CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The dream again. This time there are subtle differences. She is so cold…there is darkness all around her, completely impenetrable, and silence…such silence…as cold and dark as the grave…

Whispers in the dark…

Then she can hear her own voice;

"Where are you? Where's my Isobel?" She hears a scream, that's cut short, as though whoever it was…she stumbles towards the sound; falling over things that claw at her ankles…She can just make out a sign in front of her…she approaches it warily. Two paths seem to lead off…one smooth, the other rough and long, it seems to go on forever…There's a figure sitting beside the sign…she can see the sign more clearly now…it's not a road sign at all…she sees it now…a large dark cross stands before her…she can hear sobbing…

"Isobel?" she asks, uncertainly.

The figure looks up; it's her daughter, with her sweet smile.

"I didn't mean to…"

"I know, sweetheart…come here…come home…" The child runs towards her, just as the world seems to turn upside down…the ground around them is churning…they both slip and fall…no matter how desperately she scratches at the glaur around her, she can never quite reach Isobel…she manages to crawl to her feet…just as the familiar scene unfolds in front of her again…

Isobel disappears in a sea of bodies…she can't breathe…she can't cry out…it's as though someone has ripped her heart out…then silence…Wyndam kneeling beside her…but for once, the dream doesn't end…

Close your eyes…

A large room…familiar somehow…she can't quite place it…there are other people in the room, but their faces are blurred, she can't make out their features…Wyndam stands to the left of her, another man to her right…the other man turns to face her…he smiles sadly at her…he has a kind face, she thinks…it's the silence that scares her the most…that, and the fact that Wyndam's not looking at her…there's a bundle on the ground, a few feet in front of her…she steps forward…

Jenny woke with a start, her heart racing. Such pain…she shivered, unsure of where she was for a moment, then her eye caught the glint of the looking-glass that sat by her bed. The cottage, home, and the awareness that she wasn't alone, that someone else was in the room. Wyndam lay beside her, seemingly fast asleep. He stayed, she thought, he hadn't left her, unlike...him...Brief, fleeting moments, clutched at whilst backs were turned, never quite knowing if they were being watched. Feeling so cheap and tawdry...

"Can I..." her flesh had crawled, as she smiled so pleasantly, listening to his attempts at flattery...

"You're so pretty...you're not what they say you are...such a shame...can I just..."

She'd sold what little she had to be left alone, all but her mother's ring, others had grabbed at the chance to be used, hoping to plead their way out of their cell. He'd been waiting for her to break;

"If you're nice to me...I can make your life...easier...more...comfortable..."

The reward for her sin? A cold, damp cell to herself...all the more private...it was the only way out...she'd seen it in their eyes, as they questioned her, over and over again...heard the whispers behind the door;

"It's a foregone conclusion. She's Elspeth Ross' whelp...the old witch Lilian is mouldering in her grave, so unless she really can summon up the Deil himself, it's only a matter of time. She's not like the rest of them, though, I'll give her that. She's quiet...no trouble at all...they are the ones you watch. They try to end it before..." The voices had faded away...she'd known then what she had to do...The next time her inquisitors had left her to her own devices, to snatch some sleep before she was dragged back in with the rest of the prisoners...she had waited for the familiar footsteps to pass, and called out;

"Please help me..." And he had stopped...

You can't escape fate...no matter how far you run...

Stop it, she thought. She was alive, and so was Isobel. She was the one good thing to come out of those terrible days; even when she'd been calling God every name under the sun as she gave birth to her, she'd never regretted having her.

Let her live...let Isobel live...that's all I ask...

She looked down at Wyndam, who seemed to be barely breathing, he lay so still. She stroked his face, she could feel stubble...how could that happen? He was...dead...how could...He stirred slightly, a soft sigh...She slipped out of the bed, pulling a blanket around her, as his hand reached out for her. She turned when she felt his touch, but his eyes were closed, he was still asleep. She tiptoed over to the door, and unlocked it. The key made a loud click as it turned in the lock. She stole a peek over her shoulder at Wyndam, but he hadn't woken at the noise. Why am I creeping about my own house? She thought. She walked more confidently through the kitchen to Isobel's door. She opened it slowly, just a crack, to check on her. Isobel lay in a heap of blankets, a little smile on her face. Jenny could hear her breathing, the blankets rising and falling in turn. She closed her eyes, and smiled to herself, pulling the door shut. She gazed around the kitchen; everything was as it should be. Her eyes went back to her own bedroom door. That was where everything had become a little...complicated.

She turned the key in the lock, again shutting herself in a locked room with a vampire, she mused. She tugged the blanket round herself a little more tightly, and sat down in the chair in the corner. She drew her legs up beneath her, and rested her chin on her knees, waiting for dawn to break, just watching him sleep. The healer in her was fascinated, he shouldn't exist...

