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  As she returned to the house, feeling once more alone and unprotected, she noted that the evil Vincent was openly watching her again.

  He grew bolder when, after several days, it seemed that the man of the house was gone.

  George Harris came back once, on some pretext, but obviously to see Carrie, and they talked for some time. She learned that he was seventeen, and admitted she was three years younger.

  Five days, then six, had passed since Czarina Catherine sailed away.

  George Harris came back again, this time wondering if he might have left his order book behind on his previous visit. Carrie made him tea, out of the newly restocked pantry. Mr. de Ville had left them what he called a token of his gratitude for their timely help, and sometimes Carrie was almost frightened when she counted up the golden coins. There was a bed in each bedroom now, and chairs and tables below.

  Tonight Chris was in the house alone, curled up and reading by the fire, nursing a cough made worse by London air. Carrie was out alone in the London fog, walking through the greasy, smoky chill.

  She heard the terrifying voice of Vincent, not far away, calling her name. There were footsteps in pursuit, hard confident strides, and in her fresh anxiety she took a wrong turning into a deadend mews.

  In another moment she was running in panic, on the verge of screaming, feeling in her bones that screaming would do no good.

  Someone, some presence, was near her in the fog—but no, there was no one and nothing there.

  Only her pursuer's footsteps, which came on steadily, slow and loud and confident—until they abruptly ceased.

  Backed into a corner, she strained her ears, listening—nothing. Vincent must be playing cat and mouse with her. But at last a breath of wind stirred the heavy air, the gray curtain parted, and the way out of the mews seemed clear. Utterly deserted, only the body of some derelict, rolled into a corner.

  No—someone was visible after all. Half a block ahead, a tall figure stood looking in Carrie's direction, as if he might be waiting for her.

  With a surge of relief and astonishment she hurried forward. "Mr. de Ville!"

  "My dear child. It is late for you to be abroad."

  "I saw you board a ship for the Black Sea!"

  His gaze searched the fog, sweeping back and forth over her head. "It is important that certain men believe I am still on that ship. And soon I really must depart from England. But I shall return to this sceptered isle one day."

  Anxiously she looked over her shoulder. "There was a man—"

  "Your former neighbor, who meant you harm." De Ville's forehead creased. His eyes probed shadows in the mews behind her. "It is sad to contemplate such wickedness." He sighed, put out a hand, patted her cheek. "But no matter. He will bother you no more. He told me—"

  "You've seen him, sir?"

  "Yes, just now—that he is leaving on a long journey—nay, has already left."

  Carrie was puzzled. "Long journey—to where, sir? America?"

  "Farther than that, my child. Oh, farther than that."

  A man's voice was audible above the endless traffic rumble, calling her name through the night from blocks away. The voice of George Harris, calling, concerned, for Carrie.

  Bidding Mr. de Ville a hasty good night, she started to go to the young man. Then, meaning to ask another question, she turned back—the street was empty, save for the rolling fog.

  Wolf and Hound

  Nigel Bennett and P. N. Elrod

  Sabra stood on the cliff overlooking the sea, scenting the rising wind for magic. She braced against cold updrafts buffeting her small body, her long hair torn free, whipping about like Medusa's snakes. She braced and let it come until she could determine if it was the simple spice of some minor weather-wizard or the dank reek of deeper sorcery.

  As the church bells below tolled midnight the air abruptly went still, waiting. In the fields behind her she heard the dolourous bleating of sheep. In the town below a dog frantically barked warning. Then the storm itself burst upon sea and land. She could see the very color of its force on the wind, angry red streaks shot through with a violet so deep as to be black.

  Spreading her arms wide, she sang into the night, her clear voice going out to the rocks below, then dancing across the wild gray waters of a harbour to a mist-hidden horizon. The returning echo against her soul confirmed her suspicion. The quickening wash of the gale had real spellwork behind it: old, dark, and dangerously powerful.

  Blood magic it was.

  Blood magic… and death.

