Page 59 of The Shadow of the Count
And that he wouldn’t dream about the count.
* * *
Peter packed what he had of clothes and books, but he thought it more important to pack a Bible, a cross, and the few blessed items he could find on such short notice.
It was damnably awkward with one hand, but he did it. He needed to be prepared to go after the count, who had slipped right through their fingers and left the country.
A knock sounded at his door, and he winced. It was the middle of the night, and he’d thought he was being stealthy.
When he opened it, Jeb and Clark stood there, looking stern.
He arched his eyebrow in an obvious question. He knew what they were doing here, but he wasn’t going to act guilty.
“We’re not leaving without talking to the others,” Jeb stated. “We’re a team.”
What was he supposed to say to that? Ha! Say. Nothing, of course. Because his goddamn voice had been stolen from him.
He still folded his arms over his chest. He stared at them, because he needed to make this right.
“I’ve arranged travel, Peter. We leave at ten in the morning. After we stop and see Douglas and Donnie.” Clark stared right back, brooking no argument.
“We’ll leave Charles here with the brothers, find this count, and kill him, burn his castle to the ground.” Jeb almost sounded gleeful at the idea.
Yes. I want that.He let the words form on his lips, even if they were soundless.
“Richard and Yvgeny will be accompanying us. They both feel the need to see this through.” Clark came to clap hands over his shoulders. “We’ll do this, but the right way.”
He wanted to prove himself. He wanted to redeem himself. He wanted to fix things.
“We’re going to do this. Now, get some sleep.”
He shook his head. All he’d done for days was sleep. He pulled the one volume of the count’s diaries that he’d been able to escape with out of his bag, showing it to Clark. He would keep working on that.
Clark took it to flip through. “Greek and Latin…”
He nodded. It seemed to be the ravings of a madman, but now that they had seen what the count had done…
He died.
My beloved one has been taken from me by the priests, pelted with stones, hot boulders pressed upon him. He refused to deny me, even in his agony.
He screamed out my name as his breath left his body.
HE SCREAMED MY NAME.
God has forsaken me. He took my soul, my heart, my very reason for living.
The count had been in love with…with who? A man who looked like Don? That seemed impossible, yet how could it not be the answer? The man had been married, but clearly in name only. A man had held his heart.
He was beginning to doubt his own mind.
Oh, who was he kidding? He had been doing that since the Sahara.
“This is…” Clark shook his head. “We know he’s left London. After he killed Reynaud. Our benefactor Grant believes he’s on his way back to Romania.”
He nodded. He thought so too. The count had a castle, power, fear, his wives—all the things he needed. He had so much less off his own soil. Could he call to Donnie like he had to Lyle? Or did that require Donnie having drunk his blood too?
He didn’t know what to think, what to believe, what to be scared of. What little control he had, seemed to be fading.
