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Contents

Copyright and Disclaimer

About Dark Wine at Dawn

Join Jenna Barwin's VIP Readers

1. The Challenge

2. Anger Management

3. Reconciliation
4. His Choice

5. New Job Complications

6. The Offer

7. Plans Change

8. Dead Bodies Seem to Follow Her

9. Confidential
10. The Ex-Boyfriend

11. Divided Loyalties

12. Unwelcomed Interruptions

13. Still Not Ready

14. Impossible Accusations

15. Unwarranted Interrogation

16. Vengeance

17. Quick Switch

18. New Directions

19. Resigned to the Inevitable

20. Good News, Bad News

21. Lead, Follow, or Shut Up

22. Hope

23. A Gift

24. Trepidation

25. Third Time’s the Charm

26. Mortal Demands

27. Immortal Demands

28. Holding the Line

29. Twisted Tales
30. We’re Through

31. Letting Go
32. Unwelcomed Sleep

33. Killer Instincts

34. What a Headache

35. Horrorfest Videoconference

36. Winging It

37. Digging Deeper

38. Retreat

39. The Hunt

40. Don’t Lose Him

41. Oops
42. Moonset

43. The Chase is On

44. He Who Helps Himself

45. Turning the Tables

46. Dealing the Cards

47. Betrayal…Maybe
48. Laid Bare

49. Hunger
50. Reunited

51. Cutting a Deal

52. Against Common Sense
53. Life or Death

54. The Gambit

55. No Means No
56. Consequences
57. The Truth

58. More Unpleasant Surprises

59. Frying Pan

60. Into the Fire

61. Roasting

62. On the Carving Board

63. Clear Your Desk

64. Wake Up and Smell the Coffee

65. Surprise Visitors

66. Vacation, Finally

Also by Jenna Barwin

Acknowledgments and Dedications
Dark Wine at Dawn by Jenna Barwin

Copyright © 2023 Jenna Barwin. All rights reserved.

This book or any portion of it may not be reproduced in any form or by any means, or used
in any manner whatsoever, without the express written permission of the publisher or
author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, public entities, products, places,
events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a
fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, public
entities, locales, or actual events is purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks,
product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective
owners, and are used only for reference. Opinions of the characters are not necessarily
those of the author.

Printed in the United States of America

First printing & ebook edition, 2023

Hidden Depths Publishing

Dana Point, California
www.hiddendepthspublishing.com

Cover design: Covers by Christian (Christian Bentulan)

Images used under license from Stock.adobe.com and Shutterstock.com and Jacob Lund
Photography ApS
Cover art is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted in the cover is a model or
artist’s creation.

Editing team: Katrina Diaz-Arnold, Refine Editing, LLC; Trenda K. Lundin, It’s Your Story
Content Editing; Arran McNicol, Editing 720.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023906564

eBook ISBN 978-1-952755-11-8

Print 978-1-952755-12-5

1) Paranormal Romance 2) Urban Fantasy Romance 3) Vampire Romance 4) Vampire

Mystery 5) Vampire Suspense 6) Paranormal Romantic Suspense 7) Romantic Fantasy

V1.0
 About Dark Wine at Dawn

How many ways can a Christmas vacation go wrong?

On their first vacation together, Henry and Cerissa travel to the
New York so Henry may renew the vampire bond with his maker,
Anne-Louise—he has no choice in the matter—but after the bond’s
renewed, he plans to spend two weeks playing tourist with Cerissa.
But when Anne-Louise offers him a way to escape the maker-child
bond forever, what she demands in exchange for his release is
beyond the pale, and it turns Henry and Cerissa’s much-needed
vacation into a battleground.
To make matters worse, mortals start popping up dead—and
staying that way. Based on circumstantial evidence, the security
chief for the New York vampires arrests both Henry and Anne-Louise
for conspiracy to murder.
Cerissa must move into overdrive and use her skills analyzing
vampire DNA to prove Henry’s innocence. Because if she doesn’t
succeed before dawn arrives, this trip to New York may be his last.
 Praise for Dark Wine at Dawn

“Immortal shenanigans at their finest! What a ride!”

~InD’tale Magazine

“A tantalizing murder/mystery with a vampirish slant. Everything is

there that readers of vampire novels love. It’s sexy, it’s exciting, and
it’s unpredictable.”
~The Wishing Shelf

“Dark Wine at Dawn hurls WOW moments across its pages like the
whale that unexpectedly breaches beside your boat, nearly throwing
you overboard. I actually shrieked out loud twice.”
~Shari Bonin-Pratt’s Ink Flare
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Chapter 1
The Challenge
New York Collective—Early December

