Bride of the Night
THE STRANGEST THING about the visions or dreams that plagued Tara was that they were so real.
This time, she was walking down a long corridor. The walls were painted, and hung with scenes from American history. She could see men talking at the end of the corridor, and she could catch snatches of their conversation. Something was said that referred to Sherman's next move, and someone else was bemoaning the relentless tactics of General Grant, while another was arguing that he was getting the job done. “I know Robert Lee,” another man was saying, “and he's a brilliant, brilliant man, and general. He sees that there is little hope. I don't believe that the fighting can go on much longer.”
“But we might well be looking at draft riots again,” another man said.
She was walking toward them, where they stood, all awaiting an audience with the president. She thought that they had to be his advisers, or perhaps even members of Congress. She was sure that arguments regarding the war had gone on at the end of that corridor since the fighting had first begun.
She wasn't going to reach the men. The president's door was ahead, on the left.
She entered.
Lincoln was not seated behind his great desk. He was in a chair near the door, and she was certain that he could hear every word being said. His head was bowed; he rubbed his temples as he listened.
She didn't want to interrupt him; he looked as sad and weary as if he had carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, and of course, he had been carrying the weight of his own world. He'd seen a child die while in office, and for years he'd born the ridicule of the people when his generals had lost battle after battle, and the count of the dead had steadily risen to unthinkable numbers.
He looked up, aware that she was there. And he offered her a weak smile, standing as a gentleman would do.
“You've come. I've been expecting you, waiting for you.”
“Thank you, Mr. President. I've come to beg you take care. You know that you have enemies all around you.”
“I entered the great fray of politics-no man in politics is at a lack for enemies,” Lincoln assured her.
She shook her head. “You know that your situation is different. Sir, you can't be so open. You expose yourself to the trust of the people far too often. You must understand how fragile you are as a human being.”
He walked to the window, and stared out at the length of the mall. His hands were folded behind his back.
“I am not worthy. How can I serve people, if I cannot be among them? I can't give them the answers they want far too often. But I can see that they know that my heart breaks when a man or a boy is killed. They can know that I spend my every waking hour thinking of ways to end this horror as soon as possible. I pray that we win the battles, so that the bloodshed can stop. We have come this far-we cannot be swayed from our position.” He turned back to her. “I feel that we are close. Having stayed our course, we will be triumphant.
“I sometimes fear for myself, but more often I think of Mary. She weeps so often. Her family is Southern, and they suffer so. She is delicate. 'Spiritualism' became so popular in the Midwest when we were home, and at first, it seemed that she enjoyed exploring the possibilities-and, of course, the social interaction. But then our Willie died. She's had seances here, in the Red Room. I have been, and I have seen, and we've had Dr. Henry-the head of the Smithsonian-in to investigate. And while he finds shenanigans among the mediums, Mary is unconvinced. She has seen the ghosts of my predecessors here, in the White House. She has seen Thomas Jefferson and Andrew Jackson and John Tyler. I know how troubled her mind is, but I…well, I have felt that I have known who will win a battle, and often my instincts have proven true. And I-“
“Sir,” Tara interrupted, hurrying over to him. “What's important is that you realize your physical danger. You are mortal. Any man might be an enemy.”
He turned to her, and she could feel his hand as he touched her hair, smiling as gently as a father. “I will see you soon, I believe. I will see you soon.”
Suddenly, she felt as if she was being pulled away from him. Great shadows that insinuated diabolical faces rushed between them. She was being hurled away, farther and farther, and she cried out, fighting the swarm of shadows.
“Hey!”
She awoke with a start, and became aware of the hands firmly holding her shoulders. When she tried to bolt up, she was pushed back down.
There were no shadows around her. She was lying on a blanket on the sand, her bed beneath the shelter of the tarp, the world around bursting with sunlight. She was even aware of the smell of something roasting, and the aroma was provocative.
And she was facing the Pinkerton agent, Finn Dunne.
