Chapter Two
Dan stared over the rim of a cup of steaming coffee at his companion. Near evening of their first day's travel, the storm had driven them into a cave where they sat warming themselves over a fire Nicholas had miraculously kindled, waiting for it to abate enough for them to continue their search. The stranger was ill at ease – pacing from one end of the cave to the other. Dan leaned back against the cavern wall and took a sip.
From the look of him, a man would have thought it was Nicholas Knightsford who was Mingo's blood brother.
"You're gonna wear a hole in either the cave floor or those expensive boots of yours," Dan commented softly.
Nicholas stopped and glanced at him.
"Why don't you save some leather and park yourself by the fire?"
With one last look at the raging storm, Nicholas did just that. He crossed the small space and took a seat opposite Dan, and thanked him as he handed him a cup of coffee. Dan watched him closely. Nicholas cradled the cup, but he didn't sip.
"You seem mighty upset for a stranger. There somethin' you ain't tellin' me?" Dan asked.
"About what?" Nicholas replied.
"Mingo. You know him. Don't you?"
Nicholas frowned, and then that boyish smile reappeared – but chagrinned. "I have made his acquaintance before."
"In England?"
"Mr. Boone. Are you a seer?"
Dan took another long sip. "Nope. You don't exactly sound like you're from around here."
"No." Nicholas laughed. "No, I don't suppose I do." He hopped to his feet then, as if incapable of alighting for long, and began once again to pace. "We knew each other in England. Attending the same school. Moving in the same circles. That sort of thing."
"And you came here to Boonesborough to see him?"
"No. Well, yes…. In a way." Nicholas paused before the cave's opening. "How many hours until dawn, do you think?" he asked unexpectedly.
Dan frowned. "Hard to tell when the world is white. Three, maybe four."
"We need to move."
"For Mingo's sake. Or yours?"
The question was asked quietly, but its impact was loud. Nicholas Knightsford stiffened and then his shoulders slumped. He turned toward him. "You are a shrewd man, Mr. Boone."
"Call me Daniel."
Nicholas nodded. "Daniel."
"Well…."
"For both." Nicholas returned to his side. "Your friend cannot long survive in this white wilderness. And I dare not tarry."
"Someone followin' you?"
He was silent a moment and then shrugged. "I am not certain." A flash of that smile. "But I don't care to take a chance that they are."
"What do you want with Mingo?"
Even though he seemed temperamentally incapable of staying put, Nicholas sat down again. "I just want to talk to him."
Dan leaned forward and gripped the handle of the coffee pot. " 'bout what?"
"You are a persistent man, Mr. Boone…. Daniel."
Dan showed that lop-sided grin. "You ain't seen nothin' yet."
The other man drew a deep breath. "Mingo is the son of an English earl and a Cherokee woman, is he not?"
The frontiersman nodded. "Yep. What of it?"
"It is his…unique perspective I need. I have a riddle to solve. One I believe he can help me with."
"A riddle? You gonna tell me what riddle?"
The boyish smile reappeared, but tainted with the hard-won wisdom of a very old man. "No."
Dan thought about it and then nodded his head. "Fair enough. A man's business is his own."
"Thank you, Daniel – "
"But if you bring harm to Mingo – or to mine – know you'll have me to answer to."
"I do not intend – "
"Ain't a man's intentions I judge him by. It's his actions."
Nicholas was silent for several heartbeats. He looked toward the cave mouth, toward the white world outside, and then back at him. "I pray, by my actions, to show you that I am nothing but a friend to Mingo – and to you. The storm has abated a bit. Don't you think we should go?"
Dan's light green eyes followed the other man's. Sure enough the white world outside the cave was now tinted a deep lavender, as if it reflected not the whirling snow but the waning night sky above. Dan tossed the remainder of his coffee on the fire and then rose to his feet as it sizzled.
"You still believe Mingo to be headed for his lodge?" Nicholas asked.
As he placed his coonskin cap on his head and then palmed Ticklicker, Dan answered, "Headed there, yep. As for reachin' it?" Outside the cave the wind still howled, raising devils of pale purple snow. "I don't know."
"Then where?"
"There's a few cabins scattered alone the way. And a few barns. I'm hopin' he's holed up in one of those. If not…." Dan swallowed hard. "Well, if not, Nicholas, that there riddle of yours may stay unsolved."