S now fell gently, blanketing the balcony on the tenth floor of the
mid-Manhattan high-rise, the late dusk sky obscured with
clouds, the magenta fading to deep grays. From the living room
couch, Cerissa Patel watched a blue jay land on the balcony rail and
steal the last peanut she’d left out for the birds.
Instead of staring at the skyline, she could be reading, watching
television, or doing just about anything other than obsessing over
what was happening twelve floors above her.
But her mind wouldn’t cooperate, so she sipped on her glass of
Cabernet and stared out the balcony’s floor-to-ceiling window,
focused on the hodgepodge view of skyscrapers pressed close
together—some shorter ones made of old tawny bricks, some taller
ones of glass and steel, with the Empire State Building and its art
deco style and iconic spire in the distance. All the buildings were lit
up against the night sky.
Despite the stately view, her mind immediately shot back to the
problem worrying her: Why hasn’t Henry returned?
For this trip, she and her fiancé shared the richly appointed one-
bedroom apartment. The elegant lodgings, part of the guest floor at
the New York Collective, were courtesy of Anne-Louise. Cerissa took
another sip of wine and tried to relax while she waited for Henry to
finish his visit with his maker.
So far, he’d been gone longer than he should have been.
Although Enrique Bautista Vasquez—Henry to his close friends—
was over two hundred years old, Anne-Louise refused to let the
blood bond between them die and insisted on biting him multiple
times a year to keep the maker-child connection alive.
To limit the interruptions her demands made on their life together,
Henry and Cerissa had cut a deal with her. In exchange for only
taking his blood twice annually, Henry would build a house on his
property in California, so when Anne-Louise visited Sierra Escondida,
she could lodge there.
Until construction on the new dwelling finished, Henry preferred to
travel to New York to see his maker. Cerissa had joined him for this
trip, having planned events for a fun two-week vacation. Now, she
waited for him to return from Anne-Louise’s second feeding of the
calendar year, so they could finally begin their exploration of the city
together.
Despite the relaxing evening view and the promise of a fun
vacation, irritation rode her. Obsessing over the situation wasn’t
helping. She did her best to accept the fact Anne-Louise wouldn’t let
go. But the longer she waited, the more her worry grew. Her
growling stomach, hungry for dinner, didn’t help either.
The front door flew open. “Esa puta! Ahora todo se va a la
mierda.”
Startled, Cerissa jumped to her feet and set the half-drunk
wineglass on the coffee table, almost toppling it. Henry calling his
maker a whore, and complaining that it was all going to shit,
whatever “it” was, couldn’t be good. “Quique—”
His already expanded pupils blew wider, turning his normally
bourbon-brown beauties almost solid black. “I will not spend a
minute longer in the Collective’s building. We are leaving. Pack.
Now.”
To say Henry and Anne-Louise didn’t always get along was an
understatement, but this was far more anger on his part than
Cerissa had seen before.
Her bestie, Karen, had warned her that joining Henry while he
visited his maker might be a bad idea. But she’d wanted to see New
York at Christmas. The city was so beautiful, so magical, so
exhilarating all lit up and decorated for the holiday. So, she’d
embarked on the cross-country trip with her eyes wide open.
That didn’t mean she’d tolerate being Henry’s whipping girl.
“Wait a minute. You don’t give orders, remember?” She eyed him
in his dark charcoal wool suit, the stark white dress shirt unbuttoned
at the top, his long ebony hair tied back—and fang marks absent
from his bare, sensual throat. “What happened?”
“Anne-Louise went too far this time. Please, pack.”
That answer wasn’t satisfactory at all. His vague reply failed to
explain the sudden change in plans. “Did you at least renew the
blood bond?”
He shook his head vigorously, and his ponytail whipped with the
motion. “No. It doesn’t matter. I refuse to spend one more night
here. Not as her guest.”
Damn. “If we leave now, when will you renew the bond? You were
supposed to get the bite done tonight, so we don’t have to see her
again until next year.”
“I will figure it out later.” He marched into the bedroom, tossed his
suitcase onto the bed, and started taking his clothes from the closet.
 She shivered. The Alatus Lux crystal embedded in Henry’s wrist
connected their emotions as sensations, and his anger chilled her.
She followed and touched his arm to regain his attention, hoping
the contact would calm him without using her aura. “We can’t leave
—we need some place to stay for tonight. It’s four weeks before
Christmas. Everything’s booked. But if you can find us a hotel to
move to, I’ll pack and go with you. But until you have a solid plan,
I’m not packing.”
“We have no need of a hotel. Only a plane.”
“It’s too late in the evening for you to fly us to California and
arrive before dawn—”
“On the contrary. My plane is being made ready as we speak. If
we leave now for La Guardia airport, we will reach Sierra Escondida
before sunrise.”
She inhaled a breath. He’d dressed in the handsome suit so they
could go out together as soon as he returned. “But I haven’t had
dinner. I was waiting for you to return, for your company. And… I
wanted to see New York at Christmas—all the lights and ice skating.
We even took lessons so we could skate together.”
“We can skate another time.”
“Henry, I scheduled two weeks off work to be here with you.
Think about this. Talk to me. Besides, you can’t pilot the plane when
you’re this angry. It’s not safe.”
He growled angrily. Growled.
He’d never growled at her before. In her presence, maybe, but not
at her.
 Accompanying the growl, he glowered, his expression turning
darker.
That was it. She refused to stay there one minute longer. After
grabbing her coat, purse, and the cute little mink-colored fake-fur
hat Karen had talked her into buying, she marched to the front door.
In a whoosh, Henry blocked her from reaching her objective. He
pointed at the bedroom door. “You aren’t leaving. Go pack.”
“No. You can come with me to Katie O’Leary’s restaurant, and we
can talk, or you can wait here while I go out for dinner. I’ll be back
in two hours.”
He growled again.
She felt like thumping his chest and saying, “Bad dog,” but didn’t.
Instead, she looked him in the eyes and said, “Stop that right now.”
In response, he leaned against the front door, arms crossed,
gripping his biceps and tapping one finger.
“Henry, you’re being childish.”
“I am not being childish. I’m your mate. You should honor my
wishes in this.”
“Clearly, Anne-Louise got under your skin and you’re reacting. I
won’t honor wishes you haven’t fully explained to me. Now come
with me, and we can discuss whatever is bothering you over dinner,
or wait here alone—but either way, quit blocking the door.”
He didn’t move.
She refused to stay and pander to his mood. Brushing her sleeve
back, she opened her watch crystal, tapped the face, and flashed to
the hallway outside the apartment. Using Lux technology was a
calculated risk, but the odds were small that anyone would notice
her sudden appearance in the hallway.
In a few steps, she arrived at the elevator and stabbed the call
button, punching the down arrow multiple times for good measure,
then ordered a taxi pickup on her phone. This close to Grand Central
Station, she wouldn’t wait long.
The rapid heartbeat, tight throat, and sweaty palms, which always
occurred when adrenaline flooded her system, finally slowed,
relaxed, and dried as she rode the elevator. Then it hit her: her Lux
supervisors would see the fight. The contact lenses she wore
recorded everything—except certain personal moments, such as
making love to Henry—but she could do nothing to stop the Lux
from viewing the domestic dispute, as much as she hated the
violation of her privacy.
By the time she reached the curb, the taxi waited for her, and she
slid into the back seat, again doubting the wisdom of joining Henry
on this trip. Perhaps Karen had been correct. But she would think
clearer after she ate.
The light snow would have made the street magical, with the
sparkling white lights in the parkway trees, except Henry had taken
a lovely night and turned it into a battlefield.
Why? Why wouldn’t he discuss what angered him?
Getting out of the cab in front of the famous Katie O’Leary’s
restaurant, she pushed those thoughts aside. She’d earlier reserved
a table for two, and the maître d’ agreed to seat her by the big
picture window that ran the width of the restaurant, even though
her companion was running “late.” It was a weeknight, and there
were plenty of open tables.
The waitress greeted her right away. “May I bring you anything
while you’re waiting?”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to order. I don’t know when he’ll join
me.”
Or if he would at all.
The waitress angled her stylus, prepared to take down the details
on the electronic pad. For an appetizer, Cerissa ordered their best
scotch and a bowl of steamed clams, then for dinner, added a
swordfish steak pan-fried in lemon butter and capers, along with
rosemary potatoes, to be accompanied by a glass of the house
Sauvignon Blanc.
After the waitress left, Cerissa propped her phone against the
white ceramic caddy that held packets of sugar, opened the e-book
app, and read, not caring if anyone found her activity strange. She
would calm down, enjoy her meal, and be ready to talk with Henry
when she returned.
The scotch arrived, as did the clams and a freshly baked
sourdough loaf. She tore off a piece, dipped it into the clam broth,
and moaned when she bit through the hard crust soaked in broth.
She then used the little seafood fork to pry loose the clam meat and
enjoy the well-spiced shellfish.
Soon, the tension in her chest unwound, and she hadn’t even
sipped the scotch yet.
During her three months engaged to Henry, she’d learned not to
tie herself to his moods. She could choose to be happy even when
he was being his demanding, broody self.
Sometimes all it required was a little space and a good meal.
Except—she couldn’t shake the lingering worries as they hovered
in the back of her mind, distracting her from the smutty novel she
read.
He wouldn’t leave New York without her, would he?
No. Absolutely not. He loved her and would never, ever abandon
her.
More importantly, what had Anne-Louise done to upset Henry?
Cerissa took another bite, pondering the matter and nodding to
herself. She couldn’t imagine what new mischief his maker had
created to stir his anger so much. Yes, indeed, that was the better
question. What had Anne-Louise done?
And Cerissa wouldn’t hold back asking him when they reunited.
Chapter 2
Anger Management
Collective apartment #1010—Shortly after Cerissa’s
departure

H enry clenched his fists, then released them. The rage bubbling
through his chest meant following Cerissa risked disaster. For
the same reason, she was right. It was unwise to get behind the
controls of a plane in his current mood, as much as he hated
admitting the truth. And he refused to abandon Cerissa in New York
—he loved her too deeply to leave the city without her.
So they’d have to talk this through before he could convince her to
terminate their vacation, which meant joining her for dinner. But he
had to settle himself enough to speak civilly about Anne-Louise’s
latest unreasonable demand.
Resigned to staying one more night, he grabbed his coat and
cane, then dashed out the door and to the elevator. As part of his
two-week vacation, he’d planned on visiting Saint Patrick’s Cathedral.
He checked the church’s schedule on his phone, hoping luck was
with him.
It was. The church offered confession between three and nine
p.m., accommodating those who worked—or slept—during the day.
As he walked, he sent a message to the general aviation service
canceling the plane for tonight. Minutes later, he arrived at the
church. He stood outside, reflecting on the beautiful gothic-style
building, the spires like fairy lace covered in snowflakes, and peace
touched his soul, chasing away the rage from earlier.
He’d lived in New York when they began constructing the
cathedral, but work halted when the Civil War started, and he left
New York around the same time, so he wasn’t there to see the
structure finished in 1878.
Still, he enjoyed visiting the old building, one of the few existing
from the period when he’d called New York home. Back then, he’d
made his living as a restaurateur and chef. Enrique’s Restaurant,
which he’d christened after his given name, had specialized in
cuisine from his birthplace: Veracruz, Mexico.
Striding inside Saint Pat’s, Henry slid a generous donation into the
tithe box slot, then took a pew, knelt, and made his heart ready.
When he stood to enter the confessional line—which had grown
longer while he prayed—he tried to set aside his irritation over the
wait, and realized he had one more sin to confess. Tapping on his
phone’s notepad, he reluctantly added the sin of impatience to his
confession list.
He inhaled a deep breath and let the peace of the room fill him
again. Beautiful poinsettias bordered the steps on both sides of the
carpet leading to the altar, and hanging lights illuminated the
stained-glass windows.
The line moved forward again, and a carved wood door swung
out. His turn. He stepped into the open booth. According to the
name placard, Father Pearson would hear his confession. “Bless me,
father, for I have sinned. It has been seven days since my last
confession. These are my sins.” He glanced at the list on his phone.
“I allowed my righteous anger at someone else affect my
relationship with my fiancée.”
The priest chuckled. “Righteous?”
 “My ma—er, I mean, my ex-wife made a demand that was
outrageous, impossible.”
“And your fiancée—how did you express your anger at her?”
“I yelled and demanded she immediately leave New York with
me.”
“You did not strike her?”
“No. Never.”
“And you did not call her names?”
“No—I wouldn’t. But I was quite demanding and persistent, and I
raised my voice at her.”
“I understand. Continue your confession, please.”
“Impatience at waiting in line.” Some of the sins unique to being a
vampire couldn’t be explicitly confessed to a mortal, although he’d
practiced other ways to frame them. “Thoughts of gluttony that I did
not act upon.”
He then named a few lesser sins.
The priest offered him suggestions for dealing with anger,
insightful ideas—reminding him of the advice he’d received from
Father Matt back home—and gave him a penance of five Hail Mary
prayers.
He made an act of contrition, thanked the father for his time, and
exited the booth. Performing penance immediately had been
ingrained in him, so he stopped in a pew to say the prayer
repetitions, then strode through the vestibule and out into the night.
Having made himself right with God and gained control of his rage
once again, he had more amends to make.
Chapter 3
Reconciliation
Katie O’Leary’s restaurant—Around the same time

