I left the others beside the stone slab and made my way around toward the spot where the bird had landed on the bank. Then I carefully stepped to the edge of the scrubby heath grass bordering the pool. Quite a few recent shoe prints had pressed into the mud at the water’s edge. They were all the same size and shape, and I guessed they’d been made by Jeremy.

  The sky was uniformly gray, leaving no reflection on the pool’s surface. My eyes found the thing the magpie had dropped near the bank in a couple of inches of water. Not a weed, but a chain. A silver necklace, I thought, by the dark tarnish. I wondered whether the chain still bore its ornament—and, looking more carefully, I saw that it did. Recognition arced through me like lightning through a Franklin rod.

  I began to tremble as my gaze expanded out around the necklace. A few feet away, in slightly deeper water, I discovered what had brought the constable here.

  The skull and rib cage rested in soft clay in the shallows, while the lower regions of the remains were lost to the deeper, darker water. The skeleton had been recently disturbed, maybe also attributable to Jeremy. By the ridges in the clay, and various depressions around the rib cage, I thought maybe he’d poked around with a stick until it had lodged somewhere, when he’d dragged it partway toward the shore, abandoning it once he realized what he’d gotten hold of.

  My gaze returned to the necklace. Perhaps it had been what originally caught the boy’s eye, as it had the magpie’s.

  A cross carved from red jasper.

  Peering through a slit, I see a man and woman standing at the water’s edge. My hiding place is a cave whose roof is a great stone slab resting at one end of the pool. A void left by the collapse of the burning manor—perhaps a cellar once—its entrance concealed year round by bramble and deer fern.

  The woman wears a familiar red cloak. She is crying. Though I am the spirit of the wood, I am also myself, and I know this man . . . my father.

  “I’m sorry, Ruby. But you knew this day would come. The boy’s time is close now, and you won’t be safe here once he’s changed. Until he learns control, we will have to manage his thirst in other ways.”

  “And what of your thirst, sir?” Ruby asks in a voice breaking with grief.

  “My thirst will wane as his waxes. So it was with my father, and his father before him. It is greatly diminished already, as you well know.”

  Ruby dabs at her nose with a handkerchief. “When he has . . . somewhat recovered, may I come again?”

  “Ruby,” my father gently scolds, “did I not warn you against becoming attached to the accursed Tregarricks?”

  “I suppose it was advice easier given than taken, sir.”

  “Well, I am sorry for it. Perhaps in five or ten years you might safely return to us. But why not take what you’ve earned and go somewhere you may start fresh? Go to London, where you may find people more open minded, and make pupils of the children of the ton.”

  “Perhaps I shall.”

  Her reply carries a note of defiance, but my father chooses to ignore this. “I’m sure you will make a success of it, my girl.”

  “I could have been, you know.” She looks at him. “Your girl.”

  He reaches out and touches her cheek. She must be nearing forty now. Her dark curls have begun to thread silver. My father’s true age hasn’t caught up to him yet.

  I hear the pain in his voice as he answers, “Don’t make me remind you—remind us both—of the many reasons that may not be. Responsibility for the death of one person I loved is all the burden I’m strong enough to carry.”

  Ruby looks away, endeavoring to control her emotion.

  “Fare thee well, my sweet.” My father’s hand moves to the small of her back for a moment, and she leans toward him. But he withdraws it quickly and turns from her, facing me briefly—and unaware—before moving out of my view as he starts toward the chapel.

  Ruby remains, her back shuddering with each quiet sob. After a few moments, she fumbles with something at her bodice, pulling out a chain with a cross pendant carved from red jasper. She’s worn a cross since her first day on the estate, though it wasn’t always this one. The jasper pendant was a gift from my father. She lifts it over her head and looks as if she might cast it into the dark water, but I sense she doesn’t have the heart.

  This moment is a gift—an opportunity to indulge without consequence. The temptation is too great. My father feeds less than he used to, and the taste of Ruby’s blood is familiar—almost comforting—to the creature whose memory I am now sharing.

