nodded. “There is a cave, that way, with a tiny stream at the far back. Do you know it?”
God, not another cave, Will thought. He’d had his fill of them.
The vampire nodded. “I know it.”
“She will be there waiting for you tomorrow night. Midnight.” Katerina started to turn away.
The vampire stopped her, a massive, pale hand clasping her arm.
She went stiff. “If you kill me, you won’t have her. Your chance will be gone.”
“I’ll have her either way,” he said. “On my terms, and in my time. So tell me now, how will you do it?”
She blinked in fear. “Nothing harmful, I promise you. Only a sleeping powder. I’ll put it into her evening meal tomorrow. By midnight its effects will begin to wear off. She will be awake and alert for you to use as you wish.”
He released her quickly and wiped his hand on his trousers. “You are a poor excuse for a sister, Katerina. I will likely kill you after this is done, despite the fact that I imagine your blood will taste bitter as bile.”
“I shall not be an easy target, vampire,” she told him.
“No doubt your garlic and wolf’s bane will be a challenge for me. Go on. Go back to your pathetic band before I decide to do mortal man a favor by killing you now.”
Something, some urgent sense, told Will he had to withdraw from this place in the depths of his mind. But he didn’t want to obey. He had to see this through. He found himself following Katerina as she hurried back through the forest. Eventually she slowed her pace, and he soon saw why.
The old woman sat there still, her head bowed low, as she rocked slightly beside the still, waxen body of her daughter.
The words of the vampire floated through Will’s mind again. “I take only those who need killing.”
What had the young Belinda done that made her “need killing,” according to that creature’s twisted logic?
Katerina stepped quietly out of the trees and settled herself on the ground. The other woman gave no sign of even noticing that she had been gone.
Will drew his focus away from them. Where was Sarafina? He had to find her, to warn her-somehow.
He looked around him but couldn’t tell which way to go. Finally he simply put her image in his mind, thought of her face, her eyes, the sound of her laughter, which had kept him alive for weeks now. Through torture, starvation, the very darkest nights of his soul, she had been there. He had always been able to find her. Surely he could find her now.
He thought of her, saw clearly her face, her eyes…and suddenly he was there. Instantly, magically, he was standing inside her wagon tent, looking down at her as she slept.
Beautiful. He wanted so badly to touch her. Trembling, he reached out his hand to stroke her hair, but his hand wasn’t solid. Or maybe she was the one who was made of something unreal. But whatever the reason, his hand moved through her. He couldn’t touch her. He tried to speak to her, both aloud and with his mind, but neither method stirred any reaction in the sleeping woman.
God, he was tired. More tired than he could remember ever being. And cold, shivering with cold. He knew he should go, that something urgent was awaiting him back in the real world. But he couldn’t bring himself to leave her, not when she was in danger this way. He had to stay with her. He had to warn her that her sister was going to drug her food and hand her over to that monster in the forest.
Gently, Will lay down beside her on the sleeping pallet. It didn’t move in response to his weight. The blanket didn’t move. He lay so close to her that parts of his body melded with parts of hers, but he couldn’t feel her. He moved closer, until his body occupied the same space hers did. He was inside her and around her at once.
In her mind, dreams spun. She dreamed of staring into her crystal ball and seeing…him.
She was staring into his eyes and he into hers.
“I’m here,” he whispered to her, putting all the force he could behind the words. “Don’t trust your sister. Don’t trust her. She’ll betray you. Listen to me. Hear me, Sarafina.”
Sighing, the beautiful woman let his image fade and sank more deeply into sleep. But as soon as she fell into slumber, she saw him again. Inside her mind, inside her dreams.
He was lying beside her in her humble bed of straw-stuffed cloth. She met his eyes there, and she smiled. “I knew you would come.”
“I’ve been with you here the whole time.” He whispered the words, never imagining she would hear, but she did.
“I know,” she said. “I felt you with me.”
“You mustn’t trust your sister,” he told her. “She’s plotting against you.”
She shook her head slowly. “She is jealous and cruel. But she is my sister. She wouldn’t do me any harm.”
“I think she would.”
The pain that trembled through her was almost unbearable-he felt it. But she pushed it away and said instead, “Kiss me, spirit.”
So he did. He kissed her, and her dream blossomed and grew. His voice no longer mattered. His warnings were forgotten as he let himself surrender to the dream-her dream or his, he was no longer certain. It no longer mattered.
He touched her freely, intimately. He explored her body, every scent and taste and sound she made was so real-and the answering sensations in him were real, too. Physical and visceral, and yet tender and deep. He made love to her there in her vardo, and she clung to him and told him he was her secret love-the only one she knew for certain would never leave her.
And then, holding him in her warm embrace, she sank into sleep. Almost against his will, he sank into her, and he slept, too.
4
W hen he woke, the first thought in Will’s mind was that Sarafina was no longer asleep in her bed. She was gone. He was alone.
But then reality set in. He wasn’t in the mystical world his mind had created as an escape for him. No, he was in real time. There was pain here, throbbing, burning pain, and bone-chilling cold. He was locked inside a metal box, in a dark cave, in the middle of hostile terrain.
Part of his mind, the fevered part that had confused his dream with something real, wanted to return to the fantasyland of the Gypsies. But most of him was aware that he couldn’t do that, not now. He didn’t know where the hell his mind was getting the stories it wove for him. They seemed so real it was difficult to believe they were not. But they couldn’t be.
He was soaked in sweat. He understood what that suggested. The fever he’d been fighting must have peaked while he’d been sleeping. Normally he didn’t dream about Sarafina and her band of Gypsies. He escaped to that realm only under torture.
Hell, his fever, combined with the pain in his foot, must have felt like torture of a sort to have instigated a dream so vivid. And it had added its own new twists, hadn’t
