When he’d asked if her father was…dead—she shuddered again at the memory, since it still caused her some difficulty to think of her father as such—the events of the past few weeks and the terror and fear that had been her constant companion crashed over her like a violent storm. Her flight into the unknown darkness. Her weary travel in the carriage and her fear that she might be overtaken, then the accident. Not to mention her worry over her sister’s welfare. It had suddenly become too much for her, and in her weakness she had felt faint.
She had seen in his face that Sebastian—for after being held so closely in his arms how could she think of him as Mr. Collins again—had recognized her weariness and vulnerability. He had come to catch her before she could collapse.
But the moment he touched her…
Lightning had struck.
She had been blinded by the power he contained so tightly within him. The power, the control, the urgent need. It had leached from him and into her. She had never before felt magic such as this. Aunt Petunia had taught her and Lillian many things, but she had only mentioned the dark arts in such offhand ways that they had not learned fully of the creatures that existed on this earth beside humans.
And she knew with complete awareness that he was not human. No human could have affected her in such a way. And suddenly the letters made sense.
Blood disorder.
His monthly trips to London.
“What are you?” She asked her voice tremulously high, and so soft she wondered if he might not hear her.
She had no reason to wonder. Even at this distance he could hear her every word, her every syllable.
He lifted his head, breathing harshly. “I believe…” he muttered, his voice haggard compared to the eloquence of earlier, “You should find lodgings in the village nearby. Go to the inn. I don’t think it’s safe for you to stay here.”
“What are you?” She repeated, strength slowly returning to her. The pieces of the mysterious letters were beginning to form a picture in her mind. It was something she had never considered real before. Something she had simply assumed to be a myth. A story to scare naughty children into good behavior.
Blood disorder, she repeated in her mind.
Trips to London.
His entreaty for her father’s assistance to stop the ravenous hunger. To help his wife…no, to help him. It suddenly made sense. These letters had been about him, not his wife, a fictional wife used to contain his anonymity. She looked at him with new awareness. What had she stumbled upon? Who was this man who had begged her father for help?
His last statement penetrated her awe-filled mind. He wanted to send her away? No! He couldn’t. Not now. Not when Uncle Arden might be out there this very moment, searching for her. Not when Lillian relied on her prophetic dreams to secure a safe place for them. She trembled in sudden fear.
“No, please,” she said, standing swiftly. Too swiftly. The room spun suddenly, and the edges of her vision darkened.
“Sit, please, Miss Merriweather, I beg of you. I…I dare not risk touching you again,” he pleaded. His voice was nearer. She glanced up to see he had taken a step closer, reaching his hand out to help her, but still he hesitated.
Melora knew better than to risk tempting fate. She grabbed the arm of the chair and lowered herself into the seat. After a moment of silence, in which she knew they both took advantage to regain their equilibrium and composure, he spoke in something nearer to his even, cultured tone of earlier.
“When have you last eaten?” he asked, gently.
She didn’t want to admit she couldn’t remember taking her last meal. Instead she offered, “Sometime yesterday, I believe.”
Sebastian grunted. “I’ll have Harrison provide you with a hot meal, and then let me offer you conveyance back to the inn.”
The panic bubbled within Melora’s chest, and she struggled to contain it. “Could I not stay here?” she asked, despising the pleading quality in her voice. This is what Uncle Arden had driven her to do. Begging for the help of a stranger. A non-human stranger.
“I don’t believe that is wise,” Sebastian answered with a short shake of his dark head.
Melora took note that even though he stood with a calm demeanor by the fireplace his hand continued to clutch the mantel. White knuckled. Pleading for his generosity and compassion would not work. He was in too much distress to listen to her sad story of a wicked uncle. Melora knew only one other solution to ensure her at least one night’s stay in Caldwell House.
“I have my father’s books.”
Sebastian grew instantly still, frozen into place despite the warmth of the fire. Melora knew now she had the power to persuade him, even without the benefit of any spells she could have concocted. He needed the information her father had failed to provide. She had access to that information.
And not only could her father have helped him. She took a deep breath, forcing the words out. “My father told you his wife was a witch, did he not?”
Sebastian shook his head, breaking the spell that had entranced him with her previous statement. She couldn’t stop the smile of relief that crept over her lips. She knew in that small response he would not cast her out despite whatever difficult reactions he might suffer from her presence.
“I discovered your mother’s identity through other means,” he admitted. “Rosamund Merriweather is well known in the witch community.”
It didn’t matter how much time had passed. The familiar grief swelled again in Melora’s chest. “Yes,” she agreed, softly. “Yes, she was.”
****
Was.
Sebastian closed his eyes as a second wave of sorrow hit him…and it wasn’t even coming from her. Her parents were dead.
Phillip and Rosamund, who were so willing and eager to help him, despite the dangers and the stigma that might have attached itself to them, were gone. He felt their loss keenly, despite the fact he had lost communication with them several years ago. He remembered their unending patience and continuing kindness, compassion. Qualities unknown to him in others.
