A Sharpness on the Neck

'Come, come! No one can do such things any better than you, if you will only concentrate on the job at hand.'

Vlad and Constantia assured their worried client that a man once changed to a vampire could never be changed back.

'That will not happen in this world.'

Radcliffe, gritting his teeth and about to undergo his fate, murmured some heartfelt prayers for the safety of his dear Melanie.

Did he fear that he, as a vampire, would be condemned, compelled by his own nature, to do harm to the woman he loved?

I considered one rescue plan after another, running each one through, in my imagination, to several possible conclusions. And then, when I felt that we were running out of time, I made my choice.

Chapter Twenty-Two

There came a time, on what Phil Radcliffe calculated was either the third or fourth day of his and June's captivity—they were beginning to lose track—a time when Graves had been gone longer than usual.

Philip had gotten nowhere in his attempts to guess or learn where the chief kidnapper went during these absences, or by what means of transportation. Vaguely the young man had the idea that Graves couldn't be going very far, for there were never any sights or sounds of vehicles departing or arriving. The small landing strip had remained unused since their arrival.

Of course he had tried asking. 'Where does he go? Graves?'

'That's no secret.' Connie tossed her head. In keeping with her seeming determination to keep people off balance by her behavior, she had just come in through the window, unlocking the barred grating from outside and then swinging it tightly closed behind her on its heavy hinges.

'Why don't you tell us, then?'

'He's looking for a way to save your little… neck.' The gamine smile again. 'I almost said, save your ass. But in this case, 'neck' is really the right word.'

Today Mr. Graves's chief assistant was carrying with her a plastic garment bag, too thin to contain more than a dress or other single change of clothing. It crunched and crackled faintly when she tossed it down on one end of the sofa. When she saw her captives looking at it, she smiled and told them it contained some of the earth of her homeland.

The couple exchanged looks.

'Why do you carry that?' June asked.

'It lets me sleep. I really can't sleep without it.'

'Where is Graves today?' Phil tried again. 'Come on.'

This time the question was a little more successful. Maybe Constantia's thoughts, as usual, were tending to drift away from the matter on hand. 'He goes out looking for his brother. He thinks Radu will be not too far from where you are!' And she giggled, touching the tip of Radcliffe's nose with a playful forefinger.

'Does he drive? I never see or hear any traffic, any engines starting up.' In fact the silence here, after dark particularly, struck Radcliffe as eerie.

'Sometimes he does. Sometimes he flies.'

'You mean a plane lands and picks him up? But we never hear that either.'

No answer, except a smile.

'Have you ever met his brother?'

'Yes. I have.' Connie gazed off into the distance. For the first time that Philip could remember, she looked sad.

Somehow Radcliffe hadn't been expecting an affirmative. 'Well, is there any truth in what Graves says about him? I mean, what's this Radu really like?'

For once Connie seemed at a loss for words. 'Please, stay here,' she urged after a time. 'Do what Mr. Graves tells you.'

Shortly after dawn, Constantia's eyelids were evidently growing heavier and heavier. Looking more than ever the part of the gypsy girl, she slumped down with her crackling plastic garment bag beneath her slender body.

Looking as if she were about to yawn, but not quite doing so, she closed her eyes, folded her hands across her denim-clad tummy, and announced that she was tired and deserved a rest.

Phil pointed toward the bag. 'You say this is earth of your homeland? Where's that?'

'Far, far away.'

'And your carrying this bag around is supposed to prove to us that you are a vampire?'

Constantia's eyelids opened halfway. Her voice was drowsy. 'Oh, I could show you, sweetie. Trust me, I could show you very convincingly. But I'd better not.'

'Show us?' June demanded. 'How?'

But Connie only smiled and closed her eyes again, relaxing with a kind of snuggling motion.

As Radcliffe sat watching her, the idea suddenly came to him: This woman's on drugs. He whispered his insight to his wife, who nodded in agreement.

She must be, he thought to himself again. Drugs, or simply booze. Though, now that Phil came to think of it, neither he nor June had ever seen Connie or any of the other guardians drinking or smoking anything. Probably they were trying to keep alert while on guard duty, but now Connie had slipped up.

June, with her lips brushing her husband's ear, whispered her own discovery: 'I don't think she's breathing.'

Looking carefully, he couldn't tell. What, he wondered, were the infallible signs of death?

Moving carefully; he shifted his weight until he had brought himself into position to whisper an answer at the same level of volume: 'We're not going to hang around and find out.'

Philip felt confident of being able to overpower Connie if necessary—or at least he told himself that he did— but he didn't want to hurt this demented young woman.

It was June whose attention was first drawn to the window, by a new noise. It was only a little noise, hard to identify and locate at first, but every few seconds it was repeated: gusts of fitfully rising wind making the loose grate tap against its frame. By now, with nerves continually on edge, he was familiar with every creak and rattle of this dwelling. Radcliffe realized with an inner thrill that there was nothing to stop them from getting out the window—the steel grill through which Connie had entered had been left carelessly unlocked, so it could be swung out on its hinges. Knowing Connie as well as he now did, he could believe it. A way of escape had been accidentally left open. And at the moment none of their guardians, masked or otherwise, were anywhere in sight.

Phil cast one more cautious glance toward Constantia before he stepped out through the window, and saw that she had not moved a muscle. Actually it was more like she was in a trance, or dead. Neither her eyelids nor her lips were entirely closed. He couldn't tell if she was breathing or not, and decided that he had better not wait to find out.

Before they made their move, June reminded Philip to bring water. He grabbed a plastic bottle from the kitchen; it was too big to fit into any of his pockets, but he could carry it in one hand. And Phil grabbed up from the floor beside the sofa the broad-brimmed hat Connie always wore during the day. It was a tight fit and lacked a chin strap so it tended to blow away, but it was still better than nothing as protection against the sun. June had her own hat.

Silently Phil swung back the grill-gate on its smooth new hinges and led the way out through the window. It was only a short drop to the dusty ground outside, which was only about a foot lower than the interior floor. June, having slipped on the hiking shoes so thoughtfully provided by their captors, followed close on his heels. What could be easier?

June was almost entirely out, when the unfamiliar shoe on her right foot seemed to catch on something. She tugged it free just as she began to fall, but came down awkwardly.

When June started to fall, Philip made a grab for his wife's elbow in an effort to save her, but he was off balance and her modest weight was too much for his extended arm.