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"Confounded wind! Why don't ya shut your yap and let a man get a peaceable night's sleep!" Cincinnatus muttered as he started down the short stair from the second floor of his tavern to the first wearing only his linsey-woolsey nightshirt and cap, and a pair of red and white striped stockings. Halfway there he slipped and slid to the bottom, feeling the pine hand of every step as it slapped his bony posterior on the way down. Ending with a thud and an 'oomph' at the bottom, he barely managed to keep hold of the tin lantern he carried, but even so it spit hot wax on his fingers in retaliation.
Cincinnatus sat for a moment, breathing hard, and then looked up at the ceiling. "You got something ag'in an old man gettin' a good night's sleep?"
As he sat there the incessant pounding started again. When he had been tucked in his bed, a soft feather ticking between his bones and its wooden ribs and several layers of warm linen and wool over his head, he had thought it was a loose board or shutter banging. Now, from his unenviable position on the tavern floor, he realized the sound was coming from the front of his establishment.
Someone was knocking on the door!
Squinting, he glanced out the tavern window. It was near dawn now, but the only thing that had changed was that the swirling snow outside was a deep lavender pink instead of white. "Who in his right mind…" he grumbled as he gingerly rose from the floor, taking care to make certain nothing was broken. "Hold on! Hold on! I'm a comin'," Cincinnatus called out as the pounding continued, so forcefully he thought the door might give way. "You must be the size of a grizzly bear from the sound of – "
The door was open. So was Cincinnatus' mouth.
Outside, wearing a cloak of snow, stood a petite dark-haired beauty. Her vivid blue eyes pinned him. Her lips, red as rubies, parted as she reached out toward him – her gloved hand catching at the cloth of his nightshirt as she fell to the ground.
"Messier, merci…"
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Daniel rose to his feet and signaled his companion. He and Nicholas had left the trail long before reaching Mingo's lodge. It seemed his inebriated Cherokee friend had lost his way as expected – but in more ways than one. They had found Mingo's bandoleer empty and abandoned by the side of the road, its contents spread out over a trail that led them north half a mile – into Shawnee territory. Dan pointed toward the snow-covered ground. "Nicholas, take a look at this."
The other man was standing, staring at the horizon. He turned at Dan's voice and hurried to his side. "Have you found something?"
"Tracks."
Nicholas bent down to examine them and then looked up puzzled. "These are the tracks of a hare."
"Yep."
The young man frowned. "I don't…."
"They might be a hare's, but they are tracks. That means we oughta be able to find Mingo's. The snow's not been blown so hard here." Daniel looked up at the canopied trees above their heads. "I just wish I knew whether or not he was thinkin' straight," he added with a sigh.
"And why is that?" Nicholas asked. "Other than for the obvious reasons."
"There's a cave. It's still a good day's walk from here, maybe more on account of the snow. One time, Mingo wouldn't a gone near it. But I think he'd feel different now." Dan's worried look turned to a scowl. "If he's able to feel anythin'."
"What kind of a cave?"
Dan pursed his lips. "You believe in ghosts, Mr. Knightsford?"
"Nicholas, please. And, yes." The blond smiled. "I have made the acquaintance of one or two."
That raised one of Dan's brown eyebrows. "Well, once upon a time this here cave was s'posed to be haunted."
"By whom?"
"The spirits of the Shawnee murdered on the spot. They called it Wi-sha-sho."
"Once, but no more?"
"A while back, in the summer, we ended up there – Mingo, me, Becky and the children – somethin' happened and the ghosts, if they was ever there, were put to rest."
"So you think Mingo might have made for there?"
Dan's green eyes narrowed, remembering that day. He had often wondered what had happened to the British officer they had helped. They had brought Lieutenant Henry Pitcairn back to the settlement after the Shawnee released him, but upon awakening the next day, Pitcairn had been gone.
"There's some old supplies there, and it would be a safe harbor in a storm. It'd be my best guess considerin' where we are."
"Well, then, let's get going!"
