power of three hundred and fifty years. Her eyelids closed, her head lolled forward, and she was asleep.
On silent feet, Gabriel moved to the bed and gazed down at Sara. Revulsion and a wave of pity rose within him as he stared at her, at the blistered skin on her arms, her hands. He drew back the sheet, tears welling in his eyes as he saw the ugly burns on her chest, her legs. Miraculously, her face had been spared.
She moaned then, a soft cry of agony that tore at the very edges of his soul. He placed his fingertip against the pulse in her throat. Her heartbeat was slow, her life force weak. She was dying.
"No!" The word was ripped from his throat.
And then he was lifting her in his arms, carrying her swiftly from the room, from the hospital, the power of his mind blinding those he passed to their presence.
With preternatural speed, he raced toward the abbey. Sara lay limp in his arms, hardly breathing. She seemed to weigh nothing at all and he carried her effortlessly.
"Please don't let her die. Please don't let her die."
The words were a prayer in his heart, even though he didn't believe that God would hear him.
When he reached the abbey, he carried her into his room and laid her on the floor. A blink of his eye started a fire in the hearth. Removing his cloak, he spread it before the fireplace, then placed her on it, his heart pounding with fear. She looked so still; her skin, what little hadn't been burned, was as pale as death.
With a sob, he slit the vein in his wrist, parted her lips, and let his blood drip into her mouth. One drop, two. A dozen. How much would it take?
When he judged she'd had enough, he drew the fur-lined cloak around her, then gathered her into his arms. Rising, he sat down in his chair and gazed into the flames.
He held her throughout the night, wondering how the fire had started, listening to her soft moans of pain, her erratic breathing. She sobbed for her mother, her father. Once, she cried his name, begging him to come to her, to help her.
"I'm trying,
cara
," he murmured. "I'm trying."
He felt dawn approaching and knew the time had come to leave her. He held her as long as he could, held her until his body felt drugged, heavy. Reluctantly, he laid her on the floor in front of the hearth, wishing he had a bed for her, blankets. Clothes. And hard on the heels of that thought came the hope that she would have need of those things, that he had given her his accursed blood in time. That he had given her enough. He had no food to give her, only a bottle of aged red wine. He left it on the hearth where she would be sure to see it if she woke, and then, having done all he could, he left her.
On feet that felt as heavy as lead, he made his way down to the catacombs and secured the door. With Sara in the house, he would have to take his sleep with the rest of the dead.
He rose as the sun was going down, the smell of rain heavy in the air. He took the stairs two at a time, ran down the narrow hallway to his room.
Sara lay as he had left her, her blond hair spread like a golden halo around her head.
Murmuring her name, he knelt beside her. Drawing back his cloak, his gaze swept over her from head to foot, and then he let out a long sigh of relief. She was healing. Not as swiftly as he would have, but she was healing. Her skin still looked raw in places, but the blisters were shrinking, drying.
Gently, he covered her once more, and then he closed his eyes as relief washed through him. She would be all right.
"Gabriel?"
He opened his eyes to find her staring up at him, her brow furrowed in bewilderment.
"How do you feel?" he asked.
"Terrible. What happened?"
"There was a fire at the orphanage."
"A fire! How did it start?"
"I don't know."
"Do you know if Sister Mary Josepha and the other nuns survived the fire? And the children… ?" She blinked back a tear as she thought of all the sweet dear children she had grown to care for. Had they been burned, as well?
"I don't know,
On silent feet, Gabriel moved to the bed and gazed down at Sara. Revulsion and a wave of pity rose within him as he stared at her, at the blistered skin on her arms, her hands. He drew back the sheet, tears welling in his eyes as he saw the ugly burns on her chest, her legs. Miraculously, her face had been spared.
She moaned then, a soft cry of agony that tore at the very edges of his soul. He placed his fingertip against the pulse in her throat. Her heartbeat was slow, her life force weak. She was dying.
"No!" The word was ripped from his throat.
And then he was lifting her in his arms, carrying her swiftly from the room, from the hospital, the power of his mind blinding those he passed to their presence.
With preternatural speed, he raced toward the abbey. Sara lay limp in his arms, hardly breathing. She seemed to weigh nothing at all and he carried her effortlessly.
"Please don't let her die. Please don't let her die."
The words were a prayer in his heart, even though he didn't believe that God would hear him.
When he reached the abbey, he carried her into his room and laid her on the floor. A blink of his eye started a fire in the hearth. Removing his cloak, he spread it before the fireplace, then placed her on it, his heart pounding with fear. She looked so still; her skin, what little hadn't been burned, was as pale as death.
With a sob, he slit the vein in his wrist, parted her lips, and let his blood drip into her mouth. One drop, two. A dozen. How much would it take?
When he judged she'd had enough, he drew the fur-lined cloak around her, then gathered her into his arms. Rising, he sat down in his chair and gazed into the flames.
He held her throughout the night, wondering how the fire had started, listening to her soft moans of pain, her erratic breathing. She sobbed for her mother, her father. Once, she cried his name, begging him to come to her, to help her.
"I'm trying,
cara
," he murmured. "I'm trying."
He felt dawn approaching and knew the time had come to leave her. He held her as long as he could, held her until his body felt drugged, heavy. Reluctantly, he laid her on the floor in front of the hearth, wishing he had a bed for her, blankets. Clothes. And hard on the heels of that thought came the hope that she would have need of those things, that he had given her his accursed blood in time. That he had given her enough. He had no food to give her, only a bottle of aged red wine. He left it on the hearth where she would be sure to see it if she woke, and then, having done all he could, he left her.
On feet that felt as heavy as lead, he made his way down to the catacombs and secured the door. With Sara in the house, he would have to take his sleep with the rest of the dead.
He rose as the sun was going down, the smell of rain heavy in the air. He took the stairs two at a time, ran down the narrow hallway to his room.
Sara lay as he had left her, her blond hair spread like a golden halo around her head.
Murmuring her name, he knelt beside her. Drawing back his cloak, his gaze swept over her from head to foot, and then he let out a long sigh of relief. She was healing. Not as swiftly as he would have, but she was healing. Her skin still looked raw in places, but the blisters were shrinking, drying.
Gently, he covered her once more, and then he closed his eyes as relief washed through him. She would be all right.
"Gabriel?"
He opened his eyes to find her staring up at him, her brow furrowed in bewilderment.
"How do you feel?" he asked.
"Terrible. What happened?"
"There was a fire at the orphanage."
"A fire! How did it start?"
"I don't know."
"Do you know if Sister Mary Josepha and the other nuns survived the fire? And the children… ?" She blinked back a tear as she thought of all the sweet dear children she had grown to care for. Had they been burned, as well?
"I don't know,
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