Chapter Eight

Nicholas stood staring down at Daniel Boone's unconscious form. As he flew from LaCroix's hands toward the startled frontiersman, he had deliberately rammed into the man harder than necessary, driving Boone's head against a stone lying on the ground and knocking him senseless. Then he had taken Daniel's rifle and reloaded it and shot through his own dark gray cloak. Looking at the rent fabric now, Nicholas knew it was a lame excuse, but it would have to do.

How else could he explain taking a rifle ball in the stomach at two feet and surviving? In Daniel Boone's naïve world creatures such as he simply did not exist.

Nor did ghosts or Raven Mockers.

He had been such a man once, many long centuries ago. Artless. Ingenuous. Pure and noble, as this one was. With high ideals and lofty ideas. But he had a character flaw that Daniel Boone did not seem to share.

The need for power and personal glory.

Nicholas knelt beside the other man and reached out to take his shoulder and rouse him. Then he stopped. What would he say? How would he explain the episode with LaCroix – not his vampire master, but the British General, Boone's sworn enemy?

There was little hope of mesmerizing the lanky frontiersman completely, and though simple in some ways, Daniel Boone was no simpleton.

Nicholas rocked back on his heels. He stood and looked around for something to cover the tall man with. Finding a blanket, he tucked it around him and then rose and added another log to the fire he had kindled, assuring that its life-saving warmth would continue until the other man roused. Daniel Boone would not be happy with this new desertion, he knew. But the alternative was telling him the truth. Nicholas couldn't do that, not for his own safety –

Or for Daniel Boone's.

Cara-Mingo was another matter. Somehow it seemed his own unnatural nature had affected his old friend. Mingo's behavior was aberrant. The fact that he had left the Cherokee village without any protection for his feet and precious little for his fragile human form would have told him that if nothing else. But then, of course, there was something else. During their travels Daniel had elaborated on what had occurred with the Henry Pitcairn, the Shawnee, and the Place of 1000 Spirits, and though he had pretended to scoff – denying such a thing as possession in order to connect with the frontiersman – from all appearances Mingo was possessed by the discontent and disembodied spirit of the British lieutenant.

Nicholas stepped away from Daniel Boone's supine form and faced in the direction of Chota. He closed his eyes and returned to the moment when he had walked into the cave. What had he sensed? Was it Henry Pitcairn's haunting presence, or had it been instead the Cherokee Raven Mocker, there to claim Pitcairn's soul? And, as the shaman Leather-heart suggested, had his own supernatural presence somehow acted as a bridge – allowing Pitcairn to escape? Had he unwittingly aided Henry Pitcairn in possessing his friend?

Would the curse of what he was never end?

Shouldering the pack he had brought with him from the Cherokee village, filled with human necessities – medicines and other things Mingo would need if he found him – Nicholas walked away from the camp, following his old friend's trail. The presence of the British boot-print troubled him. LaCroix had indicated he was hunting Mingo. Did the boot-print beside Mingo's own mean his ancient master already knew where his old friend was?

Nicholas glanced back at Daniel Boone's form, making certain the frontiersman had not roused. Then he turned his face to the sky and, with effortlessly grace, took to the air.

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Janette DuCharme stood at the cabin window staring out into the white night. The snow had begun to fall again and in spite of her immortal – and nearly impervious nature – she shivered. Following Nichola here had been yet another mistake in a long line of mistakes linked to the man who was both brother and lover to her, as well as a friend. She had been worried for him, troubled by his forsaking the safer cities for this under-populated wilderness. Troubled that his unending quest for mortality would lead him into danger, if not from the mortals he cherished – who would destroy him if they found out what he was – then from their master LaCroix

LaCroix who would never let him go.

As she stood there, ruminating on her past lives and choices, the wind outside the cabin rose in strength. It rattled the window frames and whistled through the chinks in the walls. Janette turned away and looked toward the fire and the prone figure lying near it. She had moved the bed closer as the afternoon progressed and the wind returned, bringing with it a bone-chilling cold fatal to mortals even in the best of health.

And the man in the bed was not in the best of health.

Crossing the room, Janette sat on the bed and reached out to touch Mingo's forehead. He moaned softly as she did and turned his face away. His skin was flushed – hot, not with the fire's warmth, but from a fire within. Since his outburst and collapse he had become fevered. He had only awakened once and when she tried to talk to him, the words he spoke made no sense. He called her 'Jenny' and uttered some nonsense about there being whiskey in a jar.

Janette sat looking at Mingo, admiring his handsome beauty which was enhanced, for her, in a perverse way by the fever. Reaching out, she coiled a lock of raven-black hair about one pallid finger. Closing her eyes she thought back to that night at Stirlingshire Manor. There had been a pantomime followed by dancing. After Lord Dunsmore and his lady-wife retired to their chambers, the actors had begun an impromptu concert. At it Kerr – or Mingo as he was now called – had rather improperly accepted an invitation to join them. Janette recalled Nicholas slipping his arm out of hers. He replaced the man at the harpsichord and began to play as Kerr began to sing…

With the voice of the angels.