Jenny stared down at the floor, at the jumble of clothes lying where they'd fallen; as she and Wyndam had stumbled through the room, desire finally getting the better of them both, the need for comfort finally breaking through. She had let her guard down, and this was the result. That wasn't all she'd let down, she thought with a wry smile. It had been so long since...She ran her fingers down both sides of her throat, remembering...half-whispered curses as each layer of clothing came away...her soft laugh in response...then, finally, his hands lingering on her waist...his fingers deftly loosening her stays...the longing they both had for each other...his touch...his fingers had been so cold, it had felt like ice tingling on her skin...but they'd warmed with the heat of her skin...

Such an intensity there, that she'd never known...then a slowing...a need to make it last...the closeness, the intimacy...they'd clung to each other, neither wanting to be the one who let go...

She had felt desire, pain, loneliness, anger, sadness, emptiness, so many emotions, but she'd felt no fear with him; even when she'd felt the hunger claw its way to the surface, the tension in him snapping. She rested her cheek against his, waiting for it to subside;

"You let me in..." she said softly, stroking his hair, knowing his eyes were blackening as he moved his head slightly, to kiss her throat.

"Don't..." she waited for the pain, knowing she'd been a fool to trust him.

I've met my death...one way or another...she acknowledged...

"No...Not you..." he whispered, pulling back from her, but she didn't flinch at the sight of those cold black eyes. Instead, she kept her hands on his face, the connection, and looked deep into those soulless eyes, feeling the rage, the hunger, burn in him, then the sensation of it finally giving way, as he blinked the blackness away...the strangeness of only hearing her own heartbeat, as she lay beside him, thinking this is madness...what am I doing...

"Solace..." he said with a smile, the blue eyes now back in place.

"Peace..." she replied.

"My soul hasn't known peace in nearly six hundred years, Jenny."

"So you have a soul," she countered, raising her head to look at him. His mouth held the hint of a dark smile.

"Do I?" he said, dryly.

There was a dark fascination there, on both their parts, she recognised that now.

"There's a darkness in you..." Was that what was drawing them together? Two outsiders...

"Two lost souls..." he'd said...

Broken souls, she would say.

When had fate decided her path? Was it the moment Lilian Ross had walked into that tavern; or the moment Jenny had felt that pure hatred for her father, and that tiny glint of power, as she'd made him cry out in pain...

Had she really been lost since that moment...the darkness slipping into her soul...waiting in the shadows...waiting for him?

"I hate you..." She was just a child, she hadn't known the power of her words, the effect they would have...

"Pain...I wish you pain..." The thoughts of a grieving daughter, the images of her mother's fate burned on her soul. The fear it could happen again, it would happen if she didn't hide her true nature, conceal the abilities that were already appearing. How many times had her grandmother cast aside any questions? Wyndam understood that, she was drawn to the supernatural, even as she ran from it. It was a part of her, as much as the need to breathe...and to protect...

A dark night of the soul...

It was only ever a matter of the terms of the deal...

She sighed softly, feeling the chill of morning. She ran her fingers down her neck, absent-mindedly. No wounds, she thought to herself. Hunger and desire seemed to be closely linked, for a vampire. And close to the surface. She would have to remember that...

She took a deep breath, and then let it go slowly. What had she done? She had kept one monster without, and brought another within...

Yet, he had been kind, for a vampire, at least. He could have killed her that first night and Isobel too. They could have woken to find their doors...or...Before last night, the dream had never changed, but something had happened to alter it. She had seen further, but to what purpose? The vagueness of the supernatural when it lifted the veil between the worlds...

Then a little kernel of an idea...

You chose...

She looked over at Wyndam, but he had his back to her, seemingly still asleep.

You chose this...you wanted it to happen...you wanted the closeness as much as he did...you can fool yourself that you were distracted, that you were lonely, afraid. But it all comes down to the same thing...

She sighed again, raising her eyes to the ceiling. Had she been too easy with him?

"Woman, you are anything but easy..." Her gaze fell on the bed. Wyndam had turned, and clearly been watching her, his eyes were fixed on her's. He stretched out lazily, stifling a yawn. She smiled back.

"What am I thinking now?" The vampire narrowed his eyes, and leant his head to one side, as though he was deliberating before answering;

"Was that a slap?" She laughed at that. She looked so young, sitting there, he thought. And much too serious.

"Come back to bed..." He reached out a hand, to beckon her, but she didn't respond. The laughter was gone.

"What do you see, when you look at me?" She asked, timidly, as though she were afraid of what he might answer. She had asked a similar question of him once before. He drew himself up in the bed, and lay back against the pillows.

"A survivor..." he said finally, his eyes not leaving her face.

"Like you..." she replied. He gave her a brief smile, before changing the subject.

