The Burning by Susan Squires Page B

The paper rattled. “What are they?”
    “A crystallized tincture of foxglove.”
    “But that’s poison,” she protested.
    “Only in large doses. It stimulates the heart, you see. Fatal for you or me, but just what your uncle needs. Scottish fellow discovered its properties from some gypsy woman.”
    Ann watched his wrinkled lips. She heard his words. But she could not quite comprehend. “Will it cure him?”
    Dr. Denton smiled. It was a sad smile that, small as it was, refolded the creases in his face. “Nothing will cure him, my dear, except a new heart. It is only a matter of time.”
    Ann tried to swallow, but she couldn’t. “How . . . how long does he have?”
    “Tonight, a month from now, a year—who knows? The Lord above may, but I do not.”
    She gathered herself. “I shall do whatever you say, of course, Dr. Denton.”
    “I’ll be back in the morning to check in.” The doctor took his hat and cane from Peters.
    “Jennings will take you home, Doctor. Thank you for coming.”
    He merely nodded as he shuffled out the door. His shoulders seemed more stooped than when he arrived. It occurred to Ann that he might see his own fate coming on the heels of his old friend’s affliction. There had been much death and much mystery tonight. The world seemed a colder and much more frightening place than it had even this afternoon. And that took a lot, considering her usual relationship with it. She took a breath and turned back to the drawing room. “Polsham, Peters, let’s get my uncle upstairs, and then you two can go to bed.”
    She saw him safely disposed in the great bedstead of his room, and sat beside him, determined to keep watch over him. Still, she must have dozed, for she had an impression of dark eyes and broad shoulders that made her gasp and jerk awake. She looked wildly about her, but she was alone except for the still form of her uncle.
    Her mind returned as a compass does to true north to the stranger who had braved the townspeople for her tonight. He was compelling. He was a mystery. He was frightening. And she couldn’t help but wonder if she would meet him again in the woods.

Four

    Nothing. Stephan had checked the great main cave and several smaller branches but there had been no trace of the vibrations his kind gave off. The ones he sought were young, thus their vibrations would be slow and distinguishable even to humans. Of course, they could be out hunting. But there had been no smell of blood anywhere in the cave, and he could sense even the faintest trace of that. The blood is the life, he thought automatically, in the mantra of their kind. The ones he sought were infected with vampire blood by Kilkenny, who was infected by Asharti. They would pay for Asharti’s crimes.
    That gave him pause. Were they guilty of her crimes? He clenched his jaw. Of course they were. They were like her, greedy for power, self-involved, taking no responsibility for what they did. Their careless feeding proved as much.
    He had to believe that. Because in some way it was his crime they paid for with their lives. He pulled the shutters closed on the windows of his room above the tavern and twitched the heavy draperies meant to keep out cold acrossthem. The sun would rise soon. He could always feel the sunrise. A few hours’ rest, and he would muffle up and brave the light to see an estate agent. He hoped the nest felt safe enough to stay in the area, or had a compelling reason to do so, even after the vampire who escaped tonight reported Stephan’s presence.
    He shed his coat and waistcoat and used a bootjack to remove his boots. He must feed lightly and regularly during the coming days to maintain his strength, and yet not take too much blood from anyone. He didn’t want others to suffer for his needs. That was what he had tried to teach Beatrix and Asharti, as well. He’d been successful with Beatrix at least. One of the tavern girls, perhaps? He’d leave her with a sensuous memory rather than any