“You're dreaming. Calling out and fighting in your sleep,” he told her.
She stared at him a moment, trying to shake off the shadows and fog of the dream. She had no intention of giving him any explanations.
The sun had really risen high, but then she hadn't gone to sleep until it had started to rise. She smoothed back her hair, grateful that she'd been given a bit of soap by Captain Tremblay, and that she didn't feel like a complete salt block.
“Richard?” she asked. Her voice was thick.
Finn offered her a canteen of water. She accepted it. The water was cool, crisp like the day, and it tasted delicious.
“Richard fares quite well. He has been up and about, and is working with some of the men on salvage. Some of the goods aboard both ships survived. A few trunks floated to the surface, and Richard has suggested that we arrange a diving party to bring others up from the seabed.”
“He knows how to dive,” Tara said, setting a hand on Finn's chest to force him far enough away so that she could push up to a sitting position. “I'm excellent. I can help.”
“And you can disappear in the water, too,” he said crisply, rising.
“You know that I won't leave. You know quite well that I could have left already,” she said, finding her feet, as well.
“Richard in the water, you in the water…not a good scenario for me, I dare to think. The men hunted down a boar, and there's coffee and dried meat that came from one of the rescued barrels. I left a special canteen, just for you, near the palm where you watched over Richard yesterday…”
He turned away from her.
“And where are you going?” she called after him.
He paused, as if surprised by the question, or surprised that she would dare to question him.
“To help with the salvage, of course,” he told her. “I'm not from an island, I fear, but time has taught me well. Billy is tending the camp, should you need assistance.”
He had been by her side…and he had refused to let her dive while Richard was doing so, and yet, he seemed to think that it was safe to leave her to roam the island. Well, it was, of course; he knew that she would certainly try to escape-but only if she had Richard at her side.
She splashed some of the canteen's water on her face and rinsed her mouth, then headed for the tantalizing scent of the boar that continued to sizzle on the stake.
She found Billy tending coffee and the meat by the fire.
“Good morning, Tara,” he said pleasantly.
“Good morning, Billy.”
He had a soldier's mess kit out, and quickly poured her some of the hot coffee. “There's still a chill here. Seems that winter's cold can seep into the bones, even if it doesn't begin to compare with the brutal snow and sleet of the north.”
“It's a wet cold, Billy, and that's why we feel it,” she murmured.
“The meat's a bit stringy, but decent,” he told her, cutting her a slice from the carcass.
She accepted the plate and sat on one of the logs that had been dragged close to the fire. Tasting the meat, she realized that she was ravenous. She didn't eat daintily, but devoured the portion.
Billy poured himself more coffee, looking over their camp area. Blankets and a few pallets lay in order beneath the tarp. With their longboats, the Union men had managed to come away with a fair amount of supplies. She had the feeling that Tremblay was a man who had sailed the sea so long that any situation was a matter of following regulation. His ship was floundering and going down, and therefore you set to the task of securing the most necessary supplies. When survivors became beached on an island, there was still order, and men were set to work.
Billy cleared his throat, looking at her.
“There are books in Dr. MacKay's trunk, if you would like something to occupy your time,” he suggested.
“Thank you, Billy. I will most certainly see what reading material the doctor carries. But I thought I would amble about a bit-if your job isn't to stop me from doing so?”
“You are free to wander the island.”
She smiled, rose and started for the spit of ground where she had buried Richard beneath the branches the day before.
Just as Finn had said, there was a canteen leaning against one of the palms, half-hidden by branches. She unscrewed the top, and discovered that it was indeed filled with blood. She sniffed it.
Boar's blood.
Tara drank her fill, and discovered that she yearned for more, and then more. The previous day had taken a great deal of her strength, and the blood washed through her body like an elixir.
She drank it all down, and returned the canteen to its place, wondering if she should have been so selfish. How odd-the man seemed out to prove she was guilty of the most horrible offenses, and yet, he meant to see to it that she was supplied with this secret necessity.
The better to keep her alive and torment her, she thought.