"Far too serious a discussion for this time of morning," there was the sardonic edge in his voice. "I'm getting cold. Come back to bed." He looked almost human, she thought. Almost...but not quite.

"Are you ashamed of what we did?" He said, patiently, as though he'd been expecting her to regret last night.

"No," she answered quickly. A little too quickly. Humans and their morality...

"Good." He shifted his weight in the bed, trying to find the most comfortable spot. "You don't go to Hell for enjoying yourself, despite what the good Reverend may tell you..." She stiffened slightly, and pulled the blanket tighter around her.

"No?" She sounded dubious.

"No..." he replied. She raised her chin.

"Well, you would know..." A slight dig there, he thought. That was better.

"You won't fall for a child, if that's what's worrying you. I am...dead...so..." There was a flash of something in her eyes, recognition, he thought.

"That's not how you have your families, is it?" Sharp as ever, he noted.

"No...We get to choose our family members. Not sure if it's any better than the normal way..." he was remembering the circle...old friends...

"What was I to be?" She asked, so smoothly it threw him momentarily. A play for time, or the truth?

"You really want to know?" She nodded. He looked away for a second, before turning back to her, with what he hoped was his most honest expression. It had been so long since he'd seen his own face, except in her memories...

"Lilian requested that you enter my service. She was very specific about that point..." Jenny interrupted him;

"That part of the deal..." Wyndam shook his head.

"It was never agreed. I've told you that. Your grandmother changed her mind, she didn't like the terms I proposed. The agreement was to wait until you were older...In return, you would be protected..." She interrupted him again;

"Against?" He sighed, before continuing.

"Your kind have a nasty habit of ending up on bonfires, or in barrels of tar..." he saw the look of pain on her face. He'd been too near the bone. That wound ran deep. "Humanity doesn't always know the value of life..."

"Says the vampire who takes it..." He grinned darkly at that comment. The time had come to tell her.

"You would have been recruited, eventually. You would have joined our ranks. Your abilities would have been recognised, and prized too highly, for you to have been allowed a human life; a mortal life...It would only have been a question of when, not if..."

"Whether I wanted to, or not?" There was no anger in her tone, merely an acceptance. Wyndam held her gaze, but didn't answer.

"And now?" She enquired, her eyes searching for the truth.

"What do you want to happen, Jenny?" He said, softly. She looked away.

"I have a choice?" He smiled gently.

"You will always have a choice. I owe you that," he said. "You are too human, for our kind of life. If I'd found you in Edinburgh, you would have been taken to a castle on the east coast. You would have been...comfortable...but not happy...you would have died a little each day, as those walls closed in...Grown cold...and full of hate..."

"Then become one of you..." Was that what her grandmother had seen? A future with no warmth, no joy...She hesitated, considering her words carefully. Her whole future, and Isobel's, could depend on what she said next.

"I want Isobel to be safe. I want her to grow up, and have a life, a good life..."

"And for yourself?" She swallowed hard, before looking him straight in the face.

"I would like to be happy, Wyndam. I would like to stop looking over my shoulder for five minutes..."

"Then that is what will happen." He reached out his hand again. This time, she stood up, and walked slowly over to the bed, the blanket still pulled tight around her, as she sat down beside him.

"So what do we do now?" There was a natural shyness there, as she said it.

"I can think of a few things..." Wyndam replied, stroking her neck. She twisted away.

"Ah..." she responded, her tone playful. "So you want me to be your whore, do you?"

"Well...if you're offering..." Her head shot round, her temper flaring. The first blow caught him by surprise; he caught her arm, as she swung at him a second time.

"That put some colour back in your cheeks...Remind me not to get on your bad side..." She burst out laughing, then stopped at the serious look on his face. He was staring at the wound he had left on her wrist.

"That should have healed by now." He ran his thumb over the mark, tracing the edges of the wound. She caught the slight unease in his voice.

"It doesn't hurt as much...I thought it was healing..." she said, peering at the wound. It was less inflamed, but still obvious. "What does it mean?"

"I'm not sure, probably nothing..." he said, briskly. "Now, where were we?" He looked up at her, the now familiar gleam in his eyes.

"We don't have long." Jenny's gaze drifted towards her bedroom door. "She wakes early...I don't want her to..." she felt his hand turn her face towards his, "know..." A wry smile in answer.

"Then we should make the most of the time we have, Jenny..."

"Ouch!" She bit back a curse, as Wyndam helped her on with her clothes, pulling the laces on her corset tight.

"Just how many layers do you wear, woman?" He muttered, as he handed her another robe. They had both overslept, if Isobel wasn't awake, it would be a miracle.

"You're telling me that vampire women don't wear all these?" she asked, her voice muffled by the gown she was trying to pull over her head. Wyndam was pulling on his boots.

