He walked straight to Michael and struck the side of his head.
Michael flew into the air and landed hard, all the breath knocked out of him. He felt broken, bruised, stunned.
Drago was standing over him. A furious Drago.
"First I shall feast upon you, drain the blood from your body. I will leave you barely alive so that you may watch while I take your beloved Anne, here in the moonlight. We will make love upon the earth, beside your rotting, dying flesh, and in the end, I will make her one with me. Then I will grab your near-lifeless form and twist your head from your pathetic body."
Drago smiled and started down upon him.
Michael lashed out, catching Drago in the jaw. Drago just grunted. Michael stumbled to his feet, swinging again.
The vampire struck once more.
Michael sailed, then crashed down upon the earth. Drago dragged him to his feet and struck him again. Michael fought back the best he could, but Drago was gaining strength where he was losing his own.
No matter how many times Michael struck Drago, the vampire seemed to show no sign of discomfort.
"I have the power!" he whispered triumphantly.
And he hit Michael again. Michael felt the sensation of flying once again. Of hitting the ground.
He hurt from head to toe. He couldn't move. He struggled to regain his breath.
What a fool he had been to have left his best weapon embedded in Cissy's heart. But he hadn't wanted to jeopardize her soul, and so he had left it there.
All at once he realized a cross lay mere inches from his grasp. It had been crudely fashioned from branches sharpened at the bottom and thrust hard into the ground, a grave marker to stand guard over some poor soul, made by someone who must have believed in the power of God.
But at some time it had fallen free and intact from the dust.
It could be used as a stake...
The thought had barely entered Michael's head when Drago pounced upon him.
Michael furiously pitted his waning strength against the vampire's puissant force. The dusty old cross lay inches away, just where the fence signified the beginning of the hallowed ground. He could see it so clearly now! Someone had whittled the wood into a very sharp point. And with the rawhide binding around the horizontal, crooked piece of branch, it was both a weapon and a symbol of holiness. If Michael could just get his hands upon it, curl his fingers around it, and plunge it into the creature's heart.
That would be the end, Jem had promised him. Even old Dancing Woman had said death lay in the heart.
Just as life sprang from it.
But he needed more, Michael reminded himself. Father Martin had warned him that he needed faith.
Faith...
God help me, he prayed silently. God help me.
But Drago was over him now. And Drago knew that Michael's strength was failing him.
Anne stood just feet away, watching with her sightless stare, caught in the vampire's hypnotic spell.
She could not help Michael now.
And God, it seemed, had deserted him.
He stared at Drago, determined never to give up to his evil. Not until death, not beyond. Faith was the key. Faith in the strength of goodness.
As the vampire smiled down at him, Michael finally realized the true color of his eyes. They were red. Redder when he had drunk his fill of human blood. Gold when he was hungry...
Right now, they gleamed with both colors, hard gold orbs surrounded by red. An awful red.
Blood-red.
Blood-red with the stolen life of his many, many victims.
The vampire opened his mouth. The fangs were fascinating, just like those of a rattier rattler, but far more deadly. They were dripping. Coming closer and closer to his throat. Michael remembered all of Drago's words. He did not intend to make Michael a creature of the night. He meant to rip him limb from limb, and leave him a dismembered carcass as he had done with the Apaches...
"Anne!" Michael shouted suddenly. "Anne, I love you!"
His cry was powerless, but maybe she would hear him before he died. Maybe it would touch her heart. Maybe somewhere, in heaven or hell, she would know how very much he had loved her.
"Anne!"
He heard her sharp gasp as she sharply inhaled. "Michael!" His name, coming softly from her lips, was a cry of anguish. She could see him. She could feel him. She wanted to help him. But she could not fight the vampire's power.
"She's mine now, you fool!" Drago shouted, his fingers biting harder into Michael's shoulders. And then he started to laugh. "By the devil, dear fellow! You've yet to understand the full extent of my powers! But you will, soon. Oh, I promise you. You'll know very, very soon." And he opened his mouth again. The fangs seemed to extend, his whole face to contort. He meant to drink, and drink deeply.
Michael renewed his struggle, pitting the bulk of his strength against the arms and chest of the vampire, keeping those fangs just inches from his neck. Drago swore, and Michael thought he could count it a minor triumph to have held him off for so long, during a vicious fight...
Michael blinked suddenly. Perhaps he was losing his mind, hallucinating. Men in the desert often talked of seeing things that weren't there...
But it was happening. Anne was moving.
He could hear her soft voice. Or maybe it was a voice from her heart, because Drago didn't seem to hear it. It was Michael's name she was saying again and again. "Michael, oh, Michael. God help us, God help us... oh, Michael!"
Miraculously, she was moving. He could see her eyes. She was fighting the creature's supernatural power. Ah, that amber fire within her eyes. In it, he could see the fantastic strength of will with which she was fighting.
And he could see her tears, evidence of her love.
She had sunk down to her knees. She was thrusting the stake forward.
Closer. Closer.
He stretched out his fingers. He could almost touch it. Almost! He groped and strained...
Try! He willed her. Oh, Anne! Please try!
And Anne pushed the cross forward once again. His fingers closed around it.