T he swordfish and the wine arrived. Yum. Cerissa continued

reading as she ate, and the growing sense of calm seeped into
her bones as she distracted herself with someone else’s fictional
problems.
A short time later, an itchy feeling caused her to retreat from the
book, like she was being watched. A ping through the crystal told
her Henry lurked nearby.
Glancing up from her phone, she found him standing on the other
side of the picture window. He had forgotten his hat, and light
snowflakes stuck to his long hair. Stray strands from his ponytail
hung to his shoulders. At least he’d remembered to wear his coat
and gloves.
She had bought the Inverness wool coat for him as a joke, since a
soap opera vampire of a bygone era had made the classic English
style memorable. But Henry liked the Inverness and wore the
protection against cold so he’d blend in with mortals—he couldn’t
walk around without a coat in the middle of a snowy winter’s night.
He stood there, back straight, holding the brass knob of his black
beechwood cane with both hands, staring at her. The cane wasn’t a
stylistic choice, nor did he need its support while he walked. The
hollow beechwood concealed a silver dagger, which he could
withdraw by gripping the brass knob and twisting, so he didn’t touch
the silver. The hidden knife was illegal, but the police rarely bothered
a gentleman such as himself.
 She suspected he had a small Beretta in his back holster, ignoring
New York’s strict gun laws. He never went unarmed when out alone.
Then again, he served as a reserve police officer. Did his reserve
status provide an exception to the rule?
She made eye contact but couldn’t read his mood. He’d blocked
the crystal other than to tell her he was nearby. She motioned to the
seat across from her and tilted her head in invitation.
He gave a lone nod and entered the restaurant, checked his coat
and gloves, but kept his grip on the cane. One-handed, he brushed
the snow out of his hair, and his ponytail came undone. Stripping off
the rawhide thong that held the strands back, he shook his head,
letting his long hair hang naturally.
Since she liked his hair loose, she took it as an attempt to appease
her. The perfectly tailored suit he wore blended in with the other
business types scattered throughout the elegant restaurant.
Taking the seat across from her, he said, “Thank you for inviting
me to join you. Under the circumstances, I would have understood if
you had ignored me.”
She laid her fork on the plate and reached for his hand. “I love
you. I wouldn’t turn you away.”
He averted his eyes, bowing his face toward the tablecloth. “I
know. And I had no right to focus my anger on you. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you, Henry. I appreciate your apology. But we don’t have
to discuss what happened right now.” She was enjoying her meal too
much to disrupt it with another argument over Anne-Louise. But she
wouldn’t let him put off their discussion indefinitely. If he didn’t
share more details by the time they returned to the apartment, then
she’d push harder.
“Of course, perhaps…later,” he replied. “I just wanted to apologize
now.”
Relief coursed through her, and she gave him an encouraging
smile. Choosing a new topic, she kept her conversation light and
picked up her fork to resume eating her dinner. “You look like you’ve
been outdoors in the snow for a while. Did you go somewhere?”
“I walked to Saint Patrick’s Cathedral and went inside.”
“Really?”
“It’s near the Collective. You might say it was on the way here.
Just a brief detour.”
Cerissa appreciated the way he’d so quickly adjusted his attitude.
“You seem calmer. Your visit there must have helped.”
“It did. I needed the tranquility after… Well, to use one word
Father Matt explained to me, my relationship with Anne-Louise is
dysfunctional.”
No kidding.
At some point, she hoped he’d convince Anne-Louise to let him cut
the apron strings. The maker-child blood bond was a significant part
of the problem. “How did you feel, being in Saint Patrick’s again?”
“Peaceful. It’s a beautiful structure, and seeing the symbols of my
faith displayed was reassuring. The young priest on duty heard my
confession, and I found his advice…helpful.”
“That’s good.”
They stopped speaking when the waitress came by. “Good
evening, sir. May I get you something?” She cleared away Cerissa’s
empty plate and ran a silver table scraper across the tablecloth to
remove the crumbs. Henry straightened back as the silver tool swept
by him, and Cerissa raised an eyebrow, surprised the restaurant
used actual silver.
“Nothing for me, thank you,” Henry replied. “But Cerissa will have
the cheesecake for dessert, and bring me the check, please.”
Cerissa shook her head. Yes, she wanted the cheesecake. But it
would be nice sometimes if he’d ask. In some ways, he knew her too
well now. And she recognized that his insistence on paying for her
dinner was both an attempt at reconciliation and an act of
dominance.
She let the matter ride.
The waitress returned and placed the dessert plate, along with a
snifter glass on the table. Three coffee beans floated in the clear
liquid. “Your cheesecake, and Sambuca. Would madam like anything
else?”
“This is fine, but I didn’t order the drink.”
“The gentleman over there ordered the digestif for you.” The
waitress motioned toward a hardwood counter with touches of brass
adorning the wood that delineated the bar area. On her way in,
she’d noticed the old-school saloon waiting area where you could
also buy a drink or a quick meal.
Henry’s jaw set into a hard line, telling her he wasn’t pleased by
that news. She turned to see Rick Fiorello, Anne-Louise’s boyfriend,
smile and salute her. He slid off the bar stool and sauntered over to
their table.
 “Good evening, Cerissa, Henry,” he said as he stood at the end of
the table. “I thought you should try a traditional New York after-
dinner drink. Sambuca.”
She picked up the glass and sniffed the liquid. The scent of licorice
warmed her nostrils. She took a tentative sip. “Delicious.” She knew
Rick didn’t drink anymore, so she assumed his familiarity with the
beverage came from before he gave up alcohol for good. “Thank
you.”
Henry’s face lost some of its hardness. “Are you on your way to
the Collective?”
Rick jerked his head in a quick no. “I knew you were in town to
visit Anne-Louise. Just grabbed some dinner at the bar, and now I’m
on my way to meet friends—we’re going to catch a movie.”
Henry crossed his arms. “Don’t be surprised if Anne-Louise phones
you.”
“I told her already—I’m not available for the next few nights. I’ve
made my plans, and I don’t feel like humoring the lady if she
changes hers. If I have to accept this arrangement, she has to
accept that.”
Cerissa tried not to smile. Rick didn’t sound any happier with their
situation than Henry was. “Thank you again for the drink. Perhaps
we can meet for lunch tomorrow. I don’t know many people in New
York.”
“Sure, it’s my day off. I’ll swing by the Collective at eleven and
pick you up. We’ll play tourist.”
“Sounds fun, thanks.”
 “Great.” Rick nodded at her. “Henry, good seeing you—I hope you
enjoy your stay.” With that, he said goodnight and left the
restaurant.
An internal battle showed on Henry’s face. She had no clue what
the struggle was over, so she took a bite of cheesecake, mushing the
creamy texture against her tongue to catch all the nuances. “This is
marvelous—gorgonzola cheesecake. I’ve never had it before. So
unusual. At first it tastes like a regular cheesecake, then a mild blue
cheese flavor comes through at the end.”
“I see.” His jaw muscle continued to flex. “Did you have to ask him
to lunch?”
“Henry…” she began, a warning tone in her voice.
He raised a hand in surrender. “You are right. You are free to
make friends. We agreed.”
“Yes, and you agreed not to be so jealous.” She’d been
understanding about his relationship with Anne-Louise and felt it
only fair that he learned to trust her, too.
When he didn’t reply, she focused on the cheesecake, taking
another forkful—so creamy, so luscious, so pleasurable. She lingered
over the dessert, letting every bite count. Finally, she eased back in
her chair and sipped the sambuca, avoiding the three coffee beans
in the glass’s bottom. The liquid flooded her with warmth.
A glance told her something still bothered him. Well, he was a big
boy. When he was ready, he’d talk. She wasn’t going to prod him
and stir his anger again.
The waitress brought the check. Henry paid it and left a generous
tip, then they collected their heavy coats and her hat.
 On the walk back, they held gloved hands. It was romantic,
strolling the streets of New York together under the frosty twinkle
lights as snow continued to fall. No wind, so the chill wasn’t too bad.
“I decided,” Henry began, “not to leave yet. You came here so you
could experience New York at Christmas, and I don’t want to take
that pleasure from you.”
“Thank you, Quique. Will we be moving to a hotel?”
“No. I spoke to Leopold during my walk to the restaurant and
explained the situation. We are no longer guests of Anne-Louise. We
are now guests of Leopold.”
Cerissa breathed a sigh of relief. The CEO of the New York
Collective was her sponsor within the vampire communities, and her
business partner. Leaning on him for help felt like the right thing to
do under the circumstances.
“Excellent.” She flashed Henry her best smile of approval. “I’d like
to buy a bird feeder for the balcony. We can stop at a pet store on
our way back, and swing by the Magical Wish Toy Emporium, too. I
want to see all the toys and the children enjoying them.”
He bowed cordially. “It would be my pleasure.”
“Thank you.” She squeezed his hand. “Ah, before we get there, do
you want to tell me what happened?”
His jaw muscles bulged, and an angry cloud fell across his face. “I
will if you insist.”
Why the resistance? How bad could it really be? She cleared her
throat and gave her blunt assessment of the situation. “Knowing
Anne-Louise, she’ll whisper it in my ear the first chance she gets. I
think the explanation is better coming from you.”
 He tapped the sidewalk with his cane as they strolled in
momentary silence. “You are correct, mi amor.” He huffed out a
breath, fogging the air. “She offered me a new deal.”
“What kind of deal?”
“She would allow the blood bond to end if I agreed to what she
proposed.”
“But that’s great news!” Then she caught the expression on his
face. “Or are the terms so onerous—”
“The terms are such that I would never agree.”
And he stopped there, falling silent.
What was he hiding?
She inhaled, letting the cold air clear her mind. The tone he used
meant he was unlikely to budge right now. At least she had a better
idea of the big-picture issue.
“I’m sorry,” she said, stopping on the sidewalk to hug him. “What
will you do?”
“When my temper cools, I’ll submit to her bite, and we won’t have
to see her for another six months.”
They resumed their stroll and arrived at the pet store. “Do you
want to join me inside?” she asked.
“Of course.”
She had to stop and play with the puppies on display before
buying the bird feeder, and he teased her about her affinity for furry
creatures. After her purchases were made, they swung by the
Magical Wish Toy Emporium. A thrill rushed through her at seeing
the famous toy store draped in garland and sparkling lights, and a
man and woman dressed like toy soldiers at the entrance.
 She did some light Christmas shopping at the toy store, and then
she and Henry rushed back to the apartment as the wind kicked up.
He carried the bird feeder and seed. She shivered from the chill, and
he wrapped his arm around her, holding her tight to his side, while
she hugged the toy store shopping bag to her chest so the wind
wouldn’t rip it from her hand. Despite the salt crunching under their
shoes, which should have melted the ice, they struggled not to slip
on the frozen sidewalk, steadying each other and laughing.
They arrived at the tenth floor a little warmer thanks to the
elevator ride. After unlocking the apartment door, Cerissa flipped on
the lights to the living and dining room combination, which was big
enough to host a small dinner party.
It required teamwork to install the bird feeder on the frozen
balcony. The sounds of the city—traffic and horns—accompanied
their labors even at that hour.
Finished, Henry slid shut the glass door, shed his coat, then helped
Cerissa remove hers. “Now what would you like to do?”
The corners of her lips quirked up. With the time zone change,
fatigue set in, which had her thinking of bed…and other things they
could do in bed.
He chuckled as he hung her coat in the entryway closet. “I can
feel those emerald eyes scanning my body, cariña.”
“Well, there is a lot to admire about your body.” And with his back
to her, his muscular ass in particular. She’d learned about the
hashtag #suitpornsunday on social media. In the perfectly tailored
wool suit, Henry would certainly qualify. “And we’re on vacation, and
you’re looking sexy, and—”
 She didn’t get to finish. Lightning fast, he covered her mouth in a
soul-searing kiss, his arm hooked around her waist, pulling her
closer, and his free hand sought her bottom to give the mound a
squeeze.
When the kiss came to a breathless stop, she gasped against his
lips and then murmured, “Well, it’s your turn to choose. What’s your
pleasure?”
Chapter 4
His Choice
Collective apartment #1010—Around the same time

