Amanda Ashley (9 page)

For a moment, Alex stood at the foot of the bed, gazing down at her. He would kill anyone who tried to harm her. He did not vocalize the thought, was hardly aware that it had crossed his mind. It was simply a fact, irrefutable, inevitable.

“Rest, Kara,” he said quietly. “You're safe now.”

“Alexander?”

“I'm here.”

Her eyelids fluttered open. “Alexander?”

“I'm here, Kara.” He moved to the side of the bed and took her hand in his.

She stared up at him, her eyes unfocused, her expression muddled. “Where am I?”

“Safe now. How are you feeling?”

“Kind of woozy.”

He brushed a lock of hair from her brow. “It will pass.”

“I'm so thirsty.”

“I'll get you a drink.” He left the room, returning in moments with a cup of cool water.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he drew her into his lap and held the cup to her lips. “Slowly,” he said.

He could feel her body trembling as she drank the water. When she was finished, he set the cup aside, then wrapped his arms around her.

“Sleep now,” he whispered.

Like an obedient child safe in her father's arms, Kara closed her eyes, trusting that he would make her bad dreams go away.

Alex held her until he was certain she was sleeping soundly, then settled her under the covers and left the room.

Outside, he stared, unseeing, into the darkness. An unusual healing agent in her blood, the man had said.

Lost in thought, he moved through the woods, his ears attuned to the sounds of the night. A faint rustling sound caught his attention. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw a large rat regarding him from a pile of leaves. Holding the rodent's gaze, Alex quickly caught the creature.

Returning to the house, he fed the rat a small
amount of poison, then watched impassively as the rodent collapsed.

Taking a knife from one of the kitchen drawers, Alex went upstairs and pricked Kara's finger. She stirred, but didn't awaken as he drew a small amount of her blood into the syringe he'd taken from the clinic. Her blood was unusually dark, he mused, almost as dark as his own.

Returning to the kitchen, he injected her blood into the rat. Within minutes, the rat's strength returned.

“Amazing,” Alex muttered as he scooped the creature off the table, careful to avoid its bared teeth.

He frowned as he stared at the empty syringe. His blood had saved Kara's life and, in the process, had wrought a mysterious change in hers. No wonder the doctors were so curious about the unusual antibody in Kara's blood, so eager to test it. No doubt they would be even more interested to discover the true source of that healing power.

He stared at the syringe for a long moment, wondering if mingling his blood with that of another human would produce the same healing agent.

Feeling morbidly curious to see the effect of his own blood in action, he gave the rat a second dose of poison; then, when the rodent was on the brink of death, he injected the rat with his own blood. In less than twenty seconds, the rodent recovered completely.

Alex swore softly as he turned the rat loose outside, then went into his study to work, and to ponder the events of the last few minutes.

The study was his favorite room in the house, the only one that held anything remotely personal, and
those items were few: a lock of AnnaMara's hair, kept in a lacquered box; a piece of jade he had picked up in China more than a century ago; an ivory elephant he'd bought in Ceylon; a tapestry that had been woven for him by a woman he barely remembered; several pieces of Navajo pottery; a statue he had found in a small shop in Venice.

There were several paintings on the walls: a peaceful landscape done in muted shades of green and gold, a picture of a young woman who looked remarkably like AnnaMara, a turbulent seascape that was painted in shades of dark blue and gray.

The largest painting hung over the fireplace. It was a brooding piece of work by an unknown artist. The scene depicted a man clad in a long black cloak, looking small and alone as he stood on a mountaintop, his head tilted back as he gazed at a magnificent sunrise.

Not much to show for two hundred and thirty-five years, Alexander mused, and yet he had never been one to pick up souvenirs, to keep mementos of his past. Perhaps because he had such a long past. Or perhaps it was because there had been few occurrences, or people, he wished to remember.

But he would remember Kara. If he lived another two hundred years, he would never forget her. Though he had known her but a short time, she had become a part of him. Knowing it was wrong, knowing that his interference in her life had already cost her dearly, he was nevertheless determined to stay with her as long as possible.

To protect her, if necessary.

To love her, if she would let him.

For as long as she would let him.

Kara woke late that afternoon, feeling as though she were awaking from a bad dream. Scattered images lingered in her mind: waking up in a sterile room, being strapped to a bed, Dale Barrett draining her of blood, a nightmare image of Alexander, his mouth stained with crimson.

Fever dreams, she thought, looking around. But this was no dream. She was in a strange bed, in a strange room, clad in a hospital gown.

She sat up, realizing that, in her drugged state, she had confused dreams with reality. But that still didn't tell her where she was.

Slipping out of bed, she drew on the robe hanging on the back of the door, then padded out of the room and down the stairs. The house was empty, silent. She peeked into the parlor, admiring the oak floor, the paneled walls. The furniture was sparse:
a curved sofa with a high back, a single chair covered in a dark green print. An enormous bookcase took up one entire wall. An entertainment center stood opposite the sofa, complete with a TV and a stereo.

There was a small bedroom furnished with a bed and nothing more, a small old-fashioned bathroom with a claw-footed bathtub, and a large kitchen. There was a coffee maker on the counter, along with an unopened can of coffee, a box of filters, and a small box of sugar.

Her stomach growled as she plugged in the coffee pot and filled the container with water. The refrigerator, which was the oldest one she had ever seen, was empty save for a carton of milk, a package of bacon, a dozen eggs, a jar of blackberry jelly, and a carton of butter. There was a loaf of whole wheat bread on the counter. Uncertain of where she was, she hesitated to make herself something to eat. And then she saw the note, propped against a vase that held a single red rose.

Kara read the note twice, her confusion mounting. Why shouldn't she go home? Nana must be worried sick. She glanced around, only then remembering
that Alexander had no phone. Well, she could walk. It wasn't that far. Of course, she wasn't exactly dressed for a stroll.

