howled into the night, never thinking that if there were other hunters he might attract them. He was beyond thinking. If ever a wolf could be deranged, he was that wolf now. Pain was coming in waves rippling along his left foreleg. Following an animal instinct older than time, he lapped with his long pink tongue at the blood oozing down, leaking a canine whine.
All at once he raised his head and sniffed. Something foul rode the air—something fouler than the woad; he was downwind of it. Hackles raised, his wound forgotten, Jon scrambled up on all fours, slinking toward the place where he’d left his clothes earlier. Could he even change back as he was? The scent grew stronger—not a human scent. A fresh growl rumbled up from deep inside him. That wasn’t wise. Whoever it was could follow the sound. He snorted. What did it matter? The entity that stalked him now knew where he was by instinct, by scent—the scent of his blood, leaking faster now that he’d put the pressure of his weight upon it by loping through the woad.
His clothes were in sight, a crumpled heap of yellow-dustedfinery reduced to rags in the dampness—at least that was how they looked to his wolf’s eyes, glazed over with pain. Again, he sniffed the air. The scent was stronger now. Only then did Clive Snow’s words jog his memory:
Sebastian was evidently once a righteous man before he was turned. If this is so, he will stop at nothing to corrupt you.
Then, sadly, too late:
Several parishioners have sighted what they perceive to be a large dog prowling the moor, and many of the men have taken to going about armed. We both know it is no dog, Jon. You must take care, else you be shot down out there.
Why hadn’t he recalled that sooner?
Jon stood his ground and turned—feet apart, hackles raised—his glazed eyes sifting through the darkness for the image of whoever, whatever it was stalking him. His night vision was infallible, but the stalker presented no image, though the woad before him bent and flattened as the invisible feet approaching tamped it down.
Sebastian!
It had to be. Strengthened now, just having fed, Jon lunged at the invisible entity, but his snarling mouth closed upon empty air. A great bat soared out of the woad field and disappeared off into the wood.
A warning? A biding of time? Or was it that the creature knew he could not win? Jon couldn’t imagine that. He put no store in such a guess, and the true answer soon presented itself: The sky was lightening! The faintest streamers of gray were diluting the clouds to the east.
First light!
Leaking a whine, Jon surged to his full height in a silvery rush of displaced energy, and stood naked to welcome the dawn.
Yes!
He could still bear it. But where had Sebastian gone? There wasn’t time for him to travel far, even in bat form. More than likely he had found some dark sanctuary and was somewhere close by . . . waiting.
Wincing, Jon glanced down at his left arm. Thewound wasn’t deep, but blood was pouring from it nonetheless. The pistol ball had grazed his biceps. There would be a trail. He would leave his scent for Sebastian to follow. Come nightfall, the vampire would hunt him down. The creature’s heightened sense of smell would be able to detect the scent for days, unless rain came to wash it away. Not much chance of that, judging from the brilliant sunrise.
All at once his memory was jogged again. Cassandra would be waiting at the Abbey. There was no time to lose. Tearing a strip from the hem of his shirt, he bound his wound, cinching it tight with his teeth, and dressed himself. The hunter lay just as he’d left him, sprawled on his back in the field, but something caught Jon’s eye as he came abreast of the man. There was no blood upon him—not a drop—where he had been smeared with it before. Jon squatted down beside the man. Cold chills gripped him. How white the hunter was in the ghost-gray light of dawn—as white as a cadaver. He
was
a cadaver. Jon groaned,
All at once he raised his head and sniffed. Something foul rode the air—something fouler than the woad; he was downwind of it. Hackles raised, his wound forgotten, Jon scrambled up on all fours, slinking toward the place where he’d left his clothes earlier. Could he even change back as he was? The scent grew stronger—not a human scent. A fresh growl rumbled up from deep inside him. That wasn’t wise. Whoever it was could follow the sound. He snorted. What did it matter? The entity that stalked him now knew where he was by instinct, by scent—the scent of his blood, leaking faster now that he’d put the pressure of his weight upon it by loping through the woad.
His clothes were in sight, a crumpled heap of yellow-dustedfinery reduced to rags in the dampness—at least that was how they looked to his wolf’s eyes, glazed over with pain. Again, he sniffed the air. The scent was stronger now. Only then did Clive Snow’s words jog his memory:
Sebastian was evidently once a righteous man before he was turned. If this is so, he will stop at nothing to corrupt you.
Then, sadly, too late:
Several parishioners have sighted what they perceive to be a large dog prowling the moor, and many of the men have taken to going about armed. We both know it is no dog, Jon. You must take care, else you be shot down out there.
Why hadn’t he recalled that sooner?
Jon stood his ground and turned—feet apart, hackles raised—his glazed eyes sifting through the darkness for the image of whoever, whatever it was stalking him. His night vision was infallible, but the stalker presented no image, though the woad before him bent and flattened as the invisible feet approaching tamped it down.
Sebastian!
It had to be. Strengthened now, just having fed, Jon lunged at the invisible entity, but his snarling mouth closed upon empty air. A great bat soared out of the woad field and disappeared off into the wood.
A warning? A biding of time? Or was it that the creature knew he could not win? Jon couldn’t imagine that. He put no store in such a guess, and the true answer soon presented itself: The sky was lightening! The faintest streamers of gray were diluting the clouds to the east.
First light!
Leaking a whine, Jon surged to his full height in a silvery rush of displaced energy, and stood naked to welcome the dawn.
Yes!
He could still bear it. But where had Sebastian gone? There wasn’t time for him to travel far, even in bat form. More than likely he had found some dark sanctuary and was somewhere close by . . . waiting.
Wincing, Jon glanced down at his left arm. Thewound wasn’t deep, but blood was pouring from it nonetheless. The pistol ball had grazed his biceps. There would be a trail. He would leave his scent for Sebastian to follow. Come nightfall, the vampire would hunt him down. The creature’s heightened sense of smell would be able to detect the scent for days, unless rain came to wash it away. Not much chance of that, judging from the brilliant sunrise.
All at once his memory was jogged again. Cassandra would be waiting at the Abbey. There was no time to lose. Tearing a strip from the hem of his shirt, he bound his wound, cinching it tight with his teeth, and dressed himself. The hunter lay just as he’d left him, sprawled on his back in the field, but something caught Jon’s eye as he came abreast of the man. There was no blood upon him—not a drop—where he had been smeared with it before. Jon squatted down beside the man. Cold chills gripped him. How white the hunter was in the ghost-gray light of dawn—as white as a cadaver. He
was
a cadaver. Jon groaned,
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