Page 72 of The Shadow of the Count
They all sat staring at the hole where the car had been only moments before, the silence split by thunder overhead.
“Looks like we’re on foot,” Jeb said grimly. “Take what you can carry, gents, but don’t load yourself down too much. We’ll need our energy.” He hopped out of the car, and damn if he didn’t walk right to the wolf, kneeling a few feet away and holding out a hand.
The giant beast walked up and took Jeb’s hand in his mouth, and Peter’s heart almost stopped. If that thing bit down, the cowboy would lose his hand.
Jeb put his other hand in the wolf’s ruff, rubbing back and forth, then stood, staring up the road. “Just the way wolves kiss. Come on, buckos. We got a count to kill.”
Peter nodded, climbing out of the car, every bone in his body protesting. He would see this through. He had done it once before. He had survived the count.
“I’m scared, Peter,” Donald whispered, and he nodded. He knew.
Peter’s heart felt as if it would stop.
He took Donnie’s hand in his good one, squeezing. Offering comfort.
Donnie squeezed back. “Let’s get this done.”
They all looked to the mountain, then as one began loading packs on their shoulders. Yvgeny pulled the car to the side of the road, then turned it around so it was facing down. “Just in case,” he said.
They began to walk, the pace brutal. Jeb was in the lead with the wolf, Clark in the rear. Richard and Yvgeny pushed him and Donald, the presence behind them keeping them climbing.
The sight of the castle loomed over them, as malevolent now as it had been the last time he’d seen it.
He had to wonder if that portrait still hung in the stairwell. He wanted to burn it. He wanted it all to burn.
They all did, but he didn’t think the others could understand how it had felt to run his shoes to the ground, to blister his feet while he was starving. Just to get back to Donnie. And now his lover was here and in danger.
Those women were inside, along with the demonic bastard, and in a few hours, either good or evil would prevail.
The wolf began to move off the road, barking once at Jeb, who nodded. “We’ll follow him.”
“What?” Donnie looked utterly confused. “It’s a wolf, Jeb.”
“We’re following it. Come on.” That tone brooked no argument, and Jeb suited actions to words, assuming they would join him.
Clark herded them along after Jeb, like he was herding a flock of sheep. His flock. Peter giggled, glad no sound came out with the hysterical laughter. They would all glare askance at him if it had. But what else could he do? The situation bordered on the ridiculous.
So he went along his way, laughing.
His laughter stopped as they came to a tunnel, the stench of death gagging him.
“I can’t go in there,” Donald whispered, and Richard shook his head.
“The death cannot hurt us. It is only putrefaction.”
“But what the hell is it? Jesus, that stinks.”
“You have the torch, Jeb.” Clark pointed it out drily, and Jeb sent him a glare. For a moment, Peter expected Jeb to pull out a medieval torch and light it up, but Clark had meant an incandescent flashlight, which Jeb did, indeed, employ.
“Come on, boys. We’re bringing the good Lord’s fire with us, and ain’t nothing going to stop it.”
Peter caught a glance of the man’s jacket, the dark, wet stain much larger than before.
He looked at Clark, who was staring at Jeb grimly, and he knew he wasn’t the only one who noticed. Still, he let Jeb lead the way, so he must have confidence in their cowboy friend’s ability to keep going.
The tunnel was littered with…rotting corpses of animals and—some of it didn’t bear thinking about. Donnie’s agonized moan made him move closer, because this would surely cause inevitable comparisons to the catacombs of Paris. That way lay madness for his lover, and he knew it.
He wrapped one arm around Donnie’s waist, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other, refusing to waver, even when his utilitarian boots crunched against something unspeakable.
