Amanda Ashley (20 page)

Kelly stared at the middle-aged woman who stood in front of her, under Edward’s thrall. “I can’t,” she said, grimacing. “I just can’t drink her blood.”

“Why not?”

“I just can’t.” She looked up at him, her eyes wide.

“Damn it, Kelly, I thought you were sure about this. Didn’t you think it through?”

“I guess I just sort of skipped this part. All I really thought about was how nice it would be for us to be together forever. I never thought about . . . about this part of it.”

That wasn’t entirely true. She remembered telling Marisa she didn’t think she could drink blood. Somehow, that essential part of being a vampire hadn’t seemed important last night. Last night, all she had thought of was becoming what Edward was. If she was a vampire, they could be together forever. She would never have to worry about growing old and helpless.

“Well, you’d better start thinking about it. It’s part of what you are now. A vital part, whether you like it or not.”

“Isn’t it . . . doesn’t it taste . . . awful?”

He looked at the woman standing between them. Her blood called to him, sang to him, promising an end to the hunger stirring within him. He had thought to be repulsed by the almost incessant need for blood—knew he should be horrified by the mere idea—when the truth was just the opposite.

“Awful?” He laughed softly. “Try it and see.”

“I can’t.” She shuddered, tears glistening her eyes. “I can’t bite her. I just can’t!”

She turned away when he bared his fangs.

This is what I am
. The words played through his mind as he took what he needed, what he wanted.

When he was done, he released the woman and sent her away, and then he bit his wrist and offered it to Kelly.

She looked at him in horror, but the hunger was there, burning like twin flames in the depths of her eyes.

He caught her gaze with his. “I can make you drink, and then wipe it from your mind, Kelly, if that’s what you want.”

“I don’t know.” She looked at the blood welling from his wrist, licked her lips, then looked away. “Maybe just this once.”

“Look at me.”

She did as he asked; her eyes filled with trust. He spoke to her mind, bending her will to his, his eyes closing as her mouth closed over his wrist. He let her drink as much as he thought she needed, closed the wound in his wrist, wiped the memory from her mind, and then released his hold on her.

She blinked up at him, her expression confused. “What happened?”

“Nothing, love, let us go for a walk.”

Arm in arm, they strolled down the street. Ramsey felt like a new father as he watched Kelly take in the sights and sounds around them through her newly acquired vampire senses. It was, he recalled, like experiencing the world for the first time. His hearing had become more acute; his vision was nothing short of amazing. Colors were not only brighter, but they had depth and texture. His sense of touch was remarkably sensitive, his sense of smell keener. His sense of taste, however, had been pared down to one single flavor: the coppery tang of blood. It should have been repulsive, but it was not.

He glanced over at Kelly. Her revulsion to taking blood was an old taboo from her life as a human. Once she got past it, she would be fully vampire. As he was.

Vampire.

It still seemed unreal, like a bad dream, a nightmare that would end the next time he woke. Only it never ended. And even though he had come to enjoy the powers of the Dark Gift, he couldn’t shake the constant fear that he would become like Khira—a remorseless killer.

You can be as good or as bad as you wish.
Grigori’s words echoed in the back of his mind. A good vampire? He had already killed one woman. How would he live with himself if he killed again?

Murder is murder, Ramsey, whether you’re killing vampires or killing humans for their blood. It is all the same; only the reasons are different
.

He had killed vampires without a qualm; now their deaths weighed heavily on his conscience. He had never questioned whether they were “good” or “bad.” He had viewed them all as evil and destroyed them. Could he ever find forgiveness?

He frowned. Perhaps he was not truly guilty of murder. Didn’t that sin lie with the vampire who first bestowed the Dark Gift? If so, then he was responsible for killing Kelly. . . .

“Eddie?”

He turned to face her, horrified at the thoughts chasing themselves through his mind. “Did you say something?”

“What’s wrong?”

He forced a smile. “Nothing for you to worry about.”

“Let’s don’t have any secrets, Eddie, please?”

“Forgive me, love. I’ve just been having some dark thoughts, you know?”

“About what?”

“About vampires I have killed. About you.”

“What about me?”

“Have I damned your soul? Am I damned for bringing you across?”

Her eyes widened. “You are having deep thoughts, aren’t you? How can you be damned for what you did, when I asked you to do it?”

“What about the vampires I have destroyed? Am I guilty of murder?”

