The baying of the dogs did not bother Raoul. He was rather fond of dogs. And if they caught up to him, they were simple enough to deal with. Nor was he concerned about the pistols and shotguns of the hounds' owners. They could do him no more harm than the dogs. It was Amelinda who worried him. He had been foolish over her. Careless. Stayed too long and been discovered.
Raoul paused a moment, listening for the whine of rovercart engines. The hounds would lead his pursuers to him, infallibly, but slowly. A few impatient ones -- the girl's brothers or her close friends -- were no doubt crisscrossing the orchard, hoping to find him by luck, as unlikely as that might be. Lynch mobs were, after all, not known for their rationality. Still, it would not do to be surprised by one of them.
Shafts of moonlight stabbed between the olive trees like searchlights. He needed to get into the forest, where moonbeams did not reach and rovercarts had no room to maneuver. He scanned the dark line of trees at the far edge of the orchard, seeking out the thickest growth, and began to run again.
Amelinda's heart would break at his flight, at the accusations. He should have drawn their relationship to a close slowly, gently, months ago, for her sake, if not for his own. If only she hadn't been so intoxicating, so vibrant. If only he hadn't loved her so well.
A thorny tangle of raspberry and thistle guarded the edge of the orchard. A sure barrier to the rovercarts, though not enough to throw off the dogs. Raoul leaped over the hedge, and then settled into a comfortable lope, weaving his way deftly between the dark trunks. He wanted to put as much distance between himself and his pursuers as possible. It wouldn't be easy to find a hiding spot, not with the dogs on his tail and his secret exposed.
The danger to his life was greater now than it had ever been. Three, four hundred years ago, the villagers he had lived among, although quite willing to believe he was a vampire, had been ignorant of the ways to kill one. These days it was common knowledge, popularized by novels, movies, television shows. It might take incontrovertible proof, but having been convinced, the men behind him would most certainly be carrying wooden stakes along with their guns. And cloves of garlic to stuff in his mouth after they cut his head from his body.
Raoul cursed himself for a fool. How could he have lingered so over the girl? It was, after all, hard not to be convinced when you had caught a man tooth to neck. He had been so careful over the years, it was stupid to have slipped so badly now. Of course, he hadn't realized she was quite so young. Or that her father would come looking for her quite so quickly.
Raoul had run steadily for an hour, when the forest ahead began to open up. Through the trees, he could see moonlight gleaming on ripe wheat. He sprinted to the edge of the woods and stopped abruptly. Fields of cultivated grain stretched out before him like a sheet of golden, rippling water, the stalks stirring like waves in the evening breeze. The sight made his stomach turn; running water drained his energy, sapped his life-force, and with sufficient exposure was fatal.
At the far edge of the fields, a three-meter chain link fence topped with rounds of razor wire separated wheat from tarmac. Out across the pavement a cluster of buildings huddled, low, metallic. A prison? A controlled substance plant? Either way, it was just the sort of place he was looking for. The fence indicated security that would hinder those hunting him. The townspeople might be have seen enough to believe he was a vampire, but they would have a hard time convincing anyone else, especially skeptical security personnel. Chances were good they would be denied access to the grounds, if not completely, then at least until proper paperwork could be filed. If he could find a little used storage closet or attic somewhere in those buildings, he could hide for a day, or longer, until it was safe to move again.
Of course, the fence might be meant to keep out forest animals rather than people. In which case, he could find himself in serious trouble. Perhaps it would be safer to double back and head to the apartment he shared with Amelinda. Surely she would protect him.
The idea was tempting. He hated to abandon Amelinda without so much as a farewell, without one last kiss, one last taste of passion. And the thought of moving on again, alone, as always, filled him with a quiet desperation. He was so tired of being alone. But for all he knew, the farmer had celled her, telling her what he had seen, demanding information about where Raoul might head. In which case, she might well meet him at the door with a stake. It wouldn't be the first time a lover had turned on him.
No, the buildings were his best bet. In a few days, when it was clear the girl had suffered no lasting ill effects, when the fever pitch for revenge had cooled down, when people were beginning to doubt what they had seen with their own eyes, he could contact Amelinda. There would be time enough then for explanations and apologies. And invitations.
He took a step toward the wheat, and shuddered, his stomach roiling. He pursed his lips, a gesture he had cultivated for its sensuality, but which had become habitual whenever he was deep in thought. He listened to the baying of the hounds, calculating. They were far behind him; their barking so faint, a normal human would not have been able to hear it. He had time and he had eaten, if not well, at least decently, not long ago. He did not have to set foot in the watery wheat, nor wade through its grassy waves.
He closed his eyes, focused his concentration on the center of his being, slowed his breath. With each exhalation his body became heavier, earthier, his thoughts more centered, until with a sudden sense of contraction, of flowing in and then through and out in expanding transcendence, he dissolved. He flowed gently to the ground, a pale mist, silver against the gold grain, and began to glide through the stalks. It was a slow means of travel, far less efficient than running, but it did have its advantages. He would leave no trail to show his passage across the fields. No clothes caught or torn by the fence, no shreds of evidence revealing the direction he had taken. No worry of a lone, dark figure attracting attention as it ran across the open expanse of tarmac. No worry that he would have trouble opening locked doors.
The dogs would still be able to follow his scent, although their masters would no doubt curse them as fools when they came to the trackless field. Even though it was well known that vampires could transform into bats or fog, in the heat of the chase most humans didn't stop to think that dogs could smell a vampire even if he changed to a form that didn't leave footprints, just as they always grabbed their guns out of habit or for comfort, even though they knew they were useless.
When he returned to material form, he would be dangerously weak for two or three hours, depending on how long he stayed ethereal. But that was of little import. It was close enough to dawn that once he found a safe place he would not move again tonight.