  Out there beyond the breakwater… a drifting schooner. That was the source. Did it carry plague such as she'd seen ravaging all the world in those short centuries past? If so, then there was little she could do to stop it. A rare stab of true horror pierced her, but only for an instant. Great would be that calamity, but it was part of the natural cycle of the earth. This was decidedly un-natural. Which brought it within her sphere of influence.

  By miracle or curse, the ship found its way into the harbour, going aground, causing much activity among the locals who ran to its aid. She wondered if any of them marked the black shape of the huge wolf that leaped to shore from the deck. It charged straight for a sea cliff and the darkness of the churchyard above. The beast did not pause, but continued past the church, heading for the shelter of a broken abbey, heading directly toward Sabra.

  The wolf found its way up the last steep rise, gaining level footing not five paces away.

  Much larger than any she'd seen before, it was big as a calf, a match for any of the hounds of Annwyn. Raw hate gleamed from red eyes. Swinging its heavy head in her direction, long teeth bared in a growl, it advanced on her. She did not move, except to hold out her hand in a placating gesture. She spoke Words of Calming in the Old Tongue. The creature snapped in reaction, ears flat, hackles up as though she'd clubbed it instead. Beneath the thick fur, muscles bunched, and it leaped at her, its reeking jaws closing upon her throat, ripping flesh like paper. She fell backwards under the weight of its body and kept falling. Both of them launched spinning from the cliff, dropping into empty, roaring space…

  Sabra awoke fully from the dream.

  She lay inert, eyes shut, only mildly aware of the ornate bed in which she'd slept the day through, and tried to hold fast to the last shreds of the vision, seeking more details. Clearest of all was that picture of herself standing on the cliff overlooking Whitby Harbour. Sweet Cerridwen, but she'd not passed through Whitby in decades, why now?

  Used to all sorts of nightmarish dreams, her gift of Sight was usually more forthcoming with meanings to explain the mesh of images, but not this time. Whether the wolf was a literal or symbolic danger she could not tell. Whatever was astir knew how to cloak itself, which meant a formidable magical skill. She could not ignore such a strong, if murky, portent and made the necessary arrangements for the long rail journey home.

  Taking advantage of certain modes of this century's fashion, Sabra covered her pale skin in long gloves and a heavy cloak, and draped a dense black veil over a wide-brimmed bonnet. Warm for August, but it protected her from the burning sun and offered welcome isolation. She appeared to be a recently bereaved widow in deep mourning. None would question why she took no meals in the train's dining car. Those feedings she sought elsewhere from willing and forgetful companions. No more dreams of blood magic disturbed her day-sleeps, which was frustrating. She wanted more information.

  It took days of travel to reach England from St. Petersburg where she'd been keeping an eye on Victoria's granddaughter, Alexandria. By then the storm Sabra had envisaged had come and gone, the mystery of it cold, though gossip was still rife. The macabre tale of a dead captain sailing his deserted ship into harbour confirmed to her that she'd done the right thing leaving the Russian court to investigate this. Whatever had been aboard boded ill for the realm she'd pledged to guard.

  She spent a week in Whitby, sensing nothing useful, learning little of import except that the wolf had also been real enou
gh, though all thought it to be only a large dog. According to a newspaper report, it had fled the ship following the same path she'd seen in her dream, vanishing into the night, perhaps to prowl the moors, alone and afraid.

  Or so people assumed.

  Shape-shifters were not unknown to her. Most were harmless, but this one was different, else its magic wouldn't have drawn her attention so strongly.

  She sought and found information about the ship's cargo and its final destination, tracking it to Purfleet. Taking to the rails again, she followed the same route to King's Cross station, and ultimately to the badly aging mansion attached to old Carfax Abbey.

  The place was deserted save for a number of boxes in the ruined chapel which proved to be filled with earth.