“W ell?” Cerissa asked again, her head tilted to the side, her
radiant lips pursed.
Henry smiled slyly at her impatience.
Indeed, it is my turn. Decisions, decisions.
There were so many delicious things he enjoyed doing with her.
So many that sometimes he found it hard to choose.
Then he recalled the master bedroom’s en suite bathroom came
with a huge flat-bottomed bathtub that had whirlpool jets, a side-
centered faucet, hand sprayer, and two bath pillows, one at each
end. Large enough to hold two people comfortably, and the
Collective didn’t have the water-use restrictions currently applicable
to the Hill. He and Cerissa hadn’t been able to fill their big tub at
home and indulge in any fun there for months because of the
drought.
Guiding her into the bedroom, he asked, “What would you say to
playing in the bathtub?”
“Lovely. I’m chilled from being outside. A soak in hot water sounds
wonderful.”
He let her start the water and set the temperature. They couldn’t
rely on him—he’d set the gauge at scalding without realizing he’d
done so. Extremely hot water was one hedonistic pleasure he’d
reveled in since becoming a vampire.
Although she didn’t wait for him to undress her—another
hedonistic pleasure of his—he had the enjoyment of watching her
beauty unveiled as she stripped.
 “Hey, don’t stand there staring,” she said, then gave him a quick
kiss before removing her contact lenses and braiding her hair. “You
need to get naked, too.”
“Of course, mi amor.” He flashed his fangs at her. “I was just
enjoying the show.”
“Oh. Oh!”
Yes, she’d almost forgotten, and he was glad he reminded her.
From among the toiletries scattered on the sink vanity, she picked up
the hypo and held the jet injector’s silver cylinder head against her
neck, delivering a stream of stabilizing hormone into her muscle to
keep her blood mortal when he bit. The morphing hormone in his
fang serum would change her back to her Lux form if she didn’t use
the medication.
After she pinned her braid in a circle atop her head, she slid into
the tub. The jets bubbled around her, and she relaxed back on the
waterproof cushion. “Aah, that feels so good.”
With the show over, Henry disrobed and put his ponytail into a
knot. Slipping into the opposite end of the oval tub, he stretched his
legs, crossing them over hers, and lay back. Whatever tension
remained from their tiff drained from him in the heat of the water.
When she reached for him, he met her in the middle of the tub,
wrapping his arm around her shoulders, supporting her as he
captured her lips with his. She parted on a moan, and he enjoyed
the gentle tangling of their tongues, the delicious taste of her
mouth, the intensity of their kiss increasing as their tongues glided
back and forth, faster and faster.
 She broke away, panting, and he ran his thumb across her cheek,
trailing beads of water over her skin, before sweeping a stray strand
of hair from her face.
“Turn around,” he said.
Bending her knees closer to her body, she pivoted on her butt
cheeks.
He put a splash of jasmine body wash in his hands. The flower
was one of his favorite scents, and he’d been sure to pack the whole
product line for the trip. He rubbed the sensual emulsion over her
skin and massaged her back as he washed her.
“Oh, I like what your fingers do.”
“I want you nice and relaxed.”
“Why? What mischievous plan do you have for tonight?”
“Nothing too…extreme.”
She laughed. “You do like to tease.”
“Indeed.” He poured more body wash on his palm. “Lean back.”
He wrapped his arms around her as she rested her back on his
chest. Starting at her neck, he rubbed the bubbly liquid over her
throat, worked the slick scent over her breastbone until he reached
the mounds themselves, and palmed one in each hand, rubbing the
silky suds over her nipples, lightly squeezing her breasts.
“Oh, Henry,” she said, pressing against him more. His pene was
hard and pinned between her back and his abs. “I like this.”
He cupped water in his hands and rinsed away the soap, then
wrapped his arms around her and pulled her more firmly to him,
raising her out of the water, and gently pressed his lips against her
tender neck.
 “Are you going to bite so soon?”
“No, not yet.” He continued nibbling without breaking her skin,
dragging his teeth lightly over her throat, and she moaned
delightfully. The blood below the surface teased him, but he forced
his fangs to remain retracted. “We will take our time. Now turn
around.”
She lay back, placing her head on the cushion, and he gently
spread her thighs apart, bending forward onto his knees to capture a
nipple with his lips, sucking and licking until she moaned again. The
soap was gone, but the lingering sweet jasmine scent intoxicated
him, making him want to rush to the main course, but he gave the
other breast equal attention.
Working down her chest, kneeling in the deep tub between her
legs, he dipped his head underwater, trailing kisses over her belly to
her mound. Parting the folds with his thumbs, he ran his tongue
over her clit, then sensually sucked.
He could stay underwater as long as he wanted, never feeling
starved for air. The disadvantage—he couldn’t easily hear her moans
with the sound of the jets bubbling in his ears. But the way her body
vibrated against his lips, her clit engorged, her labia slick with her
arousal, told him everything he needed to know.
After slipping one finger inside her, then the second one, he curled
them to rub against the sensitive inner wall. She bucked her hips,
riding his tongue, and he met her rhythm, licking faster and harder
until her hips froze, her clit pressed against his tongue, and her
entire body shuddered with her orgasm, as her inner muscles
clenched over and over around his fingers.
 He let his lips linger, flicking his tongue to coax her orgasm to its
very limits, then emerged, running his hands over his long hair to
press the water away so he wouldn’t splash her.
With her head lying on the pillow, a look of rapture on her face, a
wave of pleasure crashed through him at the mere sight of her.
Mi ángel!
He crawled up her front and kissed her. “How was that?”
“Wonderful.” She sighed. “But I want more,” she said teasingly,
shooting him a coyly crooked grin.
His passion wound higher at her words. How could he not accept
a challenge like that? “Querida, there is definitely more on the
menu.”
He hooked his arms under hers and raised her to kneel, then
folded two washcloths and placed one under each knee to cushion
them from the hard acrylic surface. He stretched his legs between
hers and, gripping his pene at the base, guided the head inside her
as she braced her hands on his shoulders. Her warm, slick sheath
engulfed him, making him even harder. The flicker of her inner
muscles still slightly spasming like a tongue licking over him had his
pene flexing in response.
Once he was deep within her, he kissed her, then asked, “Better?”
“Much,” she said, her smile quirking, before he captured her lips,
thrusting his tongue between them, invading her mouth.
With his help, she rose and fell, spearing herself over and over
again on him as the bubbles from the jets spilled around them,
caressing his skin, framing her waist as she rose and fell. Then an
idea struck him, a way to enhance her pleasure. He lifted the spa’s
hand sprayer and aimed the spray between them, seeking her clit,
and her moan told him when he hit the right spot.
“Oh my goddess.”
“You like?”
“Yes, I like.”
He kept the pulsing spray aimed at her clit and, with the other
hand, teased her nipple, peaking the bud. As she rode him faster,
and his own hips rose to meet hers, the scent of blood thrumming
through her veins called to him. He reluctantly let go of her breast to
slide his hand around her waist to pull her closer as he arched
forward. Slowly, he sank his fangs into her neck.
The fang serum shot into her, and he sucked back his share as he
drank her blood. The sweet nectar was intoxicating. The
combination lit a fire in his groin as he pumped faster and faster into
her, keeping the sprayer aimed at her clit, feeling her tighten on him
as her orgasm started, and her inner walls rippled over him,
grabbing his pene to send exquisite shivers deep into him. His
cojones pulled tighter against his body, and then he followed her,
exploding inside her with a moan of his own. His pene flexed,
pulsing, as he held her hips tightly.
She collapsed on his chest. He shut off the hand sprayer, returning
the metal hose to its hook, and then stroked along her spine. No one
else made him this happy.
“I love you, querida.”
She kissed his shoulder tenderly. “I love you too, Quique.”
After holding each other for a few minutes, she rose and turned
off the jets. The water stilled around them.
 “Are you ready to get out?” he asked.
She held up her fingertips for him to see and laughed. “I’m
pruning. So, yes.”
He helped her to stand, drained the tub, and toweled her off.
Something about serving her, about running the soft cotton towel
over her skin, made him feel manly. As her fiancé, it was his duty to
make her happy, a duty he roundly embraced, and making her
happy by giving her the best vacation possible was what he planned
to do for the rest of their stay in New York.
Another random document with
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 Poor Cyprian, who, in these lost islands, could not escape the pursuit of
the Men in Black.

