"I assume that this is Lord Roxton returning." The Count closed the gap between Marguerite and himself. "Stand here with me and we will prevent his lordship from doing anything inadvisable."
Sándor's glib, confident manner filled Marguerite with apprehension. She castigated herself mentally for not succeeding in drawing the Count away before Roxton's return.
As Roxton stepped off the elevator he was struck by the tableau of his friends staring at Sándor who stood behind Marguerite, his hand held inches from her face, ready to grasp her neck. The dark haired beauty stood still, her head tilted slightly away from the Count's hand, not letting the fear Roxton knew she must feel show on her face.
"Go back, John. It's you he wants to feed on. He'll kill you. He can't do anything unless you're here." Marguerite spoke with deceptive calmness; only her rigidly held body betrayed her fear.
"She is quite correct, Lord Roxton. However my patience is not unlimited and if you are unavailable, then I believe your Miss Krux will fill my bill of fare quite nicely."
"It's me you want." Roxton laid down his rifle, his eyes fixed on the Count. He unhooked his gun belt and gently lowered it to the floor. "Let her go. I won't stop you from feeding. You have my word." Roxton's voice was quiet, steady. His cheeks were flushed.
The Count considered his offer, but knowing that across the plateau Roxton was a reputed man of honor, he nodded his agreement.
The hunter approached the Count, took Marguerite's hand in his and tugged her forward so he could step between the woman he loved and the vile evil that stood in their home. One worry eased now that she was behind him, away from the danger of this psychic vampire.
Marguerite held her breath. "Would it work?"
Roxton, his expression unreadable, the imperturbable Englishman, held out his hand as if to shake the Count's , as composed as if he was meeting him at a social function . With an evil smile, Sándor clasped the hand held out to him. For a moment a look of gluttony and triumph washed over the Count's face.
Fearing the worst, Marguerite darted forward to intervene. Ned quickly grasped her arm tightly, holding her back. He'd promised Roxton he'd take care of her. And he was going to make good on that promise. They had to play out this hand.
Then horror filled Sándor's eyes. "What have you done?" His words came with a gasp.
"A plague upon your house." Roxton's tone was ironic. He clutched the Count's hand tightly, preventing the vile monster from escaping his fate.
The Count panted, trying to pull away. Roxton's face paled, the Count shivered, his eyes now fever bright. He sank to his knees, the tall hunter managing to still grip his hand as he stood over Sándor. Roxton's stance was shaky. The Count went limp. For a moment Roxton stood there, pale and trembling, retaining the Count's hand, needing to be sure he succeeded.
Then Roxton collapsed on the floor, toppling away from the Count. Both men were seemingly lifeless. The hunter's grip on his prey was released as he fell.
With a cry of "John!" Marguerite tore herself out of Ned's hold and dove to Roxton's side. A hand went to his forehead, her ear to his heart. The time seemed endless. Her first worry was if this damnable Count had drained him of life. With a cry of relief she said, "He's alive. But he has a fever."
Ned was standing by Sándor, but reluctant to touch him. Challenger returned from the lab where he had dashed when the men had fallen.
Summerlee took the old-fashioned stethoscope from Challenger's hand. Carefully, so as not to touch the body directly, he listened for a heartbeat. After several minutes he lifted his head and shook it. He could detect no sign of life within the Count.
"What should we do about the body?" Malone asked.
"Why not see if we can find the Magyars? Let them deal with it," Challenger suggested. "They'll want proof that he's dead. That finally the mission that brought their ancestors here is completed."
Veronica nodded. "I'll go."
"First, we need to get Roxton downstairs to bed." Marguerite had his head cradled in her arms and was brushing his hair back. Now she worried if the Count had drained him too much, would he have the strength to recover from the virulent fever?
"I can walk." The weak voice of the hunter startled his companions. Marguerite sighed in relief. His arm curved around her back, reassuringly.
"You're not going to be doing much on your own for sometime, if this hits you like it did Challenger and I." Marguerite's tone was harsh, afraid she'd end up babbling if she gave way to the emotions crowding through her.
"Did it work?" Roxton demanded.
"It seems to have," Summerlee replied. "That was quite a risk you took. Deliberately exposing yourself to the source of Challenger and Marguerite's infection." Summerlee looked at the hunter who seemed to be in better shape than any of them expected. Maybe the Count had drained part of the fever when he attempted to siphon Roxton's life away.
"It was the only thing he feared. Just to be sure I broke another one of the urns." Roxton took hold of Marguerite's hand wanting the comfort of her touch. He smiled apologetically at the scientist. "Sorry, Challenger."
"What if you were overcome by the fever before you made it back here?" Veronica was distressed by the thought of all the problems Sándor had caused.
"It was a risk I had to take. As it was I ended up waiting below until I was sure the fever had taken hold." Roxton grimaced as he remembered the voices floating down to him as he forced himself to wait for the right moment.
"Well, now you pay the price for your heroics." Despite the dry tones, Marguerite's thumb stroked the back of his hand. She tried to keep her composure, but her relief at his surviving the encounter was nearly overwhelming her.
"I'm looking forward to you as Florence Nightingale," Roxton managed to get out as Ned and Challenger pulled him upright.
"I hope you like the taste of chamomile tea." Marguerite followed them down the stairs as Roxton's laugh ended in a cough.
Epilogue to follow...