  So… that was it. One of the European Breed come to settle in England. She had no objection to them, so long as they conducted themselves with wisdom and discretion. Thus far she was unimpressed. This one—if she drew the correct conclusion from the captain's log printed in the papers—had killed the entire crew of the ship on which he'd sailed. Why had he not simply cast his influence upon them to make them forget his presence? All those of undead blood had that talent, but this had been vicious and barbaric beyond reason.

  Then there was the matter of the magic.

  Whoever this newcomer might be, he commanded powers beyond those of his peers. The Europeans had sufficient supernatural strengths within their inherent natures, but to combine those with black sorcery made for a frightening potential. Before she could return to Russia, Sabra would have to determine their extent—and his intentions.

  Still in the convenient isolation of widow's weeds, Sabra took rooms at a nearby hotel. In the days to come she maintained a loose vigil on Carfax, primarily after dark, as she judged it to be the most likely time for him to return, but that proved a disappointment. The only activity she marked was noting one night that nearly half the boxes were gone, the signs left in the thick dust indicating the invasion of a carting firm going about its prosaic business.

  Then there was the occasional excitement when one of the lunatics from the sanitarium next door escaped. He always came to Carfax, crying pitifully to gain entry to be with his "Master."

  The poor brute was touched by the moon all right, his disturbed mind reacting badly to the European's strong psychic trace. She visited the fellow once in the late hours, speaking through his barred window in hope of learning something useful. Alas, his madness was something even her powers of influence could not pierce. All she got was his insistence that "the Master was here," to which she assigned its broader meaning. If the European were on the immediate grounds, she'd have sensed him.

  Growing impatient with the wait—for August had long vanished and September was nearly gone—Sabra tried a scrying ceremony one night while the moon was still at full. The results, as she stared hard into the mirrored surface of a black bowl filled with water, were mixed. She saw the delicate shadow of a young woman, but nothing of her face or location. The shadow became less and less substantial, then vanished altogether.

  Not good, Sabra thought grimly, then added a handful of earth taken from one of the boxes to the bowl. She stirred it clockwise and waited for the water to grow still again.

  This time she saw his shadow. It stretched long and solid in the moonlight, reaching far over city and field. The shadow was not black, but blood red. No surprise there. She sought to raise her view, to see the man himself, but he kept drawing away from her. His shadow suddenly changed shape, first into that of a wolf, then a bat, and finally dissolving into countless fly-specks that swirled away to vanish in the wind. She did not think he was aware of her; this was only part of his normal protective magic.

  And probably strongest at night, she wryly concluded upon waking from her trance.

  The next time she made an attempt was at the brightest hour of noon, closing her shutters and pulling the draperies close.

  The visions were clear now, but dark: deaths and burials, images accompanied by vivid emotions. She was at last able to see the young woman. Dead now. There had been much unhappiness and suffering for her. Though she'd been hedged round with protections, they were not sufficient to keep him from sating his appetite for her. Poor lost child. She'd have had little idea what was happening to her, nor would she have known how to defend against it. There was much to be said for keeping alive old superstitions and wives' tales. The great dawning of science had helped many with its light, but there were yet things walking abroad who took advantage of the shifting shadows in the chasms between science and faith.

  Dire change had already wrested the girl from her final sleep, too late to restore the balance there. However, Sabra had gotten a distinct clue to follow, a very clear vision of a churchyard with a marble mausoleum, and the impression that it was fairly close.

  At dusk she set out searching for a specific building to match the one she carried in memory. London had hundreds of churches, but she had a scent to follow the right one. Death and sorrow leave their own unique spoor.

  Not far from Hampstead Heath, she found the church and its attendant cemetery. There she got confirmation that the gods favored her presence, for she arrived in time to witness a most peculiar event. Four men, one old, the rest young, were hoisting themselves over the churchyard wall. With no small exertion they eventually succeeded, albeit in a most undignified manner. They should have scouted the area first and made use of a convenient overhanging tree but a few yards along the wall. Sabra had the advantage of them with her excellent night vision. Despite her skirts, she nimbly climbed the friendly branches to drop silently on the other side.