"No...It makes things a whole lot easier." She started to pull at her hair to make it somehow respectable, as she said archly; "Oh, does it? Perhaps that's why vampires are always cold..." she ducked away from him, as he made to grab her. Her hand knocked the small looking glass from the table. It smashed on the ground, shattering apart. She bent to pick up the pieces, lifting the largest shard. She felt Wyndam's hands on her arms, as she looked down at the image in front of her. It was so unreal, to see her face in the mirror, knowing Wyndam was physically there, holding her, and yet she could see nothing. Not even a glimmer of an image.

"Yes, you still have a reflection," he whispered, as he kissed her neck, "and a pulse...Which reminds me...how shall we break our fast..." He felt her go rigid, but he didn't let her go. He would have to remember to temper the dark humour.

"This doesn't have to happen again, if you don't want it to..."

"I was that much of a disappointment?" She answered quietly; her eyes were on her reflection still, searching for the sin...

"No..." he chuckled, "far from it." He relaxed his grip on her. "Do you want to go back...to the way things were...the way it was?" As if they could...

She turned to face him, those sad grey eyes looking for reassurance. She had made her decision the night before, there was no way back...

"No..."

"Come on child, don't you want to see Ruth?" Jenny called after her daughter, who seemed to be clinging to the cottage after the nightmare of the wolf. As they neared the village, they could hear shouts, and a pounding, snorting sound. A crowd was milling round something. As they got closer, Jenny could see what was causing the commotion. A chestnut horse was lashing out at every person who went near it, its eyes wild with fear, it was lathered in sweat. There were deep gashes on its near side. Ramsey's horse...she caught her breath, and reached for Isobel's hand. Her daughter's eyes were transfixed. She was eyeing the wounds, remembering the big wolf...A pair of eyes watched her silently, lost in the crowd.

"Isobel," whispered Jenny, "It's gone...it can't..." but the child wasn't listening, she could barely move. Burnett braved the flailing hooves, to catch the torn bridle, but then the horse reared back, tearing away from him, and cantered straight through the wooden fence, in front of the Burnett's cottage. The horse's screams of pain made Isobel cover her ears.

"Make it stop," she whimpered, "make it stop..."

Jenny walked over towards the terrified animal, which was weaving backwards and forwards looking for a way out of the garden.

"Whoa," she said softly, "Whoa...it's alright..." The animal was having none of it; it threw its head at her approach. The crowd were not helping; the horse was growing more afraid by the minute. She stepped through the broken fence, so calmly.

"Whoa...no one's going to hurt you...nothing's going to hurt you...ssh..." The horse stood shivering, its eyes wide. Jenny reached out slowly, her hand just touching the tip of the horse's muzzle.

"I know...ssh..." she stepped closer, stroking the horse gently between its eyes. "I know," she whispered to it, "but it's gone..." The horse whinnied. The same animal who had been thrashing out at everyone and everything a moment before, was now standing as though it were a child's pony.

"Would you look at that..." murmured Burnett, who was now holding a cloth to his forehead.

"You didn't mean that, did you?" Jenny whispered to the horse, which was quieting down.

"It might be kinder to..." The voice of Reverend Alston cut in. She shook her head, knowing Isobel was watching.

"I'm sure someone will claim him," she said, but not Ramsey...she shivered herself at the memory. "I'll look after him for now." Then she remembered that Burnett was standing there.

"Are you alright? It looks nasty." Burnett shrugged.

"I've had worse from the Mrs...I forgot to mention, with all this..." he waved a hand round the demolished garden, "I wondered if you saw or heard anything strange the other night?" Jenny bent down to pick up the broken rein of the now-docile horse, the better to hide her face.

"What night was this?" She made a show of examining the horse's wounds, as she gathered her thoughts.

"A couple of nights back, the Full Moon," he continued. "A few people thought they heard a wolf's howl...it looks like there could be one out there, judging by that horse's injuries." She stood up suddenly, the horse neighed in response. She pulled its ear to calm it.

"No...I haven't seen anything..." Isobel's eyes shot to the Reverend's. That was a lie, and her mother never told lies...

"Oh well...if there is a wolf out there, we'll find out soon enough. We'll have a look around with the dogs later; see if this one's owner hasn't taken a fall somewhere." That was the last thing she wanted.

"Wait," she let go of the horse, thinking on her feet. If the dogs picked up the scent of the...wolf…the snow was melting, removing any physical traces of what had happened, but if they detected anything, it would mean questions, questions she couldn't answer. Who would believe her?

"There was a pedlar…He chapped the door in the middle of the night, said he'd fallen from his horse. I wouldn't let him in," she rushed on, "He seemed fine to me, threw some oaths at me that I didn't appreciate…I sent him on his way with a few choice words…" she smiled ruefully. "Not very Christian of me, I know, but…" Burnett nodded, his mind on other things.

