A Sharpness On The Neck (Saberhagen's Dracula Book 9) by Fred Saberhagen (most read book in the world .TXT) 📗

      “And your carrying this bag around is supposed to prove to us that you are a vampire?”

      Constantia’s eyelids opened halfway. Her voice was drowsy. “Oh, I could show you, sweetie. Trust me, I could show you very convincingly. But I’d better not.”

      “Show us?” June demanded. “How?”

      But Connie only smiled and closed her eyes again, relaxing with a kind of snuggling motion.

* * *

      As Radcliffe sat watching her, the idea suddenly came to him: This woman’s on drugs. He whispered his insight to his wife, who nodded in agreement.

      She must be, he thought to himself again. Drugs, or simply booze. Though, now that Phil came to think of it, neither he nor June had ever seen Connie or any of the other guardians drinking or smoking anything. Probably they were trying to keep alert while on guard duty, but now Connie had slipped up.

      June, with her lips brushing her husband’s ear, whispered her own discovery: “I don’t think she’s breathing.”

      Looking carefully, he couldn’t tell. What, he wondered, were the infallible signs of death?

      Moving carefully; he shifted his weight until he had brought himself into position to whisper an answer at the same level of volume: “We’re not going to hang around and find out.”

      Philip felt confident of being able to overpower Connie if necessary—or at least he told himself that he did—but he didn’t want to hurt this demented young woman.

      It was June whose attention was first drawn to the window, by a new noise. It was only a little noise, hard to identify and locate at first, but every few seconds it was repeated: gusts of fitfully rising wind making the loose grate tap against its frame. By now, with nerves continually on edge, he was familiar with every creak and rattle of this dwelling.

      Radcliffe realized with an inner thrill that there was nothing to stop them from getting out the window—the steel grill through which Connie had entered had been left carelessly unlocked, so it could be swung out on its hinges. Knowing Connie as well as he now did, he could believe it. A way of escape had been accidentally left open. And at the moment none of their guardians, masked or otherwise, were anywhere in sight.

* * *

      Phil cast one more cautious glance toward Constantia before he stepped out through the window, and saw that she had not moved a muscle. Actually it was more like she was in a trance, or dead. Neither her eyelids nor her lips were entirely closed. He couldn’t tell if she was breathing or not, and decided that he had better not wait to find out.

* * *

      Before they made their move, June reminded Philip to bring water. He grabbed a plastic bottle from the kitchen; it was too big to fit into any of his pockets, but he could carry it in one hand. And Phil grabbed up from the floor beside the sofa the broad-brimmed hat Connie always wore during the day. It was a tight fit and lacked a chin strap so it tended to blow away, but it was still better than nothing as protection against the sun. June had her own hat.

      Silently Phil swung back the grill-gate on its smooth new hinges and led the way out through the window. It was only a short drop to the dusty ground outside, which was only about a foot lower than the interior floor. June, having slipped on the hiking shoes so thoughtfully provided by their captors, followed close on his heels. What could be easier?

      June was almost entirely out, when the unfamiliar shoe on her right foot seemed to catch on something. She tugged it free just as she began to fall, but came down awkwardly.

      When June started to fall, Philip made a grab for his wife’s elbow in an effort to save her, but he was off balance and her modest weight was too much for his extended arm.

      Immediately she tried to regain her feet, but was felled at once by a lance of pain. Sharply she drew in a breath, and let it out with a whispered curse.

* * *

      No alarms had been set off when Radcliffe and June went out through the window; no one seemed to have heard the light scrambling sound and sudden fall, the muttered curses. The day of broiling sunlight surrounded them with its quiet.

      Their one chance, and they had screwed it up … but the small noise the two of them made in collapsing to the ground seemed to have gone unnoticed. The bright sun glared down like a merciless spotlight. Surely at any moment now someone would come out into the yard and see them, raise a general alarm…

      But no one did.

      “Come on!” Radcliffe whispered fiercely. With their lives at stake, he was going to be as tough as he had to be, on her and on himself.

      June, gritting her teeth and clinging to her husband for support, tried bravely once again. But one second of frantic experimentation, groaning and swearing, was enough to make it plain that she couldn’t walk on the injury.

      Sure, he could carry her. But not for very far, or at any effective rate of speed.

      In a desperate whisper June urged Phil to go on alone. “You’re sure as hell not doing me any good by staying here. Will you get going?”

      He glared at her as if he hated her. “Just sit there, against the building, and don’t move. Maybe I can steal a car.”

      She started to argue and then thought better of it. She slumped back against the building, rocking, fighting to keep the pain inaudible, nursing her injury.

      Still no one saw or heard them. By some heaven-sent chance, Graves’s breathing helpers were all occupied with other jobs. Or one or two who had been up all night were sleeping their own exhausted sleep.

      June held her breath as she watched Philip’s figure recede from her in a swift walk. Hunched over to make himself shorter,