Walk In Moonlight - Kiss Me Forever Part 9

The click of Dixie's lock brought Christopher to his senses. Four hundred years of discipline and he'd fallen for shining green eyes and a smile that made him forget he was no longer a man. She was honest, open and giving, and he'd seized like a soulless vandal and violated every promise he'd made himself. With the taste of her blood, heady and sweet as aged mead, on his Previous Top Nexttongue, he knew one taste of her would never be enough. His body hungered and his mind yearned for more. Her richness and warmth acted like potent drugs.

Despising himself, he moved to the back of the house and watched as upstairs lights went on and then parted the curtains a few inches. She slept. A pale figure, her auburn hair spread like a warm halo on the pillow.

l.u.s.t roared through every fiber of his being as her blood sang to him. He fought the urge to cross the windowsill, beat back the desire to taste her again, and killed the need to feel her scented skin under his lips. She'd trusted him, offered him friendship, something he'd never expected except from his own kind.

His own kind. That was what he needed. There was his strength. With a last wrenching glance, he stepped from her window ledge and took himself thirty miles east.

"I wish you wouldn't do that, Kit," said a voice from the wingback chair. "I would like some warning. What if I were entertaining company?"

"Any company you entertain here would be friends of mine," Christopher replied, as he stepped from the open window and sank into the companion chair the other side of the marble fireplace.

"Who'd want to be your friend? You bury yourself in the wilds of the country and only come up to town when you want something. Not like the old days when you couldn't wait to come to London."

Christopher nodded, "You're right, Tom, as always. I need something now."

His old friend smiled. "And I thought you came to share a gla.s.s of port. I've got a nice vintage ruby in the decanter."

Christopher poured himself a gla.s.s, swirled the dark liquid and sipped. After Dixie it tasted like water. He sighed and leaned back in the chair, pressing his shoulders and hips into the upholstery. "I'm in trouble, Tom."

"The books?" Tom Kyd asked, raising his cigar to his mouth. He exhaled with deliberate slowness, watching Christopher through a haze of smoke.

"Not the books. I found what we expected and a few more. She's perfectly willing to sell. They're getting valued and I offered to pay market price. It's..." He looked across at Tom blowing smoke rings. "I wish you wouldn't smoke those things."

"Worried about my health? Who introduced me to Walter Raleigh?"

"Cut it out. I'm not in the mood for your humor." He stared at the empty grate, angry at himself and his bad manners. "Tom," he said at last, "I'm falling apart."

"That, I doubt," Tom replied. "Seizing up seems more like it. If it's not the books, what is it?"

Christopher told him.

"You fed from an unsuspecting human and now you're riddled with angst. Why? Did you harm her? Did she resist? Does she feel violated?" Remembering the moonlit gleam in Dixie's eyes and the smile on her sleeping face, Christopher shook his head.

"Stop worrying. You fed. Survival demands that. When did you last feed?"

"I didn't feed. I tasted her. I never intended to feed. It happened."

"When did you last feed?" Tom repeated.

Christopher leaned an elbow on the chair and dropped his forehead into his hand. "From a human-three years." Tom's eyebrows rose. "How do you manage?"

A dry, unamused chuckle shook Christopher's shoulders. "I live in the country. Lots of cows and horses and nice plump pigs."

Ash fell from Tom's cigar as he shuddered. "And when did you last feed from one of your barnyard friends?"

"A couple of weeks."

Tom whistled through his teeth. "By Abel and all who went before us, you're a fool. You'll weaken yourself. No wonder you fed from this human. It was need pure and simple."

"I didn't feed," Christopher growled, "I tasted."

"And she was willing? She never resisted?"

His eyes stung as he shook his head, remembering her body molding against his in the dark and the warmth of her white neck, the scent of her skin, and the intoxicating richness of her lifeblood.

Tom leaned over and thumped him on the knee. "That's the answer, old man. Feed from her again. You need her strength.

She's willing. Why not? No harm done. She'll go back to the States and tell her friends about this wonderful Englishman. Better be careful, though, or they'll be coming over in droves to find a legendary English lover."

He wasn't in the mood for Tom's wit. He ground his heel into the Turkish carpet. "No good, Tom. An eternity of feeding wouldn't satisfy my thirst." In the silence, Christopher heard the clock tick on the mantle piece, a conversation across the street as guests left, and a taxi change gear at the corner and drive down Curzon Street.

Tom's eyes widened; horror froze the muscles of his face. "You'd mate with her? A mortal?"

Christopher smiled, knowing the impossibility. "Mate? Mortals use another word."

"But you're not mortal. Mortals betrayed and killed you. Feed from her. Let her strengthen you. But for Abel's sake, Kit, never that!"

Christopher shook his head. "Don't fret so, Tom. I'll stretch naked in the sun first. She's safe. I've enough willpower for that." If he didn't walk with her in the dark and touch her in the moonlight.

"Keep away then. Stay here in town until she leaves."