However, with her new sense of energy filling her limbs, she couldn't help but be grateful. He knew what she was; he could present her to the others as a monster.
But then, wouldn't he have to admit himself a monster, as well?
She couldn't begin to fathom the working of his mind.
Tara left the little copse and started walking along the beach. She waved to Billy, and kept walking back around to the tangle of mangroves she'd stumbled upon the night before. From there, she could see that a number of the Union longboats were out in the vicinity of where Peace had gone down. One trunk bobbed in the water, and three sailors in a boat were trying to capture it with a hook. Tremblay himself was aboard another of the boats, and, as she watched, Richard surfaced, dragging a rope. Tremblay and another man reached for the salvage he had secured from the ocean floor, dragging the barrel aboard their ship. A moment later, Finn surfaced, another of the barrels in his arms. He managed to lift his arms high above the water himself, and Tremblay needed only to lower the barrel to the boat.
Out by the remains of the Union ship-its masts all that rode above the waterline-she could see that the men were busy. They had apparently fashioned a diving bell out of scrap metal, and they had a man down to find what he could.
She chafed, being on shore. She knew that she would be excellent at finding whatever treasures might have been blown clear of Richard's ship.
She noted, however, that hanging on the longboat catching their breath, Finn and Richard seemed to have easy enough conversations.
Did Finn seriously believe that she or Richard could be Gator, the spy supposedly known to be heading north to attempt an assassination attempt? She had expected grueling interrogation, not collective efforts to secure supplies.
She watched the work, a sense of bitterness overriding the moment's goodwill she had felt toward Finn Dunne. He couldn't begin to imagine how tormented she was, longing to help the man he seemed convinced she wanted to kill.
And, of course, he should be careful with her; perhaps he had a matching strength, but he should really know better than to underestimate her.
Tara hesitated another minute, and then could stand it no longer. She was already down to little more clothing than a cotton blouse, pantelettes and skirt. She doffed her shoes, made her way over the mangrove roots and dove in.
It didn't take her long to near the area where the Union longboat awaited the divers. She surfaced there and faced Tremblay.
“Captain, I can help,” she told him.
He looked at her, and smiled slowly. “There was chloroform on the Peace, so Richard has told us. I believe we have thus far raised coffee and rum, clothing and a score of boots.”
She nodded. “The chloroform is heavily wrapped, sealed in a barrel, sir. It might have exploded, you know, along with the gunpowder.”
“We will search a while longer,” Tremblay said.
As she clung to the hull of the boat, speaking with Tremblay, Finn surfaced again, bearing a carpetbag that was the worse for wear, but still closed. She knew the travel bag; it was her own.
Finn gave no thought to the bag, tossing it into the boat. He stared at her, his eyes burning with that red tinge that seemed to warn of danger, his brows knit in a scowl. “You were told not to assist, I believe, Miss Fox!”
He was shirtless, down to his breeches. Water sluiced over his shoulders and she saw the sun-bronzed ripple of his shoulder and back muscles. Sleek dark hair slashed in wet disarray over his forehead, and she was disturbed to realize that, even wet and dripping, he was an imposing man. And an attractive one.
“I can help,” she said, wishing there wasn't quite so much of a plea in her voice. She didn't look at Finn; she gave her attention to Captain Tremblay. “I'm an excellent diver, sir. Very, very good.”
“Find the chloroform,” Tremblay said. “God knows, enough soldiers, both sides, will be needing that.”
She didn't look back at Finn, but gave herself a push from the boat and pitched downward, passing Richard on his way up as she dove. Today, despite the cold of the water that remained like an icy bath, the sea was beautiful. They were by the side of the reef that had been the final death grip for Tremblay's ship, and fish were about in a burst of color. Tangs, yellow and blue, swam by as she propelled herself along the outskirts of the reef, searching the sandy bottom and the jagged coral for signs of the sealed barrel that carried the chloroform. She saw another barrel on the sand bottom and dove for it; this barrel had split. It had carried salt or sugar, she thought, but the contents were now lost. She pushed herself harder and farther, was forced to surface, and then pitched down in a dive again. The water, even where there was an absence of coral, was no more than forty or forty-five feet deep.