"You did right. Better safe than sorry." He was staring intently at a window in his cottage. His wife hadn't appeared, even with all the noise and confusion. "She's not good. She…she sees things sometimes…" he confided, the strain obvious. Jenny kept her own counsel. There was little she could do now for the woman. The tincture she'd given, could take away some of the pain, but it dulled the senses. Mrs Burnett would have lucid moments, then fail as the tincture took effect.

"I don't want her to be in pain…" A sharp memory of her grandmother lying in her sick bed, the bottle by her bed…why did you…No…she snapped back to the present. The concern of a loving husband, something she'd never had herself…or will have…said the little voice in her head…

"I'll look in. You need to get some witch hazel on that cut. It'll help stop the bleeding." She lifted the rein; Isobel took her cue and began to follow.

"A fine horse for a pedlar to have, Reverend Alston…" The man turned to see who'd spoken aloud the very same thought he'd had, but the crowd was gradually dispersing; now the excitement was over. The Reverend wasn't even sure whether it was a man or a woman's voice he'd heard. A strange day, indeed…

Jenny knew Isobel was too quiet as they walked back home. All thoughts of seeing Ruth had been forgotten, and she was walking by her mother's side, not the horse's.

"Mother…" Oh that sounded serious, thought Jenny, keeping her eyes on the path in front of them.

"Yes, Isobel…I know…I told a lie…" She stopped the horse, not wanting to see the look on her daughter's face.

"But why?" Because your mother will end up on one of those bonfires if anyone finds out what really happened, Isobel…

"No one would believe us, if we told them, sweetheart." There was no body, she reasoned, Harper had seen to that. "You know when I…see things…and we don't talk about it…" Isobel nodded, a little downcast. "It's gone, Isobel. The…men…made sure it won't hurt anyone, ever again…"

"So it's a white lie, Mum…" Isobel was trying to understand, in her own way.

"Yes. The good kind." Was there any truth in that, Jenny wondered?

"God forgives those, Mum." She ruffled Isobel's hair. The child smiled at last.

"Yes, he does, sweetheart." I hope…

He's made me a liar, she thought. A little prick of conscience…Oh you were that before you met him…

"Blood of my blood…" All the good souls lining up to take Communion. Jenny sat, contemplating the stained glass of the window, as Isobel fidgeted, kicking her heels against the hard pews. Reverend Alston preaching about the need to look after each other…she drifted off.

I am a hypocrite…she thought, as she joined the line. She took the sacrament. The Reverend beaming the assured smile of a believer.

I am surprised I don't choke…

The Reverend wiped the cup, as she moved to the right. If only it were that easy to wipe away your sins…How many times had she taken Wyndam into her bed now? Almost a month had gone past since that night...Sitting bolt-upright in church each Sunday, looking for a sign, and…nothing. No forgiveness, but no condemnation from above either.

Yet.

You have the mistress of a vampire sitting below you, Reverend. In your very congregation. I wonder how that would sit with your faith, and reason…She rebuked herself for thinking callously. He had always been kind to them. She sat back down at Isobel's side, catching the eye of the hooded woman sitting directly behind her. She took her hood down. The mother of the baby… Jenny bowed her head, politely. The gesture was met with a stern grimace. Clearly there was still no love lost there. She could feel the woman's hatred burning, as she faced the altar, but when Jenny stood up to leave; the woman was nowhere to be seen. As they left the churchyard, Isobel whispered to her mother;

"That lady…" Jenny was sure the woman hadn't been sitting there when she'd gone up for Communion…

"What lady?" Isobel scowled, and looked down at her boots.

"The one who had the baby…She asked me if I wanted to play a game…" Jenny stopped as though she'd been struck. She felt a sudden tightness in her chest, she struggled for a breath.

"What game?" she breathed, strengthening her grip on her daughter's hand.

"Hide and seek," said Isobel. The familiar trickle of fear ran down Jenny's spine…

Another night.

"Was that Hastings?" A curt laugh, in response.

"No...Fell off a horse..."

She lay, curled up in Wyndam's arms, before the fire, watching the flames flicker and fall. Nothing in the ashes...Comparing scars like badges of honour.

"From...before you were..?"

"Yes..." She had run her fingers down his chest...not a mark...There were no signs of the wounds she'd dressed.

"We heal..." he'd told her. "The blood heals us..." But not inside, she thought...

He was staring at the little chip of turquoise on her right hand.

"It was my mother's ring," she explained. "It's all I have left..." she paused; feeling the tears coming.

That's your conscience...and guilt...

She blinked them away, and caught Wyndam's right hand. She had never looked closely at the ring he wore, until tonight. It had a flat, dark stone at the centre. There was a faint engraving on the surface, like a sail, or a hammer...He twisted the ring around, so she could no longer see the centre.

