but that of a large man, well dressed but with long, unruly dark hair. "Mr. Steranko?" she asked.
He nodded and stepped forward. Some years younger than his partner, he nonetheless seemed to be the one in charge. He took her hand and kissed the back of it. "Please," she said, pulling it away from his grasp.
"Her mistress will be coming soon to arrange passage west," Summers explained.
"Ah, yes. I saw the wagon outside and the emblem on the bridle. I was wondering when the others in the family would decide to follow the count. Which one is leaving next?"
Before Colleen could decide how to answer, she saw Joanna take form in the doorway. She looked far more beautiful in the pale blue gown than in the tattered clothes she'd been wearing, and the flush of the life she had taken was still on her cheeks; but her pallor, the silence when she moved revealed everything to a knowing eye.
Steranko walked quickly to Joanna, taking both her hands, bowing so that his forehead nearly touched them. "Enter freely and be welcome. Countess," he said, revealing just how much he understood.
Colleen watched how Joanna took a seat in one of the office chairs. Her bearing was stiff and regal, and yet Colleen could sense in how her hands gripped the chair arms, her fingers playing with the turnings in the wood, how her unruly hair seemed to shiver in some unfelt breeze, that she was on the edge of another bout of hysteria.
What did she dream about in her long days in dark confinement? Colleen wondered. Did she dream at all?
Joanna had never looked into the eyes of a man who understood what she was, and yet was unafraid. She had to fight the urge to bare her fangs and arouse that fear, had to remind herself that he was undoubtedly someone who was used to her kind and whose help she needed. She wisely managed to keep it at bay, even while she grew more and more flustered as he spoke words she could scarcely understand, pointed to documents she could not read.
She had revealed that fact to Colleen last night. They had sat by the fire, sifting through the stack of papers she had taken from her brother's ruined castle. There were crumbling edicts written centuries ago, letters written in a language strange to both of them from someone in Szged, notes to a banker in Bucharest, and the most recent from some gentleman in England concerning the shipment of her brother's belongings to his new home.
Those last had provided the name of the shipping house he'd used, and brought them here. Now Steranko sat with the documents spread over his huge desk, explaining to her what each of them meant. She didn't understand half of what he was telling her, but there was no need, especially when he assured her that there would be solicitors in London more than willing to handle all her affairs.
He then took a map and showed the route their ship would take, and last explained the papers they would both need to travel openly.
"Don't worry. Countess. Everything can be handled through us," Steranko explained. "We are quite used to handling the affairs of nobility like yourself, as well as those with other unique needs."
Beside her. Colleen whispered in a voice so low only a vampire's ears could detect any sound at all. "Unique needs. Banshees. Dearg-dul. Rakashas."
"And you can handle this all?" Joanna asked.
"All of it. We can even keep you safe until the ship departs tomorrow evening."
So easy! So very easy! Joanna pulled in a quick breath, then realized how insane her laugh would seem, how out of place. She pressed her lips together tightly, feeling ready to explode.
"It will cost, of course," Steranko went on.
How dare he try to cheat her! Her eyes flashed with anger and he quickly added, "But no more than any set of forged papers, I assure you."
Forged? "I go under my own name," she insisted.
Steranko considered this. "I think you must once you reach your destination. Countess. If you do not, you will have no part of your brother's wealth once you've
Mallory Rush
Ned Boulting
Ruth Lacey
Beverley Andi
Shirl Anders
R.L. Stine
Peter Corris
Michael Wallace
Sa'Rese Thompson.
Jeff Brown