Chapter Eight

Will found me some time later, still at the rail, still tormenting myself. Still profoundly disgusted by my own behavior.

"You didn't eat." He came to stand beside me and grasped the railing. A gust of wind tossed salt spray into our faces, and we both flinched.

"Not yet." I'd forgotten all about dinner, though as soon as he said the words, my stomach rumbled.

"There was a bowl of fish stew and some bread and cheese on your desk. You didn't see it?"

I wiped the moisture from my face. I'd sat at my desk but had been too distraught to notice the food. Admitting to that would lead to questions I didn't want to answer. "I haven't returned to my room yet," I lied.

Will didn't say anything for a moment, making me wonder whether he'd challenge my assertion. In the end, he did not.

"It's probably cold now."

I turned away from the railing and the awful emptiness of the sea. "I'm hungry enough that I'll eat it anyway. Come with me. We should talk about what I found."

"The icon?" He pitched his voice low.

"In my room."

He followed me, taking a seat at the foot of my bed. I sat at the desk, and while I ate that cold stew, I gave him an abridged version of events. Will produced his notebook and pencil, and he took notes while I spoke, his eyes bright, his questions astute. I told him about the vampire—I'd had no choice—though I left out the most disturbing details. I just hoped he'd attribute the high color in my cheeks to exertion from stuffing food into my mouth rather than anything untoward.

"So you saw the icon?"

I shrugged, sopping up savory fish stew with a hunk of bread. "I saw a flat parcel that was some eight inches by six inches, wrapped in paper. The vampire interrupted me before I could unwrap it." I shrugged. "Unless he's taken more than one icon and has the others stashed away somewhere, I'd say this one is it."

Will closed his notebook. "We're going to have to enlist the vampire's help."

"No."

He blinked, clearly taken aback by the speed of my response. "He's the only one of the priest's associates we've had any contact with, and as a rule, the undead aren't known for their loyalty."

I used my handkerchief to wipe the last of the stew from my lips. "Let's give it some time. I would not willingly go into business with one of the undead unless it is our very last option."

Will rose, tucking his notebook away. "At least we have some idea where the icon is." There was a false note in his voice that let me know he didn't truly want to wait. I pushed the chair away from the desk, intending to rise, but he waved me off. "I'll let you get to bed."

Sinking into my chair, I thanked him for dinner and wished him goodnight. He hadn't offered to help me out of my coat, for which I was grateful. I'd hit the limit for today's charade.

I did hope he'd have a good night. One of us should, and it wasn't going to be me.

The next morning, I was still shaving when my first patient knocked on my door. Will had brought me water and was checking through our supplies while I dressed, so he answered.

"Can the doctor come? My brother won't wake up, and Mother sent me to bring him."

I sluiced the soap from my face, nodding at Will.

"What room are you in?" he asked.

Our visitor, a young girl of maybe thirteen, gave him the room number. I buttoned my shirt and allowed Will to help me with my cravat. "This could be our third case," I murmured.

"It's very strange." He gave the linen a final twist. "Surely you've seen trouble like this before."

With his help, I slid into my frock coat. "I'll have to examine this patient, but if his responses are similar to the others, then I have not." I paused, thinking hard. "Usually when a patient is comatose, there's some underlying physical problem. Either that, or they've ingested something."

"And these…"

"The young crewman claimed he'd taken too much drink, but Madame Barbier's swoon had had no identifiable cause. I don't know yet about this one."

He nodded toward the door. "I'll tidy up in here while you're gone."

Thanking him, I headed for the room the young girl had given us. It was on the second level and not any larger than mine, though it contained two sets of bunk beds, a stack of trunks, and a small table. The girl sat on one of the lower bunks and her parents sat at the table.

Her brother, a boy of ten, was on one of the top bunks. Just as with my other patients, he lay somnolent and did not rouse no matter what I did. Neither voice nor touch brought about any response, nor did the pain of a hard rub on his sternum. He lay still, breathing quietly, his color good, his skin pink and warm.

"When was the last time he ate?" I asked the room in general.

"At dinner last night," his mother answered. She was an austere woman, the sharp angles in her face worn by years of care. The slight quiver in her lower lip, however, showed me her desperate worry.

