Part 27 (1/2)

must be here. But if the emba.s.sy had been evacuated, how would she find him? She took hold of herself and gave herself a

mental shake. Let them panic. She had a purpose. She had to find Davie.

The man behind the desk looked around wildly at the crowd rus.h.i.+ng for the door and simply deserted his post. Good, Emma thought. She grabbed a key labeled ”106.” That might be on the first floor. She dragged her trunk upstairs. She didn't stay long in the room, though. She pushed out through a lobby now nearly empty and into the heart of the city.

What few people were left all seemed to be hurrying this way and that with bundles on their backs or chickens under their arms or carts full of rugs or furniture or pots, whatever they had. Panic crept into Emma's soul. She tried to stop several people to ask them if they had seen a tall, blond Englishman, but they shook her off and hurried on.

Tears of frustration welled up into her eyes. Had she come all this way only to be denied by a city in panic? She found herself at the open-air market surrounded by stone arches of Romanesque design. Most stalls had already been deserted and their goods

abandoned. Some were being looted openly. Others had their wares scattered and broken. Shouts echoed around her. As she turned, she saw in the harbor below a s.h.i.+p weighing anchor, its sails flapping into place. Only one s.h.i.+p remained. Retreat was being cut off even as she failed in her purpose. A man with very bad teeth leered at her and said something unintelligible. He grabbed her arm. She twisted away and ran farther into the market, ducking under cloth hung over ropes for display.

Her breast heaving, she crouched under the fabric. Her breath slowed. She looked up. They were burnooses. That would cover her blonde hair. She pulled one that looked smaller off the line and over her head, twitching up the hood. There, that was better. Now what to do? She peeked over into the next stall. Canva.s.ses stretched across wooden frames were stacked neatly against the tables. She spotted charcoal. The stall belonged to an artist...

Emma had an idea. She slipped into the stall. A charcoal... canva.s.ses, and a knife.

Very well. If she could find some nails and a hammer, she had the beginnings of a plan.

They swung through the empty streets, silent, senses pus.h.i.+ng out into the night, searching for the ones who would be waiting. Davie saw clearly in the dark now. He no longer wondered why Fedeyah and Rufford never needed candles. He had been hunting with them for nearly a week. Rufford insisted he act only as backup since he was still so newly made. But that did not make the battles any less horrific. Or his horror at his new condition less intense. He wondered that Rufford and Fedeyah were still sane.

Everything had changed in the last week. Davie could call his Companion and use its power to draw the darkness for translocation or to compel a weaker mind. His strength amazed and appalled him, as did the painful burns sunlight caused on skin and eyes. These were signs that he had left his humanity behind. And the s.e.xual need was so intense it had been a torment during the last days. He clung to Rufford's a.s.sertion that he didn't have to be like Asharti, but privately he had his doubts. Who knew to what he would stoop when the need for blood or s.e.xual fulfillment raged through his body?

Whenever Asharti seemed near enough to invade his thoughts, he would conjure up an image of Emma and let the love he had seen in Emma's eyes the last time they met banish his memory of Asharti's whips and fangs. Images of Emma did not banish the erections, though. Quite the contrary. And thinking of how repulsed she would be by his new nature created bleakness in his belly but didn't counteract the power of her image on his body.

Perhaps worst of all was the strange exhilaration that threatened to overwhelm him sometimes. How dared he feel so alive, so whole, when he was a creature of night and nightmares? Would he burn in h.e.l.l for what he had taken from Rufford?

”We'll have trouble feeding with all the humans leaving town,” Rufford muttered as they strode down a winding alley toward a broad avenue lined with jacaranda trees.

Davie still chose to take his blood from a cup filled by Rufford or Fedeyah from the wrist of a donor. He couldn't bear to think of drawing his power to elongate his canines and plunge them into a living throat.

They'd been having trouble feeding at all since Davie couldn't procure for them in daylight hours. They holed up wherever they could, easier in the last few days with so many houses vacant. They'd tried feeding before the nightly conflict began, but often the battle came to them before they were ready, with so many of Asharti's minions about. After the battle, they were in no condition to find what they needed. They'd gone without last night. With no blood, how would they keep their strength up?

Rufford backed against a wall at the corner of the boulevard and peered around. Suddenly he straightened. ”Well, Ware, do you happen to have a relative named Davie?”

Davie gave a start. ”It's Vernon Davis Ware,” he said in a low voice. ”My family and oldest friends called me Davie.” Why had Rufford grown curious now?

Rufford simply pointed. Davie peered into the night. A canvas was tacked to a building across the alleyway at the other corner of the intersection. On it was written, clearly, in charcoal or some such, ”Davie Ware. I'm at the Prince Hotel.”

