Page 15 of The Shadow of the Count
“Thank you. I’m just afraid for him. I’ve never seen anything like Mr. Reynaud.” And his Peter was in that man’s clutches. He had to save Peter. He knew his lover’s pride would be hurt, but he was better away from Romania.
He needed to assure himself that his dearest Peter was well. Then he would bring the man back to him and tie him down if he had to.
Seven
Peter’s days and nights began to become confused.
He was hungry. So hungry. Several days ago—he thought it was at least—there had been a great hullabaloo, and men had come to carry boxes and boxes of cargo out of the castle. The count himself had stepped into an old-fashioned carriage that night, disappearing down the mountain and simply…leaving Peter there.
There had been no meals brought to him, and every time he left his room, he heard those whispers.
“Come to us, Peter,” they said. “Come and play.”
Water he had found, but he was becoming weak, and he needed to find a way out of the castle proper. A way to get to town, where he could find Yvgeny, his friend from the train, and beg help.
“Peter… Peter, come to us. We’re waiting for you.” The whispers were silken and soft, drawing him in a way most sinister. He shivered, watching a bug crawl across the floor several feet away. He was almost so hungry he could—
No. No, he was going. Now. Better to brave the ravages of nature than to sit here and simply wither away. He grabbed up the bedclothes for a warm cloak, and one of the books of he’d found that spoke of the esoteric happening here in the castle.
He also packed the flask he’d brought and filled with water. Knowing he needed to travel light, he left his trunk, but took his photo of Donnie.
He would not leave a bit of his lover behind.
He crept down the stairs. It wasn’t yet dawn, but it was coming soon, and he needed to start out so he had a full day to traverse the rough road down to the main thoroughfare.
As he glanced up, the light poured across a huge painting that was only visible looking out toward the door. He gasped and lost his feet, thumping down on the steps and bruising his backside. How had he not seen this before.
Don. That was a portrait of Don.
It couldn’t be, but… He scrabbled back to standing, going to peer at it.
It was Don, and yet it was—his lover would never wear those clothes, wear his hair so long. No, this was a dramatic representation, but—But Peter knew how to age an artifact by sight, and he would say this painting was easily four hundred years old. Honestly, had he been blinded by exhaustion to miss this? Or had he just not been looking at anything but the count, who had mesmerized him with his age and odd energy.
“What on earth…”
“Peter.” The sibilant sound of his name made him whirl around.
He stumbled back, the sight of a demoness before him shocking, raw sexuality pouring from her. She seemed to sway like a snake, her body undulating. “Come with me, Peter. Come down and meet my sisters.”
“No. No.” He glanced up at the portrait, meeting Don’s eyes, letting it strengthen him.
He backed away from the woman toward the front door. Escape was his only option. “I love you, Donnie,” he whispered. Then he turned and ran.
* * *
Donnie knew something was wrong—it wasn’t a vague feeling; it was definite and sharp as a razorblade.
He’d wired Grant and called Douglas, and Grant had promised to look into it, but so far…
He needed to know Peter was safe.
“You look awful.” Lyle met him at the buffet where breakfast had been laid out, eyeing him critically.
“I need to know he’s well, Lyle. I just—”
“Should never have gone to that asylum with the doctor. It’s poisoned you.”
“You didn’t see that man. And the count’s name was the same! How many can there be?”