* * * * * *

Every Saturday evening the communicants of the toy church arrived in a

complacent body, turn-about to kneel under the struggling night-light and
receive mild directions from their harassed shepherd, balanced on the
harmonium stool behind a yard of green baize, as to the speedy restoration
of unlawfully-acquired coco-nuts and pigs illicitly retained in huts to which
they did not belong. Most defrauded neighbours could be certain of
recovering the fowl that was lost, before the metal bell was jerked by Young
Brown for Sunday Mass.

That Ferlie should contemplate lending herself to such a farce acted as

the final blister on Cyprian's already irritated spirit. Having divulged her
intention, he let fall a few dangerous remarks; quite clever remarks most of
them. She only turned on him the straight grey look he was learning to
accept as impervious to outside influence.

"I understand that you were going to preserve an open mind on all these
subjects with a view to embracing my ideas?"

"How does this affect your ideas, Cyprian?"

"I fail to see what support you can expect from that religious maniac in
our affairs."

"I am not requiring either his support or his advice over our affairs."

"In the name of Heaven what are you requiring from him?"

"If you did not require it yourself—in the name of Heaven—you would
know."

"Ferlie, will you promise to resist the temptation to confide in him, just
because he wears a last century's fashion in angelic uniform?"

His tone roused her to real anger.

 "There are things which you are not at liberty to say to me. Every
human soul knows of shadowed places within its circle which even the
angels dare not enter."

He got up, took some native fishing-tackle off the window-sill and made
for the door.

"I won't intrude again. If you'll not be needing the boat to-day for the
children, I suppose you can have no objection if I take Kingfisher, my
fellow-sinner, and go fishing."

She saw the pair of them from her window, plunging into the jungle,
while she was washing Thu Daw.

The little chap was beginning to say whole sentences in English, though
he seldom honoured anybody but John with his conversation.

Drearily, Ferlie blamed herself for the reticence which had prevented
her from attempting to make clear her reasons for admitting territory from
which all but Divine Love must be locked out. She was steadied by that
conviction. And Cyprian would come back. She must try and satisfy him
before seeking satisfaction anywhere herself.

CHAPTER XIX

Cyprian took the motor-boat to a further point than he had originally

intended choosing.

Kingfisher, who had fastened his canoe behind it, with forethought
concerning creeks which did his intelligence justice, found his companion,
even for a foreigner, exceedingly stupid over the fishing. Cyprian, on the
other hand, was regretting proper tackle, and finding Kingfisher's methods
irritatingly childish.
 Everybody in the islands was childish. Jellybrand with his weak chin
and his goggles, and his ridiculous tuft of hair sticking out at the back, and
his lisping faith; the natives with their infantile intellects, not half a degree
removed from John's, and now Ferlie with her clouded illogical trust in the
differing satellites of a long-dead Teacher, who, to Cyprian's mind, had
shown less courage in deciding the doubtful question of the Life-to-Come
than had the Buddha. Cyprian recalled the words of one modern writer,
"Buddhism is the religion of men; not of children." Assuredly, had the
Christ only professed to preach the religion of children. Well, Ferlie was a
child. She would outgrow it, and he, in the light of his extra experience,
must be patient.

It never occurred to him that there might be something childish in his

angry flight from the thing that had annoyed him. He decided to give her
time to get this uncomfortable mood over before he went back and,
consequently, steered the boat towards a likely-looking creek biting into
what was known as the mainland.