“I don’t know, Eddie, but I don’t think so. You did what you thought was right at the time. Anyway, vampires are already . . .” She looked up at him, her eyes wider than ever. “Already dead. I’m dead, aren’t I?”

“You knew that.”

“Dead!” She held up her hands, turned them one way and another, touched her face. “What have I done?” Her fingers dug into his arm, her nails breaking the skin. “What have I done?”

“Kelly . . .”

She stared at him as if seeing him for the first time.

“Kelly, I warned you there was no turning back.”

“I know.” She shivered. “I guess you were right. I didn’t really think it through. I was so caught up in the wonder of it, the newness. I’ve never known a high like that before . . . I can’t have children, can I?”

“No.”

“I never really wanted any, you know? But it was always an option, till now.”

“I never should have brought you over. You are so young.”

“Don’t blame yourself. I begged you to do it.”

“And now you’re sorry. After a while, you’ll hate me for it.”

“I could never hate you, Eddie. Never!” She smiled up at him. “I love you.”

“Do you? I wonder.”

“What does that mean?”

“Vampires have an allure, an attraction, that mortals don’t possess. Maybe you just fell in love with the illusion.”

“No, I don’t believe that.”

“Well,” Ramsey said heavily. “We will never know, will we?”

“It really bothers you, doesn’t it?”

He couldn’t deny it, so he said nothing. For a time, they walked in silence, together yet apart. She was right, he supposed. He had done what seemed best at the time. At any rate, there was no way to change the past, no way to restore the lives he had so callously taken.

Thoughts of vampire killing brought Tom Duncan to mind. How long could he avoid hunting with his old friend before Duncan got suspicious? How long before Duncan realized the truth? And when he did, which of them would survive?

 

 

Grigori felt her presence as soon as he left the house. It swamped his senses like sweet poison—alluring but fatal. He continued down the street, ignoring her in hopes she would tire of the game and leave him alone. But it was not to be.

A whisper of air, the scent of jasmine, and she was there, linking her arm through his. His gaze moved over her in frank male appreciation. Whatever else she might be, she was blatantly beautiful. Her dress, of midnight blue velvet, clung to her perfect figure.

“Khira.”

She looked up at him through the veil of her lashes, a seductive smile caressing her lips. “Will you come hunt the night with me, my handsome one?”

She never gave up. She was like a child who was certain she could have her own way if she just asked often enough.

His first instinct was to refuse, as always, but then it occurred to him that it might be wiser, safer for all concerned, if he acquiesced to her wishes. But he had one stipulation.

“No killing.”

She grinned up at him as her hand slid down his arm, her fingers intertwining with his. “No killing,” she agreed.

They stalked the night like the shadows of death, creeping up on their prey, silent as moonlight. She had always loved the hunt, loved to let her victims see her for what she was before she took them. She fed on their terror, wanted it, needed it, as much as their blood. She was not troubled by right and wrong. No, not Khira. She reveled in what she was, her excitement palpable. Contagious. They hunted for hours, prowling in dark alleys, cruising high-class nightclubs, slinking around in cheap dives. Her nearness and her laughter were as intoxicating as whiskey.

He had all but forgotten the thrill of the hunt, the excitement of the chase. For too many years, he had fed out of necessity, taking what he needed quickly, efficiently, painlessly. But now . . . He looked at the woman in his arms. She stared up at him, her expression blank, her mind linked to his. A single drop of crimson stained the pale skin of her neck. He looked at the pulse throbbing in her throat, and he wanted to drain her dry, wanted to take it all, every heartbeat, every memory, every drop of life.

“Remember,” Khira said, her voice gently mocking. “No killing.”

He glanced up to find Khira watching him, a knowing look in her eyes.

“Take her,” Khira said, her voice filled with triumph. “You want to; you know you do! Why fight it any longer? This is what you are, Grigori, what you were meant to be!”

The truth of her words seared his brain. He had not killed in decades, but the urge to abandon all control, to unleash the ravening beast within him, was all but overpowering. With a wordless cry, he thrust the woman away from him, released her with a thought, then turned and fled.

The sound of Khira’s laugher followed him down the street.

 

 

Marisa looked up as he burst into room, her expression startled. Usually, he entered the house so quietly she didn’t hear him.

“What is it?” she asked, seeing the haunted look on his face. “What’s wrong?”

Crossing the floor, he dropped to his knees and buried his face in her lap, his arms wrapping so tightly around her waist, she could scarcely breathe.

“Grigori, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“I went hunting with Khira.”

