Page 28 of The Shadow of the Count
At least he prayed so. He needed to be able to believe Lyle would heal.
Donnie sighed, going to pack. The best thing he could do for Lyle was to go and come back quickly.
Then he would have Peter, and they would figure things out. Together. His lover was so good with research, and he might come across something they didn’t.
And he might know something about the count that could help them figure out what in heaven was going on.
Twelve
Peter dreamed about the count, the man as he had been as a much younger person, dressed in furs, eyes glowing in the darkness.
He didn’t recognize the manor house, the place surrounded in lavish gardens, with marble statues that shone in the moonlight. It was an oasis in the city, not a country house, but not a stylish new townhome either. And it had an edge of decadence and almost decay to it underneath.
The count was stalking someone there.
He frowned as a young, slender man floated out onto the balcony, the white, gauzy clothing he wore blowing in the gathering storm. He appeared unsteady on his feet, and he was so pale. So very pale. Peter wanted to shout at him that he would catch his death in the wind and rain, but he had no voice here.
The count—or the animal masquerading as the man in question—was climbing up toward the young man, slavering as the long claws clattered against the stones. He looked like a wolf. Or maybe a bat. The form of him kept shifting and changing, like he was made up of rats or worms. He was foul.
“Be careful!” Peter screamed the words, but they were stolen by the wind.
All of his warnings fell on deaf ears. The young man held out his arms, and the beast was on him, teeth set to his throat. There was no way anyone could survive that. Those fangs seemed four inches long and razor sharp.
The young man screamed, the sound one of unutterable terror. At the ruckus, Clark Chambers came running out, holding a holy Bible before him. The beast roared, the mouth nothing but a bloody maw, the young man collapsing in a heap on the stone terrace.
The beast backed away, and Clark followed, pushing it out of the terrace, down the balustrade, screaming something at it that Peter couldn’t hear.
“Clark? Clark, can you hear me?” Peter shouted. “It’s the count!”
Clark ignored him, simply driving the beast away steadily. Peter tried to run to the young man who had been bitten, but no matter how fast he moved, nothing happened.
The beast finally disappeared into the night, and Clark went to the young man, kneeling beside him. Peter struggled, trying to help, but when he looked up, Yvgeny was holding him down.
“I—Where are we?” That had been so very real.
“Peter, wake up. We’re almost in Paris.”
“I was dreaming?” Of course he’d been dreaming. Of course he was. The count was an old man—evil, but ancient. The man he’d seen in his dreams though… He’d been dressed like the portrait in the count’s hall that looked like Don.
“You were, my friend. You cried out, so I woke you.”
“Thank you. It was…awful. Utterly terrifying.”
“Was it the count? You are connected now, you know.” Yvgeny eyed him carefully, and chills raised goose bumps on his arms.
“Connected? How?” There was no way he was in any way like that man.
“His women are nothing but his ghosts, yes? They cannot live without him. Their desire for you is an echo of his hunger for you.”
“His…” He shuddered. “In my dream, he bit someone. A young man.”
“Do you know of him?” Yvgeny watched him carefully.
“No, but I knew the man who drove him off. He is a colleague of mine.”
“Ah. Then he is known to your friends. I worry you were seeing the count as he is. In action.”
“How do you know all this?” Peter didn’t understand any of it.