To his astonishment he was checked by Kingfisher, who, for some time

past, had been shading his eyes and muttering at the reflection of trees in
water so clear that it was difficult not to believe that there was no material
substance to the drowned world it mirrored.

He now clutched Cyprian's arm, indicating that they must not land. The
latter was in no temper to be thwarted.

"Is it ghosts or devils which will prevent you, Kingfisher? Or is the

ground tabu on account of a birth or a death?"

The man could not explain himself any more clearly than to insist that it
would be unsafe to land.

His fear was very genuine and when he had gauged Cyprian's obstinacy
he climbed resignedly into his canoe, from the motor-boat, and cut it adrift.

"All right!" Cyprian agreed cheerfully, "If you fish long enough you
may catch a whale. I am going to explore."
 He beached the motor-boat, and the jungle swallowed him up.

Then Kingfisher did a very sensible thing: he seized his paddles and
made for home.

* * * * * *

Ferlie was going down the forest road to the shore to meet the
fishermen. Long before he saw her Kingfisher heard her singing to herself
and thought, for a little while, that it was Giri.

"Oh, ye'll tak the high road and I'll tak the low road,"

... and ever the last two lines filled the green gloom with haunting sorrow....

"But me and my true love will never meet again

On the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond."

But there was no sorrow in Ferlie's face just then.

It was the little padre who wiped the joy out of it after he had seen
Kingfisher.

* * * * * *

In a few moments everybody in the Settlement had collected round the

two of them while the sun reached out long scarlet-sleeved arms through
the plain glass window of the church and took St. Paul in a ruddy embrace.

The agent's face was grotesquely serious, thought Ferlie. No one could
make her understand why for quite a long time.

It sounded so incredible—the thing they were telling her. A patch of

colour from a boy's adventure book. That there existed a tribe of savages,
within reach of a comparatively civilized Mission Settlement, whose hand
was against every human being and against whom every man's hand was
raised in enmity; that Kingfisher's trained sight had noticed signs of them
along the shore in a vicinity to which they seldom came, and that Cyprian,
ignoring Kingfisher's warning, had landed on that particular stretch of beach
—this was the gist of it all.

"But what will they do to Cyprian?" asked Ferlie, desperately

incredulous. "He is unarmed and, they can see, unaggressive; if they are not
cannibals why should they want to interfere with him?"

"They shoot at sight," explained Jellybrand slowly. "They do not wait to

find out if harm is intended. They strike first, even at the neighbouring
tribes, w-which go in terror of them. They are called the Shorn Pen."

She turned on him in cold fury.

"And you never warned us!"

"They live so far afield; right out in Great Nicobar. How w-was one to
dream——? The Andamanese have a similar tribe to cope w-with, the
Jarawas. But they, like the Shorn Pen, are so seldom seen that one forgets.
For centuries the Shorn Pen have managed to isolate themselves from the
remaining islanders, and they are now practically a different people.
Markedly Malayan. Intermarriage and contact with foreigners has altered
the ordinary Nicobarese and civilized him."

She became, of a sudden, stoically calm.

"What are we going to do about it first?"

Jellybrand and Mr. Toms, having decided on a search-party, had a little

difficulty in organizing their men, and, since this too was necessary, in
arming them.

The people, by nature, were no heroes, and it took more than the sight
of the foreign lady's stricken insensibility to induce them to collect canoes
at this late hour, when the labours of the day should be over.

The padre's influence did more than Mr. Toms' promises of reward, but
little Jelly, having finally shouldered his shot-gun, was surprised to find
Ferlie prepared to accompany them armed with a small despatch case and
Cyprian's revolver.

"The children, Mrs. Sterne," he stammered. "Surely you w-will remain

w-with them."

"There will be Naomi and Young Brown," said Ferlie coolly. "And I
want to explain that, should anything happen to us, those converts who take
care of the boys till my brother and Colonel Maddock return will be very
substantially rewarded for their trouble. I have left a note with Naomi."

The hardness of her voice frightened him.

"Nothing should happen," he said haltingly. "Really——"

She was not listening.

"John," she called, "Come here."

He came, dragging his imitation spear, and she knelt down putting her
arms about him.

"I have got to go away for a little while, John. If I do not get back very
soon, wait for Uncle Peter and look after Thu Daw. And when Uncle Peter
comes, tell him that Mother went away to follow Cyprian wherever he had
gone. Can you repeat it after me? Say, 'Wherever he had gone.'"

He spoke the words wonderingly, straining back, boylike, from the close
pressure of her arms.

He was always proud to be entrusted with a commission and the charge

of Thu Daw. Only when she had hurried a little way down the road, walking
between the padre and Mr. Toms, some intuition made him drop his weapon
and run after her, crying, "Mother! Mother!"

She whirled back to meet him and lift him against her heart.

"You are a man," she told him. "And one day you will stay by your
woman, please God, as I am going to choose to stay by my man to-night
and through Eternity."

Jellybrand surveyed the little scene, his face troubled, but he did not
again try to prevent her from joining them.

In the canoe he leaned forward and touched her cold hand.

"The smallest boy," he said softly. "Did you adopt him?"

"No. He is Cyprian's. His mother is dead."

He was puzzled, but not inquisitive. Ferlie added dully, "That was
before we found one another."

"I see." said her companion compassionately. And did not.

It took a long time in the canoes, under Kingfisher's guidance, to arrive

at the spot where, eventually, they caught sight of the dim outlines of the
motor-boat.

There was no sign of any living thing on the shimmering starlit shore.
The canoes crept closer and closer, under the shadow of the bank, cutting
the water noiselessly as otters. The foremost one, containing Kingfisher,
had only just been beached when he took a sudden flying leap into the
creek. They heard him scruffling with someone on the far side of the motor-
boat.

The two struggled out into the open; two naked forms grappling in the
stream where the water was just shallow enough to allow a precarious
footing.

"Keep quiet!" commanded the padre in Nicobarese, whispering, as

another of their party splashed to the leader's relief.

"There! They've got him.... Yes. It is one of the Shorn Pen!"

The man was dragged towards the bank and a dozen willing hands
stretched out to draw him up. Scarecrow, who, generally, showed more
initiative than his fellows, stepped forward to act as spokesman. Fingers
were firmly pressed against the prisoner's mouth, lest his alarmed shout
should attract his friends.

"Tell him," said Jellybrand, "that if he gives us the information we

require, no harm shall come to him; but that on his making the least sound it
w-will be the w-worse for him. Our revenge w-will be horrible," he
informed the man himself with the utmost placidity.

The latter had, evidently, made up his mind not to risk shouting. Or,
maybe, he was only a stray member of the tribe, lured back to the motor-
boat out of curiosity.

To get him to speak, however, was another matter. His dialect, also,
differed from that of his interlocutors.

"He must speak," said Ferlie. "He shall speak. He will speak under
torture."

"Mrs. Sterne!"

She wheeled round upon the padre as he advanced hastily to her side,
pushing him back into the arms of his huddling flock.

"Let me be!" cocking the revolver. "Stand aside, any one of you who
does not want to be shot. But if I shoot this wild beast to bits, inch by inch, I
will know where Cyprian is to-night."

This, Ferlie, the long-suffering and so-compassionate of all human pain.

There may have been an hour, far back in some forgotten life, when she
stood, herself a half-savage incarnation of Womanhood, surrounded by her
slaves, directing the slow doing-to-death of a feudal enemy who had
deprived her of mate or son.

Whether or no, the present captive, who had obviously never set eyes
until that moment on a white woman, was startled by the impression that
she was an avenging devil, it was certain he considered her supernatural.
 He broke shuddering from his gaolers to prostrate himself at her feet in
crawling supplication.

In due time they extracted from him a promise to lead them to "the
place where they had put the white man."

Yes, the white man had come there in the boat. Yes, he had walked in
the jungle. Yes, he had been captured. The rest was not clear.

Jellybrand saw that, although they might be moving directly into a trap,
there was nothing for it but to go on. Everybody understood that there
would probably be a scrap. They must rely upon the terrorizing effect of
their fire-arms. He stopped to make the sign of the cross.

Ferlie noticed that unsympathetically. She felt insanely cruel, and he

avoided those wild eyes.

It was not long before they arrived at a fired clearing, the centre of
which showed the remains of an earth-oven. A low bamboo platform,
beyond, supported a primitive hammock of plaited grass, hung round with
queer indistinguishable objects.