This time, she found a barrel that had been thrown clean and clear. She went for it, and realized that she needed rope and buoy to get it up.
Or Finn.
Twenty feet from Tremblay's longboat, she surfaced again. Finn was hanging on the bow, about to take another dive. Richard was now aboard, a blanket around his shoulders; he was shivering. She didn't think that he'd been ordered out for his health, but rather because she was in the water now. That was well; she hadn't received a massive conk on the head.
“Agent Dunne!” she called, treading water. It didn't do well to stay in one position long; the water became colder and colder as she did so.
He turned to her.
“I need help!” she called to him.
She couldn't really see his face clearly from her distance; she didn't know why she was certain that he wore a quick look of suspicion before joining her.
He swam to her as easily as any of the fish in the sea. “Straight down,” she said.
“I'll follow you.”
She met his eyes, nodded and dove down, kicking hard. They came to the large barrel. She might have managed the weight, but the bulk of it was more than she could get her arms around. He grabbed it by the lip, pulling it to stand straight, then gripped it around on the other side as well, and thrust off from the ocean bed to reach the surface with the weight. She kicked off, too, streaking after him, but when she reached the boat, Tremblay and Richard had already leaned over to help Finn take the precious barrel from the water.
“That's it,” Richard said. “There's the marking.” He pointed to an etched-out scrawl in the wood at the top of the barrel. “That's the chloroform.”
She thought that, most likely, unless there was some kind of rescue from heaven for the two of them, Richard would wind up being sent to a prisoner-of-war camp. She wasn't sure what would happen to her.
But Richard still seemed as pleased as the others that such a precious piece of cargo might be saved.
“Let's bring it in. We've done well,” Tremblay said.
Finn hiked himself out of the water and reached for Tara. She accepted his assistance into the boat, and she was grateful when Tremblay set a blanket around her shoulders. Finn took up the oars, while Tremblay called out to the other divers; it was time to come in.
They brought the longboats back around to the beachhead, and pulled the boats out of the water. The men began emptying the day's treasure, laying the items out on the beach.
Tara wandered to the side, clutching the blanket around her, as they assessed the day's haul. Richard pounced upon her carpetbag, and brought it, still dripping, to set before her. “Some things may be salvageable,” he said.
“Yes, of course, thank you. I guess I'll bring them to the cistern and freshwater pool and rinse them out and…they won't be salty, at least,” she said.
He looked at her, and touched her face. “I'm so sorry.”
She caught his hand. “You don't need to be sorry. We're at war. And this is what happens.” She moved closer to him. “Richard, I don't know what they're planning. If he really thinks we're assassins…and if he doesn't, well, it's still a prison camp. But we've got to bide our time carefully. I don't think… I'm not sure where we could actually get from here. The northeast side of the state is dangerous, you know. It's fifty-fifty whether a ship might be Yankee or Rebel. I think-“
She broke off. She saw that Finn, still shirtless, no blanket around his broad shoulders, was standing next to Doc MacKay, talking.
But he was watching her.
She lifted the dripping carpetbag. “I'll go to the spring…use it and be out, so that the men might have a chance.”
Tara, unhindered, left the beach behind and headed for the cistern. When she reached the area, she began going through her bag, delighted to discover that, while the bag dripped, the lining of tight cotton duck had kept many of her possessions from being soaked. She delightedly laid out stockings, skirts, chemises and her greatcoat, and then happily stripped off what she'd been wearing.
After bathing in the pool, she found the driest of her belongings. She remembered she had left her shoes by the mangrove roots, so she would have to retrieve them. She was growing accustomed to the chill nip in the air, but now, the afternoon sun was strong as it began its descent and she felt clean and good.