"A gift...when I became an Old One..." He sounded so distant.

"Like a crucifix, or a rosary, at a certain age?" The hint of a dark smile on his face.

"Yes..." but a gift with a terrible price...

"We wear different faces to different people..." he said, subdued. She tilted her head, the better to see his expression. His face was set, like a mask. She laid her head back down on his chest, feeling the need for comfort. The fire was dying. She waited a moment before confessing;

"Don't we all?"

The nineteenth of December. The winter solstice was two days away. Not long until Christmas now, thought Jenny stabbing her finger on a quill. It was their first in the cottage.

"Will you sit still, child? You're like a rabbit bobbing up and down," she complained, but she said it mildly. She was sitting at the table; attempting to draw Isobel on a piece of linen, scraps left over from a nightgown she'd been making Isobel for Christmas. Well, the stitching would be a bit skellie, admittedly sewing was never her strongest point, but it would fit her. She was getting taller all the time...

"Can I have a piece to draw on?" Isobel was peeking over her mother's shoulder now. Jenny laughed, and covered the drawing with her hand, to tease her.

"Go on," she said, handing her a quill and a scrap. "But watch what you're doing with the ink..."

She hadn't drawn anything in years, but she'd felt the sudden urge to sketch Isobel. She laid down the quill, and examined her efforts. Not bad, for a first attempt. She gazed over at Isobel, who was scratching away with her quill at the foot of the table. Jenny leant over on her elbows.

"What are you drawing?" Isobel didn't look up.

"Mr Wyndam's horse..." Her mother smiled. What else would it be? Jenny picked up another scrap from the pile, and dipped her pen in the ink. She began to scratch out a face on the linen, almost absentmindedly. Isobel coughed gently, to catch her attention.

"What, love?" Jenny said, a faraway look in her eye. Isobel had a very serious look on her face.

"I've drawn the white horse too...won't Mr Wyndam's horse mind?" Jenny smiled patiently.

"No. I'm sure if you feed him an apple, the next time you see him, he'll forgive you."

The next time you see him...There was a Full Moon that night, and in spite of Wyndam's reassurances, she was uneasy, and keeping a watchful eye on Isobel. He'd left them alone, for the couple of days, but she knew he would be back, and find...what? There were no signs of...though what would she look for, anyway? She'd pressed him, and received a terse answer;

"They start to shiver, when they feel the curse coming on, scream in agony...does that answer your question?" He hadn't been feeding as much; she'd known that, the edge to his voice, the sharpness in his features. That was the part that most troubled her, that someone else would suffer, for her sake. Any questions about whether he could abstain...or drink animal blood...were met with a hard stare, and the subject was swiftly dropped. She'd learnt not to press that point. He told her he was feeding less, that the hunger ebbed and flowed. She wanted to believe him, but...She looked down at the scrap, at what she'd been scribbling. In her dwam, she'd drawn Wyndam's face...

A knock on the door. Jenny looked up at the window. The light was fading. It was now late afternoon. He was early...He always came late at night, or early in the morning if he wanted to see her without Isobel's presence causing them...difficulties. She gathered the scraps up, and hurriedly placed them under a pile of clothes, and motioned to Isobel to clear the odds and ends from the table. Everything is normal, she told herself, there is nothing to worry about...She unlocked the door, and opened the latch.

"Wyndam..." It didn't seem right to call him by his first name, even now after the nights they had spent together. It seemed too intimate, for whatever this strange liaison was...

"Jenny." He was already unfastening his cloak as he made his way past her, his keen eyes raking over the room. They came to rest on Isobel, who was sitting down at the table. "How are you, Isobel?"

"Fine, sir. How are you?" Wyndam ran a finger over his chin.

"I am well, Isobel. Are you looking forward to Christmas?" The child beamed a wide grin, and nodded. Jenny leant forward and whispered; "Do vampires even celebrate Christmas?" Wyndam replied in a low voice, keeping his gaze on Isobel.

"Oh yes...but probably not in quite the same way...the odd Christmas dinner making their way to our table..." The dark humour was back, but there was something about his attempts at levity that felt forced. They ate dinner together; all the while Jenny noticed a heightened atmosphere, a tenseness that was normally absent. She was very aware of Wyndam's piercing gaze falling on her, as much as it fell on Isobel. Now...why would that be, she thought. You're waiting to see if she turns, you're not sure of it yourself...Strangely, as the evening continued; Wyndam appeared to visibly relax, as though he had doubted his own words of reassurance, that Isobel hadn't been cursed. He was clearly relieved that she hadn't turned. Jenny, on the other hand, grew more restless as the night wore on, as one thought entered her mind, and stayed there. She settled Isobel down for the night, closing the door behind her. Wyndam sat, waiting for the aftermath. She took her place opposite him at the table; her outward appearance would be calm to anyone but him. He could see the clenched jaw; the tightly-controlled look she gave him, the fire in her eyes was what really gave her away.

