He had found himself telling his family about Cara and, with every word, he realized he didn’t want to exist without her, that he loved her with every fiber of his being, and that he wanted nothing more than to share the rest of her life, however long or short that might be. It wouldn’t be easy. She would age, sicken, and die. But that was the way of the mortal world and he couldn’t change it.
His mother had been excited at his news, eager to see her youngest son marry and settle down, eager for more grandchildren. He had teased her, asking if ten grandkids weren’t enough, and she had replied that, “you could never have too many grandchildren.”
Now, sitting in a darkened nightclub, Vince felt a twinge of regret that he would never have a child of his own, never know what it was like to hold a son or a daughter in his arms. It was something he hadn’t considered when he chose the life of a vampire. Of course, fatherhood would also have been out of the question if he had chosen death instead of life when Mara offered him the choice, so maybe it was a moot point and not worth thinking about.
Had Cara missed him as much as he had missed her? Was she angry because he’d been too gutless to tell her good-bye in person? Would she forgive him? Would she even see him?
He shook off his doubts. If she truly loved him, she would at least give him a chance to explain. He held that thought close as he glanced at his watch one more time.
It was eight forty-five.
Chapter 32
Cara glanced at her father for reassurance, though she found little to reassure her. The smell of his singed flesh filled the confines of the room. The skin at his wrists was raw and bright red, as was the skin at his neck, ankles, and chest. His face was also badly burned. Though his expression remained impassive, she knew he must be in agony.
She tugged on the leather straps that bound her hands and feet. She had to get free, had to help him. She had always thought her father was indomitable. Since learning he was a vampire, she had assumed he was indestructible. It was frightening to see him subdued and helpless. If he couldn’t fight Serafina, what hope did she have of getting away from the woman?
A movement at the other end of the table drew Cara’s gaze. There was a sudden hush as Serafina lit a long white candle and placed it in a holder in the center of the cloth-covered table beside the crypt. Shaking out the match, Serafina turned toward Anton, who held out his left arm. She filled a syringe with his blood and emptied it into a small glass vial. Next, she drew blood from her own arm and put it into another vial. In all, there were five vials on the table, along with three jars and a silver bowl. Serafina smiled at her son, and then she began to chant softly.
“On All Hallow’s Eve, between dusk and dawn, the blood of kin must be drawn.” She picked up an eye-dropper and dipped it into one of the vials. “Nine drops, no more, no less, the blood of kin you must bless.”
She made a pagan sign over the eye-dropper, then slowly added nine drops of Anton’s blood to the silver bowl.
“To this the blood of love you add, and the blood of an enemy, it must be had. Seven drops of each, one by one, quickly now, it must be done.”
Once again, she added blood to the bowl, seven drops of her own blood, seven drops of Roshan’s.
“Five drops of a maiden’s blood,” she intoned, and added five drops of Cara’s blood to the bowl. “Rosemary for remembrance.” She sprinkled rosemary into the dish. “An infant’s blood, three drops for life anew.” More blood was added to the bowl. “A sprinkling of yarrow, a dash of rue.”
Serafina added the remaining ingredients, then stirred them together with a silver spoon. “Spread the blood upon the crypt, when the moon commands the sky.” Serafina knelt beside the crypt, her expression rapt as she poured the contents of the bowl onto the crypt and then smeared the bloody mixture over the top with her bare hands. When that was done, she nodded at Anton, who pushed the top of the stone crypt aside. It fell to the floor with a resounding crash, revealing the casket within.
“Call forth the dead, his name times three. Doubt not, and he will come to thee.” Serafina stood, her arms lifted over her head, blood dripping from her fingertips. “Anthony!” she cried. “Anthony! Anthony!”
Cara felt a shiver run down her spine as Serafina’s voice echoed off the walls. She felt the hair raise along the back of her neck and along her arms as a strange current ran through the room. She glanced at her father. Judging by his expression and the way he jerked weakly against his restraints, she guessed that he, too, had sensed the otherworldly power vibrating through the night.
Serafina continued to stare at the coffin, as if she could will her beloved to rise.
Anton frowned at her. “Maybe you did it wrong.”
“No!” Serafina exclaimed. “I did everything I was supposed to do.” With her bare hands, she ripped the lid off the coffin. A horrible smell rose in the air. “Anthony, come to me!”
A low hum vibrated through the air and then, to Cara’s horror, the body inside the coffin moved.
“Yes!” Serafina’s voice was filled with exultation. “Yes, my love, come to me!”
And Anthony Loken rose from the coffin.
Cara stared at the thing that had once been Anthony Loken. His eyes glowed a dull red, his skin was pale; in some places, it had rotted away.
Anton stared at his father in horror. “Something’s gone wrong!”
Serafina whirled around, her eyes wild. She held up her hand, fingers spread wide. “The blood of kin,” she said, folding one finger down. “The blood of love.” She folded another finger down. “The blood of an enemy. A maiden’s blood.” She stabbed her forefinger in Cara’s direction. “Are you a virgin?”
Cara stared at the woman, wondering which would serve her better, the truth or a lie?
The witch turned on her son. “Did you touch her?”
“No, I swear it.”
Once again, Serafina directed her attention to Cara. “Whore! Your blood was not pure! See what you’ve done!”
She turned toward the thing that had been Anthony. The creature stood in front of the coffin, unmoving except for his eyes, which were filled with confusion.
“Mother, you’ve got to put him back,” Anton said. “You haven’t raised my father. You’ve raised a monster!”
The thing that had been Anthony Loken turned its head and stared at Anton. “Son?” His voice was rusty with disuse.
“Yes,” Serafina said, her smile radiant. “Our son.”