She decided to leave her bag drying in the sun, and turned around to start her barefoot walk back to the camp. As she did so, she discovered that her path was blocked.
Finn Dunne. She didn't know how long he had been watching her. He was still in nothing but tight breeches that clung slick and wet to his shape. His shoulders now gleamed, and his drying hair was a toss over his forehead. She held still, watching him, unable to wonder what she would have felt for the man if they hadn't met as enemies. She was disturbed by the quickening sense she felt when he was near, and by the rampant thump that seemed to begin in her chest, her heart beating far too quickly.
Fear! she told herself dryly. He was the enemy, and he seemed determined that she was a monster in truth.
“My pardon. I didn't mean to intrude.”
“I'm quite finished here.”
“Ah.”
“May I pass?”
“Certainly.”
He didn't move for a moment; he watched her. Then he stepped aside with a sweeping bow. Palm trees seemed to rain down branches around them. When she stepped by him, she felt that she touched the heat of his chest. Of course, she did not, but she couldn't help an inner trembling as she passed him.
They were captives, she reminded herself. They could have been treated coldly, confined to a few feet of space. The Union men might even have restrained them uncomfortably.
She knew that he watched her as she walked away; she fought the temptation to look back.
And yet, puzzled, she did turn. Tall, and bronze in the sun, his shoulders broad and his muscled chest tapering to the waistband of his trousers, he was an appealing sight. She straightened her shoulders and stood tall.
“No ship has come,” she said, frowning.
“No,” he said.
“I would have thought…if a distress flare was sent into the night…”
“Curious, isn't it?” he asked.
She nodded.
“What do you think has happened?” he asked her.
She shook her head. “I don't know. I can't imagine. I'm not surprised that we've not seen another Rebel ship-the blockade is getting tighter daily. But…”
“Yes, there should have been a Union ship here by now,” Finn said.
“Perhaps, by tonight.”
“Perhaps. The men will keep the fires burning.”
Tara finally turned again and started hurrying over the sand toward the beach. Richard was still working with Tremblay and Doc MacKay, unloading the precious salvage.
Billy was still watching over the fire, preparing the remnants of the boar with a few of the other men. She slipped by them, and hurried to the mangroves, anxious to find her shoes.
As she stooped to retrieve them, she froze.
There was a corpse in the water.
Horrified, she jumped back and nearly fell into the tangled roots.
She wanted to look away, but she could not. The man lay on his back, eyes staring up at the sky. Even though the gentle wash of the waves crashing against the mangrove roots lapped around him, the pool of blood at his throat still hovered there in a watery mist. He wore the remnants of a Union naval uniform, and his arms, legs and the length of his body looked as if it had been ripped to shreds by a beast.
Tara sat back, pressing her hand to her lips so that she would not cry out.
She turned and raced back to the camp. But there, she paused, not knowing who to tell. What she saw frightened her more than she had ever imagined. She had heard of such things, but…
Tara walked on by the camp, afraid of letting the men dwell on the fact that their situation could be blamed on her. She headed swiftly toward the cistern and the pool. She could hear splashing, and when she burst through the trees, she saw that Finn was relishing the cool clean water that washed away the salt of the sea. Water droplets flew into the sky as he rose from the pool, shaking his hair, and slicking his fingers across it to sluice out more of the water.
He spun to stare at her.
“Well, Miss Fox, this is surprise. I was rather of the impression that you evaded my company, rather than sought it out. However, of course, you are most welcome.”
“You have to see…what I've seen,” she said.
Perhaps he noted the ashen pallor of her face. He frowned.
“What's happened?” he asked, heading for the edge of the pool. Heedless of his state of nudity, he hurried out of the water, seeking the damp breeches he'd worn there. Instinctively, Tara thought to turn away, and still, seeing the taut muscle structure of his back and buttocks, she wondered if she hadn't come to him because of his power, and for reassurance.
“What-what is it?” he demanded, striding to her, setting his hands on her shoulders.
“A dead man,” she whispered.