And he found new strength.
For a moment, he faltered. What would happen to Anne? The vampire had touched her, put his mark upon her. If he did manage to slay the vampire, then...
"Do it! For the love of God, do it!" Anne pleaded. "Save us both!"
He had to. Whether she perished! or remained on the earth to love him, he had to do it. To free her, one way or the other.
"I love you, Anne!" he cried out.
Drago was laughing, laughing, deep within his throat.
The teeth were almost ready to sink into Michael's flesh, to draw his blood. To steal away his life.
Michael gritted his teeth. With a burst of raw energy, he drew up the crosslike stake and managed to wedge it between them even as he struggled with Drago.
And just as the cold teeth touched his flesh, he thrust the pointed stake straight into Drago's heart.
He pushed it hard, again and again.
The vampire glared at him, his red-gold eyes widening. Michael looked on amazed. The vampire was surprised. Stunned.
Drago fell back, his long pale fingers curling around the stake that protruded from his heart. He looked at Michael again. His hands fell away from the stake.
Miraculous things began to happen. Years and years of decay began to take place before Michael's very eyes. Drago became a wrinkled old man. Then his skin turned to leather, which began to turn to dust and ash, crumbling around him.
In horror, Michael backed away. Then he heard Anne cry out.
Anne! They had won, they had bested the creature. They had fought it and bested it with love and faith and someone's pathetic cross from a dusty grave... Anne!
She was still on her knees, just inches away, as beautiful as ever, tears staining her cheeks, her eyes wide and luminous.
"Oh, Michael!" She threw herself into his arms. He held her tightly. He felt her warmth, her trembli
ng. She was alive and well, and fire in his arms. He touched her frantically. Even the tiny pinpricks on her throat had healed.
She reached for him, and he was there. Ready to hold her, finding new strength, sweeping her into his encompassing grasp. She was trying not to look at Drago.
She stroked his cheek. "Oh, Michael. We made it! You saved me from him."
He smiled crookedly. "No, my love. You saved me from him." He was trembling again in remembrance. "God saved us both from him, Annie. He gave us... life."
Just inches away, a new, cleansing night breeze, warm and balmy, was lifting away the ashes of the vampire's corpse.
Neither of them looked at the remnants.
There was too much to be discovered in each other's eyes. Anne's smile deepened. "I'll marry you," she whispered.
"I haven't asked lately!"
"You will."
"And you'll understand about the militia?"
She nodded. "I'll understand that I'm blessed. You have a rare strength, Michael Johnston. A very rare strength. I pray that our children will have it too."
"Our children?"
"Yes. We'll be starting with just one, of course. Very soon."
"Anne..." he murmured.
Her arms tightened around him. "You mustn't worry! I knew long before Drago came. I just couldn't tell you because I wanted to convince you to quit the militia. And now..."
"Now?"
"Now I know that would be wrong. The town needs you. Cissy said so. We all need you."
He lowered his head for a moment. Cissy. They would all mourn her for a long time. She would keep them all from ever forgetting.
And maybe that was good. They would cherish life so much more because of her!
Anne cupped his face. She kissed him long and deeply before releasing him and stepping away.
"Billy," he murmured. He left her for a moment, going to his friend, fear lodging again in his throat. But even as he knelt beside him, Billy stirred.
He stared at Michael. "Did we lick him, Colonel?"
"We licked him, Billy. Come on, let me help you up."
Billy wavered for a minute, then stared at Anne, wide-eyed. "You all right, Annie?" he asked.
She smiled and nodded. Billy let out a Rebel cry that pierced the night. He hugged her. Then he turned to Michael. "I'll hurry on ahead. I'll let Jem know you're all right and that—"
"Right. Tell Jem that we had enough faith. Get the sheriff to send someone out here to pick him up," he said pointing to Richard Servian, who was still lying unconscious on the ground. "And take care, Billy! We don't want the McAllistairs to ever worry about Cissy. She is at peace now."
"I know," Billy said softly. He shook his head. "I don't think that I believe it, Colonel. I was here, but I still don't think I believe it."
He headed back to town. When he was gone, Michael realized that he was trembling. He spun around. "A baby?"
Anne nodded, smiling.
"And you're going to marry me?"
She kept nodding.
"Well, you're going to do so right now. I'm going for Father Martin the minute we get back, and I don't care how long he's been sleeping. Jem and Billy can be our witnesses. We'll have to be quiet out of respect for the McAllistairs, but I'm not giving you any chance to change your mind!"
"Michael!" Anne protested.
"And I don't want you to step away from me. Ever."
Her arms curled around his neck. They might be standing on unhallowed ground, but Michael was certain that God was smiling down upon them.
Maybe the legend was true. Maybe Anne had lost to Drago once before. Maybe this was their turn for happiness.
All he knew for sure was that she was kissing him, and that it was good. Sweet, tender, loving.
Oh, she could stir his senses so easily!
They needed to get home. Her home, he decided. That would be where they would live. She'd already imbued the place with her special warmth.
And tonight...
Tonight he wanted to return quickly. To hold her in a darkness that no longer harbored evil shadows. To make love to her with a breeze caressing them that was soft and warm and good.
