.

“It’s three. Dawn’s not far off. He’s lasting longer than I thought.” Tom’s voice shattered the quiet. Or was that her nerves? He’d barely whispered.

“No.” She wasn’t going to just sit here and watch Christopher die. She’d…Damn it, she knew what she’d do. “Listen! You said he was weakened because he won’t take human blood.” Tom nodded, his eyes heavy-lidded and red from crying. “Would human blood save him?”