Page 8 of The Vampire's Thirst
“I don’t do this to get rich.”
He patted her arm. “No, Chiara. You do it because you’re a good person with a big heart.”
If he only knew me better, he wouldn’t say that.
“Stay warm, Ernest. It’ll be chilly soon. A breeze is coming.”
“Not as bad as it’s gonna get later in the fall and through winter.”
She walked Ernest to the porch, watching him limp into the woods, his threadbare shirt flapping in the wind, his hips swinging unevenly as his knees jerked with each step of his disease-riddled body.
Noticing several jars were nearly empty, Chiara took a pen and pad into the pantry to take inventory, but the dogs exploded into feral howls. She dropped the notes onto a shelf before running out to the porch.
“Victor! Boris! Heel now!” The animals barked, fading from view as they scattered into the thick woods. Chiara sighed, fisting her hip. Her toe snapped up and down on the timbered deck. “What’s wrong, guys?”
With a disgruntled chuff, she charged into the house where she struggled into a sweater before slipping on her boots to chase through the heavy briars after the dogs who hunted unseen prey. They usually heeled when commanded.
What is wrong with them?
Chiara elbowed aside a branch, releasing it. Pushing through brush, she tracked the wayward wolfhounds. Her hand reached for the next meddlesome limb while she ducked to avoid low-hanging leaves.
Whoosh. Snap.
She shoved more branches aside. When the bracken grew too dense to maneuver, she realized she was in a pickle, retreat no easier than advancing.
The dogs howled, still chasing their game. Whipping in the wind, sharp-edged holly leaves bit her flesh. Most often, the plant was a treatment for heart disease or high blood pressure. Today, it was the enemy.
Chiara’s feet and arms tangled in vines, the tendrils manacling her as they snatched, grabbed, restrained her limbs. Yanking at the ropy plants, she broke free to plunge deeper into compact growth.
She picked healing herbs in these woods. The verdant undergrowth would not conspire to imprison her. She slapped another limb away from her face.
“Ivan! Peter!”
The thick foliage of the northern rain forest muffled her shouts. Head-high in gnarled, constraining bushes, she fought to move toward her panicked hounds.
They hear me but are ignoring my calls. No dinner for the beasties tonight.
Chiara tripped over a fallen trunk, an obstacle in the path of her foot. Decayed and fresh leaf bits puffed into the air when she face-planted into pine needles, bark, stems, leaves, and moss.
On unsteady feet, she tweaked her jaw, brushing off her long skirt, frowning at the tear in the hem. Fudge buckets. She loved this outfit.
The cries of the dogs changed. No more frenzied yelps. When she broke through the tree line into a clearing, she spied her animals with their prey.
In the distance, two huge men in dark clothes lumbered into the forest, dragging another between them. Boris and Ivan tracked them.
The intruders didn’t strike her as hunters. She had chased enough of them off her property.
She faced Victor and Peter, who paced around an unmoving, bleeding man.
Cautiously, Chiara approached while commanding the dogs to stand down. The stranger lay face down. His tattered and scorched T-shirt exposed contusions and open wounds. Sturdy boots had done a number on his body. She saw the prints.
She struggled to turn the man onto his back, but he was solid muscle with massive shoulders and heavy legs.
Dropping to the ground, she used her feet to flip him.
Ugh. Done.
With the man on his back, Chiara saw his injuries better. Blood poured from a gouge in his wrist. A huge hole was in his chest near his heart. She touched her hand to his cheek. Despite the elements, his skin was warm. The hint of a goatee and mustache didn’t hide the bruise on his jaw. She brushed aside the strands of long black hair lying across his strong, angular face. Thick dark lashes feathered on his eyelids.