I asked her a few more questions about the boy's health in general and their trip in particular, but none of her answers gave me anything useful, unless something could be made of the fact that he'd been in perfect health until this morning.

I almost asked whether they'd seen anyone matching the vampire's description, but something held me back. My opinion of vampires had not changed one iota; my opinion of this particular vampire, however, would not bear much scrutiny.

After listening to the boy's chest with my stethoscope and examining his neck and wrists for bite marks, I asked his mother if she had any sol volatile. She did, and after digging through a fabric case, she produced a small vial. I held it under the child's nose. The first time, he did not respond.

"Wait," I said in response to his mother's sigh of disappointment. After a few moments, I applied the sol volatile again, and, just as with Madame Barbier, he did blink before subsiding into a state of slumber.

"Here," I passed his mother the vial. "Put this under his nose every ten minutes or so, and when he's more responsive, give him some weak tea or broth."

"But what's wrong with him?" The boy's father lurched to his feet, fists clenched. "Are we all going to go to sleep and never wake up?"

"Of course not." I raised my hands, showing him my palms. "I confess I don't know what has afflicted your son, but I've seen two other passengers with similar symptoms, and they both recovered."

"He must have breathed some miasma," the boy's mother said.

"Perhaps." I did not think so, but arguing with her wouldn't help.

Nor would suggesting that some supernatural creature was responsible.

I left them soon after, promising to return after breakfast. It was a promise I couldn't keep, however, for at my room, three people waited to be seen.

I spent the morning attending to the kinds of problems that are common on board a ship. Vomiting, cuts and bruises, one rather badly sprained ankle; all things I could manage. None of my patients presented with symptoms of anemia or new wounds to their neck, and I had no more summons to patients who wouldn't wake up.

Will worked beside me, taking notes, helping me dress wounds, and bringing me food when I missed lunch as well as breakfast.

Late in the afternoon, we finally had a lull, and I sent Will off to take some air. I needed time alone. There had to be a way for me to get into the priest's room without drawing attention to myself and without troubling the vampire.

I just had to figure out what that way was.

D

God in heaven but the nights did drag. If Fr. Dominic noticed that we'd had a visitor, he didn't say so. In fact, he all but ignored me, the only thing I could be grateful for. Each evening after dinner, he and the mean-faced, sad-eyed monks performed some sort of ceremony, one involving candles, incense, and mumbled words in Latin, a language I knew enough to recognize if not understand.

I might not understand the words, but their intent was plain. They asked their god for protection, to defend them against their enemies. I couldn't help but wonder who this gang of aging, soft clerics would need protection from. With the exception of Fr. Dominic, none of them looked strong enough to make an actual enemy.

And each night, after he'd shooed the others away, he would allow me to slip away to feed. I would return to find the priest alone at his desk, surrounded by a foul smoke.

On the third night after St John's visit, with the boat rocking gently and the engine rumbling in the distance, I stayed in the corner of the sitting room. Curiosity overcame whatever hunger I might have felt. Hassan had told me that, since I didn't need to breathe, I'd possess a new form of stillness, and I wagered Fr. Dominic would not notice me. I might have been a statue.

The priest moved around the room, continuing to mutter to himself. I wondered if he'd truly forgotten my presence. The oil lamps were stingy with the light, so perhaps I'd blended in with the shadows.

He disappeared into the bedroom, and I shifted my weight slightly, giving my stiffening arms and legs the appearance of movement. He bustled out, dressed in only a loose shirt and a pair of trousers. Without his black robes, he looked like a beetle without its shell, his soft shoulders melting into a round belly. Harmless, except that I knew the power he possessed.

He set a small wooden box on the table, took a seat, and began another prayer. This time, though, he didn't use Latin, but some other language I couldn't identify. He opened the box and my nose twitched at the scent of rot that rose from it.

If the priest noticed the smell, he didn't react. He simply sat, head down, his muttered prayer fading to a series of hisses and clicks, no longer even forming words.

