Her room was only four doors down the hall, and it had a sturdy lock. She was light on her feet; it would only take seconds to—
A scraping, sliding noise interrupted her frantic preparations. She caught her breath on a sob, her body tensing as her brother grasped the leg of the bed and dragged himself into view. His face was pressed against the floor; she didn't think he had noticed her. He slowly crawled around the edge of the bed on his elbows and stomach, digging his fingers into the rug with each forward pull. His legs slid behind him, and he gave a kittenish mew when his knee bumped the footboard.
The pathetic scene wavered through her tears. She wanted to help him, but the risk was too great, his weakness deceptive. Better to leave the room and lock the door behind her—in the morning she would repair him to his bed and try to discover how he'd loosed himself.
Though the rational decision heartened her, it took a few moments to screw her courage. Then she gathered up her skirts and sprinted to the door.
She knew the moment he saw her; she heard a growl, but she was already pushing at the handle.
It wouldn't open.
She cried out in dismay, certain it had not been locked when she'd fallen asleep. But she took no time to ponder the mystery of it, spinning around and fleeing to the dressing room. It wouldn't lock, but she could prop a chair against the door.
She didn't make it. Halfway across the room, Colin crashed into her and sent her sprawling against the coal bin next to the grate. It spilled over with a clang and an explosion of black dust. She reached out blindly for the iron poker that flanked the hearth.
He caught her wildly grasping arm, yanking her against him. Pain, excruciating and hot, ripped through her shoulder, and she screamed.
His fingers tore at her neckline, his nails scoring her skin in long furrows. She flailed at him with her free arm, numbly recognizing that her death was upon her. She stilled and let it come.
His head bent, his breath cold against her skin. She closed her eyes against the bite, praying that it would be quick—praying that it would be complete. She did not want to become what he was.
"Colin." Whether she spoke the word as a plea or to bestow forgiveness on this thing with her brother's face but the mind of an animal, she didn't know. But her voice must have touched some last bit of humanity in him; his weight shifted, lessened—and though she waited in agony, the bite didn't come. Hopeful and afraid, she opened her eyes.
And looked into the face of a dead man.
Anthony Ramsdell had wrapped his hands over Colin's jaw and was holding those sharp teeth away from her neck. Beside him, a youth in a monk's robe pried Colin's fingers from her dress.
Anthony gave her a lopsided grin. "You two are a little old to be wrestling, aren't you?" A pair of white, feathery wings waved gently behind him.
When did I die? Emily wondered, and then Colin attempted to struggle against his captors, jolting her shoulder. She shrieked, and merciful darkness flooded the pain anyway.
Colin fought wildly, but after they'd extricated him from Emily, Anthony and Hugh no longer had to be gentle with him. Hugh lifted and tossed Colin back onto the bed and had a manacle around his wrist before the vampire could move. Colin screeched in fury, pulling against the chains.
Anthony left Colin to Hugh; the older Guardian could certainly handle a vampire, particularly a half-starved one. Scooping Emily from the floor, he carried her down the hall to the room he remembered as hers.
It still was, apparently; although Anthony had never entered Emily's bedchamber, the romantic cream and rose perfectly suited the girl he'd known.
Except she was no longer that girl, he reminded himself.
With a sigh, he set her on the bed, glancing cursorily down her form to determine the worst of her injuries. The claw marks on her collarbone were bloody and raw; coal dust had settled into them, and they needed cleaning. The lump above her shoulder demanded his immediate attention, however, and it would be far better to reset the dislocation while she was unconscious.
He rolled up his sleeves, smiling grimly. For years, he had resented the necessity of his medical training and, when he'd been sent to the Peninsula, the circumstances under which he'd learned combat medicine. Emily's injuries weren't as serious as those he'd seen during the war, but he'd never been so pleased that he had the knowledge to help someone.
It took only moments to tear the dress away from her, revealing her white chemise. His hands were sure and steady on her shoulder, aided by his increased sensitivity and strength. She whimpered when he pushed the joint into place, but she didn't regain consciousness. He found a pitcher of water and a wash basin on her nightstand; he used it and a cloth to clean out the scratches and one of her nightgowns to make a crude dressing.
More of the black dust covered the left side of her face, and he gently wiped it away, leaving a clean trail of damp, porcelain skin. He traced the curve of her lips; they were softer than he remembered, and he suddenly wanted to wake her up, to see her smile. He wanted to capture every expression her mobile features could produce, find her flaws and pronounce them endearing, worship her scent and her touch and her voice.
Hugh had warned him before they'd entered the Gate that some Guardians became enthralled upon returning to Earth—Caelum's sterility could not prepare them for the sensorial onslaught. It could overwhelm or captivate their heightened senses, rendering them helpless until they learned to adjust.
Anthony's determination to reach Beaumont Court had prevented him from noticing much of his surroundings; once he had entered the house, he'd finally understood why Hugh's warning had been necessary. His senses had been immediately attuned to Emily's every movement, her every breath. When she had wept, it had taken every bit of his strength to stay away from her. When she had screamed, he'd used every bit of it to reach her.
He brushed her eyelashes with his thumb; they were long and thick, tipped with pale gold. No tears streaked her cheeks now, though the flesh around her eyes was tender and swollen.
They were the only marks of strain that he could see; despite her loss, despite the burden that had been placed upon her, she'd remained steadfast. He'd never imagined that the girl full of dreams would be a woman with a core of steel. Since learning of (he nosferatu's attack on Colin, he'd berated himself for failing to fulfill his vow to return, for leaving her alone—but she had not needed him.
Except, of course, when her brother attempted to rip out her throat.
His gaze returned to the dressing above her breasts. Blood had already seeped through the thin material. Frustration made him clench his teeth; he needed better supplies—and a few servants to help find clean cloths and renew the water. As he had neither of those things, he ripped a length of bedsheet to replace the nightgown and exposed the scratches. He frowned at their ragged edges and their depth. They would scar, leaving a physical reminder of her terror.
Instinctively, he willed her flesh to knit itself, imagined the skin closing and repairing in the same manner he willed his clothes and his wings to appear, and pressed his hand to her injury.
He pulled it back as his palm burned against her skin. Pain shot through his arm, but it was the smooth, undamaged skin at her neck that made him curse aloud in surprise.
His exclamation brought Hugh instantly to the door, and Anthony had the absurd desire to know whether his mentor had actually run from the other room or just walked very quickly.
He repressed the question with a grin. "I believe I have discovered the nature of my Gift."
Hugh looked at Anthony's hand, then at Emily lying on the bed. "Waking unconscious women?"