Later in the day, Clair finally got to begin her search for proof of the earl's preternatural abilities, for Ian got an urgent message from his Yorkshire estate. Fortunately for Ian, the estate was only four hours away on horseback. Unfortunately for Clair, Ian would have to miss the country ball the earl was holding in his guests' honor.
Ian kissed her goodbye, warned her to be careful, and promised to return as quickly as possible the following morning. He waved as he and Galen left. With both regret and relief, Clair watched him ride away.
Although sad, Ian's departure gave Clair the freedom she needed to explore the downstairs estate, which turned out a disappointment, with the exception of the cellars. Those she was unable to view since they were locked up tighter than a drum.
It turned out entirely a wasted day. She found no werewolf proof. No wolf man footprints, except for the wolfhound prints Clair had discovered earlier. She got no mad, passionate lovemaking. And her chaperone was only a chaperone until Ian left; then Mary went off on her merry way to pave her path to hell with desire. Clair thought all these things as she watched her aunt Mary and Ozzie walking along the terrace. Ozzie was holding her too close, and Mary was cooing at him.
"Traitor," Clair mused out loud. The way Aunt Mary was gazing at Ozzie with heat in her eyes, and the way Ozzie was looking at her aunt, as though she were a seven-course meal or new recipe, it was more than obvious what the couple had been doing. They'd been frolicking and fornicating, while Clair had been forced to take a nap all by her lonesome.
"You sneaky little coquette," she muttered to herself about her aunt, a half smile on her face. "It's you who need the chaperone, Auntie." Clair stood alone by the balcony entrance, waiting for the earl to be announced. Glancing out the large crystal-cut windowpanes, she could see the soft white glow of the full moon. At least one thing would come from this dismal day. Tonight, when Asher didn't show up, she'd have her proof he was a werewolf. Werewolves had to change on the night of the full moon. It couldn't be helped.
Of course, she knew Asher would make up some lame excuse—like another emergency on the estate—for being absent. But it wouldn't matter. She would have more circumstantial evidence. During the next two full moons she would contrive to be around Asher and note he'd be once again not available. If she were very lucky, she might even get to see him shape-shift. What a thrill that would be, making her scientific day. Clair smiled beguilingly. She was getting closer to the truth. Fulfilling her Frankenstein destiny. She would join the greats such as Galileo, Newton, Darwin and her uncle Victor.
Her smile froze then turned to an open-mouthed O.
Asher grinned wolfishly at her as he walked down the large marble staircase. Gotcha! he thought gleefully as he made his bow to her.
"You're not a…" Clair stopped herself before blurting out the w-word.
"A what?" Asher's expression was amused. He had never seen Clair so stumped before.
"A… a… a-afraid of wearing that hue of burgundy for an evening jacket. How refreshing, since most of the men here are dressed in somber black or those garish colors yellow and green," Clair said in a rush.
"Drat! Drat, drat, and triple drat!" she muttered to herself. She had done it again—convinced herself that earls were werewolves and barons vampires, when in reality everyone was human and no one was a supernatural predator at all. What a huge disappointment she was to the Frankenstein name. There would be no prestigious Scientific Discovery of the Decade Award for her. No publication. No lecturing in front of her peers in the scientific halls of academia. What would Uncle Victor say? Bloody hell. What would Ian say? He would probably never let her live it down.
"My, you are fast on your feet," Asher commented. Seeing Clair's confusion, he grinned. "Ah. You were talking about fashion and here I thought you were talking about something else." Dropping her hand politely, he took a step back and glanced down at the deep burgundy of his coat. "I could change. Would you like to see me change?" He hesitated, enjoying Clair's chagrin. "Jackets, that is."
Flustered, she shook her head. "You look divine, as always." Clair's mind was racing, her angst receding somewhat as she tried to find explanations for her abominable lack of investigative skills.
"Humph!" she muttered, vowing to apprentice herself to Mr. Durlock Homes for a time and learn his superior investigation skills. Asher preened a moment, then entered the receiving line to greet his guests.
In a drat-I-can't-believe-he's-not-a-werewolf depression, Clair strolled outside, taking the large stone stairway leading from the terrace down to the gardens. The air was crisp and the soft white orb of the full moon nestled into the velvety black sky. It shone down, highlighting the lush green foliage of the garden.
Strolling down a path at the edge, Clair kept thinking about her mistakes. Ian the vampire was not a vampire. Wider the vampire was not a vampire. Ozzie the warlock was not a wizard. And Asher the werewolf was not a wolf. How could she have been so wrong? Where had her hypotheses gone awry? What fatal steps had she taken in her research that led her to this once-again humiliating moment in time?
And who was making that whimpering sound?
Alert, Clair hurried up the path farther into the deep shadows made by the trees along the side. Someone was in trouble. A female, by the sound of the cry.
Stumbling into a small opening between the hedges, Clair came upon a scene straight from one of those horror novellas, the ones which were much more fictionalized than her uncle Tieck's novel. She blinked, gasped, then blinked again, trying to understand what she was seeing.
The red-haired maid whom Asher's butler had assigned to Clair was draped over one of Christopher Wilder's arms, her bare neck exposed. Blood was flowing from a wound on her neck. The maid was crying, her arms beating to no avail against Wilder's chest.
Turning, his gaze malevolent, Wilder bared his fangs, and his eyes glowed with an otherworldly light.
"Bloody hell!" Clair cursed, unconsciously using one of Ian's favorite phrases. "You are a vampire. I was right! Right!"
For one small second Clair wanted to dance with joy, until the reality of her situation came crashing down upon her. She was alone with a fang-baring, blood-drinking killer!
The maid's cry interrupted her thoughts. No, Clair wasn't alone, and she had to do something to save the maid. She reached up to touch her silver cross, only to remember she hadn't worn it to the house party, since she had been hunting werewolves and not the walking dead.
Quickly discarding her plan to back the vampire away from the maid by clutching a cross, Clair settled on another scheme. Grabbing a thick fallen branch, she charged Wilder and swung it at the vampire's head. As plans went, she would later realize, this was doomed to failure.
Wilder grabbed the branch with one hand, still holding on to the maid. Behind her, Clair heard a hiss that made the blood curdle in her veins.
"Well, bloody hell," she muttered. She had wanted to find a nest of them, and she had. Leaping away from Wilder, she turned to find herself face to face with an enraged Lady Montcrief. Her face Clair would long remember, with its glistening incisors smiling in satisfaction.
"You're mine, bitch," Lady Montcrief laughed, her tone sharp as nails. "Tonight, you die!"
"You won't get away with murdering me, you bloodsucking witch! Ian will hunt you down and stake you like you deserve," Clair vowed, her face pale with fear. Lady Montcrief was evil incarnate, and Wilder wasn't much better. She had been right, in a manner of speaking. She supposed they could write that on her tomb-stone: She got most of the facts wrong, but she was right at least once. It killed her.