“One of Richard's men? None were lost aboard Tremblay's ship.”
“A Union seaman. He's- You have to see,” she whispered.
“Have you told the others?” he asked. “You need to take great care with what you tell the others.”
“No…no, I've never seen anything like- You have to see the man…”
She was still so unnerved that she didn't think a thing of it when he took her hand and started walking.
“Where?” he asked.
“In the mangrove roots. I'd left my shoes earlier today. I went to find them.”
“Agent Dunne!” Tremblay called, seeing them head back toward the tents. “Come, sir! Get yourself a coat or a jacket. It might well be a hellhole of heat here in the summer, but the winter night is coming on, and there's a fierce chill coming.”
“Why, thanks… Miss Fox lost a trinket, a locket, by the shore today. I'll just take a look before we begin to lose the light, sir.”
Finn didn't pause. They walked by the tent and the spit where the boar had cooked earlier, and where coffee brewed even now. Richard was there, seated on a log, and he looked up with concern as they walked by.
He stood. “Tara? A locket?”
“Just a little matter!” she said. “Richard, please, no harm will come to me.”
He was still frowning as they hurried by. When they reached the first outcropping of mangroves, Tara hurried on ahead of Finn.
“This way…this way,” she told him.
“What is it- Oh, Lord!”
She stood, balancing on a root. Finn had come behind her, barefoot and bare-chested still. He passed her, moving nimbly from root to root, until he could hunker down close to the body. Tara stood still, watching him.
He was silent, inspecting the body that was half in and half out of the water, appearing almost alive as it moved with the waves.
“Not a shark?” she whispered.
“No,” he said grimly.
“Where did he come from?”
The sun was beginning to slip through the trees. Tara wasn't afraid of darkness, and yet, that night, with the dead man before her and the sky turning dark mauve, she felt a tremendous chill.
“He had to have been on a ship,” she whispered.
“Indeed.”
Finn stood, looking out on the horizon. He reached for an ankle sheath, which lay just beneath the fabric at his ankle, producing a long-bladed knife.
“Finn?” she asked.
She looked away then, aware of his intent. He hunkered down in the shallows, and she heard the swipe of his blade as he dispatched the man's head.
He tossed the head far out to the sea, and dragged the body and the torso out to be taken by the tide.
He walked back to Tara.
“What do you know about this?”
“Know? I know nothing!”
“You know what happened to the man, of course. It was a vampire attack.”
She shook her head. “We've never had an attack…never, in Key West! I'm-I'm the only one of my kind there! Of course, my father was around years and years ago, but I never even met him. I've heard whispers about such things, other places. But I swear to you, never in Key West!”
“Well, Tara Fox, you've probably spent much of your life learning your own strength, and learning about your powers. And then you're not afraid, because you know there are only a few out there who would begin to know how to kill you. But here's something you should realize right now, and accept, and take to heart-you are a half-breed.” He paused a minute. “I even know of others in your…family clan.”
“You know them?” she asked, stunned and hopeful.
“I said that I know of them,” he told her. “And right now, that's neither here nor there. There's a full-blooded vampire out there somewhere, and he's likely gearing up for a rampage. Your strength is going to be nothing against that of a full-blood. Tonight, you and your Richard will stay glued to my side until first break of morning's light. It's unlikely that a full-blood would attack after daybreak-darkness gives them their full strength. And if it comes to an attack, Tara…”
“An attack?” she whispered.
“An attack. We'll pray that their ranks are low, and I'm going to also pray right now that every word you've said is true. I'm going to have to teach you to use a few weapons that can be used against you, as well.”
“And you!” she reminded him.
“Yes,” he said, staring at her.
“Oh, don't think that I'm such a fool that I trust you as of yet-in any way, shape or form. However…”
“However?”
“If we don't survive this night, what would all the trust in the world even mean?”
Sheathing his knife, he walked past her, but then paused, and turned back to take her hand. “Come on, my naive beauty. You're about to learn some terrible truths.”