Something in me responded to whatever he was doing, giving me a sour sense of familiarity. Birds of a feather, and all . There was evil there, in the stink, in the sounds he made, and in his intent. Something rose from him, an invisible force that I could sense but not see. Now fear held me frozen in place. Whatever that thing was, I didn't want it touching me.

It began to shift the way an earthworm moves through the soil. It aimed a thrust at me, then shied away, which almost made me giggle in relief. It bobbed and slithered until it passed through the wall and out into the hallway.

Under other circumstances, I would have launched myself after it, to warn the other passengers if nothing else. But self-preservation held me as still as Pompey's Pillar back home. Whatever type of magic the priest had conjured, I wanted no part of it.

We sat there for hours, the priest muttering and clicking, the sound of evil. I began to lose hope it would ever end.

It did, though, when that blind appendage slid through the wall and the room, I nearly gasped. Instead of being a thing of imagination, it appeared to be more real—or filled with something real. It retreated, growing smaller, until it was absorbed by Fr. Dominic. He grunted, as if the thing had punched him on its way in.

Then, silence.

By now, my joints were aching to move. Staying still had become an act of will rather than a natural state. Fear, however, gave me all the motivation I needed. If I survived this voyage, it would be because I'd managed to stay out of Fr. Dominic's way.

Mother liked to say that the wicked or naughty live longer, but I knew with some certainty that if the priest discovered my little lark, the consequences could be dire. I told my aching limbs to quiet down and waited for what Fr. Dominic would do next.

He straightened, casually shaking out his hands. "You don't speak Phoenician, do you?"

His question startled me so badly I jumped. "No."

"Good. Tell no one what you saw tonight."

I couldn't decide how to answer, but he didn't seem to need one. Carrying the wooden box, he slipped quickly into the bedroom. As soon as he was gone, I covered my face with my hands. Ya khasara . There was no way I'd survive this little excursion. Hassan might have turned me in order to settle a debt, but he had to have known what he was sending me into.

If he wasn't already dead, I'd have staked him myself.

I didn't move until the priest's regular snores rattled the door to his bedroom. Feeling somewhat safer, I paced around the small sitting room. I needed to move, to escape from the walls closing in on me. As much as I wanted to leave, however, the priest had made it plain I was his bodyguard at night.

Instead of walking the perimeter of the boat, I stayed in that horrid little space, counting the minutes until the sun rose and I could escape to my closet.

For yes, when they'd said I could rest in a coffin they'd brought, I told them in no uncertain terms exactly how I wouldn't be doing that. Since my refusal was somewhat eloquent, they'd let me sleep in an unused closet deep in the belly of the ship.

Just before dawn, the monk with sad eyes appeared to take me down and lock me in. Surprised me, because usually his mean-faced brother took on that task.

"The next time we reach port," he murmured without looking in my direction, "you should run."

"Where would I go?"

He shook his head. Neither of us said anything else till we reached the closet and he motioned me to get in. It was a damp, moldy place, but right then I didn't care because it kept me away from Fr. Dominic. The lock clicked, and then he murmured, "Anywhere at all."

His footsteps faded while, in those few moments before darkness took me, I tried to make sense of his words. Did I trust the man who sat at Fr. Dominic's right hand?

No.

Still, I needed an ally, someone I could trust. St John? His name kept running through my head, along with memories of his strong features and sinfully dark eyes. If one of us had the look of a demon, it was him, not me. I was too pretty, which had apparently led to my downfall.

I hadn't seen St John since the night he'd visited the priest's room, but I'd wanted to with a deep desire, a hunger I couldn't otherwise quench. Yes, I'd slipped out at least once a night and found someone willing to donate a mouthful of blood, but I never took more than that, and I always left them smiling.

What I wanted from St John was different. I wanted to feel him, to know whether his hair was as thick as it appeared, to taste the sweetness of his lips, to rub against him like a cat.

But could I trust him?

I might have to try. The two monks with Fr. Dominic had no more willpower than revenants, without the accompanying horror. Until tonight, they'd ignored me, and if any one of them was aware of Fr. Dominic's secret ritual, they did not let it show. His purpose was a mystery to me, but anything that drenched in wickedness couldn't be good.

St John was my first and only choice, and with that thought, darkness took me.