placed her on it, his heart pounding with fear. She looked so still; her skin, what little hadn't been burned, was as pale as death.
With a sob, he slit the vein in his wrist, parted her lips, and let his blood drip into her mouth. One drop, two. A dozen. How much would it take?
When he judged she'd had enough, he drew the fur-lined cloak around her, then gathered her into his arms. Rising, he sat down in his chair and gazed into the flames.
He held her throughout the night, wondering how the fire had started, listening to her soft moans of pain, her erratic breathing. She sobbed for her mother, her father. Once, she cried his name, begging him to come to her, to help her.
"I'm trying, cara," he murmured. "I'm trying."
He felt dawn approaching and knew the time had come to leave her. He held her as long as he could, held her until his body felt drugged, heavy. Reluctantly, he laid her on the floor in front of the hearth, wishing he had a bed for her, blankets. Clothes. And hard on the heels of that thought came the hope that she would have need of those things, that he had given her his accursed blood in time. That he had given her enough. He had no food to give her, only a bottle of aged red wine. He left it on the hearth where she would be sure to see it if she woke, and then, having done all he could, he left her.
On feet that felt as heavy as lead, he made his way down to the catacombs and secured the door. With Sara in the house, he would have to take his sleep with the rest of the dead.
He rose as the sun was going down, the smell of rain heavy in the air. He took the stairs two at a time, ran down the narrow hallway to his room.
Sara lay as he had left her, her blond hair spread like a golden halo around her head.
Murmuring her name, he knelt beside her. Drawing back his cloak, his gaze swept over her from head to foot, and then he let out a long sigh of relief. She was healing. Not as swiftly as he would have, but she was healing. Her skin still looked raw in places, but the blisters were shrinking, drying.
Gently, he covered her once more, and then he closed his eyes as relief washed through him. She would be all right.
"Gabriel?"
He opened his eyes to find her staring up at him, her brow furrowed in bewilderment.
"How do you feel?" he asked.
"Terrible. What happened?"
"There was a fire at the orphanage."
"A fire! How did it start?"
"I don't know."
"Do you know if Sister Mary Josepha and the other nuns survived the fire? And the children... ?" She blinked back a tear as she thought of all the sweet dear children she had grown to care for. Had they been burned, as well?
"I don't know, Sara, but I'll find out."
"Thank you."
She glanced over his shoulder. "Where are we?"
"This is where I... live."
"Here?" She stared at the room, empty save for a large, thronelike chair. There was a faded space on one wall where a large crucifix had once been. She thought it odd that the room's only window was covered by a thick black cloth. "What is this place?"
"It used to be a monastery."
"And you live here?" She frowned as vague memories of the night of the fire began to surface. "I seem to remember being taken to the hospital. How did I get here?" She stared at him, waiting for an explanation.
"Are you hungry?" he asked, abruptly changing the subject.
"No. I want to know why I'm here."
"Thirsty?"
It was obvious he wasn't going to answer her, and she was too muddled by all that had happened to pursue the matter.
"I am thirsty," she said, her throat feeling suddenly dry.
With a nod, Gabriel poured her a glass of wine, and she reached for it, her hand halting halfway to the glass.
He saw the horror in her eyes as she gazed at her hand, at the reddened skin, the ugly yellow scabs left by the blisters.
"Sara..."
"My hand. What happened to my hand? My arm?" She threw the cloak aside, the fact that she was naked not registering as she looked at the raw red patches that covered her arms and legs and chest.
He saw the scream rising in her throat, the panic in her eyes, and cursed