The Burning by Susan Squires Page A

Perhaps they were waiting for something, or there was something about this place important to them.
    He drew himself up. He’d continue to look here until he was sure they had gone. And no more soft moments, no distractions. He forced himself to think about the struggle if there were many, the blood, his and theirs, the horror of decapitation, the danger to his life and his soul . . . That was his future. He was the Harrier. He belonged to Rubius. His only thought must be to complete his task and get back to Mirso Monastery.
    Ann was shaking uncontrollably by the time they reached the wide gravel drive in front of the portico at Maitlands. Her mind reeled from red eyes to drained blood, from staring death to the compelling stranger who had saved her from the mob and disappeared into thin air. Her hand to her throat, she felt the hammering of her heart. Monsters, all thedangers of so many people who might touch her, the threat of incarceration, death.
    It was only her uncle’s unsteady breathing that kept her tethered to reality at all. He was not well. She wanted to touch him, to check his pulse or comfort him. But that wasn’t possible.
    The carriage crunched to a halt. Ann threw open the door. “Polsham!”
    Polsham hovered on the portico, wringing his hands. “Miss, we were so worried . . .”
    “Never mind that now. My uncle is unwell. Help him into the house.” She motioned to Peters, just coming through the great door. “Jennings, away with you. Don’t take no for an answer from Dr. Denton.”
    “Just so, miss.” Jennings craned around to see his passenger alight heavily into Polsham’s arms. He snapped the reins and clattered off as Polsham and Peters supported her uncle into the house and laid him on the chaise in the front drawing room.
    “His cravat, Polsham, loosen his cravat,” she worried, practically dancing on the pale Aubusson carpet in her anxiety. “It’s his heart. I know it is.”
    Indeed, her uncle seemed hardly conscious. His eyelids fluttered and his breathing was ominously shallow. Dear Lord, if you really do watch over us, please don’t take Uncle Thaddeus . “Get the smelling salts, Peters.” The footman took off at a run.
    A part of her whispered, What will you do if he dies? But she pressed that part down. Polsham chafed her uncle’s wrists but it did not seem to be doing a bit of good. God, how will I forgive myself if he dies? Her uncle had come out tonight to face a mob on her account. It was her fault he had stressed his heart with anxiety and with climbing hills.
    He wouldn’t die. Of course he wouldn’t die. Dr. Denton would save him.
    It seemed hours before she heard the crunch of wheels on gravel and heard Jennings hail the house. She rose from kneeling by her uncle’s side and hurried to the door.
    “Dr. Denton,” she greeted the spare, elderly man holding a leather valise. He had known her since she was a child and so knew to keep his distance. He was one of the few people in the area that would come to Maitlands. “In here.” She gestured toward the front drawing room.
    “Well, Brockweir, what have you been doing with yourself?” Dr. Denton greeted his patient in a jovial tone.
    Uncle Thaddeus gave a weary smile. “Denton . . .” he murmured. “Come for last rites?”
    “Nonsense, man. A little faintness. We’ll have you right as a trivet in no time.”
    Ann watched the doctor listen to her uncle’s heart, ask him to breathe, tap on his chest. There had better be some miracle in that bag of his. He spooned out some tonic. Her uncle made a face as he swallowed it. At last the doctor rose and motioned her into the hall.
    “He is gravely ill, Miss Van Helsing. I shall not disguise the truth for you.”
    Ann tried to breathe. “Is there nothing we can do for him?”
    “Rest, of course. Have your servants carry him up to his own bed. And give him one of these tablets twice a day.” He handed her a paper of pills.
    Ann stared at them. Her hand was shaking.