"No. I must go back for the books. Too many curious and mischievous parties in that village for those volumes to remain there." He smiled at his friend. "You worry too much."

"Maybe. But the time of your revenance is close. Not two weeks away. That's when you're most vulnerable."

"As you have warned me every May for the last four hundred years and still I survive."

"More by luck than judgment."

"Luck has carried me this far."

Tom propped the stub of his cigar on a porcelain ashtray. "Dawn comes in two hours and the day is forecast to be sunny. Do you have strength to fly against the sun or will you stay?"

He'd stay. The flight had drained him. He needed rest. Dixie was safe for the night and if the day was sunny, he couldn't protect her even if he were in Bringham. "Your hospitality is always welcome, Tom."

The cleaners arrived as Dixie poured her second cup of coffee. Faced with a flurry of mops, moving furniture and warnings about wax on the floors, Dixie took her coffee outside into the sunshine. She found a perch on the crumbling wall that surrounded the flagstone terrace.

Before she finished the cup, the garden called her. She'd given the house all her attention since she'd arrived; the only time she'd really spent in the garden had been traipsing around, half-blind in the night, or dallying with Christopher. She blushed at the memory. She'd had to wear a turtleneck this morning to hide a monumental hickey.

She paced through ankle-deep lawns, gra.s.s-filled brick paths and rough gravel walks with creeping weeds. The dark shapes she'd hidden between with Christopher's arm round her shoulders proved to be lilacs in need of pruning. The odd hummocks the intruder tripped on that first evening were untrirnmed topiary boxwoods. Weeds choked a rock garden, and green sc.u.m covered an ornamental pond with a silent fountain.

Dixie strolled down a rickety pergola overhung with wisteria and found her way through an arch in a yew hedge into a kitchen garden. A rickety tool shed leaned against the high brick wall, but what caught Dixie's attention was a door in the wall. The old hinges rasped as Dixie grabbed the rusty k.n.o.b. She had to use her shoulder to push the door. Two old ladies could never have opened this. Half open, the door jammed-but it was enough. Dixie walked into her hidden garden.

And shivered.

The garden appeared a perfect square about thirty or forty feet each way. High brick walls on all four sides shaded everywhere but the center. Wide stone paths ran along all four sides and across to meet in the center. A mossy stone bench stood against one wall but it looked too high and too wide for comfort. Some garden designer's mistake, Dixie decided. Until she saw the crumbling pentagram carved in the wall above. What had she found?

The garden seemed desolate and unwelcoming. On the stone paths, Dixie noticed marks and carvings like strange hieroglyphics. Some looked like zodiac signs, others indistinct letters and runes. Dixie followed the paths to the center where they met at a square of green she'd first thought was gra.s.s but now, she realized, was some herb or other. Rubbing the leaves between her fingers, she tried to place the smell and remembered the chamomile tea Gran used to drink.

This must be centuries old. Didn't chamomile lawns date from Tudor times? Impressed but still uneasy, Dixie looked around.

About eight feet square, the lawn stood at the center of the garden. The sun must have shone on this patch for hundreds of years, but the thought didn't give Dixie any thrill.

A moss and lichen encrusted obelisk stood at each corner of the lawn. Dixie took a few steps towards them for a closer inspection and froze. These weren't obelisks; they were stone phalluses. What had she discovered? Did she even want to know? She marched out and dragged the door shut behind her.

That was one place she would not serve tea in.

Among the musty damp and cobwebs in the shed, she found old tools, a wheelbarrow, and a near-antique lawn mower.

Grabbing a wooden basket that fit comfortably over her arm, Dixie marched back to the flower garden and worked clearing the rose beds until the light started to fail. Tired and aching about the shoulders, she made it to the Barley Mow an hour before closing.

"Thought you weren't coming tonight," Vemon said as she came in. "Alf's got a nice veg curry."

Dixie agreed on the curry and sat by the window, disappointed Christopher wasn't there. Never mind. An evening alone would give her time to think.

Fat chance! Sleazy James sat himself in the chair opposite. "Well, h.e.l.lo. What have you been doing with yourself?"Doing a bit of gardening and just happened to discover these eighteen-inch-high stone phalluses. Do you know what they're used for? wasn't a good opener. "Clearing the garden while the cleaners took care of the house," worked better.

"Don't ruin your hands," he said, running his fingers over hers.

Dixie pulled back her hand and clasped her gla.s.s with such determination that the table wobbled. She'd have walked out there and then but Vernon appeared with her curry.

"You've got a healthy appet.i.te," James murmured, with a smirk that irritated more than the innuendo.

"I came in to get dinner," Dixie replied, fork poised.

"Nothing like a bit of company while you're eating." Dixie stopped mid-chew, hoping the knee contact was accidental. "How about dessert somewhere later?" James asked.

This time Dixie almost bit the fork. Accidental, her foot! The jerk was groping her knee. That did it! With both hands under the table, Dixie tipped the table away from her; curry, rice and the better part of her Guinness landed in James's lap.

