“I knew you could handle those. They were only there to cover my escape. Now. Shh,” he whispered, and drew a finger down her cheek. He found her pulse point and tapped her skin in time with her heartbeat. His fingernail, she knew, was sharper than a wolf’s claw. He could cut her open right there and let the blood come rushing out. If he even scratched her, if even a drop of her blood was spilled, then nothing would hold him back. He would smell her blood fresh and warm on her skin and it would drive him into a frenzy. No moral compunction he’d ever had would be able to stop him then. He knew it, too. He lifted his finger away from her throat and then brought the nail down to touch her skin. It felt cold and hard. He started to press, gently at first, but she knew in a moment he would cut right into her.
“Daddy,” Raleigh said then. Caxton’s eyes were still shut. She couldn’t see the girl. “Daddy, please, no. I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t hurt her.”
She wanted to scream No, wanted to tell Raleigh to run, to get away. She couldn’t seem to get the words out of her throat.
“Please, Daddy.”
Jameson’s finger lifted away from her neck. The mangled palm of his left hand still held her wrist against the floor. She could feel his body moving above her, moving away from her, but still he held her fast.
“Raleigh, I want to give you something,” he said. “Something wonderful. I was never a very good father.”
“No, Daddy, don’t say that.”
Caxton could feel his body shaking. “I was lousy. But I can make it up to you now. Come here. Come closer.”
“No,” Caxton managed to shriek, at the same time as she heard something hard and metallic smash into Jameson’s skull. Her eyes shot open and she saw Violet standing over them both, a massive wrought-?iron candelabra in her hands. One of the candles remained in its socket, guttering wildly. Jameson leapt up off of Caxton and backward, away from the girl’s follow-?up attack. He laughed as she swept the candelabra across his face like a rake, laughed again as she swung it over her head and down into his ear.
“Raleigh,” Caxton called, rolling over onto her stomach, “get the fuck out of here right now.”
Jameson’s daughter nodded and disappeared through the doorway again. Caxton got her feet underneath her and half-?crawled, half-?ran toward where she thought her handgun had landed when Jameson threw it. In the dark hall she couldn’t see it. She had to find it. She had only seconds, she knew, before Jameson stopped laughing at Violet’s attacks and decided to do something about them. Where was the pistol? Where? She saw a shadow ahead of her on the floor and dove forward, her hands stretched out to grab it. Cool metal met her fingertips and she grabbed it up, ran her thumb across the safety, making sure it wasn’t on. She rolled over on her back and sat up, sighting on where she expected Jameson to be.
She was off by yards. The gun barrel pointed at nothing but darkness. She spat out a profanity and swept the gun left—just in time to see Jameson lift Violet off her feet and into the air. His mouth sank into her chest and red blood rushed down her baggy shirt. Her candelabra lay on the floor beneath her, forgotten.
“No,” Caxton moaned, and fired into Jameson’s back. The vampire cringed and then spun around, and she thought he might come at her again, might grab her again, and this time she knew he would kill her. Instead he tossed Violet’s body away like a doll and raced for the front door and out into the night. She followed as fast as she could, her body twitching with adrenaline. Outside the stars burned in a deep blue sky and lit up the snow with an unearthly pale radiance. She couldn’t see Jameson at first, and she worried he might have tricked her, that maybe he had just run out the door and stopped, put his back up against the ivy-?covered wall to wait for her to run past him. That he would reach out of the dark and grab her and kill her easily.
Then she saw him running ahead of her, his dark clothes a pillar of black against the snow, his legs and arms pumping. She dashed forward, her weapon raised, knowing it was pointless to shoot while they were both running. Worried it was pointless to shoot at all. How many times had she hit him? She’d barely slowed him down.
He was running for the front gate, the iron gate with the cross on top. She could never catch him, of course—he was far too fast, his new body capable of converting stolen blood into incredible speed. On foot she was no match for him, and he must have known that.
Luckily, she’d had time to prepare.