"Let's go home," he said softly.
"And just leave... him?" she murmured.
Michael pressed her head against his shoulder and stepped around what was left of the vampire. There was the stake that now protruded from a swatch of black cloth. There were pieces of bone and ash on the ground.
Michael held Anne very tightly. "Perhaps I never truly understood the extent of your powers," he told the remnants of the creature. "You told me about them over and over again. But there was one power you underestimated. One you never understood." He paused, then smiled.
"The power of love, old boy. The power of love. It's the strongest in all the universe!"
Then, holding Anne to him, he walked away from the shadows.
And into the light of life and love.
LOVERS AND DEMONS
Petersburg, Virginia 1864
Under Siege
By night, by this night, at any rate, the shells and mortar that so often hurtled toward the city, whistling their horrid cry in the air, were still.
There were no battle cries, no explosions, no screams.
The well-equipped Union Army soldiers slept, fiddled, or played mournful harmonica melodies within their camps. In the Southern trenches, the men lay back, seeking whatever rest they could find while their empty stomachs growled in terrible protest of the starvation that had seized hold of the besieged city.
In both camps, the men read letters from their loved ones, read them over and over again, folded them carefully, tenderly, and replaced them in pockets or wallets.
And in both camps, they wrote letters as well. Letters that tried to make light of the situation.
Yet letters in which all men, in blue and in gray, wondered if they would survive the next day's fighting, or perish in the blood-soaked fields and trenches.
Plaintive tunes rose on the air. So many the same from both sides.
So many weary... so damned sad.
Within the city, the people waited, defiant and devoted to their cause. People passionately loyal to Lee, their leader, to the belief that they must be right, that they must, in the end, win their freedom.
Yet they waited in great anguish. First through the days, then the weeks, then the months. Stalwart, they hung on. Determined, they suffered.
The pigeons had disappeared from the streets a long time ago.
Men, women, and children were all too eager for meals to question just what the meat in the pot might be—when they were so lucky to see anything that resembled meat.
The moon rose high. It was a full moon tonight.
Lenore Latham, hearing a distant, mournful song on the air, paused on her mission of mercy. She thought for a moment how much she longed to escape the war. But she couldn't run away. Her youngest brother, Teddy, just fourteen, was in the trenches surrounding the city. Her grandfather, nearly eighty, was in the trenches as well.
Her husband, Bruce, was not in the trenches. He was buried in a mass grave in Spotsylvania County where he had died well over a year ago. Sometimes, she couldn't even remember his face.
Too many faces filled her thoughts now. The drawn, terribly thin faces of little children. The desperate and also terribly thin faces of mothers. The pinched, puckered, wailing faces of infants...
The tortured faces of the wounded, screaming for help, screaming for something to ease the pain... No, she could never run away.
She was now attempting to move swiftly through the graveyard under the cover of the night shadows, going from kneeling angel to gentle Christ, and onward again to a large mausoleum, one that housed the deceased of a very prominent family, on her way into the blockaded city to help where she could.
She wasn't afraid of the dead. And she wasn't afraid of the cemetery. She had traveled through it often enough. But tonight, something frightened her. She held ver
y still, and looked above her. She shivered suddenly, biting into her lower lip.
She wasn't afraid of the cemetery, but she was terrified each time she made one of her forays out of the city, seeking help from those beyond the lines of Yankees that surrounded Petersburg. But she was a native child of the place; she knew the Virginia landscape, the rivers, the forests, the plains, like few others. She even knew the cemetery she walked through now, knew many of the stones she touched, knew the old church that looked so eerily still and dark in the moonlight, knew exactly where and how she must return, time and again, to the city.
She shivered again. It seemed like such a very strange night. That full moon was rising so high in the sky, and there was a low ground fog. Soft, gray, swirling, it now misted around the old white stones of the graveyard, and around the roots of the trees, traveling upward until it seemed that the slender branches were arms with long fingers, white-bleached bone, reaching out to touch, to capture the unwary.
She gave herself a stern shake. The folks in the cemetery were beyond her help.
Others in Petersburg were not. They were desperate for the drugs and medications she was smuggling into the city. Even traveling by darkness as she did now, moving as swiftly and as furtively as possible, she carried her hoard of provisions within the fullness of her skirts—dozens of little vials tied to the wire rims of her petticoats. It had taken hours to secret them this carefully, but once she reached the city, the doctor and his desperate assistants would quickly rip them free.
She didn't have much farther to go now.
She just had to make her way through this town of the dead, and then...
Through the Yankee lines.
She felt a shivering seize hold of her again, and it suddenly seemed that a cloud passed over the full moon. The night was pitched into an almost total darkness, with only a few remnants of light remaining to cast a glow upon the tombstones in the cemetery, some old, some new, some toppling, some broken, some lovingly, carefully tended.
It didn't seem to matter so much now if the stones were new or old, tended or neglected. The ground fog was rising all about to cover them in mist.
From somewhere—far away? Or not so far away?—a wolf howled. The sound was long, and somehow lonely. It seemed to fade away on a shiver...
Heather Graham's Haunted Treasures Page 9