She remembered them. Angels, that was. She had heard them when she was a mortal girl, before she lost her home and family, before she had been orphaned on the streets and learned to sell herself to survive –

Before LaCroix.

It had been a long time since she had heard or seen an angel. She was looking at one now. An innocent. An honest man.

One she was about to help destroy.

An abrupt knock at the cabin door made her jump. Janette spun, a frown marring the perfection of her eternally preserved face.

Who was this?

Rising, she crossed the cabin and went to the door and quickly opened it, disregarding the cold blast that struck her slender form and any thought of unexpected danger. A white-haired figure stood there, dressed in a British General's uniform, his ancient hand poised to strike the wood again.

"Surprise!" Lucien LaCroix laughed.

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Daniel Boone awoke stiff and sore and more than slightly miffed. He rose to his feet and stared at the ebbing fire and the empty camp. Then, with a frown on his face, he retraced his steps back to the place where Nicholas Knightsford's hurtling body had knocked him to the ground. Kneeling, he checked the snowy blanket that was the Kentucky's forest floor for blood.

The frown deepened when he didn't find any. Dan rocked back on his heels and pushed the coonskin cap off his forehead. He thought about it a minute and then rose again and, returning to the camp, looked for the most recent tracks left by Nicholas's expensive townie shoes. Snow had begun to fall again in earnest. By the time he located them, the prints were already half-buried. Still, he was a fine tracker and was able to follow them to the edge of the camp where Nicholas had paused and then beyond that toward the trees lining the horizon.

Until they disappeared without a trace – as if the man had taken a flying leap and sprung into the air like a bird.

Standing in the falling snow Dan lifted his face to the Heavens where he knew his God lived. He thought about the things in the Bible he had trouble with – demons, spirits talking, dead men walking…. Becky chided him, reminding him that he had to take every single word of the Good Book literally. Had to believe it all. And how true faith was believing in things that a man couldn't see, couldn't put his hand on, couldn't know….

"I believe, Lord," Dan whispered under his breath, paraphrasing one of his favorite passages from the New Testament. "Now help my unbelief."

Walking slowly, feeling old and very cold, Dan returned to the camp and began to break it down. Staying put was foolish. Nicholas had left him behind for some reason – whether good or bad he couldn't know. The wind and weather had erased most all traces of the path he had taken anyway. He couldn't go forward.

So he would go back.

Back to the cave where it had all begun. If there were answers to be found, Daniel Boone had a suspicion they would be there.

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"So, my dear, aren't you going to invite me into your most charming abode?" The white-haired vampire lifted one eyebrow as he glanced at the figure before the fire. His upper lip followed suit in a sneer. "And introduce me to the mister?"

"Very funny, LaCroix. What do you mean knocking?"

"But it would have been, oh, so rude simply to enter." He walked at a quick pace across the room and halted by the bed where Mingo lay. Then he looked back at her. The sneer slipped into a lascivious smile. "I remember how much you wanted this one. Who knows what I might have…intruded on."

The sharp swish of her skirts spoke for her as she scowled at him. Coming to his side, she added, "You gave instructions that he was off-limits, did you not?"

"Oh. Oh, yes, I quite forgot." LaCroix snorted. "I do so like to give my children little lessons in discipline."

"I have had more than enough of that!" she spat. "Cow's blood, really, LaCroix. How long do you think I can drink that swill?"

"As long as is necessary," he answered, his tone grown suddenly sober. "Too many corpses would bring too many questions, my dear."

"What of your little army?" she snapped. "The last time I saw your entourage there were only ten. Did you not start out with a dozen soldiers?"

"Such handsome, strapping lads. The British Army should be proud. But the rigors of frontier service, my dear, think about it! Men fall off cliffs; they get lost in the snow…their bones unclaimed until the following spring." He paused and then whispered close to her ear. "I've drained them as slowly as I can. It may be a long winter…."

She glanced at the door beyond which she knew the soldiers waited. "Can you not get by with nine?"

LaCroix laughed again, a genuine heartfelt sound – for a devil.

"We shall see, my dear. We shall see." He caught her chin between his fingers and pinched hard. "We wouldn't want you wasting away, now would we?" Releasing her, he looked again at the pathetic figure on the bed. "I see you did as you were told."

She nodded. "He was half-crazed when I found him, and more than half-frozen. No shoes! He is lucky to still have his toes."

"I'm sure you found a way to…warm him up."

At her indignant snort, LaCroix crossed to the fire and stared at the flames dancing above the embers. "Children. You give them your life's blood. You nurture and protect them. You do everything for them. One is grateful. Another….well… Who can say why or what makes the difference. Take this one." He turned toward Mingo. "His father gave him everything. A place in society. Wealth. Nearly unlimited power!" LaCroix's fingers formed a fist. "And what did he give his father in return? Pain. Suffering. Loss." Her master returned to the side of the bed before he met her eyes. "It is time for remorse and restitution."

"You will take him back? To England?"

He shrugged. "What else can a friend – another father do?"

"And what is in it for you?"

"Janette! You pain me." LaCroix placed his hand on his chest. "In it for me? Why, nothing but the satisfaction of returning the prodigal to the arms of his loving father."

"Who will then owe you."