He opened his mouth to ask her what happened to them, but he recalled the last time he had tried to question her. Even though she was seated, he could not risk her fainting. He feared touching her. After learning she was Phillip’s daughter, he suspected Melora Merriweather was a witch like her mother, but he’d never had an opportunity to touch a witch and had not realized that contact with one could be so…shocking.
“You may have his books, any of them, but only if you grant your protection.”
Protection? Sebastian clung to the mantel, the effort to keep himself from going to her, from embracing her, ravaging her…he licked his lips…from tasting her blood, was becoming increasingly difficult. He couldn’t remember a full moon when he’d felt quite so weak. There had been challenging moments, surely, but never a time when he feared his own loss of control. Not since the beginning, anyway.
“Protection from what?” He felt compelled to ask, even though he certainly knew her answer. But how could he protect her from himself? Even if she barred the door to her bedchamber, he knew of ways to get inside…to touch her. Taste her… He flinched.
Oh, God, control.
He must have control.
“There may be…” She hesitated, and he held his breath waiting for her to continue. “There may be men following me. I want you to assure me you will protect me. That you will not allow them to take me.”
Fear.
He smelled it swirling in the air. It circled her like a flock of eager vultures about to descend on a roadside feast. His mouth watered. He placed the back of his hand against his mouth, feeling the sharpened length of his eyeteeth beginning to descend.
His breathing quickened, but it only brought more of her scent to his nostrils.
“And protection for my sister. They search for her, too. I need to know you will keep us safe.”
She was vulnerable. Full of fear and uncertainty. Lack of food had weakened her, but he
r blood still surged strongly through her young, healthy veins.
How easy it would be to reach out to her, hold her and comfort her, stroke her hair and inhale her lavender scent, to nuzzle her neck, taste her skin…
His gut spasmed, nearly buckling his knees.
“Please, go,” Sebastian said, panting, nearly bent over from the urge to attack her. He needed blood. What he wanted was her blood, but he was not so far gone as to give in to the beast within. Not yet. He would not kill another innocent. “Go, now.”
“But…”
He could not let her see what he was about to do. He couldn’t let anyone witness such degradation.
“Go back to your room. Lock the door… please…leave me!” He shouted, savagely.
He heard her confused scrambling feet, dashing to the doorway. He heard her heart thumping wildly, and he wondered if it was his appearance that frightened her, or the desperation he heard in his own voice. At the sound of the door clicking shut, Sebastian stepped away from the fireplace and dropped to his knees. He unbuttoned his shirtsleeves, pushing the fabric up to reveal the naked flesh of his arm. He took great gulping breaths, attempting one last time to regain some manner of control over himself.
He could do this. He could fight this.
He glanced at his bare arm. The vein in his wrist throbbed violently.
Thirst burned his tongue.
It took only a moment for his fangs to descend fully and pierce his own flesh.
Chapter Three
Melora leaned against the solid wood of the door, gasping for breath even as she fought the sudden dizziness. As soon as she could see straight and assume there was no longer any threat of her fainting, she turned around and faced the door. She knew what he was. Aunt Petunia had mentioned them, albeit briefly. She should have suspected such creatures existed, even if the rest of society never knew what walked among them in the darkness. No one knew she and her sister were witches, either. They had been taught, at a very young age, not to speak of such things to people. There was the chance of burning at the stake, or hanging, as some of her ancestors had gruesomely discovered.
She glanced over her shoulder to ensure she was alone, although why she should fear the servants discovering what she was while they served under a creature such as Sebastian she thought nonsensical, but yet, with such old habits, she had to be certain of her safety. With no one lurking in the hallway, she slipped her fingers into the bodice of her dress and pulled out the necklace she had tucked away. Her grandmother had given her pentagram to her before she died, and Melora wore it religiously. Gripping it firmly in one hand, she whispered a few words and drew a circle on the door at eye level. Within a moment, the part of the door within the circle faded away, becoming a window to reveal the events taking place in the library.
She watched in horrified fascination as Sebastian knelt before the fireplace, his shirtsleeve pushed up, and his mouth sucking greedily as he drank from his own wrist.
It was true.
He was a vampire.
Unreasonable excitement bubbled up within her. She had never before met a vampire. Dozens of questions swirled through her mind, and she wanted eagerly to interrogate him, but even in her excitement she could recognize now was not the time. She would have to wait until he fed. Now she understood the dilemma in which she had placed them. There was a full moon tomorrow. According to the letters her father had received, he needed to feed during the full moon. The hunger nearly always drove him mad. But tonight, even with the beginnings of a full moon shining brightly above them despite the storm that surely covered it at the moment, he managed to withhold his hunger. He had kept it contained during her presence.
But something had happened to break his control.
Melora bit her bottom lip as she replayed the recent interview to discover what she had done to cause him to lose that carefully tethered control.
Her head continued to pound, making it rather difficult for her to concentrate. With a final glance at Sebastian, still kneeling on the floor, she whispered another incantation and waved the pentagram across the window she had created. The door became solid once again.
She turned with reluctance to find Harrison and request food and a warm bed. Suddenly, despite her excitement at discovering a vampire in residence, she felt the exhaustion she had fought all day long overtake her.