Dan looked up again, this time toward the clear sky showing beyond the ceiling of trees. For the moment there was a respite in the snow, but the breeze was rising, indicating a fresh assault was on its way. "It's a long walk, Nicholas, in the bitter cold. Me – ain't nothin' I can do but go. But you? There's no need for you to put your life at risk."
Nicholas grinned. "Risk? Is not every breath a man draws a 'risk'? Come, Daniel, you would hardly be here, on this harsh American frontier, if you did not know that. Did not, in fact, embrace it!"
"You sure are a curious type of a man, Nicholas," Dan declared.
The stranger laughed, but sobered quickly. "You have no idea," he said. Nicholas paused then, eying the sky again as was his habit – like a man expecting any minute to be set upon by predators. When he looked back, he added with a wicked grin, "I will tell you one thing about me."
"And what's that?"
"That I was the fastest sprinter at Oxford. Let us see if you can keep up!"
And before Dan could say anything, Nicholas Knightsford dashed into the trees and disappeared.
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"Who do you think she is, Cincinnatus?" Becky Boone asked as she shook the snow from the mantle covering her head and stepped into the tavern. The 'she' in question was upstairs in one of the rented rooms. Cincinnatus had sent Jericho Jones to the Boone cabin to escort Becky to the settlement. Since the stranger was female, he had not felt qualified – or proper – looking after her. Also, since the woman was a stranger, he had felt more comfortable asking Becky to do it rather than one of the busy-bodies of the town. Becky had left Jemima in charge of the cabin and her little brother, and told her she wouldn't be long.
The older man shook his head slowly. "Cain't rightly say. She don't look like she's from around here. Too refined. And she speaks French."
"French?" Becky blinked. "Does she speak English as well?"
Cincinnatus pulled his chin hair. "Cain't rightly say."
She glanced up the stair. "What do you suppose brought her here, to Boonesborough?"
He shook his head. "Cain't – "
"…rightly say," she finished with a nod. "Fine. Well. I'll just go up and see her then." As Becky started up the steps, she turned back to ask, "Did she have any bags? Anything to identify her?"
"Now that's a strange thing, Rebecca. All she had was a cloak – its on the peg inside the door – and one of them there little fur muffs women use to warm their hands. No bags. No one with her to carry them, and from what I can tell, no wagon or coach to have arrived on!"
Becky nodded. Definitely a woman of mystery.
This impression was deepened when Becky opened the door to the upstairs room and advanced toward the bed. The woman was beautiful; her skin almost as pale as the bedding she lay on, but by nature – not from illness or fatigue. Her hair was nearly black, though there were undercurrents of auburn and a deep chocolate brown in the thick waves. It was upswept in the latest city style. The woman's lips were a rich ruby red and looked as though they had been painted. Becky lifted the candle beside the bed and moved it along the length of the stranger's petite frame. She was dressed in a deep crimson closed gown of costly fabric with its hoops removed for travel. Around her neck was a double string of pearls set with an ebon cameo. Everything about her shouted quality – at someone else's expense.
Becky returned the lamp to the table and then sat quietly in the chair. But not so quietly as she thought. The woman stirred and opened her eyes. Her red lips parted and she breathed a little sigh. Then she said a single word.
"Nichola…."
Reaching out and taking her hand, Becky told her, "Nichola is not here, but I am. My name is Rebecca. What is yours?"
The woman blinked and her eyes seemed to clear, but she made no reply.
"Oh, dear. I wonder if you speak English. I am afraid I know very little French."
A little smile lifted the edge of the woman's lips. "Jeanne…" she murmured.
"Jeanne! Then you do speak English?"
Her nod was almost imperceptible. "Oui."
"How do you feel?"
"Lost. So much white. No night or…day. Could not tell…when to sleep." Her tongues wetted her lips. "Could not…feed."
"Feed?" Becky frowned. "Are you hungry? Would you like me to bring you something hot?"
The woman's intense blue eyes settled on her face, then fell to her neck where her cross lay, and from there went to her hands. She shook her head. "Non. Could not…eat. Just let me sleep, here, in the dark." She turned her face into the covers. "Away from…so much white…."
And with that Jeanne fell unconscious again.
Becky looked at her, and then to the window curtains that stood open to the whirling world outside. It seemed the poor thing was frightened of all that snow. Concerned for her, Becky rose and crossed to the window and closed the curtains tightly…
Shutting out the light and the cold white night.