"You haven't just come to see if she changes," she hissed, "You've come to see if I do..." The familiar mask was in place, but he couldn't hide the vampire sharpness completely. She continued.

"How very...thorough...of you...you've examined every inch of me..." she muttered sarcastically, remembering the intimacy...seeing it now in a very different light.

"Jenny..." His most inviting tone. Silkily smooth. She cut him off.

"Don't...just don't...You lied to me..."

"How? I haven't deceived you..." he declared, but she ignored him.

"All those nights...where you just checking to see if I'd been scratched? Making sure I wasn't damaged property..." The hurt in her voice...she'd trusted him...

"No...For God's sake woman..." He got to his feet, his own temper beginning to flare. She never made things easy...

"And if she had...if you'd seen her change into..." Jenny tried to compose herself, "What would...would her fate have been the same as that...man's? Or mine..." He held his tongue. She needed to rage. He sat back down, trying to curb his own temper. She should be relieved, not showing this petulance.

"Hunting him down...A chain...like a..."

"Like a dog?" He completed the sentence for her. That lit the fuse. She rounded on him.

"You think I would let you hurt her...kill her..." she could barely utter the words.

"You would lose..." he said softly. The look of sheer ice she gave him...The tight line of his mouth as he answered her.

"She is NOT a wolf...you are not a wolf...There are no other wolves out there...I have been very...thorough..." he threw the word back at her. "The person responsible for allowing...that wolf...to roam free...will be dealt with..." She knew what that meant.

"It was a vampire, wasn't it?" She asked coldly.

"Yes...but his...mistake will be rectified shortly. Permanently..." The depth of her hurt had surprised him. The tension in her...he reached out for her hand, but she pulled back from him, as though she'd been burnt.

"Don't...don't touch me..." There was loathing in her voice. "Please leave...I want you to leave..." He stood up...hesitating for just a moment, before grabbing for his cloak, ripping it down from its hook.

"Yes...I think I will leave you now...I hope to find you in a better mood, the next time we meet..." he halted at the door, his anger barely concealed. "Most people would be grateful that their child hadn't been cursed...praising God to high heaven...but not you...I would suggest that you take a long, hard look at your priorities..." he said harshly, as he slammed the front door. The first human who came across his path, he thought, as he mounted his horse, would not get away so lightly...

Jenny slumped into a chair, as his words hit home. Grateful...she was grateful...she'd lost sight of the fact that Isobel hadn't changed, in her fit of temper. The sin of pride...Their first real argument, she mused, and it hadn't ended in her throat being ripped out...he had walked away.

Christmas Day. The candle she had lit, and placed in the window, as she did every Christmas Eve, had long since burnt itself out. A jar sat next to it. Mistletoe, freshly cut, to celebrate life...And to ward off witchcraft...a little late perhaps, she smiled wryly.

Nearly a week had passed since Wyndam had stormed out of the cottage. The watchers were still in place though. She'd caught a snatch of their conversation as they changed over, as she hurried by. Harper merely nodded at her, as Jacob whispered;

"He's in a foul mood...we're stuck here...and she's still breathing? If it was Louisa, she'd be floating down the River Calder...Old Ones...What?" he shrugged, at the nudge from Harper.

She was missing his company, and that was dangerous. The people in the village were friendly, but anymore meant questions about her, where she'd come from, her history, and she couldn't tell them anything. Any more information could risk their exposure, and that haunted her as much as the consequences of her actions. He understood her, that was the thing. She didn't have to pretend with him...

The nightgown had fitted Isobel, who had given her mother a little green pot with a small budding plant in it as her gift. It wouldn't be long before it bloomed.

"Mrs Burnett said it's a winter rose...a helle..."

"A hellebore...a Christmas Rose..." said Jenny kindly. "It was a lovely gift, sweetheart. Thank you." The door was chapped. He picked his moments; she had to give him that. The Christmas dinner was nearly ready.

"Yes?" The figure was not the one she'd been expecting, or rather, hoping for. Harper stood, a little uncertainly. He held a package under one arm, which he handed over to Jenny, who stood looking flustered.

"A present from Mr Wyndam. He sends his compliments for the festive season." He turned to walk away, then stopped as Jenny said;

"That's it? No..." No, what? She thought. No kind words? Well, she'd practically thrown him out the door the last time, what did she really expect? Where were her manners...?

"Thank you Mr Harper. Where is...he spending this evening?"

Probably brooding at the fireside, thought Harper. He'd been doing a lot of that lately, if truth be told. A letter had come from London, which had put Wyndam in a fierce temper. Or tearing some poor soul's throat out...

"I'm not sure..." he said quietly, looking down at his feet. He was loyal, she thought.

