Bloch’s gums tingled at the prospect.
Keeping a tight hold on Whorleigh’s shoulders, Bloch steered him across the road. Whorleigh resisted a moment, before accepting Bloch’s direction. “You’re an interesting man, Block,” he said.
The creature had no idea exactly how interesting.
The dark shape of the lychgate loomed ahead. Bloch drew him closer, ready to swing him into the shadows. A quick glance ahead and behind showed the lane still deserted.
Perfect.
As his fangs descended, Bloch tightened his hold on Whorleigh, counting to himself the paces to the lychgate ahead.
Whorleigh slipped out of his grasp and disappeared.
Impossible!
Bloch was the only person in the lane.
How in the name of all the damned and cursed had that happened? Bloch snarled to the heavens in the frustration of rising hunger. His now descended fangs brushed his lips. He wanted blood and his victim was gone. Not just gone, he’d disappeared into the night.
If nothing else, Bloch had the satisfaction of suspicions confirmed. Whorleigh was Other.
Whether or not he was Eiche’s slayer was immaterial. The creature was now prey.
Bloch ran at vampire speed, all pretense of mortal gone. At Whorleigh’s shop he halted. He needed an invitation to enter the creature’s abode. Such an invitation was unlikely to be forthcoming.
Bloch could bide his time and consider the question that nagged him. What was Whorleigh and how had he disappeared? Those thoughts took precedence over the question on his possible guilt.
Samuel Whorleigh watched from his perch on the lychgate. This was a crimp he’d not anticipated and didn’t quite understand. He’d sensed menace in Block from the first, but not enough to cause concern, until they left the pub and Bill Block put his arm around his shoulders and exuded a burgeoning sense of menace. More than Whorleigh had encountered in decades.
If he’d been mortal, harm would have befallen him. No doubt about it. As it was, he slipped out of the hold and wrapped himself in invisibility. Perched atop the lychgate, he had the satisfaction of watching Block’s confusion.
Satisfaction was soon replaced with worry. Block represented trouble. Danger.
Whorleigh had suspected as much from a handshake that revealed no pulse.
Only one sort of creature walked the earth without a pulse or heartbeat and Whorleigh had never heard good of vampires. What to do now? He knew of one Other in these parts: the white witch, old Mother Longhurst. He had to talk to her and keep his eyes peeled for Bill Block’s next and unwelcome approach.
“A penny for them,” Peter Watson said to his love, his intended, his fiancée (he loved that word): Alice.
“My thoughts?” She smiled, looking up from her knitting. They were sitting either side of the kitchen stove while Mrs. Burrows presided over the knitting circle in the lounge. “I was wondering if Gran will take pity on me and turn the heel. I’m worried about Miss Waite’s odd and unexpected death, and hoping Gloria and Andrew are getting on well.”
“Matchmaker.”
She grinned, only too happy, Peter guessed, to neglect the sock. Alice had many strengths, knitting socks apparently wasn’t among them. “And why not? They’re both single. They’re attracted to each other, a blind person could see that, and all they needed was a little nudge.”
“What if they’re not meant for each other? Ever thought about that?”
“Then it won’t work out. We did.”
He couldn’t argue with that. Wasn’t about to. “What about Miss Waite? Gossip in the village says it was suicide. Don’t spies carry cyanide pills in their teeth?”
Alice hesitated. This was likely some official secret but…“It wasn’t cyanide, Peter. That’s unmistakable, skin goes pink even after death. She was pale as could be and shriveled.” She paused. “Not unlike the state we found Farmer Morgan in.”
Peter went cold. No prizes for guessing that implication. Morgan had been killed by Oak, the vampire spy Alice had destroyed. “Have you told your grandmother?”
“No, why worry her until I’m sure that’s what it is? But how can I be sure? I can hardly say to the medical officer, ‘Maybe a vampire killed her.’ They’d have me committed and strike me off the medical register as insane. And I could be wrong. I just wish there’d been a local inquest. She was whisked off somewhere and no one knows or won’t tell. But we do know there is another vampire somewhere. The one who walked out of my surgery, and if he’s come back…”
“The one who disappeared on you the day we met? We owe him a big ‘thank you.’”
That brought a smile to her lips, and a naughty twinkle to her eyes. “We’d have met anyway, Peter. Somehow. I don’t think we’d have missed each other. We were meant to be together.”
“Meant to elope?” They’d had this conversation before and he always lost but didn’t stop trying.
“Now that we’ve had the banns called? No way, Peter Watson. You are making an honest woman of me in Brytewood parish church. No havey cavey off to a registry office for us.”
And since it was the price of winning her, he’d put up with all the folderols and fuss.
“Want a warm drink before you go?”
“Kicking me out?” he asked.
She gave him a playful swat. “Twit. Best for everyone if the good women of the village see you leave before they do. Gran doesn’t mind you staying, you know that, but she would mind gossip. So, it’s Horlicks and an Osbourne biscuit for you, my love, and then off down the lane. At least for tonight.”
Fair enough. Village gossips could shred a reputation faster than unhooking their corsets. He stood and crossed the kitchen to stand close, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her against him. He was hard and he wanted to make darn sure she knew it.
“Peter,” she said, her voice tight, “are you trying to distract me?”
“Of course.” He kissed the back of her neck. “Just a little.”
“If you really want to prove your devotion, get the biscuit tin off the dresser.”
“Kiss me first.”
She turned in his embrace, leaning into him so her breasts pressed against his pullover. Damn, they both had far too many clothes. He wanted her naked, skin to skin, warm and loving under the covers, but he’d settle for what he could get, and what he could get right now was her kiss.
Her mouth found his. His hand slipped under her cardigan and fumbled for buttons and she pressed her lips against his.
He was drunk. Intoxicated with the sheer heady sensation of her mouth on his and her tongue searching, reaching for his. They touched, she gave a little sexy whimper and deepened the kiss until they were locked in a wild embrace of glorious sensual need. Her hands came around his waist to clutch his bottom and pull him closer.
What had he ever done to deserve this? A warm and loving woman who desired him. Heat built between them, fueled by repressed need and scorching want. He deepened the kiss even more, turning so Alice had her back to the sink. He pressed her against the cool china and rubbed his body against hers. He had to break it off soon or they’d never stop, and he’d end up having her against the draining board.
Not a romantic prospect.
Not the way to endear himself to the most fabulous woman in creation.
Screwing up his resolve, he broke the kiss and pulled back. A few inches.
“Peter!”