  Though stealthy as they threaded through the tombstones to the mausoleum, they did not have the look of grave robbers, being too well dressed. Medical men seeking a corpse suitable for dissection? No, for one of them produced a key to the structure. Mourners? They were in for a wretched surprise. She hid behind a shadow-steeped cypress, close enough to observe.

  The older fellow, who had a Dutch accent, seemed to be in charge, unlocking the mausoleum that they might enter, then shutting them all inside. She stole forward, listening through the door cracks as they labourously opened one of the coffins within… only to find it empty. That did not sit well with the other men, who all seemed connected to the young woman who should have lain there. They demanded an explanation, and the old man, whom they addressed as "Professor," provided one. He was quite detailed.

  Ah. So that was it. Hunters. He was trying to train his acolytes in the mysteries of destroying Nosferatu. With indifferent success, it seemed, though he managed to convince his unhappy students that something odd was afoot and that they should hold watch.

  They soon quit the tomb, Sabra withdrew to the cypress, and all save the professor settled in to wait. He busied himself by working some sort of putty around the door, explaining that the crumbled-up Host he'd mixed into the stuff would prevent the Un-Dead from entering through the cracks. This positively scandalized Sabra. There were other, more respectful methods of sealing a place. Holy Water or a blessing would have done just as well. Perhaps he was trying to make a dramatic point with his students.

  Sabra settled in, senses alert. She'd have had to wait anyway; this added company was merely an unexpected complication. It would be most interesting to question the professor, but later, when she could hypnotically control him.

  If he survived the night. Even a young Nosferatu was a deadly opponent to ordinary mortals. Sabra hoped the men had armed themselves. And with the right weapons.

  A distant clock struck the quarter-hours. Slowly, most slowly. She found no fault with the other guardians in their determination; it was a weary vigil and in such a place as to excite the morbid side of one's imagination. Cemeteries held no fear for her, but she did not approve of them, disliking the idea of all those bodies lying corrupt in the good earth.

  The ancient Britons had sensibly exposed their dead, letting the elements and animals have their way with
the flesh until naught remained but clean bones, which were then tidily interred.

  For a time they'd adapted the northern custom of burning the corpse, setting off a spectacular blaze none of the gods could miss, releasing the spirit to soar free from its clay prison.

  Either way, there would be no doubt to anyone that the deceased, and any illness he or she carried, was indeed dead and would remain firmly, safely, and harmlessly on its own side of the veil. This relatively new custom of burying bodies in the ground or leaving them boxed up in mausoleums was indecent, not to mention unhealthy. Far better to let the natural corruption of the flesh take place in the cleansing wash of open sky or by purifying fire than to hide it away to fester and rot in the airless dark.

  Well, if one must have such dreary spots, best that they be on holy ground, which was good for certain numinous matters. But there were some types of magic that ran beyond the bounds of the ordinary rituals of faith…

  The clock struck two, and moments later she heard the old man's hiss of warning. The group's whole attention riveted upon something coming up the yew-tree avenue. Sabra ventured out a bit for a glimpse.

  A young woman clad in filmy grave garments, the same one from the scrying-vision. She walked slowly, ghost-like, not yet aware of the men. There was no mistaking what she'd become, but that dark bundle she held close to her lithe body… a child? Sabra was aghast at this cruel turn of appetite, and set herself to leap forward and to intervene, devil take the consequences.

  But matters moved too swiftly; the instant of intervention passed when the men startled the girl, who cast the child away. She should have fled, but instead turned the full power of her charm upon one of them, apparently her husband. It was as though none of the others existed for her. She'd have ensnared him on the spot, but the professor stepped between, using a crucifix to thwart her. Only then did the girl seem to realize her danger and darted for the tomb—to be repulsed by the Host. The change should not have left her vulnerable to such holy objects; it was the corruption of the European's dark magics that had done that to her.