The whole thing suggested a funeral pyre; not an unlikely idea, since the
padre knew that the Jarawas in the Andamans burnt the bodies of their
dead.

Ferlie was the first to push aside the grass and leaves completely
screening the still form on that rude dais.

And then the birds of the forest rose in fluttering distress, disturbed by
the exceeding bitter cry of a soul in torment.

Cyprian lay there with an arrow, dimly discernible, pinning his coat to
the dark stain which had spread over his breast. They held the dancing
torches high, and poured brandy between his lips, but he did not appear to
swallow; they splashed his face with water from a flask and listened
desperately for the beating of his heart. His hands were clammy cold.
 The arrow had pierced clean through his coat to the other side of the
shoulder; after cutting off the barbed head they were able to remove the
shaft. And Ferlie, having done all she could with no result, flung herself
moaning like a wounded thing upon the charred ground.

All at once she raised her tortured face to the priest's and out of the
extremity of her suffering challenged him.

"You talk of faith! Use yours. You talk of prayer. Pray! You believe
there is Someone to pray to: speak to Him, then, but do not come near me
nor try to take this revolver from me, until I see whether the God you
uphold as faithful answers faithful prayer."

It was fruitless to attempt comfort; utterly hopeless to argue. He knew

that her face would remain imprinted on his memory to his dying day,
wearing just such a look as must have shadowed the faces of those
sorrowing women who stood beneath the Cross of the Beloved.

But he also considered the danger of resorting to such prayer before the
marvelling undeveloped intellects of the adult children round him, so
hardly-won to Christ. Their faith was ever-ready to rise or fall to the success
or failure of a sign. How could he thus tempt the Lord his God?

His hesitation scorched her to scorn.

"You are afraid!" she said. "And there is not even God left."

"Hush!" he pleaded. "Hush, child. W-wait and I w-will pray ... that His
w-will be done."

It was a strange scene: the girl writhing in her mental agony at the foot
of the savage bier; the frail diminutive figure of the little shepherd, in his
unsuitable draggled white robe, who had proved himself, whatever his
weakness, no hireling to his Master's flock; the scared human animal, naked
as his Creator made him, starting from the grasp of the hybrid agent clad in
khaki shorts and bowler hat; and, behind, the straight smooth-skinned forms
of the Nicobarese, leaning on spear and long bow, awaiting the miracle their
Christian witch-doctor must, surely, perform upon the white woman's man,
who lay so still in the dead light of torch and mocking star.

Jellybrand knelt forlornly on the earth. It has been shown that St.
Francis—the "little sheep of Christ"—was small and starved of appearance
with no physical beauty but his transfiguring trust....

"Our Father——" And that was all.

For coincidence or miracle, at the same moment the man on the rickety
erection twitched one hand faintly and opened glazed eyes.

"For God's sake get the arrow out!" he muttered, and once more
relapsed into unconsciousness.

* * * * * *

Ferlie never remembered how they got him home.

From the fact that those present ever after respected her as a
superwoman, she supposed she must have taken over charge again of the
reins she had relinquished, for the time being, to the padre and his God.

In her dreams she would often hear the padre's voice saying,

"Let him bleed; it is best."

She had necessary things with her in the despatch-case. It was really
blood-poisoning they had to fear, for the actual hurt proved not serious.

They had reason to be glad of the glassy night-harbour and the smooth
stealing of their canoe.

Their prisoner they took with them, it being the padre's inspiration to
load him with gifts and send him back to his tribe with a wholesome
narrative of good returned for evil.

He obviously expected protracted death, but Ferlie was now indifferent

to his fate, where she sat silent in the bows, holding Cyprian's head on her
knees.

Mr. Toms clung to a theory that the Shorn Pen, amazed at the
appearance of their quarry, had left him for dead at a popular festival
ground, in charge of the prisoner, wishing to display him to the rest of their
tribe before burning him with due ceremony. Probably, not more than three
or four were responsible for the actual outrage....

Several delirious nights dragged between drawn-out days of tireless

nursing before Cyprian opened comprehending eyes upon the world.

Before that hour came Gabriel Jellybrand had learnt more than he had
ever sought to know of his new friends. He took his turn at watching beside
the fever-stricken bed and was able to spare Ferlie a considerable amount of
the sick raving that wrung her heart.

Sometimes, Cyprian, who so seldom needed to emphasize his speech

with oaths, would break out into frantic blasphemies entirely alien to his
mentality.

"It is nothing." And the padre would describe other sick-beds at which
he had officiated. "He is not worse. It is as if he were speaking in a foreign
language, absorbed at some time or other by his sub-conscious mind."

But always the sick man returned to the same poignant theme; that
Ferlie was his and the barrier between them a figment of her imagination.

"Do not distress yourself over that delusion either," Jellybrand implored
her.

"No," said Ferlie at last, shocked by revelations of the restraint it had

been Cyprian's part to endure. "That is not delusion. That is Truth.... And
now you know...."

"My poor child," he answered, "I ought to have understood.... I am not

very clever, you see. I only w-went to a cheap school. My mother w-was a
w-widow and did mending for Colonel Maddock at one time, in order to
give me my chance. He w-was very good to us. But I only got through my
exams by much prayer.... My mother prayed too, and that helped. I w-was
able to visit her as an ordained priest before she died.... I, wh-wo w-was so
stupid and—and not very strong. W-we both felt that God had w-worked a
miracle."

She saw that he was shying away from her admission, eager to show
that he claimed no right to pry into more than she willed to confide in him.

It was inevitable then that she should make known to him the
circumstances which had driven them to seek temporary refuge at some
spot where they would not be hampered by the living lie represented in their
lives side by side.

"And even here," she finished pathetically, "there was you to deceive."

He thought it all out for some while before his slow wits responded
gropingly.

"You see, though God understands, His 'little ones' can't. And it is
forbidden to cause them to stumble.... And so again... There were only three
magi w-who came across the thirsty desert in their w-wisdom to the Cradle.
But many shepherds clustered about it, simple and adoring, w-who
imagined the star to have been lit in the Heavens that very night by some
supernatural hand. The w-wise men did not seek to convince them, by
astronomical data, that it had probably existed before the w-world began.
They merely followed them and adored."

"But they did not accept the shepherds' view," objected Ferlie. "They
reserved their own. What matter, if it was the same star and led them to the
same Cradle?"

"I know—I know. But, by action, they accepted the belief of the simple
folk. They conformed, outwardly, for the sake of those 'little ones'..."

He passed his hand over the back of his head, accentuating the tuft of
hair, like a drake's tail.

"I am so sorry for the W-wise; they have such heavy responsibilities."
 CHAPTER XX

The day came, at last, when she was able to approach the subject with
Cyprian, lying in a hammock beside her under the trees.

He had, up to now, avoided all reference to his unsatisfactory departure,

armed with fishing tackle, into hostile territory.

As she sat making tea, late in the whispering afternoon, preparatory to

hailing the padre from his drudging attempts in the Mission school to
explain the evil of coveting your neighbour's pig, likewise his pandanus
grove and his coco-nuts and anything that is his, including his wife, she
looked up to catch Cyprian's whimsical expression.

"Which of us apologizes this time, Ferlie? Me?"

"I'll let you off," she replied shakily, "If you'll make adequate restitution
by getting well."

"I am well."

She took his cup of tea to him and placed it within reach of the
uninjured arm. His stiffened shoulder still prevented free use of the other.

"The monsoon will be breaking soon," dreamily twisting a floating curl

round his finger as she stooped, "Shall we remain on here and beset the
even tenor of Jelly's existence with a similar problem to his bigmatical
ones?"

"Cyprian. He is a little saint!"

"I know it. You are both saints, and I eye the haloes with envy, but not
much hope. I want you, as well as your halo."
 "Take!" said Ferlie. But she went back to her chair and sat looking at
John chasing Thu Daw across the clearing.

He followed their flight and then said, "We can't stay. 'Unto each his
mother beach, bloom and bird and land.'"

"That's true," agreed Ferlie, and rolled Thu Daw's ball back to him from
under her chair.

"What will we do about it, Cyprian?"

"What indeed? John's future is clear. Winchester, I suppose, and Oxford,

and so to Black Towers, finally. You are right to remind me where the
greater responsibility lies. At an English school, would he find himself out
of it? Would they take him?"

"If we could circumvent the first question he could live the other down."

"Why should he be forced to live down my—sins?"

"The alternative is Burma, and, there, you and I have much to live
down, whatever course we take."