Davie was drawn across the alley, enthralled. Who knew him as Davie that might be here in Casablanca? And what was that stuck over the nail that held the canvas?

G.o.d! It was a lock of yellow hair, bound by a strip of ribbon.

He turned on Rufford. ”Miss Fairfield!”

The scent of cinnamon wafted down the boulevard. ”They come,” Fedeyah said. Davie drew his sword. d.a.m.n!

”Get to the Prince Hotel,” Rufford said through gritted teeth.

”I won't leave you two to face them.” Shadows drifted out onto the boulevard.

”Think, man! You can't leave her alone in Casablanca now.”

Davie counted. Eight? His gut twisted. Rufford was right, but his duty was here. ”Why did she come?” he muttered.

”You have to ask?” Rufford's grin was wicked. He motioned with his head. ”Lucky dog. Get out of here.”

”Four to one,” Davie warned.

”We've had worse.” When Davie still hesitated, Rufford lifted his brows. ”I've got Old blood in my veins, man.”

Davie took a breath of night air, redolent with jasmine and ominous with cinnamon. ”I'll be back as soon as I can.”

”You'll never find us. We'll use the hotel as our safe house.” Rufford drew his sword as he scanned the street. ”Protect her. We'll see you at dawn.”

Davie took off at a run for the waterfront.

Chapter Five.

Emma sat, quiet for the first time in days, and looked out on the night from her small balcony. It wasn't that she wasn't frightened. She was. But there was nothing more to be done. She had posted her signs all over the city this afternoon even as the teeming hordes left town. The harbor was empty. The last s.h.i.+p had sailed on the evening tide. From where she sat she could see several fires burning in the town, but the looting now seemed sporadic. She had gathered lamps from several other rooms to be sure she had enough oil, and locked her door. She was going to sit here day and night with a light burning like a beacon until Davie came for her. She wouldn't let herself think of how angry he would be that she was here or that he might not even be in the city to see her signs. Every piece of common sense said this would work out badly. So she resolved not to listen to her common sense.

The hotel was quiet behind her. The shouting in the streets had grown distant. So she clearly heard the pounding of boot heels taking the stairs up from the lobby two at a time. Her heart leaped into her throat. She would be raped and killed in the next minutes, or...

She looked to the door. He burst through it as though it were made of paper, lock and all. ”Davie!” She ran to him without thinking, relief flooding her. The door twisted into the room on broken hinges. He took her in an embrace that was like to break her ribs. She didn't care.

”Emma!” he said into her hair. ”Emma, what are you doing here? This is no place for a woman.” But the chastising nature of the words was lost in his lips moving through her hair, his breath warm. He was wearing only a s.h.i.+rt open at the collar and trousers and boots. He hadn't shaved in several days, but that didn't make him seem unkempt, only rugged and more male than she remembered. She had never seen him without a coat and waistcoat. The hardness of his body beneath his s.h.i.+rt and the exotic scent of cinnamon he wore combined to a.s.sault her senses.

But he'd asked a question. What was she doing here? And she'd never really thought what she would tell him. He held her away from his body and looked at her with hungry eyes. His gaze roved over her and stopped at her hair. ”Oh,” she said apologetically, shaking her head, now full of unruly blonde curls. ”I cut off all my hair to make the signs.”

Davie gave a lopsided smile. ”I like it.” Then his grin collapsed. ”Oh, Emma, it's too dangerous here. You shouldn't have come!”

She couldn't avoid this. ”I... I couldn't sit at home and let you face... whatever it was you were facing. And don't you dare tell me I'm only a woman and I couldn't help.” She felt a strange anger rising in her breast. What was she angry at? That he put himself in danger? That he hadn't offered for her? That he hadn't had the courage of his convictions...

She gathered herself. ”If you don't love me, Major Vernon Davis Ware, tell me straight out and I'll go home. But if you do... then we belong together, no matter the circ.u.mstance. I'll not be a burden on you. And I'll stay out of the way. But I can help you; I know I can.”

He looked at her with such intensity in his eyes it made her feel faint. He seemed so... alive. He was magnetic, hypnotic even. Had he been this attractive when she'd last seen him? It must be the air of danger that made him seem to vibrate with energy. ”This isn't a diplomatic mission, Emma. It's a war.”

”Plenty of women follow the drum.” She swallowed. ”I'll work in the hospital with your wounded. I've volunteered in the hospital in London, you know. Or I'll cook, or I'll wash for your men. I'm not proud, Davie, and I'm not delicate.”

He was running his hands up and down her arms from shoulders to elbows, apparently unaware that he did so. His gaze roamed the room. ”Emma, Emma, you don't understand.”

She grew surer of herself. ”You must tell me you don't love me if you want me to leave.”