  There is no one else about, but there are eyes in the black chapel. I breathe a thick mist into the air to ensure our privacy. I leave the shelter of the cave. I am swift, and she hasn’t heard me. But at the last moment she turns, and I see her face. Her wide-eyed terror.

  I seize her, lifting her off her feet, and the necklace flies from her hand, splashing into the dark water after all.

  Hiding

  “Harker?” His back was to us, but I heard him gasp. I thought he must have discovered whatever Jeremy had found. I couldn’t see anything from where I stood with the others.

  “Mr. Tregarrick?” called the constable.

  “I . . . yes.” Harker turned; how pale and stricken he looked!

  “Do you know anything about these remains, sir?” asked Mr. Hilliard, his voice crisp with the authority of his office.

  Harker’s gaze was aimed at the ground between us. He kept silent, as if he hadn’t heard. Then at last he raised his eyes, and the tension in his expression loosened. Like he’s let go of something, or plans to.

  “I believe I do, sir,” he said.

  “Well, then?”

  I didn’t care at all for the edge in the constable’s voice. Though with a corpse found on the estate, I could hardly complain that he had no right to his suspicions.

  “Her name was Ruby Rowe. She worked for my family.”

  Ruby!

  All these years he had wondered, and she had never left his estate. And yet . . . would there really be anything left to recognize her by? How could he know?

  If he was the one who put her there.

  My heart plunged, and I raised a hand to my chest.

  “Can you tell me when it happened?” asked Mr. Hilliard. “I don’t want to anticipate the coroner, especially before we’ve extracted the remains, but I think it’s no leap to say this body is in an extremely advanced state of decay.”

  Harker’s shoulders rose as he took a deep breath. “No leap, constable. It was many years ago.”

  At last Harker looked at me, and without any forethought, I gave my head a tiny shake. Don’t tell him the truth. Even if his memory had returned—even if he knew he was responsible—I couldn’t see how any good would come of his confession. Mr. Hilliard would have even more reason to think he’d killed the others.

  Maybe he’s tired of carrying it. A hard, hot knot formed in my throat.

  Harker’s gaze held mine, and the smallest, saddest of smiles appeared. Somehow I understood—it wasn’t him.

  I closed my eyes, relief swelling.

  “Mr. Tregarrick,” said the constable, “I’m afraid you’re going to have to do better than that. If you’ll come with me voluntarily to the village, we can sit down like gentlemen and discuss the particulars. I’ll alert the proper authorities and get some men out here to collect—”

  Something caught the constable’s attention. Jeremy, once he’d felt safe again, had begun fidgeting next to me, kicking at grass seedheads and dry fern fronds. A moment ago he’d inched around the stone slab to the end farthest from the pool. Reminding me very much of Jack as a boy, he’d picked up a stick and started whacking at the wilting plants at the base of the slab.

  “Be still a moment longer, lad,” called the constable. “We’re all going back to the village together.”

  “Something’s ’ere, sir,” Jeremy replied excitedly, poking below the slab with his stick. “It looks like a ca—”

  “No—no—don’t!” shouted Harker, and the desperate fright in his voice caused me to run toward the boy.

  I grabbed him and pulled him against me. I could see movement in the soggy vegetation he’d disturbed. Then a confusing shape, dark and twiggy, began to emerge. I dragged Jeremy back, but my feet caught in the heather and toppled us.

  What crawled from beneath the slab looked very much like a thorn tree—bent and twisted, spotted with gray lichen—but I soon realized my mistake. A familiar creature unfolded and towered over us.

  Lips peeled back over glistening fangs. Goosevar snarled and Jeremy screamed.

  A cry of shock came from Mr. Hilliard, and Harker shouted another warning. But even had I not been frozen with fear and tangled up with Jeremy, there was no getting away from the monster, accidentally cornered and furious.

  But Harker’s unnatural quickness had already brought him. He stood between us and the beast, looking terrifyingly small. There came a long and low growl—not from Goosevar, but from Harker.

  Goosevar curled down until his great muzzle was only inches from Harker’s face. Fog billowed from parted jaws, his breath loud as storm winds.

