“Susannah, I did not do this,” Simon said, his heart aching with pity for her even as his stomach crawled with revulsion.
“Kivar,” Orlando repeated. “He must have changed his shape to look like you.”
“Is she dead?” Susannah said. “I must weep for her.”
“Susannah!” Tom came running toward them, his boyish face alight with relief. “You’re alive.” Before Simon could stop him, he had run to the vampire and taken her into his arms.
“You see?” she said, smiling over his shoulder, her fangs pure white in the moonlight. “Tom still loves me, at least.” She tilted the boy’s head to one side, baring her fangs for the bite.
“No!” Simon roared, his horrorstruck paralysis broken. He raised the sword and struck Susannah’s head from her shoulders, the mouth still screaming as it fell. Tom stumbled backward as Simon drove his sword point into the vampire’s breast, the body lurching and writhing as he pinned it to the ground, then exploding over all three of them in a shower of foul, blackish blood.
The boy stared at him, aghast. “You killed her.”
“No, Tom.” He took a step toward him, using his vampire’s power to entrance him. “She was already dead.” A trickle of blood flowed down the boy’s neck from the vampire’s bite, but he didn’t seem badly hurt. “Susannah was not here.”
“Not here,” Tom answered, his eyes locked to Simon’s. “Susannah is dead.”
“Tom!” Kevin came toward them, freezing when he saw his son. “Holy Christ, my lord…” Simon, Tom, and Orlando were all three covered with the vampire’s blood. “What happened?”
“A demon,” Simon answered. I didn’t want to kill Lady Isabel, Susannah had said. But you said you must. “Take care of him, and of Orlando.” Kivar or whoever had murdered Susannah meant to kill Isabel as well. “I have to go back to Charmot.”
11
Isabel lit the candles in her bedroom, moving quickly, barely wincing as a drop of melting tallow burned her finger. Compared to what she meant to do, that tiny hurt was nothing. She fished her father’s torn and crumpled parchments from the chest at the foot of the bed and threw them on the table along with the purse of coins Mary had given her and the silver cross she had found in the churchyard, then dug through another, smaller cask on the table beside her bed until she found the tiny dagger that had once belonged to her mother, a simple peasant’s knife with a handle of bone and a blade so thin and sharp it could cut through leather and barely leave a mark.
She sat down at the table and arranged the shredded corners of her father’s code she had already torn from the parchments before her, then used the knife to carefully cut away the ones remaining and added them to the pile, tearing them to pieces as she went. Setting the rest of the scrolls aside on the floor, she spread the bits in a single layer, making sure they touched. Then she picked up the knife.
“Forgive me, Papa,” she whispered. This magic was not for her; she had no business attempting it. But she had no other choice. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she sliced open her palm, spilling her blood on the parchment. Spinning and tumbling in a chaotic frenzy, the pieces writhed and shifted on the table, some tearing themselves into even smaller bits as others joined together until at last she saw a single page before her. Tunnels twisted over most of it like water snakes, but she could make out a larger, rounded gap in the center where three of the tunnels converged—her father’s study. A single character sketched in her blood marked this spot, and a scarlet trail led out from it into the labyrinth, marking a pathway just as she had guessed. Somehow, she had made a druid’s map.
“This is it,” she whispered, tracing the path with her fingertip, thinking of Simon’s curse, his belief that the key lay somewhere in the catacombs. “This has to be it.”
A gust of icy wind rushed through the open window, much too cold for May, and the candles on the table sputtered and went out. Still holding the map, she got up to take the candle from her bedside to relight them and almost screamed aloud. Simon was standing behind her.
“God’s faith,” she said, pressing a hand to her chest. “You scared me.”
He smiled. “I’m sorry.”
“Aren’t you always?” she retorted, but she couldn’t really be angry. “What are you doing back here so soon?”
He touched her, picking up a lock of her hair and examining it with a bemused smile as if he had never seen its color before. “Where else should I be?” He looked just the same as always, his angel’s face just the same, and his voice with its hint of Irish brogue was just as deep and soft as ever. But something was different; a different sort of light was shining in his deep brown eyes.
“You went to the churchyard.” She backed away from him a step, her skin prickling with unreasonable fear, the map still clutched in her fist behind her back.
“Oh, yes,” he nodded. “That.” He touched her cheek, and an icy shiver raced down her spine. His hands were always cool to the touch, but never like this. “That didn’t take long.” He traced the shape of her mouth with his fingertips. “Didn’t I say I would be back as soon as I could?”
“Yes.” She turned her face away from his touch, the tip of her tongue barely tasting his skin as she flinched. He tastes wrong, she thought, her heart beating faster. But surely that was madness. “But I didn’t hear your horse or the wagon.”
“You must not have been listening.” He moved closer, putting a restraining hand on her upper arm when she started to move away. “What are you hiding, love?”
“Nothing,” she insisted, ducking t
o escape, but he kissed her, a rough, brusque kiss that was like nothing he had ever done before, his tongue stabbing into her mouth as his hand tightened almost painfully on her arm. She made a small sound of protest, and his arms closed around her, crushing her to him even as she put her wounded hand against his chest to hold him off.
“Stop it,” she ordered, tearing her mouth from his. “Simon, let me go.” He did taste wrong; it wasn’t madness or her imagination. “What is the matter with you?” She tried to break free, but he wouldn’t allow it, pushing her back against the table. “I said stop!” She raised her hand to slap him, and he caught her wrist.
“What’s this?” He brought her palm to his mouth, tasting her blood, and for a moment, she thought she must be losing consciousness; the outline of his body seemed to melt and waver before her eyes. Then his tongue swept down the cut, cold as a snake, and he was solid again, a jolt of fury passing through her. “Why have you hurt yourself?” he said with an exaggerated tenderness that she didn’t believe for a moment. This man was not Simon. He let go of her wounded hand, now healed, she saw with horrified surprise, and took hold of the one that still held the druid’s map. “Oh, my,” he said, catching sight of it. An evil smile that was nothing like her lover’s spread over his face, making her blood run cold. In the distance she heard hoofbeats, Malachi crossing the drawbridge, the shouts of the men standing guard.
“Who are you?” she demanded, trying to break his grip.