"Oh! I'm so sorry," Dixie lied as James squawked for a cloth. "The table just wobbled."

"Here you are, Mr. Chadwick," said Alf, handing him a towel. "Let me get you another, Miss LePage," he went on, as Vernon picked up the unbroken gla.s.s.

"No thanks, I had most of it. Sorry about the mess."

"No problem. Not your fault. These tables! I should have seen it coming." He looked her straight in the eyes. "It's not the first time something like this has happened."

Dixie decided she really liked Alf. "Since I've managed to half-trash your pub, I'd better go home." She paused. "And maybe you should call me Dixie."

Alf smiled and held out his hand. "I'll be glad to, Dixie."

Eight members and two novices sat around the black oak table watching the burning ash twigs in the copper brazier. One of the black candles dripped wax on the polished table-top. Ida leaned forward to wipe the splatter.

Sebastian frowned. Couldn't the old woman wait? If she'd touched the brazier... The coven needed all the strength it could muster. Below numbers for years, the two novices were their most recent hope. Some hope! Maybe Sally held more promise than James. She could hardly have less.

Emily droned the incantation and stopped as the twigs crumbled to ash. In the silence she placed the gold ring on the ashes.

After the prescribed pause, Sebastian stood and blew a long, deep note on a narrow pipe.

As the echoes faded, Ida asked, "What progress, James? What did you find?"

"Not a thing. I swear there's nothing there. I've been through that house three times and the old book room volume by volume.

What we're looking for isn't there."

"Really?" She didn't sound impressed. "Sally, what about you?"

She had none of James's bored confidence. She fairly bounced at the prospect of speaking. "I looked when I cleaned the house. I think James is right about the papers. I saw nothing. But..." She paused for effect. Sebastian despised cheap theatrics. "I did discover something. She refused to let me clean out the book room so I wondered if she was hiding something. I got as good a look as I could. No papers, but I found an interesting stack of books. A bunch of old books about magic and Wicca and spells."

"I wonder if she's as unschooled as we believe," Ida said. "Who knows what knowledge she inherited. Maybe her grandmother..."

No one seemed happy at the thought.

Ida placed her wrinkled hands on the table. Eyes turned to her. "We need to find out what she knows and then we can plan.

Perhaps recruit her?"

Sebastian's mind raced in the ensuing silence. "I think not. The woman LePage is a problem and unreliable. First she seemed willing to let me handle the sale and send her the money. Then, out of the blue, she comes over to spend a week and see her property. Now she's moved in, started spring-cleaning and developed an interest in certain books. The next thing, she'll start exploring the grounds..." He paused to let that fact sink in. "To make matters worse, the vampire is cultivating her friendship."

"The vampire we can take care of. We know the date of his creation. Let that be his destruction," Ida said.

"We can't kill him!" Sally's voice shuddered in the silence.

Emily, who'd been silent, placed her hands on the table. "My dear," she said, smiling at Sally, "one can only kill the living."

Sebastian looked across at Sally and James. Weak links, both of them. They needed forging to the coven. Dealing with Marlowe would tie them both up tight.

After dropping off the books to be valued and discovering a grocery store big enough to equal any at home, Dixie went home to bake. She planned on making brownies for Christopher as a "thank you" for lunch. It just seemed a neighborly thing to do.

Back home, unpacking groceries and stacking them in the closets along one wall, she found one door didn't open. It appeared painted shut. One more thing to get fixed. Later. Today, she had baking to do.

The brownies cooled on the window ledge; they smelled sweet and chocolatey as Dixie washed up and put everything away.

By the time she washed, changed into a clean tee shirt and put on fresh lipstick, the brownies were cool. Dixie piled them onto a plate of rose-patterned china, covered them with plastic wrap and set out for Dial Cottage.

"Hi there!" Dixie called up at the open windows. Christopher had to be in. His car was parked behind the hawthorn hedge and the upstairs windows were open, but there was no answer. She strolled round the back, rapped on the back door and tried the k.n.o.b and the door swung open. She stared into the darkness of the interior and called, "Christopher, it's Dixie." He wasn't there.

Uncomfortable at standing uninvited in his empty kitchen, Dixie decided to leave the brownies and go. She'd see Christopher later at the Barley Mow and explain. She scribbled a note on the memo pad from the phone, tore the leaf off and tucked it under the plate. As she replaced the pad by the phone, she nudged a pile of papers and they cascaded to the floor. She knelt and gathered them up and hoped to heaven no one came by. How would it look, her kneeling on the floor rummaging through Christopher's papers? She spotted a small leather book. With her initials.

What was Christopher doing with her appointment book? When had he taken it? In the pub that first evening? Too angry to think straight, she stuffed it in the pocket of her jeans, slammed the back door behind her and marched down the front path, giving the gate a shove as she left.

Dixie walked back through the village, across High Street and almost smacked into Sebastian."Going to the Barley Mow tonight?" He said it pleasantly enough, but she did wonder what he knew. Had James complained?

She hoped so.