  I had no confidence Goosevar would spare him, or any of us, now that his centuries-old secret was threatened. And strong though Harker was, his strength came from Goosevar. What hope was there of besting him?

  But Harker stood against the Goliath and grated out, “Kill me, then, if you can.”

  “No!” Hands shaking, fear firing my blood, I unwound my arms from Jeremy and got to my feet. The boy scrabbled and ran for the birchwood.

  “Run, Mina!” Harker barked over his shoulder.

  Fumbling at my throat for Mum’s cross, I caught the cool silver in my palm and yanked it from my neck. It’s so tiny.

  As I quickly knotted the ends of the ribbon together, a shot rang out. I glanced up—Goosevar roared in rage and spun around. I saw the constable behind him—he’d climbed onto the stone slab and aimed a pistol.

  Goosevar lunged, swiping at the constable with his long, tapered tree-bone fingers, just as the click before the second shot sounded. Mr. Hilliard was swept off the rock, the pistol firing as he splashed into the pool.

  “Harker!” I called, tripping forward and thrusting the cross at him.

  He snatched at the ribbon, rounding as Goosevar returned. The beast’s jaws hinged open as he let out another howl of rage.

  Harker swung the cross by the ribbon and let it go. It sailed directly into the gaping maw.

  There came a loud hiss, the smell of singed flesh, and a broken yap of pain. The purple ribbon trailed down over the teeth of Goosevar’s lower jaw. As he began to sputter and shake his great head, Harker’s hand closed over my arm.

  “Run to the village,” he said urgently. “Tell them the constable’s been attacked by the Wolf of Roche Rock. Bring back help.”

  I could see the sense in this, yet I stood frozen. What would happen to him?

  “Mina!”

  “Aye,” I said, tears stinging my eyes.

  The choking noises gave way to enraged snarls as the shadow behind him rose.

  Harker took warning from the look on my face, but before he could act, Goosevar lunged and swung. I heard a loud snap as he flung Harker to the ground several yards away. I let out a coarse, desperate cry as the monster followed, each strike of the trunk-like legs shaking the earth.

  Then came more snarling, and barking, too—but this time behind me. Something whooshed by my head, followed by a quiet thunk.

  Goosevar staggered, almost falling, an arrow sticking out of the bark-like flesh of his shoulder. It hadn’t gone in deep; one brush of the long fingers would likely free it. And it wasn’t much of an arrow—crude looking, and hardly thicker than the wooden spills I used to light the stove. Where had it come from?

  Gazing up the heath, I saw a man walking slowly toward us. He carried a bow with another arrow nocked. Jack!

  Whoosh. The second arrow curved away from its target, and Jack scrambled to nock another. I ran around behind Goosevar to reach Harker. He’d raised himself on one arm, face gray with pain, but he was alive.

  “Go, Dolly!” someone shouted, followed by three deep-chested barks.

  Trailing Jack, there were others. Father Kelly, holding a great wooden cross before him, and Mr. Couch, owner of The Wolf’s Head. And Dolly—apparently the name of his sleepy old wolfhound, who now streaked down the heath like a nightmare come to life.

  Teeth bared and snarling, she barreled into Goosevar, closing her jaws over a mossy leg, neck twitching back and forth as she tried giving it a killing shake.

  The monster howled and bent to the still-snarling hound, wrenching her free and tossing her away like a sack of grain. She hit the ground with a yelp, and Mr. Couch let out an angry shout as he ran toward her.

  Goosevar made a clumsy lunge for Jack, but Dolly had given him time to nock and aim . . . The second arrow whistled through the air and stuck fast in the monster’s chest.

  After a single frozen moment, Goosevar folded and crashed to his knees.

  “Another!” barked Father Kelly, stepping closer. With the big cross held like a shield before him, he looked very like one of the figures in the painting at St. Gomonda.

  Jack’s next arrow lodged in Goosevar’s neck, and his head tipped, tongue lolling as he crashed backward onto the heath. Jack moved to stand directly over his foe’s great head, taking aim again.

