With remarkable aplomb considering his current fears, Ian replied, "I thought you would be a bit more upset by my revelation. It's not everyday one is accused of being a werewolf."
Asher chuckled and wiped a speck of dirt off his gleaming black Hessians. He had been called worse.
Ian scowled, seeing Asher's amusement. "Ah, yes. You have been called a wolf a time or two, but only by females you've bedded." He began to pace, carefully keeping his distance from the Nosferatu. "Now, what do you plan on doing about this?"
"Shall I play Lancelot to your Arthur?" Asher grinned, thinking of what he would give a lot of lance: Clair's fragrant, sweet flesh. And when Clair was totally his, Huntsley would lie down and die like a wounded dog. For Asher knew something Ian hadn't realized yet: Ian Huntsley was in love with Clair—the kind of love that happens only once and lasts even after death did you part.
Ian's pacing stopped abruptly, and he glowered at Asher. "You won't touch one drop of her blood. She's an innocent in all of this."
"Ha! She started this whole ludicrous mess by poking her nose into things which are none of her affair! In this cat's case, her curiosity has very well killed her."
Ian shook his head. "We're in a gray area here. There's no need for violence. She thinks you're a wolf, not a vampire."
Asher shrugged. He wasn't planning to kill Clair; he was going to kiss her senseless and drink her blood. But what Huntsley didn't know did hurt him, which was just what Asher wanted. "Semantics. Dead women tell no tales. I'll err on the side of caution." He struggled into one of his black Hessian boots. They were made to fit tightly, showing off his well-made calves. "Clair is human, and mortals have a major tendency to gossip."
Ian wanted to smash the complacent look off Asher's face but knew he couldn't. He wasn't strong enough to defeat the vampire in a battle. He also knew that if he had staked Asher while Asher was still in the coffin, Asher's nest of vampires would seek retribution not only against him but also Clair. He grimaced. He was going to have to do some fast-talking. Pointing at the vampire's boots, Ian remarked with a sangfroid air, "You missed a spot. I guess everything runs smoother with your valet. Your human valet."
"Your point," Asher snapped, his patience gone. Huntsley had invaded his territory. Huntsley had been waiting inside this crypt with holy water in hand when he opened his coffin. Huntsley could have easily killed him. Someone would pay!
"Your valet, Renfield, is human. And as far as I know, Renfield has never told another living soul about you and your nest."
Asher shook his head. "Correction: My valet is my human servant. A pointed difference." He snickered as he finished putting on his second boot.
Ian snarled in disgust. "Come on, Asher, we need to reach some kind of compromise."
The vampire raised a tawny brow. "Now it gets interesting. Are you suggesting I make Clair my servant?"
"Over my dead body," Ian growled, his rage a living beast.
"With pleasure." Tying his cravat with a flourish, Asher faced Ian, fangs extended, his ice blue eyes glittering with golden flames.
Ian backed off a few more steps, watching Asher's complete transformation from man to vampire. Fortunately he had encountered the metamorphosis before. Still he observed, and his fascination was apparent, his angst palpable.
The blue of Asher's eyes was now almost overshadowed by the golden flames. His gums had receded, highlighting his inch-long fangs, and his fingernails lengthened to needle-fine points. Concern for Clair was the only thing that kept Ian from leaving the crypt. He unstoppered the vial of holy water and held it high for Asher to see. In his other hand, he pulled out a sharpened stake—Van Helsing model number four.
"I'll take you with me, or at least hurt you. You know that if holy water touches your skin, your flesh melts. It's no idle boast, Asher. I won't let you hurt Clair."
"Perhaps. Perhaps not." Asher shrugged philosophically. "Who can say? But I'll wager a monkey that I will come out the victor."
"As always, Asher, your vanity overcomes your common sense."
Asher snarled, his fangs glistening. Ian tensed, waiting for the attack, his life flashing before his eyes in a series of colorful images of love, laughter, and ultimately grief and unfulfilled responsibility.
Then Asher grabbed his cape, his eyes returning to their usual glacial blue. "I don't have time for this, Huntsley. Come. The night is calling me. It vanishes quickly and too soon will slip into dawn." Asher donned the heavy dark cloak. "Clair Frankenstein is a danger to me and my kind! Think what wholesale slaughter could happen to my people if humans became aware of our existence. Think what a bloodbath would occur if mortals knew of us. They would attack us, we would decimate them. How would your Clair feel if she were the one responsible?"
Ian shook his head. "She won't tell, even if she figures it all out—which is doubtful."
"The deuce you say. You're moonstruck, my chap. She's a Frankenstein. Of course she'll tell. She'll write about my species in some obscure scientific text. Of course, in this case, the more obscure the better." Asher opened the mausoleum door.
Ian held up his hand, motioning for Asher to stop. "I think you should be aware that her family is close friends with Durlock Homes."
Asher halted. "Bloody damn! That man's a bloodhound once he's on the scent. He never tires and he never stops!"
"Homes would take it amiss if anything happened to her," Ian went on as they exited the mausoleum. Asher was in the lead; no way would he have the vampire at his back.
Night surrounded them, its scent so strong that Ian could taste it. The silence was ominous as he awaited Asher's decision.
The vampire stood with head thrown back, bathing in the glow of the moon. Then, recalling himself, he finished their business. "I must admit I don't want Dr. Homes on my trail. He's almost as good at the hunt as one of my kind."
"Don't forget Clair's uncle and his monster," Ian added.
"Victor? The man's a bedlamite. Still, it seems Miss Frankenstein has a veritable dragoon of dragonhearts saving her neck. Literally."
"One more thing. Call it blood for thought. As of tonight, I've put Clair off your scent."
Asher appeared intrigued. "How?"
"By giving her other quarry to pursue. You might call it a false trail. A very false trail."
"You underestimate your petite chère. She's made of sharper stuff. I doubt you've solved my problem."
Ian clenched his fists. "Asher… stay away from her."
The vampire raised an elegant hand. "No need to get your hackles up. You've given me a great deal to reflect upon," he countered as they came to the edge of the cemetery. "By the way, how did you discover my new sleeping quarters?"
By the tensing of Asher's shoulders, Ian knew the question wasn't casual. He answered truthfully, "I tracked you."
"Well, don't ever do it again!" Asher commanded, his expression deadly. "Though I should have known. You Huntsleys were always masters of the hunt, yourselves. Too bad we hunt different prey. It would have been a challenge to see whose skill was superior." And so saying, Asher vanished into the mist.
Bell, Cookbook, and Candle
Once again, Clair's mountain-climbing ability served her well. She scaled the Duke of Ghent's walls like a mountain goat, just as crafty as a fox, she had avoided the guardians of the gate and those surrounding the duke's palatial mansion. It was, in fact, the great expanse of the place that increased Clair's chances of not being seen.
As usual, Clair had been her pragmatic, resourceful self, memorizing the layout of the duke's home. Methodically, she started her search in the lower rooms, investigating the library, the morning room, and the duke's study. Finding nothing of interest, with the exception of one black cat curled up in a ball, she continued toward the kitchen.