He stuffed everything into a pillowcase and carried it into the living room.
Pausing, he glanced around the room. The side window was broken. There was a thin spray of blood on the hardwood floor. Muttering an oath, he wet a towel, found a bottle of liquid soap and a towel, and scrubbed the floor clean.
Now, what to do about the window? He was tempted to worry about it later, but a broken window was an invitation to any thief in the neighborhood. Moving quickly, he searched the grounds and when he found nothing useful there, he searched the garage where he found a piece of plywood. A further search turned up a hammer and nails.
Returning to the house, he checked on Regan, then covered the window with the plywood and nailed it in place.
When that was done, he picked up the pillowcase, gathered Regan into his arms and carried her outside. He locked the door behind him and then, traveling at preternatural speed, he soon arrived at his underground lair in the Byways.
In the bedroom, he held her close for a moment before he drew back the blankets and put her to bed. She looked as pale as death against the black sheets. The bandage on her neck was dotted with fresh blood. As he drew the covers over her, he couldn't help wondering how she would feel if the worst happened, but perhaps he was worrying for nothing. He had never heard of anyone being turned into a werewolf when bitten by a werewolf in human form. But then, Vasile was no longer an ordinary werewolf.
Santiago brushed a lock of hair from Regan's forehead, his fingertips sliding lightly over her brow. Her skin was baby soft and smooth, warmed by the blood flowing through her veins. It called to him, singing an ancient song of life. He had known her only a short time, yet he could no longer imagine his world without her in it.
He ran his knuckles over her cheek. Long ago, he had heard it rumored that a shaman in the Black Hills of South Dakota possessed a cure for lycanthropy. Of course, over the years, Santiago had heard rumors that there was a cure for vampirism, too, only that cure was supposedly obtained from a witch somewhere in the hill country of Tuscany. He had spent a dozen nights contemplating what it would be like to be mortal again, to eat solid food, to move about in the daylight, to sleep only when he was tired.
Finally, driven by boredom and curiosity, Santiago had traveled to Italy and scoured every inch of the country looking for the witch or a cure, only to come to the conclusion that neither the witch or the cure had ever existed. To this day, he didn't know what he would have done had he found a cure for the Dark Trick while in Italy. Today, he would not have to think about it twice. He had no wish to return to mortality. His current lifestyle suited him just fine.
For Regan's sake, he hoped that, should a werewolf antidote become a necessity, it would prove to be more than a myth.
He stayed at Regan's side until late morning and then, after writing her a quick note, he closed himself in his lair. Though he could be active during the daylight hours, sooner or later he was compelled to surrender to the Dark Sleep.
He was on the brink of oblivion when he remembered that when she woke, there would be nothing in the house for her to eat or drink, but there was no help for it now.
Closing his eyes, he succumbed to the darkness.
With a low groan, Regan turned onto her side. She ached in places she had never known she had; there was a really bad taste in her mouth. Why hadn't she brushed her teeth last night before she went to bed? Slowly, it occurred to her that the mattress beneath her didn't feel like her mattress, the sheets didn't feel like her sheets, and the pillow beneath her head wasn't as soft as the one she was used to. And why was her neck so sore?
Opening her eyes a crack, she stared, uncomprehending, at the unfamiliar sight of windowless blue-gray walls.
Fear came quickly, and with it, a rush of panic. Where was she? Sitting up, she saw that she was in her own nightgown. But in whose bed? Had Vasile carried her off to his lair?
She lifted a hand to her neck, her fingers tentatively exploring the bandage swathed around her throat. So, it hadn't been a terrible dream, after all. The horror of what had happened the night before returned in a rush. She had been bitten! By a werewolf! Nausea rose in her throat and she bolted from the bed, one hand covering her mouth as she searched for the bathroom, her stomach heaving. Bitten by a werewolf!
Later, weak and shaken, she sat on the floor, her back against the tub, her arms wrapped around her middle. She had been bitten by a werewolf. The thought made her stomach clench anew. Would she grow fanged and furry with the next full moon? She was shaking now, horrified beyond words.
Bitten by a werewolf. The realization struck with icy certainty and with it came the realization that her life as she knew it was over.
Still trembling, she dragged herself to her feet and moved toward the sink to rinse her mouth, only there was no paper cup or drinking glass.
Moving slowly, she went looking for the kitchen, only there wasn't one. Where was she? Returning to the bathroom, she turned on the faucet, cupped her hands under the water, and rinsed her mouth as best she could.
Forcing herself to remain calm, she went back into the bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed, noting, as she did so, that the sheets were black satin. It was then that she saw the note on one of the pillows. Picking it up, she read:
Regan,
I know you have questions. Stay here and rest. Try not to worry. I will come to you at sunset.
JS
JS. For Joaquin Santiago? She glanced at the black sheets again. It had to be him. She glanced around, wondering where he was—wondering where she was. She had been to Santiago's condo and this definitely wasn't it.
Feeling like an old, old woman, she rose from the bed and hobbled into the living room where she dropped down on the sofa.
Whatever this place was, it was a lot nicer than his other place, she thought, gazing at her surroundings, and far more suited to the man who owned it than the condo in the park. She studied the paintings, thinking it was touching and a little sad that all his paintings were of sunrises and sunsets.
Leaning forward, she perused the items displayed under the glass top of the coffee table, wondering if they held any special meaning for Santiago, then grimaced as a horrible thought crossed her mind. Maybe they were mementos taken from people he had killed. He was, after all, a vampire.
With a shudder, she leaned back and closed her eyes. Once, she had thought that being a vampire was the worst thing in the world. Now, contemplating the possibility that she might become a werewolf, she wasn't so sure. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. Maybe she was worrying for nothing. Vasile had been in human form when he bit her. As far as she knew, werewolves had to be in wolf form to create another werewolf.