  Goosevar let out a half-choked growl as the arrow sank into one eye socket. At last the beast stilled, the flame of his remaining eye dying to a dark smolder.

  “Well, that’s done for you, hasn’t it?” growled Jack. Relief washed over me—how like himself he sounded! Raising his bow to his lips, he pressed a kiss into the wood.

  “Thanks be to God,” muttered Father Kelly, crossing himself.

  “He’s gone,” I breathed, turning back to Harker. The smile froze on my face.

  Harker still rested on one elbow, his other arm wrapped around his ribs. His eyes looked empty and distant, and I felt a wrenching in my chest.

  It struck me that although we’d wondered whether Goosevar’s death might remove the vampire curse from his family, we’d never thought to question whether any harm might come to Harker from it. The two of them shared a connection we still didn’t understand. And likely never will now.

  I moved close, laying a hand against his face. “Harker?”

  He gave no sign he’d heard me.

  “I Have Failed”

  Harker/Goosevar

  I see the woman in the bright summer sunshine. She cuts long stalks of lavender, placing them in a basket. She hums quietly.

  Her husband is away on the other side of the rock, where they remove moorstone from the old village for the chapel they build. This work has brought holy men onto the heath; I know them by the symbols they wear. It was men like these who slew and entombed me, sealing my grave with their stone monument.

  Some days ago that monument, too, was dug up. Today the holy men hauled it away in a cart.

  Now I do whatever is necessary to ensure they never return. Though I must be stealthy and clever if I’m to survive.

  But in the present moment, I am fascinated by the woman. I have lived for hundreds of years, never encountering another creature like myself. Never mating or producing offspring, as I have observed every other creature around me to do. Yet I’ve seen this before. I understand that the large, rounded growth at her belly is a child.

  It is more than fascination for me. I am drawn to her. I thirst for her. And it’s not only that I must feed soon if I’m to survive. I know from my past life that her blood is different. Rich and potent. Blood that creates life. If I drink this blood, I won’t need to kill for a very long time.

  There is nothing so likely to inspire another attempt on my own life as taking the life of a woman with child. And yet, if I can manage not to kill her—to feed on her but let her live—perhaps no one need know. It’s not a thing I have ever attempted. And after sleeping for centuries, I am desperately thirsty. Moderation may not be possible.

  But I must feed. And solitary victims carry less risk.

  My jaws open, releasing fog over the heath.

  The woman straightens, rubbing her back, and looks around in confusion. Only a moment ago the sun warmed her. Now she can’t see beyond her low garden wall.

  I move closer, making no sound to warn her.

  I am only heartbeats away when she senses something stalking her. Fear brightens her eyes, quickens her breath. She drops her basket, which tips and spills its fragrant contents. She turns for the house.

  I burst from the trees and catch her easily, like a fawn. Lifting her in my arms, I dig sharp teeth into her soft neck.

  She strikes at me with her small fists and lets out a half-choked cry. I feel it through the frenzy of bloodlust. I try to be careful. I try to slow down. It’s not what I was made for.

  Suddenly something pierces my side; she still holds the garden knife. Such a weapon is no threat to me. The wound will have sealed by the time I’ve drunk my fill.

  Until my death, no weapon had threatened me. Everything had been tried, and everything failed, until a holy man and healer made arrows from a thorny bush bearing a delicate flower. I know now that I possess vulnerability.

  Though I am parched like late-autumn leaves, I force myself to stop. I don’t need as much of this potent blood as I desire.

  She has stilled now; her breathing has gone shallow. My jaws have left an ugly wound on her neck, and it still bleeds.

  I have failed.

  Despite my intentions, it seems she will die anyway, and the wound will set the others hunting me.

  Then I notice the trickle of fluid at my side, where she’s stabbed me. My own blood is a bitter, dark sap. On instinct, I use the tip of a finger to scoop some of it up, and then I spread it over the edges of her wound.

  The wound begins to close before my eyes, leaving naught but a faint scar.