She needed rest. It would be the first time in quite a while that she could find comfort enough to sleep without worries plaguing her. After all, who better to protect her than a vampire? Before she could take another step, Harrison appeared from an open doorway and nearly crashed into her in his hurry.
“Oh, my dear, forgive me, I did not mean…”
“It’s all right,” she murmured, as he grasped her elbows to steady her. She took a step away from him and put a hand to the wall to keep the dizziness at bay. “I was just coming to find you. Could you perhaps ask the cook to prepare me something to eat.”
“Yes, indeed, miss,” Harrison nodded, and then glanced eagerly down the hall from whence she came. “I must speak to the master on other matters and will be with you shortly.”
He took a step to pass her. Melora grabbed his arm, pulling away from the wall to lean on him, halting him in his hurry to reach Sebastian.
Harrison looked at her, his eyes widening.
Melora took a breath, glancing worriedly at the closed door that hid Sebastian’s private actions. Despite his servants most likely knowing of his secret…for how could he hide the fact he was a vampire from them, she did not think he would appreciate Harrison bursting in as he fed upon himself. “I believe your master is…indisposed at the moment, Mr. Harrison,” Melora said, carefully choosing her words and sending him a knowing look.
Alarm flickered over Harrison’s face, confirming her suspicions of the servants’ knowledge of their master’s affliction. He looked from her to the door, then back to her. His alarm turned to panic, and he opened and closed his mouth several times before blurting, “Th-there are other guests.”
All breath left her lungs, and she struggled for air. Guests? Other than herself? Someone who had followed her?
Uncle Arden?
Panic struck her, and she trembled. He had found her. Somehow, Uncle Arden had discerned her destination and followed her here. Had he used magic? Melora had checked and rechecked her and her sister’s room to be sure they had left nothing to point their way as they escaped their uncle’s unwanted hospitality. He should not have known where to find her. Not by traditional means, in any respect.
“Miss Merriweather?” Harrison had recovered his composure and grasped her elbow to keep her from collapsing. “Miss? Are you unwell?”
She tried to nod, but her head had become full of cotton, dampening all of her senses until she feared in a moment more the darkness of unconsciousness would welcome her and lead her to her doom. Uncle Arden had found her. She had been discovered.
“Miss?”
On the brighter side of such a dismal outlook, at least she could reassure herself of Lillian’s safety. If Uncle Arden was here, then he had not found her sister. There had not been time enough since their flight that he could have tracked them both in such dangerous weather conditions. And on the trail of that thought, another replaced it, one full of menace for someone she had not meant to endanger.
Sebastian.
If Uncle Arden found out his secret… If he learned Sebastian was a vampire, what would he do with such a creature? Would he use him for his experiments? She had no idea what vampire blood might mean to Uncle Arden and his alchemy. No such thought had entered her mind when she came here seeking safety, for she had thought she was dealing with another witch, an associate of her parents, not a vampire.
And her dreams… She had envisioned Sebastian to be her savior, her rescuer. It had been those constant and recurring dreams that had convinced her to take a chance with the worsening weather. Her talent of deciphering her prophetic dreams had never failed her. She had plan
ned it all with Lillian. Escape Uncle Arden’s house. Separate for a few days. Meet at Aunt Petunia’s. But Melora had been certain that Sebastian was the key to their safety. And she had to protect Lillian. She was convinced her dreams had foretold that Sebastian would protect them both. Was she wrong? Had her dreams foretold an alternate ending? Something she had not understood?
With darkness clouding her vision, her stomach gave a sudden lurch. Harrison cried out. She could not think clearly past the pounding in her skull. There was only one thought now, and she felt sickened by it. Suddenly, she found the floor beneath her back.
She had placed Sebastian in grave danger.
She closed her eyes.
“Oh, sir,” she heard Harrison say with relief from a great distance.
“What’s happened?”
A shiver pierced her at the sound of his approach. She heard worry and concern in the satin of Sebastian’s voice. He must have discovered the danger she had brought him. Heavy footsteps hurried toward her.
“Melora?” He whispered into her ear. “Can you hear me?”
She whimpered, unable to formulate coherent speech.
Then strong, warm arms curled around her shoulders and under her knees and lifted. She was pushed up against a solid wall of muscle encased in soft fabric, her face smothered in a masculine neck scented with a pungent aroma of musk and tobacco. She inhaled, comforted by the aroma, even as she pushed away from it.
What happened?
“You fainted,” he said.
Had she spoken? She didn’t think so, but she was so disoriented, she could not be sure. She didn’t even remember falling, until he lifted her into his arms. Just as she was becoming content with her placement there, he gently laid her onto a cushioned sofa. She blinked, trying to regain her vision as the darkness continued to swirl.
“Easy,” he said, his hands pushing on her shoulders as she fought to sit upright. “Lie back, now. Harrison is fetching some food for you.”
Melora shook her head. No, she didn’t want food. There was something else. Something much more dire, and she needed to get to her feet so she could think clearly again. But his hands on her shoulders were more than her meager strength could battle, so she succumbed to his incessant pressure.
The Witch and the Vampire Page 3