at his nape.
Still there was that thing…behind him…no things! Two—
He spun as Brendan shouted a warning. There were two. They seemed to be in concentrated battle with each other. Cole snapped open a vial of the holy water and tossed it, then drew back with his sword, ready to strike.
The first of the creatures burst into dust, ash and a clattering of bones. The second turned—at his mercy.
He heard a shriek, a cry. There was a blur before his eyes and he spun again—it was in front of him.
“No!”
He slashed the air, and the form pitted downward, rolling to make an escape.
It registered in his mind that the voice was feminine.
Well, they held women prisoners here sometimes. Women they suspected of spying. The Union had always threatened that women would be executed for spying right along with their male counterparts, though that had yet to happen.
But this one…
Yes, she appeared to be a shadow form because she was wearing men’s black breeches and a black cotton shirt. She had blond hair that glistened in the light of the moon and the few torches that still burned in the yard.
He saw her face.
Aquiline, sculpted, the face of an angel. Huge eyes, which glittered like gold, stared up at him. In contrast, her skin was as delicate and pale as porcelain.
He couldn’t hesitate!
He strode forward, intending to finish her off. Straddling over her form, he raised his stake high in the air.
“Damn you, what are you, an idiot cowboy?” she demanded, scuttling a little away from him.
She was whole; she didn’t seem maddened, diseased, in any way.
He had to hesitate; she might be among the living. Untainted.
“Who the hell are you, and why the hell shouldn’t I kill you?” he demanded.
“Strike Cole, strike! It’s deception, it’s always deception!” Brendan cried.
He lifted his stake again.
“Please, for the love of God! I don’t want to hurt you!” she cried. She glanced toward the others, then back at him.
“What?”
“Cole!” Cody shouted in warning.
At his back!
He twisted, just in time to spear the man wearing a preacher’s collar who was about to rip apart his back. He didn’t dare take more than seconds to shake the fellow from his stake, not with the woman beneath his feet.
The body fell near her and she shuddered, but her eyes never left Cole’s.
“Cole!” Brendan warned—there were two of them circling him.
“Give me a reason not to kill you!” Cole shouted to the woman at his feet.
She continued staring straight up at him.
“Cole!” Cody shouted at him this time; he could see that Cody was involved in helping Brendan—there were three around him, and now one had gained a certain power and speed, probably one of the first to be infected in the prison.
It sickened him. It had always sickened him. Self-survival had allowed him to learn to kill the creatures, just as the need for law and order and justice had always helped him out when a firm hand was needed in Victory.
But too often this felt like…
Murder.
He didn’t want to do it; God help him, he didn’t want to do it. Neither did he want to be seduced into a dreaded death, granting mercy, and finding that a harpy suddenly flew from the face and shape of the angel, and dragged sharp, wicked fangs into his neck.
Tension riddled his frame.
Time. Time could be everything.
His fingers wound more tightly around the stake.
“Damn you! Prove it, prove you’re not one of them. For the love of God, then, give me a reason not to kill you!” he shouted above the fray to the woman beneath his feet.
She looked straight at Cole. “One can prove nothing in this world.”
He raised the stake with purpose.
“Wait, damn you,” she cried. “I’ll give you a very good reason not to kill me.”
“And that is?”
“Fool! I’ve been fighting with you, not against you.”
What?
“I’m Megan Fox. Don’t you understand, cowboy? I’m Megan Fox, Cody’s long-lost sister,” she said with a dry and weary drawl that shook him, even in the middle of the melee.
CHAPTER TWO
MRS. GRAYBOW’S ROOMING House on the edge of the mall was a pleasant place. Until the war it had just been the home of Mr. and Mrs. Arnold Graybow.
But Arnie Graybow had been among the first to die at Manassas, and so now Martha Graybow, a thirty-two-year-old widow with two little mouths to feed, ran a boardinghouse. Mrs. Graybow and her brood, Artie and Marni, twelve and seven respectively, resided in the carriage house in back and to the left of the main house, otherwise empty now with the carriage and horses having long ago been sold. The main house itself consisted of five bedrooms upstairs, a lovely dining room, parlor, kitchen, pantry and music room downstairs. It was a fine and private temporary residence for vampire hunters.
As fortune would have it, Megan Fox was friends with Martha Graybow. They both hailed from Richmond. Once upon a time, Martha would babysit her when her mother had business at the bank, or would sometimes allow her to “help out” at the boardinghouse, though she’d been too young to be of any real assistance.
But, of course, Martha had no idea what Megan was up to nowadays. Martha, bless her, thought that Megan was just a fiery young woman, the kind that didn’t swoon, that was happiest standing up against injustice. And indeed, Megan had faith, but she was pretty sure the world had a long way to go. One day there would be justice, and equality would exist. But not this way, not with the North decimating the South. Instead of shaming their brethren, the industrial North should have been figuring out ways to educate those in the South. But maybe she was wrong. Maybe half the planters were just greedy, and they didn’t see anything equal in their darker brothers. Nothing about the war—despite the bloodshed, death and devastation—was cut-and-dried, or black-and-white. It was all gray and red—the color of the blood of all the Americans dying in the war, Yankee, Rebel, black man, white man, yellow, pink, dark or tan.
But she knew