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Nicholas paused in the cathedral of snow-capped fir trees to draw a breath. Normally running faster than the human eye could follow would not wind him, but the day had broken and to a creature such as him – nearly 550 years old and poisoned by the least brush of the sun's rays, let alone the startling reflection of its face on the slick icy surface – the rising light made every step an agony. Here in the sanctuary of the trees he felt momentarily refreshed. But even here, in this dark harbor of safety, emissaries of the light worked their way through the bower above, reaching him. He glanced at his wrist where contact with one of them had raised red welts on his pallid skin. He needed to find the cave Daniel Boone had mentioned and, if he was so fortunate, the nearly frozen fugitive it held. Twice now he had stopped and reached out, feeling for the warm pulse that was a human heart in this cold wilderness. Once he thought he had put a finger to it, but that turned out to be nothing more than a dying deer caught in the ice.
Nicholas sighed. It haunted him still. Death. Though he would never know it. There was nothing like it – to feel life slip away from a living, breathing creature. It was both a great loss and a miracle. He had slacked his thirst with the deer's life's blood. Had eased the deer into Heaven.
Something else he would never know.
Drawing a deep breath Nicholas began to move again, hugging the cool shadows, casting his senses ahead. Behind him he could fell the frontiersman – Daniel Boone – following in his stead. Daniel was angry and rightly so. But he could not travel that slowly.
Not if his old friend, Kerr Murray, was to survive.
As he dodged yet another bullet of light shot through the trees above, Nicholas thought of the last time he had seen Kerr. It had not been at Oxford, but at a gala at Lord Dunsmore's Stirlingshire House. All the best and the brightest had been in attendance – including himself, Janette…
And their master, LaCroix.
Nicholas shivered, not with the cold, but with the thought of the nearly two millennia old vampire. Lucien LaCroix always looked on such affairs as a sort of open market. Every man's arm was graced with a winsome beauty ripe for the picking. But that had not been their real purpose there. LaCroix sought only two things in his protracted abominable life, pleasure and more explicitly – power.
And there had been power aplenty in the presence of John Murray, the fourth earl of Dunsmore, now governor-general of Virginia. Already LaCroix had had a hand in stirring up the trouble that led to the Seven Year's War between France and England. Now, in its aftermath, he meant to seize power in the colonies. They had come here initially to visit Williamsburg, in order for LaCroix to meet with the very same Lord Dunsmore…. Or so LaCroix thought. For Nicholas' part, the virginterritory held little interest. It was Kentucky he sought –
And a certain Cherokee of his acquaintance.
Nicholas paused, listening, but there was nothing. He shook his head and started out again. LaCroix loved games, and the petty machinations of men of power suited well his warped sense of play. Janette cared little for power, but she delighted in watching LaCroix manipulate and humiliate mortals.
And him? Nicholas Knightsford? Well, he just wanted out. That was what had brought him here to Boonesborough – in spite of a storm which seemed intent on preventing it – and drawn him to the only Cherokee he knew.
Kerr Murray, or Cara Mingo.
They had known each other at Oxford. Kerr and he had shared an unusual interest in the mythology of the aboriginal inhabitants of the Americas. Humoring a pair of bright students, their proctor had allowed them to indulge their curious habit. Once, shortly before he had been forced by LaCroix to flee that life, Kerr had mentioned something about an ancient Indian legend, decried by some but embraced by others; the legend of the Raven Mocker: a shape-shifter once mortal, made immortal who – according to some sources – could change back again.
Could this legend offer him hope of a cure?
Nicholas halted in front of a treeless expanse of snow glowing golden with the dawn. The rising wind whipped his tousled blond hair and tossed it into his eyes – confirmation of Daniel Boone's prediction of more snow to come. As he reached up to catch one of the errant locks, he froze.
There it was. The pounding thump. The dreaded call. The pulse of a human heart.
But it was weak.
Nicholas closed his eyes and concentrated. Yes. Mingo was there. In a cave? Yes, again. There was a hollow echo. He cocked his head and sought a direction. East a little, and then north. That's where it was.
That's where he was.
Lifting his cloak, Nicholas wrapped it about his head and, drawing a deep breath against the pain, plunged into the rising light.