“So? You’ve hunted with her before.”

“But tonight . . . tonight she reminded me of what it is like to truly be Vampyre.”

“I don’t understand.”

He shook his head, his whole body trembling. “I don’t think I can explain. It’s . . . how can I tell you . . . ?” He swore a vile oath. “She made me hungry again as I have not been in over a century. I held a woman in my arms, and I wanted to . . .”

His arms tightened around her even more. He couldn’t say it, couldn’t tell Marisa how he’d longed to bury his fangs in the woman’s throat and take everything she had, everything she was.

He looked up at Marisa. She was beautiful, happy, with a family that loved her. How could he make her what he was? How could he subject her to the hunger that plagued him? What if, once the deed was done, she hated him for it?

“Grigori?” She was watching him through wide, troubled eyes. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong. I want to help, but I need to understand.”

He shook his head. There was no way to explain, no way to make her understand the icy fear that was spreading through him, the awful suspicion that he had been kidding himself all these years. He looked up at her, his gaze drawn to the pulse throbbing in the hollow of her throat. Marisa’s blood. How often had he tasted it and wanted more?

He jerked his arms from around her waist, gained his feet, and began to pace the floor. Damn Khira! One night of hunting with her had reawakened cravings he thought he had conquered over a century ago.

Blood. It was all he could think of. The craving, worse than any addiction that plagued mankind. Blood. Hot. Warm. Sweet. What had Khira done to him, that he should feel this way after so many years?

An oath escaped his lips.

He heard Marisa gasp, knew she was seeing the hunger that writhed within him.

“Go to bed,” he said thickly. “Now!”

She didn’t question him. Rising, she walked out of the room and up the stairs. She didn’t look back. But she didn’t run. He could have kissed her for that, but he didn’t dare go near her. Not now.

He paced the floor, too agitated to sit still. He could hear Marisa moving about upstairs, could hear the heartbeats of the city, each one calling to him with a Siren song of blood that was his for the taking. And over all, the sound of Khira’s taunting laughter, and the echo of her words in his mind:

Marisa woke in midafternoon. Accustomed as she was to spending the silent predawn hours awake with Grigori, she had not been able to sleep last night when he sent her up to bed. Only with dawn had her eyelids grown heavy, and when sleep finally came, her dreams had been filled with shadowy images of Grigori chasing her, his eyes glowing red, his fangs dripping blood. Khira had been mixed in there, too, and Edward. Once, she had awakened, or thought she had awakened, to find Grigori staring down at her.

He had not come to bed at the sun’s rising, leaving her to wonder where he was now that the sun was up.

Feeling bleary-eyed and not the least bit rested, she showered, then pulled on a pair of old jeans, a sweatshirt, and a pair of tennis shoes and went downstairs. She poured herself a cup of coffee, then stood at the window, wondering where he was. Was he sleeping elsewhere in the house? If not, where would he go?

Carrying her coffee with her, she wandered through the house looking for him, but he was nowhere to be found.

Returning to the kitchen, she refilled her cup, then sat down at the table. Where had he gone? What had happened last night to affect him in such a way? Khira . . . what had the vampire done to him? She had never been afraid of Grigori before, but last night . . . She shivered with the memory.

Gulping the last of the coffee, she grabbed a pair of gardening gloves and left the house. She needed to be outside, in the sunshine. She drew on the gloves, determined to pull the weeds that grew alongside the driveway. She’d never gotten around to calling a gardener. Now she was glad. She needed to be busy, needed something to occupy her mind.

It was a beautiful day, clear and sunny. How long since Grigori had seen the daylight? Did he remember what it was like? The touch of the sun? The glory of a sunrise?

She thrust the thought from her mind. Gazing around the yard, she imagined how the grounds would look once they were landscaped. She would have to decide what kinds of flowers and trees she wanted, and where she wanted them. Maybe, instead of hiring someone, she’d just do the job herself. Heaven knew she had plenty of free time.

She paused on the thought. Unless Khira drove them away from here. That dark thought cast a pall on the brightness of the day. She would not think of that now, would not let Khira ruin what was a lovely day. She wandered through the yard, pausing now and then to imagine this plant or that in a particular setting. She could buy some sod to replace the weedy grass, maybe put a wrought-iron bench under the big old oak tree on the east side of the house, plant some flower beds on either side of the porch and under the front windows. It might be fun to do it herself. Maybe some night-blooming jasmine . . . She hit her forehead with the heel of her hand. What was she thinking? That was Khira’s scent. Honeysuckle would do just as well.