First things first, she mused. She was starving. She smiled as she saw that Alexander had set the table for her. There was a frying pan on the stove, and she fixed a quick breakfast of bacon, eggs and toast, and washed it down with a glass of low-fat milk.

She would have washed the dishes, but there was no soap. Frowning, she went through the cupboards, surprised to find they were all empty. No dishes other than those on the table. No packages of cereal or rice. No canned vegetables or fruit. No snacks of any kind. No condiments other than the salt and pepper on the table. Nothing.

She stared at countertop where she had left the dishes to dry. One plate, one knife, one fork, one spoon, one spatula, one frying pan, one cup, one glass. None of the items in the fridge, and those had been few, had been opened. Not the milk, not the butter, nothing. It was as if all the food in the house had been bought for her use. Did he never eat at home?

Still frowning, she went into the den and knew immediately that this was where he spent the majority of his time. He had told her to make herself at home, and so she wandered around the room, admiring a delicate sculpture, a Greek urn that was obviously an antique, the smooth symmetry of a piece of jade, the intricate pattern on a piece of Indian pottery, the muted colors in an exquisite tapestry that also appeared to be very old.

She perused the books in the bookshelf. There were numerous volumes on history, both ancient
and modern, several dictionaries, a thesaurus, and a variety of books that dealt with paranormal themes, everything from time travel and reincarnation to werewolves and vampires. One shelf held the complete works of A. Lucard.

Turning away from the bookcase, she paused to study the painting over the fireplace. It was one of the most beautiful things she had ever seen. The man, who stood with his back to her, seemed small and sad as he stood atop a lonely mountain. It was a remarkable painting, the sunrise vibrant with color, so alive she could almost feel the heat of the sun's rays. She would not have been surprised to see the man move.

“Amazing,” she murmured.

Alexander's desk was located beside the fireplace. She hesitated a moment, her conscience battling her curiosity, and then she sat down in his chair.

She didn't know what secrets she hoped to find in the desk, but the drawers revealed nothing unusual, only the items one would expect to find in a writer's desk: paper clips, pencils, stamps, envelopes, extra computer disks, a letter from his editor informing him that
The Hunger
had been sold to China, Russia, England, Australia, and Poland.

With a sigh, Kara sat back in the chair. The arms seemed to wrap around her, and for a moment she imagined that it was Alexander holding her.

Abruptly, she leaned forward and switched on the computer. It took only a few moments to find his files, to locate the book he was currently working on.

Feeling as though she were eavesdropping, yet unable to turn away, she read quickly through the first few chapters. It was an interesting story, told
in the first person, totally unlike anything else he had written. By the time she reached Chapter IV, she was totally engrossed in the story.

She taught me to kill that night. I had seen death before. From plagues. From old age. From injuries that refused to heal. But I had never seen anyone deliberately take a life until that night.

Lilith hunted with the stealth of a cat. She took me into the city and we walked the streets until she found her prey: a fair-haired young man with ruddy cheeks. I watched, chilled to the bone, as she stalked him, following him until he was alone. She took him swiftly, burying her fangs in his throat, her expression one of ecstacy as she drank his blood, his life.

He was not quite dead when she drew away. “Come,” she said. “You must drink.”

“No.” I couldn't. I wouldn't.

“Hurry,
mon ange,
” she said. “He will be dead soon, and you must never drink from the dead.”

I shook my head, the need inside me struggling with the horror of what she wanted me to do. With what
I
wanted to do. The smell of blood was all around me. I should have been sickened, repelled, disgusted, and I was all of those things. And yet, overriding every other sensation was a horrible hunger that would not rest. It rode me with whip and spurs, goading me, calling to me, urging me to drink, until, with a sob of despair, I fell on the young man, my hands drawing him toward me. I
felt a stabbing pain as my teeth transformed into fangs, and then, hating myself, I drank. And drank. Until Lilith pulled me away.

I turned on her, snarling with rage.

“Enough,
mon ange,
” she admonished sharply.

We hunted the next night, and the next. Sometimes she stalked her prey, sometimes she flirted with the young men she chose, teasing them, taunting them, leading them on, until she tired of the game and closed in for the kill. It excited her, the power she had. Sometimes she let them struggle, laughing at their puny mortal efforts to overpower her when she had the strength of ten.

I craved the blood, the hunt excited me, but I loathed the killing. And I hated her when, years later, she told me the killing was unnecessary.

“You can spare their lives, if you wish,” she remarked one evening. “You can even dine on the blood of beasts, should the need arise.”

“I don't have to kill?” I stared at her, thinking of the lives I had taken. “Why didn't you tell me this sooner?”

“I did not think of it,” she replied with a shrug, as though the taking of a human life was of no more importance than swatting an insect.

I felt a sickness deep in my soul. I had lost count of the number of people I had killed. I had tried in vain to appease my conscience by telling myself it was necessary, that it was the only way to ease the hunger—that awful, unbearable hunger that would not be refused or denied. Many times I had wished for the courage to end my life, to put an end to the killing, the insatiable hunger, the guilt. And now, as calmly as if she had told me she was going shopping for a new hat, Lilith had informed me that I
could have spared all those lives.

Had I been able, I think I would have killed her.

Instead, I resolved to leave her. I was no longer a fledgling, in need of her instruction or her protection. . . .

“What do you think of it?”

Kara gasped, one hand going to her heart, at the sound of his voice. “Oh, Alexander, you startled me. It's very good. One would almost think you write from personal experience.”

“Indeed?”

“I . . . I hope you don't mind. My reading it, I mean.”

He lifted one thick black brow. “Rather late to be asking my permission, don't you think?”