Dawn Thompson Read Online Free PDF Page B

place, without windows—just in case this condition of yours escalates before we can discover a way to prevent it. Do it now, while you are able to be abroadboth night and day. You shan’t be able to use the crypt any longer.”
    Jon flinched as if he’d been struck. “You despise me that much—or is it that you fear me?” he asked. “That horse out there was bad enough. It all but trampled me. Even Gideon bared his fangs at me earlier, but you? I never thought I’d live to see the day that you would turn against me, Clive.”
    The vicar shielded misty eyes and turned away. “I haven’t turned against you, Jon,” he murmured. “I’m trying to save you. The tragedy in all this is that you were not just a scholar accepting his lot with the clergy as a dutiful second son. You had a genuine vocation. I saw it when you were but a child.”
    “You speak of me in the past tense?” Jon murmured. Tears stung his eyes. This could not be borne.
    The vicar turned his gaze away. “I never should have sent that missive,” he said with passion, ignoring the question. “If only I hadn’t . . . I should have let Ned Stoat steep in his own bumblebroth. I thought that, since you both were there in Town, you might seek him out and send him home before his poor wife miscarried for worry over the dust-up that sent him there. I thought it would be beneficial to you both. You would face many similar experiences as vicar of this parish; I was glad of an opportunity to give you some firsthand experience in domestic matters.” He gave a lurch. “Oh!” he cried. “Speaking of parishioners, several have sighted what they perceive to be a large dog prowling the moor, and many of the men have taken to going about armed. We both know it’s no dog, Jon. You must take care, else you be shot down out there. Only a silver bullet can stop a vampire, but you are not exempt from injury.”
    Jon scarcely heard. He asked, “How can my access tothat crypt in the kirkyard pose a threat to you? You’ve said yourself you do not think I’m fully . . . made.”
    The vicar spun toward him. “Not me,” he said. “The threat is for
you.
Other aspects of your condition seem to be progressive. What happens if one day you try to reach the crypt and cannot walk on consecrated ground? You’ll die—incinerated by the light of day. And anonymity is paramount here. This is a small parish. Someone would see what’s going on and rumors would start.
On dits
would abound. As it is, I live in constant fear that one of the parishioners will blunder into you coming or going while they’re visiting a loved one’s grave. Use your head, boy. It’s
you
I’m thinking of. Make a place for yourself at the Abbey, at your home, where it will be safe, where you will be safe from prying eyes.”
    “I’m going to hunt him down,” Jon decided, balling his hands into white-knuckled fists. “I’m going to hunt Sebastian down and destroy him. What? Don’t give me that look. He isn’t human, he is undead. He preys upon the East End slags. I followed him. I saw where he goes. He has followers. I have
seen
them—odious hangers-on. Evidently, some of those whom he has infected are his to command. He must be destroyed—his minions with him—before the sickness spreads. But for Cassandra, I would have done it already.”
    “Well, there is another argument for your not having been fully made,” the vicar said. “Here you stand plotting his destruction. If you were made, how is it that you are not his slave? You—both you and your woman—have been infected, but to what extent remains to be seen. If my suspicions are correct, it isn’t only Cassandra who is in danger. You are as well.”
    “How? I don’t understand.”
    “Were you wearing your official church togs when you went into that den of iniquity?”
    “Yes. Why? What has that to do with any of this?”
    “It has everything to do with it. Unless I miss my guess, this Sebastian did not mean to make a