Free Blood Red by Sharon Page Page A

tops of the stone sarcophagi. A dozen filled the gloomy, musty crypt, arranged in neat rows.
    “Cavern of the Vampires.” Father’s voice held breathless excitement—like a boy with a new pony.
    The workmen climbed in the opening, carrying several wooden stakes sharpened to killing points. Nausea roiled in her, sudden and weakening. Her legs almost gave way and she rested her hand on the nearest stone slab for support.
    Of course they would kill all the vampires but the one they wanted. But were they all ghouls, or were they men of charm and beauty, like Yannick? Were there other vampires like him? Was his brother also like him? Not just a creature driven by bloodlust?
    She felt a stare and whipped around to see Father studying her intently. His gray brows drew together.
    Could he guess she was weakening towards a vampire?
    Oh no.
    And she wasn’t. Not really. She still knew that vampires were evil and must be destroyed.
    Of course, she still knew that.
    To cover up, she walked along the row, touching the fronts of the stone coffins to hide her unsteady gait. Her fingers traced chiseled dates and names. Anthony Austen 1612 (d) 1705.
    Francis Smythe 1512 (d) 1705.
    The third from the last was the oldest but the letters were still crisp. Stephen of Myrlyn 1100. (d) 1706.
    The dates of creation as a vampire. The date of destruction. These vampires had already been destroyed.
    Zayan was estimated to be two thousand years old, but to see the evidence of Stephen of Mrylyn’s long existence sent a shot of pain through her heart. To walk the night for over six hundred years.
    In six hundred years Yannick would still walk the earth, while she would be long buried.
    Long turned to dust. Long forgotten.
    Guilt slid through her like poison through blood. She’d lied to Yannick. She’d looked away from his penetrating, glowing eyes to hide her lie, but still she feared he knew. But that didn’t matter because he would know for certain tonight. What would he do?
    Would he come to her in a rage or would he not come to her at all? Which did she fear the most?
    The next coffin made her want to cry. It was not dated as the others, with the date of the transformation to undead and the date of destruction.
    William. 1700 – 1708. IN HOPE OF ETERNAL SLEEP.
    An eight year old vampire?
    Heart in her throat, she moved on and stared down at the front of the last coffin. Blank. Her Blood Red by Sharon Page ©2006 Advance Reader Copy www.SharonPage.com 40
    fingers, in brown kid gloves, skimmed over smooth, cool white stone. A hum began beneath her fingertips. A soft, light vibration that strengthened and took on a rhythm. Low and steady, with long gaps during which her heart seemed to beat a hundred times. A vampire’s heartbeat.
    “Which is the one we want, sir?” O’Leary asked.
    She knew even as her father spoke.
    “The end one. Where Althea is standing.”
    She glanced up. O’Leary strode toward her carrying a long iron bar and a second lamp. Her father stood in the far corner—near the entrance, with the young, brawny workmen. One pushed with another bar and stone grated over stone in the far corner, setting her teeth on edge.
    “Burned to ashes,” her father announced, his voice matter-of-fact.
    Had even eight-year-old William been destroyed that way?
    As O’Leary reached her side, Father called out, “Don’t be so blasted impatient, O’Leary.
    Put the bloody bar down for the moment.”
    Despite his wounded leg, Father reached them in a mere moment. Again her father stared at her, as though he knew she could feel the presence of Sebastien de Wynter inside the coffin. Her hand still rested on the lid. Energy seemed to pulse into her hand, up her arm. She couldn’t move her hand away.
    Though she was certain, she found it all so impossible. “How did Zayan bring him in here?
    The entrance looked untouched for a hundred years. So did the hillside. Did he truly pass through earth and brick to bury Sebastien here?”
    Father