Blood Deep. Sharon Page

same instant one of the outriders shouted, “It was a vampire!”

      “Oh, surely not,” she discounted. Had the servants been drinking? She hoped not. And they had not stopped long enough at an inn for the men to have a drink.

      It would be expected that she would say such a thing was a foolish superstition. But she knew there really were creatures with fangs that drank human blood and who hunted the English countryside. When she had been very little and Aunt Eugenia told her vampire stories, she had not believed such monsters were real. She’d loved Aunt Eugenia but always had thought her eccentric. She’d thought her aunt just liked to scare her.

      Now she knew monsters and demons existed.

      “It was a man,” one of the outriders insisted. “A giant of a man, with fangs.”

      “Blow it,” growled the coachman. “I doubt we can set this thing to rights. What are we to do?”

      Miranda wrapped her arms around herself. A cold wind cut through her pelisse, and she still throbbed with pain all over.

      “The village of Little Darkling is yonder.” Her coachman pointed. Through the budding trees of a small forest she could see muddy fields, a few stone farmhouses and stables, then a huddle of buildings. Sunlight glinted on paned windows and smoke curled from chimneys—the little cottages looked rather enticing.

      “Let us walk, then,” she suggested. It would be a slog in the mud and would take hours. Clouds rolled swiftly over the sun. A few snowflakes wafted down, and the dampness seemed to rush through her skin. Her beautiful day was vanishing. But what choice did the have?

      Before any of the men could answer, a low growl rolled out of the stretch of dark woods that separated them from the warm, inviting homes. Branches cracked, leaves twitched, but Miranda could not see a thing. Snowflakes thickened and swirled in wild spirals. Miranda gasped as the coachman drew out his pistol. “Get back, my lady,” he cried.

      A silvery shape exploded out of the shadows—a wolf with dark fur and long legs that swallowed up the ground as he tore toward them. The animal’s jaws parted. Arm rock steady, the coachman took aim, but Miranda cried, “No!”

      Like a streak of lightning, the wolf shot past.

      “Heavens,” she gasped. “Something frightened it. It was not running to attack us, it was running for its life!”

      The coachman looked at her as though she was mad. But she ignored that; it was not uncommon for a man to roll his eyes at any woman who voiced an opinion.

      But what had spooked the wolf?

      Her outriders, two staunch men who had served her family for years, crossed themselves. “I told yer,” said one, who held the horses by the reins, “I’m not going that way. Not through those woods.”

      But the other, holding a pistol of his own, had crept ahead a few yards along the narrow road. “It’s likely another wolf. A bigger one,” he shouted back.

      “It makes no sense,” Miranda muttered. “Wolves are nocturnal.” Aunt Eugenia had told her of the eerie sounds of them in the Carpathians, and she knew their howls from her family’s country home.

      Before her eyes, the dark shadows of the forest seemed to surge out of the trees and rush down the road. Thick blackness swarmed around the man and he turned to run. He howled in sheer terror. It was as though the gloom of the forest had swallowed him whole. Miranda cried out, and the men stood transfixed in shock. A shot exploded. Her coachman had fired, and the flare of powder blinded her.

      Blinking, she focused again on the road.

      It was empty. The man had vanished.

      “No, that’s not possible.” She swung around on the coachman. “We must find him. He must have been dragged off the road—”

      “We can’t kill a vampire with a pistol shot.”

      “It’s not a vampire. This is daylight, for heaven’s sake! Vampires cannot come out in sunlight.” Or so Aunt Eugenia had told her.

      The horses reared, tossed their heads, and hooves flailed. The other outrider had to release the reins; the horses were almost berserk. Then, hooves pounding and throwing up muck, the animals ran.

      “They sense it!” The coachman grabbed her arm and pushed her ahead of him. “Run, miss!”

      Run? If it was a wolf or a wild dog, she couldn’t outrun an animal like that. And an animal would scent her…

      A growl sounded right behind her. Behind her, in the grass, when she had seen nothing go past. Miranda hauled up her hems and stumbled through the mud, away from the forest.

      Wasn’t running the worst possible thing to do? Wasn’t it madness to run?

      Wind rushed in her ears, but she didn’t think it really was the wind—it was her fear, the race of her blood. She knew something was running behind her. She just…knew.

      Was it her coachman with his weapon, or something else?

      Black clouds slid across the sun like fingers clutching at the light, and then she was plunged into complete darkness. All light had been extinguished like a candle blown out with a puff of air. There was no sunlight at all—in the middle of the day.

      She stopped, stunned, her chest heaving.

      All her landmarks were gone. The line of trees, the dip of the fields, the waving heather—it was all just a sea of formless shadow.

      Miranda turned in a helpless circle, afraid to take a step.

      The ground crunched, and she knew that whatever was chasing her had made the sound deliberately. It was playing with her.

      And it was working. She was paralyzed with terror as she heard a soft crack, then the relentless thud of footsteps. She spun around but could see nothing but shadowed trees and rippling grass.

      There had to be a way out, or some weapon she could use. Even her reticule would be something, but it lay in the overturned carriage.

      Where were her coachman and the other outrider? Had they fled for their lives and left her? When the coachman had pushed her to run, he looked as if the very devil himself was about the drag them to a fiery hell.

      Another growl, closer now.

      She didn’t understand why the animal didn’t spring. It could take her to the ground and tear her apart. Why did it wait? She wished she had food in her hand, something to throw as far away from her as she could.

      “But that would not help, my love,” a deep masculine voice growled. “For you are the only delectable treat that tempts me.”

      A man! Where? But not a savior. She knew that from the hungry, predatory sound of his voice, from the words he’d chosen. Had he been the thing chasing her?

      Realization froze her to the spot. She had not spoken aloud. He had answered words she’d uttered only in her head.

      The shadows stirred and he stepped forward; her eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, so she could see him.

      He was huge. He stood far taller than her—far, far taller—and he was surrounded by a dark cape that whipped in the wind. She realized that his hair was waist length and it danced around his chiseled face. Something white glinted at her—

      Long, evil-looking fangs, just like in her dream.

      Suddenly, strong hands wrapped around her wrists. A guttural laugh echoed by her ear.

      He’d been several feet away from her and now he was gripping her, and she hadn’t seen him move.

      Any sensible woman would faint. Why go to death conscious? But Miranda realized she couldn’t let herself take that way out.

      Powerful arms swept her up, and she kicked and scratched and screamed. A scent enveloped her along with the strong arms. Sweet and rich, as alluring as chocolate. Primal and musky