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important."
It certainly could, to me."Why? Are the Phoenix police after him?"
"Not in that sense. At least I don't know that they are. They're naturally trying to find out where he is,
after his car blew up, and a young woman who must have been sitting in it was killed. There could be
some possible connection with that Seabright murder and kidnapping case out there a few months ago.
You've heard of that."
"I've heard of that. And about What's-his-name Seabright's missing painting just the other day. They
haven't found the aircraft yet. But I haven't heard from the man you're talking about."
"Good. I didn't have any reason to think you might have, just a hunch. For your sake, Judy, I just don't
want you to get involved in any way."
"I see." Why was she so angry? Joe meant well.
"Now if hedoes contact you, for any reason, will you please for God's sake just give me a call?"
"I suppose I could do that." She could hear her own voice still chilly and upset. She was really angry
with herself, Judy supposed, because she had almost missed completely being aware of how much
troublehe was in. Might he be badly hurt? She couldn't tell. Once before when he was hurt, to the point
of death, she had been able to help. Now . . . the contact between them had evidently faded, without her
being aware of it.
Phoenix. But at the moment she had no feeling for where he was.
Bill still fidgeted in the doorway, watching her. Good. Maybe she would need some help from someone.
She smiled at him.
Joe's voice said: "I didn't tell Kate I was going to call you on this. And of course I didn't tell your folks."
"Of course." Judy's parents and brother had no idea of the truth shared by Joe and Kate that vampires
existed, and that Judy had had one as a lover.
"I just thought it was my duty to make sure that you don't get involved in this. You being out there in the
same part of the country and all."
"Oh, damn it, Joe!" Judy never swore. "Are you sure you wouldn't like me to drive a stake through his
heart if I get the chance?" Only after the words were out did she remember Bill listening. But Bill would
take them as metaphor of some kind; odd, how easy it was for some kinds of truth to remain hidden.
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"Judy, Goddam, Judy." Joe on the other hand tended to swear a fair amount. The phone now made his
anger tiny. "I'm just trying to look out for your own best "
"It seems to me thathe once let himself get involved in some pretty serious trouble thatwe were having."
For a few moments the long-distance buzz had the line to itself. Joe's voice when it came back was
decently troubled. "I know, we owe him a lot. After what he did for Kate and me, I'll stick my neck out.
But how do we know what he's involved in? I'm just trying to getyou to stay clear, kid, for your own
good. This other young lady who was blown up and killed in his car was probably on good terms with
him too, and "
"Thank you." Judy got the two words out in an acceptable voice, and then quickly hung up the phone.
She hoped Joe heard them and really appreciated that she understood and was grateful for his desire to
help. Joe really did mean well. It was just that right now Judy was too mad to talk to him any longer.
Bill was still in the doorway, with concern for Judy's troubles written all over him. She smiled at him
again. She didn't want to involve anyone else in anything dangerous. But she would, if necessary.
Her hand still on the cradled phone, Judy closed her eyes. Feeling guilt, and love, she tried for contact.
As soon as she really tried, it came. The man called Thorn was still alive, she was completely sure of that.
Somewhere to the west and south of her, at some considerable distance.
She thought that he was now asleep. But even in the sunny log room she trembled. She was frightened at
her perception of his pain and rage.
FOURTEEN
The servant whose howls had wakened me was a weepy old woman, her past scarred, as I now
suppose, with tragedy of one kind or another that must have driven her half mad. She was diligent about
the house, but given at times to supernatural fantasies. Her cries continued in the middle distance as I sat
there in my bed. I know not for how long, looking at that dagger on the pillow and fatalistically pondering
its meaning. I did not require the noise of the ancient seeress to convince me of disaster.
The only logical conclusion I was able to reach regarding the dagger was that Helen had considered
killing me with it before she fled already, somehow, I had no doubt that she was gone but had then
for whatever reason decided against my murder. Still, she wished me to realize that the topic had been
under consideration, and she had left the dagger so aimed to symbolize the fact.
Besides this vaguely humiliating and cryptic communication, no message from my departing wife could
be discovered. As matters turned out, the old woman was screaming for no more occult reason than
having been told of her mistress's defection by one of the grooms. This unusually unintelligent lad, while
about his morning chores an hour or two earlier, had chanced to see Helen leaving. He reported
belatedly how she had ridden off into the predawn mists on her white palfrey, a thin roll of clothing with a
few other belongings tied up behind her sidesaddle, and accompanied by a cloaked male figure astride
another horse.
The lackwit groom stuttered and stammered this story again to me, adding that it had never occurred to
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him to raise an alarm when he saw this. It meant nothing to him, he asserted, that his mistress should have
decided to go for an early morning ride. Herein he was mistaken; it meant in fact that I paused to slit his
nose for him before I took to the road myself in a frantic effort to pick up my lady's trail.
It turned out that there was no trail, at least none that I could find. In a state of rage that grew ever
colder and more pure, I rode at a good speed for an hour along the road that led in the opposite
direction from Florence, but caught no sight of the one I sought. Nor would any of the folk I questioned
in passing admit to having seen Helen ride that way with her secret lover, with that faceless, unidentifiable
figure in the groom's stammered story, a man who would be glad to settle for losing part of his nose when
I caught up with him.
As for what I mean to do to Helen . . . I do not remember making any specific plan of vengeance then.
But it was well for her that morning that I could not find her.
Of course I might well be pursuing in the wrong direction, and after an hour I turned round. It then
naturally took me another hour to get back to our Pisan cottage. I had sent some of the servants I
considered most trustworthy to scour the neighborhood in other directions, and these were back before
me. They trembled when they announced that they had nothing helpful to report. Their fear was wasted,
for when I looked at them I believed that they had really tried.
What was I to do? Missing spouse or not, honor and wisdom alike forbade me to postpone by so much
as half a day the start of my long trek to Bosnia. The king's orders had been explicit, and the urgency of
his need apparent in them.
I did what little packing I had to do, and concluded the business of closing down the small household. In
all this I was surrounded by servants who moved in a desperate, counterproductive hurry. My servants in
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