Those pallid lips – thin, cruel, cunning – turned up with an evil grin. "But of course! What else are friends for?"

"And how will you get him there? In chains?" Janette understood captivity. She knew powerlessness, and the loss of hope. She did not wish that for the man she remembered – the handsome songbird, the earl's son, Kerr. "He will die on the journey over."

LaCroix drew a breath. "Oh, dear!" he remarked as though truly surprised. "I hadn't thought of that. We wouldn't want a thing of such beauty to pass away, now would we?"

Janette stiffened. Did he mean what she thought he did? "You would…bring him across?"

"It's a thought." He grinned wickedly. "Nicholas keeps running away. You could have this one instead."

"But what of Lord Dunsmore?"

"A tragic end on the high seas. I found the young fool and brought him home – it is not my fault that it was in a box."

Janette shuddered. "You are…having the joke with me?" she asked hopefully.

He touched the tip of her nose with his finger. "Plan B," he said tapping once. "Now, about plan A. I have it from good authority that our dear old friend Kerr has been acting a bit…strange of late. Is that right?"

Janette took a step back. "Oui. How did you know?"

"Information from the man in the tavern. And a straggler along the road – who by the way was quite delicious." He grinned evilly. "Oh, and Nicholas, of course."

"You have seen him?" she asked hopefully.

"Briefly. He should be here soon. I imagine by now he has lost that bumpkin Boone and figured out that I am two steps ahead of him, as always. Bright boy, that Nicholas. Now, as I was saying…."

As he waited, she realized he meant for her to speak. "Oui, Mingo is acting strangely. Not like himself, but like another. His voice. The way he walked. All changed. As if…"

"Yes? "LaCroix asked.

"As if he has become the man whose clothes he wears. Henri…"

"Henry Pitcairn."

She frowned. "You know him?"

"Knew, my dear. And no, not I. One of the men in my larder… er… entourage served with him. But I think I should liked to have known him. Pitcairn was my kind of soldier. Ruthless. Brutal. But fair."

"How many did he slaughter?" she asked with disgust.

"Two hundred mortal souls at one stroke!"

Janette glanced toward the window, remembering the shadow figures that had haunted the lawn – and the creature she thought she had seen within the cabin. A creature she had deliberately not mentioned to LaCroix. "Indians?" she asked.

"Why, yes, my dear. How did you know?"

She crossed to the window and looked out. The spirit figures were no longer there. Had she imagined them? And perhaps the other creature as well? "Mingo must have said something about it," she answered in an off-hand manner.

"So dear old Pitcairn is haunting your handsome songbird, eh? That's the sign of a weak mind, Janette."

She scowled. "Or an innocent soul."

LaCroix's sneer was rapacious. "All the better." He turned sharply toward Mingo and raised his voice as he spoke. "Lieutenant Pitcairn! Stand in the presence of a superior!"

Mingo's eyelids fluttered, the black lashes dancing against his pallid skin.

"Pitcairn, that is an order! You will stand. Now!"

Janette watched as Mingo's hand twitched and his shaking fingers gripped the side of the bed. Then, slowly, haltingly, he began to rise. She took a step toward him, but a look from LaCroix stopped her cold. Backing away, she halted by a chair and gripped its back as she watched the ailing man gain his feet.

"Very good, Lieutenant. Very good. Now step away from the bed." LaCroix circled him, inspecting him. "You are out of uniform, Lieutenant!"

"I'm sorry, sir," Mingo answered, his voice a bare whisper. "I must have lost it…somewhere…."

"Well, no harm done. We can rectify that soon enough." LaCroix turned to her and wagged a finger. "Janette, my men are outside. Go strip one of them – and mind you, no taking advantage while you do!"

She wrinkled her nose at him and did as she was told. Returning a few minutes later Janette handed her master a crimson coat, a heavy cloak, a pair of clocked stockings and black boots.

"Here, Lieutenant," LaCroix said. "Put these on. We have quite a journey ahead of us."

Janette took the cloak while he handed Mingo the crimson coat. And then when he sat, she helped him put on the stockings and boots. Mingo's feet were still angry, the toes discolored. He had to feel pain when the stiff leather contacted them, but he showed nothing.

It was as if he was not really there.

"What will you do with him?" she asked softly as she helped him stand and placed the cloak about his shoulders.

"Take him back to that oh-so-quaint tavern and have the tavern-keeper look after him until he is well enough to travel. A day or two, I imagine. And then I shall deliver him to his father."

"But what will his father be getting?" she countered. "A son? Or a madman?"

He shrugged. "What does it matter? A father loves his boy…no matter what." Placing his hand on Mingo's shoulder, LaCroix commanded him gently, "And now, Lieutenant, you will follow me."

Janette watched them head for the door. She knew that once they were outside, LaCroix would take off into the air. The man she had known as Kerr Murray would not survive another long night traveling through the hateful white stuff that lay outside. When they got to the door, her master paused and favored her with a wide smile.

"Oh, and say 'hello' to Nicholas for me when he arrives. Tell him Papa's waiting."

There were few things that could still give Janette DuCharme shivers.

LaCroix's smile of victory was one.