"You are on watch, I take it?" He nodded grimly. It was a cold day. "I'll see you have something to eat...You can tell Wyndam, he would have been welcome if he'd deigned to put in an appearance...just a minute..." She gazed round the room behind her, trying to find something to give Wyndam in return. Her eyes fell on the scrap of linen, the small portrait she'd drawn of him. She handed it to Harper who looked down at his hand, not understanding. "For Wyndam," was all she said. Jenny shut the door, and carried the package into the kitchen. Isobel's ears had caught the end of the discussion. Her eyes lit on the package.

"Is Mr Wyndam not coming today?" Jenny said quietly;

"No...He sent this in his stead." Presents? Two packages were bundled together in a wrap of linen. One felt bulky, as though a figure was wrapped in it. That one she took to be Isobel's. She handed it to her. Her daughter hastily opened the present, revealing a doll, and a beautiful deep-rose coloured dress. Her daughter's eyes gleamed.

"You'll have to keep it nice, Isobel. It's too good to wear every day." She turned her attention to her own present. She pulled back the linen to find a black lace shawl, edged with silk, and beads. It was so soft and delicate, but where would she wear it? A pair of fine gloves lay underneath, and below that she got a flash of mauve silk, was that a...?

"What's that?" inquired Isobel, her curiosity getting the better of her.

"Never you mind..." she answered, lifting the presents up, out of her reach.

At the manor, Wyndam was sitting alone in his study. A fire was blazing away, but it brought him no relief from the cold. Ice seemed to be in his veins that night. Harper was on first watch. He had sent the others away to Manchester, to celebrate Christmas in a more vampiric way...someone snatched from the street, someone who wouldn't be missed...They would be back soon...His mood was so gloomy, these past few days, since the argument. He gazed at the drawing, he'd been going over his old friend's last words;

"Let her go...before it's too late..." But it was already too late...he'd noticed her...she bore his mark...he'd fed from her twice...it should have healed...any vampire could find her...even if he let her go...

But you won't let her go...you can't...

He saw no future for Jenny, or the child, it was as though they were set in a picture frame, still and...

And if the others discovered her...a dungeon would be her fate at best...at worst...a husk to be offered up at the next gathering of the Old Ones...the very thought of it repulsed him.

The blood in his glass, freshly drawn. He took a sip. It tasted like ash in his mouth. A first draft, too. Always the finest. He remembered the feel of her skin, soft and warm, her heartbeat, her touch, it's madness...One day he would wake, and she would be lying beside him, cold, with her neck broken, and puncture wounds all over her fine skin, from his attempts to draw out and savour every last drop of her exquisite blood...

He had stayed away from the cottage, for one reason only. He knew somehow that it would be their last, and that his place was as far as he could get from them. He would not be the cause of whatever was to come...and he would keep those watchers there, despite their grumbles, 'til kingdom come, if necessary.

She doesn't know that he had been her watcher for the last few nights. He kept well back from the cottage, out of her sight. He'd been disappointed that she hadn't known he was out there in the cold. He'd seen a man appear at her door, his face drawn and haggard. Burnett, if he wasn't mistaken. He'd felt a pang of jealousy. He had no real claim on her, she had none on him...but that wasn't quite true, was it? She was wearing the shawl. She'd liked it then. It suited her. He wondered if she was wearing his other gift...She had taken Isobel with her, and a bag. The man's wife was failing then, he thought, but she'd made it to Christmas all the same, thanks to Jenny's skills. He sighed. If she hadn't found him...if she hadn't caught his eye...he'd been reluctant to come back to Lancashire, but the manor was one of their better properties...Something just didn't feel right, as though time was slowing down. Restless times, restless natures...

A change of watch. A light burning in the window. He'd seen the candle on Christmas Eve, too. A light in the dark...

He heard the door open, the glow catching the figure as it closed the door. She was walking towards him silently, her eyes fixed on his.

"Wyndam."

"Jenny." He said, with a slight bow. She smiled.

"Thank you for the presents." Snow was beginning to fall again.

"Do I really look so...sharp?" Ah, she thought, the drawing.

"It's just a drawing," she said softly.

"I've missed you..." That was as much of an apology as an Old One ever made...

She smiled her own apology.

"Why didn't you come in?" He shrugged. The snow was catching in the folds of her shawl.

"This is a refuge for you, isn't it?" she said, understanding now. He smiled in return.

"For us both, Jenny..." He said, wistful.

"It can't last, can it?" she said tentatively, her eyes on his.

"No..." he replied sadly. She lowered her shawl, and reached out to him.

"But for now..." She stretched out her hand. "Please come in...Wyndam...it's too cold out here..." He took the hand she offered. An end and a beginning.

Neither saw the hand that pulled back a branch in the bare trees, hidden in the darkness...