"Ferlie! For God's sake reassure me on one point."

To that stifled passion she instinctively reached out comforting hands.

"You—you are not thinking of separation?"

She said, "I hardly know. It seems to me we cannot go back now on

what we have done. As we might tell Peter, 'there must be pioneers!' ... But
I do think our pioneering is going to lie along a very rough road and I am
afraid—for you."

The sight of Jellybrand on his way from the school checked Cyprian's
reply. The padre beamed joyously as Ferlie waved him to the second straw
chair.
 "W-would you believe it? My choir can now sing the w-whole of
'There's a Friend for little children,' by heart. W-we are going to have it at
Benediction to-night. The Bishop is not quite certain w-whether I ought to
be allowed Benediction, as an extra service, but I hope to be able to
persuade him to my point of view when he visits us. He's not a very
Protestant Bishop, and most w-wide minded."

"Does it make any difference to Friend-of-England and Co. which you

have?" asked Cyprian.

"Nothing makes any difference to them, but it makes a very great

difference to me to be allowed to teach and practise w-what I believe to be
necessary."

"If I were the Bishop," said Ferlie, "I shouldn't be able to help feeling
that you must know best and that you mattered more than he did. He has so
much to encourage him. Does your brain never bother you into believing
the work useless and the source of all your inspiration a dream?"

He crossed his knees, displaying a badly cobbled rent in the trailing

uniform he loved too proudly to lay aside more often than was absolutely
essential. "Even my poor intellect questions sometimes. Doubts come and
go, but nothing can take away one's past spiritual experiences."

"I don't know that a single unlooked-for spiritual experience can

influence a mind which leans naturally towards agnosticism," put in
Cyprian suddenly. "There is a work-a-day agnosticism which satisfies most
men, supported by certain ethics, coloured with what for nearly the last two
thousand years has been regarded as Christianity.... It is not my fault if I
have not a temperament which can rest content on Faith. I did not make my
brain."

"That is just the point," said Ferlie. "You are incapable of making a
single thing about yourself. But you are able, if you wish, to insist that your
brain, and all the attributes of your particular temperament shall serve
instead of rule you. Faith is within the reach of all who reach out towards it.
The Christ, whose ethics you adopt, explained that whenever He met
educated doubting men."
 "But sometimes," said Jellybrand, "one fears to presume."

Ferlie saw that he was thinking of that night in the forest when she had
defied him to test his own faith for her sake, and she replied,

"Perhaps that should be considered an experience especially given to

me."

Unexpectedly, he chuckled.

"W-would you like to spend a happy hour now torturing our prisoner? It
might entertain the invalid. I have often w-wondered w-what I should have
done if he had not confessed and you had proceeded to carry out your
intention of making a second St. Sebastian of him w-with revolver bullets."

"Did she intend doing that?" asked Cyprian. "Ferlie, what a joke!"

"It was no joke, I assure you," contradicted Jellybrand, "She stood there
—w-would you believe it?—w-with that horrid little w-weapon pointing in
all directions at once, and rank murder in her face."

Then Ferlie said a horrible thing. So horrible for her that the padre
dropped his tea-cup and Cyprian raised himself upright to meet her blazing
eyes.

"I'd have re-crucified Christ!" said Ferlie.

In the petrified silence which followed Cyprian extended his one arm.
She went to him, startled into comprehension of her own words, and hid her
face in his sleeve.

"It's all right," muffled tones assured them. "Do you suppose that,
because you don't understand, all Heaven doesn't?"

Neither answered, till Cyprian said uncertainly,

"You might make me terribly conceited, Ferlie."

"Or terribly humble," she answered, still in the dark.

 Jellybrand mopped up, with his handkerchief, the mess he had made,
and poured himself out some more tea. His wrist was unsteady and he
slopped the milk afresh over the table.

"I meant to tell you both"—they heard his words stumbling towards
them through a clogging mist—"I have thought a good deal about you—and
prayed. But, somehow—I suppose because I am not quite sure of my right
to advise—light has not come to me yet. The solution slowly dawning may
be a mirage. I must leave you to judge of that. It is not for me to follow the
w-wise across the desert. My place is in the fields w-with the blind flocks.
Still, since you must go back and live practical lives in a practical w-world,
there is such a thing as rendering unto Cæsar. In this case—to a custom, if
an unlawful custom, as many considered Cæsar's tribute. Yet, the disciples
were permitted to pay that, to give their enemies no handle. You could pay
it—this tribute to our so-called Civilization—by obtaining your divorce and
contracting, according to the law of the land, to live together as it permits
you. A marriage in a registry office counts as no marriage to a Catholic; but
this you know. Your lives together after it w-would be a matter for
yourselves and your own consciences, supposing you can continue to live
together under the same conditions you have observed up to now. If you
find you cannot, then I, honestly, see no w-way out but the one w-which
seems to spell living death to both of you—separation.

"There is another consideration. The Roman Communion and its rules

are outside my scope. You know best w-whether it w-will permit a w-wife
separated from her husband, in such special circumstances, to remain under
the innocent protection of another man, in a state fulfilling the demands of
both Civil and the Ecclesiastical Law. In my own very humble opinion—
and I speak after much consideration—the thing is permissible. But I live so
far beyond the reach of those dogmatic burdens w-with which Man impedes
his progress to bear as offerings along the steep road to God. Clever
theologians w-would, doubtless, frustrate my arguments, in one sentence. I
can only say that I do not think they could alter my feeling in the matter.

"The views of any Church are immaterial to one of you, who has been,
hitherto, a law unto himself. They are not immaterial to me; but my heart is
ready to let the situation rest between you and the Greatest of all Lovers,
who sees further than His disciples in the Church."

The speaker pushed his untasted tea aside with a little clinking jerk of
china, and moved swiftly away from the two under the restless palms.

In the distance they watched him climb the steps of the toy ark and, a
moment later, the cracked bell clanged.

* * * * * *

Cyprian spoke first, when the cadences of the concertina would have
been inciting to hilarity most listeners superior to the Nicobarese and
inferior to the angels.

"Did you ever hear of Er, the son of Armenius? No. You never trod the
mill of the ordinary Greek classics. Er was a brave man who was killed in
battle, and the story goes that, ten days later, his body was discovered quite
fresh. The twelfth day they laid him on a funeral pyre, when he wisely came
to life again. He brought news that he had been permitted to see the other
world and return, and described a long and complicated vision—Socrates'
idea of the justice meted out to Man after death.

"While I was ill my brain was troubling itself with an account of the
method by which the sky's vault was held together, in the vision, at either
end, by a belt of light."

"What are 'whorls'?" Ferlie asked him suddenly.

He laughed, his fingers busy with her hair.

"I can well believe that I babbled about them. Er's idea of the eight
whorls, inserted in one another was founded on the Greeks' conception of
astronomy. Never mind. I'll lend you the translation....

"I am only prefacing my own vision (if you can call it that when you
know) with the mention of all this, to show you how my mind has been
running on Plato for the sake of one passage in his Republic, portraying
Earthly Love as a frantic and savage Master."

Said Ferlie, "He is a Master who can be enslaved."

"Your faith tells you so. I only saw it in my—dream. Do you know that
I believe, like Er, I have been dead?"

"You were dead. Your heart had stopped beating. You must have been
unconscious for a long time. And now, being you, you are wondering
whether knowledge acquired during an experience in Death should be
pushed aside by your well-balanced living mind. What did you see?"

"It was not exactly a seeing. It was a knowing. I was dead and I knew I
was dead. But I was still alive, most terribly and poignantly. You were the
Dead—on this side of the Dark, belted down, like Er's universe, from the
light. But I was struggling so passionately to return and be dead with you
here, rather than alive with all those other Living, that, like Er, I think I was
shown the way to break through....

"One has heard of people in trances waking in the grave. Can you be
sure with me, Ferlie, that this was more than a trance?"

"God knows I can!" she said earnestly.

"You need not have been afraid. I would have wrenched the way
through to you if you had not come back to me. For that reason I took your
revolver."

After a silence he said, "Then I see now why I was allowed to find the
way. I was not worth such a sacrifice ... the sacrifice of your unfinished
work here. That is quite clear."

"Ah, never! Never till that night did I know the depths of my own
weakness. For the memory I must go humbly all my days. Cyprian, believe,
rather, that you have been allowed the vision because only through its
acceptance can you receive the strength which must make me strong."