She stood in the sun, gazing around the yard. Where was he? Last night was the first night he had not shared their bed. She had missed falling asleep in his arms, missed waking with him beside her. Damn it, where was he?

She checked her watch. Almost four. Hours yet until he would rise from wherever he had gone. Where had he gone?
Khira
. . . the vampire’s name slid through her mind like oily, black smoke. Surely he hadn’t gone to stay with Khira. Still, they had once been lovers . . .

She shook the thought from her mind, only to have it rise again. Khira had made him what he was. There was a bond between the two of them that could not be broken—a bond she would never be able to break, one she would never be able to share.

She pushed the thought from her mind. She would not think of that now.

With a sigh, she decided she would start weeding near the street and work her way back up the driveway. When she reached the house, she would reward herself with a root-beer float.

When she reached the front gate, she was surprised to find it open. Grigori always locked it. She was about to close it when a sudden shiver ran down her spine. Turning, she gasped as she came face to face with a man she had never seen before.

“Excuse me!” she exclaimed. “You gave me quite a start.”

He stared at her through blank gray eyes. “You will come with me,” he said woodenly.

She recognized him for what he was instantly. She took a step backward, chilled by the empty look in his eyes. Whoever the man had been, he was forever lost now, his mind no longer his own. Soulless, mindless, a creature made by a vampire, yet not a vampire. Alexi Kristov had turned Grigori’s first wife, Antoinette, into such a creature. When Ramsey and Grigori joined forces to hunt Kristov, the ancient vampire had used Antoinette against Grigori. To rescue her from her thrall to Kristov, Grigori had brought her all the way across, given her the Dark Gift. But Antoinette could not endure being a vampire. She had begged Grigori to release her, but it had been Ramsey who had laid her soul to rest.

The creature took a step forward, his arms outstretched. “Come.”

She didn’t waste time or energy arguing. Instead, she turned and ran for the house.
Grigori! Grigori! Help me!
She screamed the words in her mind, screamed in terror as the revenant tackled her from behind. She cried out again as her knees slammed against the driveway.

She lashed out at him, kicking and scratching, but it was no use. He was oblivious to her blows. He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her to her feet; then, lifting her into his arms, he carried her down the driveway and out the gate.

She raked her nails down his face, hoping, praying, that someone would come along to save her, but there was no traffic on the street.

She struggled anew as he opened the passenger door to an old pickup truck and thrust her inside. As soon as he closed the door and started for the driver’s side, she reached for the door handle. There was none.

Fear rose up in her throat, making it difficult to breathe, to think.

She sat as close to the door as she could get as the revenant slid behind the wheel. He looked at her through soulless eyes as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a hypodermic needle.

“No!” Marisa begged. “Please, don’t.”

She might as well as been talking to a piece of wood. He held her immobile with one hand, slid the needle home with the other.

A moment later, everything went black.

 

 

He swam through thick layers of darkness, drawn out of the abyss of the Dark Sleep by the fear and panic in Marisa’s voice.

He fought against the blackness of eternity that ensnared him, his need to protect his woman stronger than the darkness that weighed him down.

Struggling, he sat up. He felt the weight of daylight press in on him, knew the sun was still high in the sky by the lethargy that engulfed him. With an effort, he gathered his power around him, sent it outward.
Marisa!

She was in danger. The thought slammed into him, his alarm growing when his mind couldn’t connect with hers. Panic drove him to his feet, and he left the attic and made his way down the stairs. He ignored the pain that seared his eyes as he left the protective darkness of the attic. Knowing she wasn’t in the house, he still searched every room, including the cellar.

He sent his thoughts outward again, shutting out the myriad everyday sounds that assaulted his senses. His mind brushed Ramsey’s and Kelly’s. They were deeply asleep. He sought Khira, but she blocked his thoughts effortlessly, even in sleep.

He paced the floor in the living room, the need to find Marisa clawing at him. Torn with the need to find her, he opened the door, but the heat of the sun, the glaring light, drove him back inside. He could do nothing until the sun began to set.

Eyes burning, skin crawling from the brush of the sun, he went back upstairs and took shelter in their bedroom. He buried his face in her pillow, his senses filling with her scent.

He whispered her name as the darkness descended on him, drawing him down, down.

He sent the thought outward, hoping she would hear it.

He would find her. He would find those who had taken her, and they would pay the ultimate price for their folly.