Everlasting Desire (7 page)

Tomás strolled through the Log Cabin Village located in a woodsy section of Trinity Park in Fort Worth. Seven fully restored cabins occupied the settlement. All had been built sometime in the 1850s. During the day, volunteers gave visitors a taste of what life had been like in days gone by, demonstrating things like grinding corn, spinning, weaving, and the art of making candles. The botanical gardens were another of his favorite sites. The gardens featured over two thousand acres of trails and garden exhibits in what was one of the oldest and largest natural settings in North Texas. In addition, there was a large conservatory filled with tropical plants and exotic birds.

Another place he visited whenever he was in town was the Kimball Art Museum. At one time or another, the museum had showcased the work of such noted artists as Rubens, Picasso, Renoir, and Rembrandt, as well as the works of contemporary artists from around the world.

One of the advantages of being a vampire was that he didn't have to endure the crowds of tourists who descended on Trinity Park or roamed through the museum during the day. Visiting the museum late at night, he could study his favorite paintings without being bothered by impudent teens or noisy toddlers.

Leaving the museum, he moved swiftly to Sundance Square. Located in the heart of downtown, the square gave him the feeling of walking the streets at the turn of the century, with its renovated storefronts and red brick streets. He had walked here when the city was new, when the streets were dirt and the stink of cowboys, horses, and cattle filled the air. But now his nostrils filled with a different scent.

The scent of prey.

He found them parked in a car on a side street, the windows covered with steam. Young lovers, he thought, as he wrenched the driver's side door open. He broke the boy's neck with a quick twist and had the girl in his arms and out of the car before she realized what was happening.

His hand stifled her cries as he carried her away from the car, away from the city, to a place where her screams wouldn't be heard, and then he let her scream to her heart's content as he buried his fangs in her neck. She fought him as best she could, but her fists were puny weapons; he hardly noticed them striking his back as her warm red blood trickled down his throat.

On the night of the concert, Rhys arrived at Megan's house a few minutes after eight. He looked drop-dead gorgeous, as always. Clad all in black and wearing a pair of trendy dark glasses, he could easily have passed for a rock star himself.

There was a line around the building when they arrived at the venue, but Megan had a pass so she and Rhys didn't have to wait. There were hoots and hollers of protest when they bypassed the crowd and ducked through a side door reserved for VIPs.

“Have you ever been to a rock concert?” Megan asked as they took their seats in a roped-off section in the front of the hall.

“One or two,” Rhys answered. In his time, he had seen them all. He had to admit, being in close quarters with thousands of screaming fans wasn't his favorite way to spend an evening. It wasn't easy to keep his hunger under control when every indrawn breath carried the scent of blood, when his ears were assaulted by the sound of so many beating hearts. If not for the lovely woman beside him, he wouldn't be here now. He supposed it was a sign of how smitten he was with Megan DeLacey that he had agreed to come to the concert at all.

Excitement flooded the stadium and screams bounced off the walls when Drexel appeared. He wore a pair of black spandex pants, a white shirt reminiscent of the kind pirates had once worn, and knee-high black boots.

Colored lights flashed as he swaggered to center stage. He looked out over the crowd and then, as if reaching for a woman, his hand curled around the microphone, and he began to sing.

Rhys shook his head. He doubted if anyone could actually hear Drexel's voice over the earsplitting music and the near-hysterical screams of thousands of crazed female fans. White vapor rose from the stage floor and curled around Drexel's ankles. Cameras flashed. Girls fainted. Yellow-shirted security guards prowled the front of the stage and the edges of the crowd, leaping into action now and again to prevent overeager fans from jumping up on the stage.

Rhys glanced at Megan when she tugged on his arm. “What do you think of him?” she asked, shouting to be heard over the roar of the crowd.

“He's good.” The kid might be young, but he knew how to play to the audience. They had fallen under his spell the minute he walked out on the stage, and he never let them go. Rhys had to admire that.

The band had been playing for about an hour when Rhys detected the acrid scent of smoke. Lifting his head, he sniffed the air. The smell was coming from backstage, and getting thicker and stronger by the minute.

“Come on,” he said, grabbing Megan by the hand. “We're getting out of here.”

“Why? What's wrong?”

“No time to talk about it now.” He slid his hand up until he had a firm grip on her forearm.

“Rhys!” She twisted, trying to break his hold. “I'm not ready to go.”

“Yes, you are.” He pulled her along behind him until they reached the aisle.

A security guard stepped out in front of Rhys. He glanced at Megan, who was still trying to wriggle free of Rhys's grasp. “Something wrong here?”

“There's a fire,” Rhys said curtly. “Backstage. You'd better get these people out of here before it's too late.”

The guard's eyes narrowed. “Fire?”

“Can't you smell it?” Rhys glanced back at Megan. She had stopped fighting him, her gaze riveted on the stage where long, yellow tongues of flame were eating their way up the backdrop.

Drexel and the band seemed unaware of what was going on until shouts of “fire!” grew so loud, they drowned out the band. The music came to an abrupt halt when Drexel glanced behind him. The drummer jumped to his feet when the backdrop dissolved in a shower of rainbow sparks. Without the barrier, the acrid stink of burning wood and fabric grew stronger, heavier. Panic erupted on the stage and spread through the audience as thousands of people blindly fought their way through the smoke toward the exits, tripping over each other in their haste.

Muttering an oath, Rhys swept Megan into his arms and transported the two of them out of the building to the sidewalk across the street.

Megan stared up at him, her eyes wide. “What happened? How did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Get us out of there so fast. I don't even remember leaving the building.”

“That's understandable. You were afraid. The mind can play funny tricks on you when you're scared.”

Frowning, she shook her head. “No.” One minute they had been inside; the next, they were here. She had no memory of what had happened in between.

Rhys set Megan on her feet, then folded his hands over her shoulders. Gazing deeply into her eyes, he spoke to her, his voice low and hypnotic. “I carried you through the crowd and out of the building. We were lucky to escape so quickly.”

“Yes,” she murmured. “Lucky.”

When he was certain she believed what he wanted her to believe, he released his hold on her mind and turned his attention to the people still running out of the building, which was now engulfed in flames. The screams of those trapped inside, the sobs of those who had escaped, the sickly sweet smell of burning flesh rode the night air. And over all, the wail of sirens as fire trucks, police cars, and ambulances rolled to the scene.

Freed of his spell, Megan blinked up at Rhys. “Drexel? Do you think he's…?”

She couldn't say the word, couldn't bear to think of the enthusiastic young man who had proposed to her so many times being burned alive in the inferno.

“I don't know.” Rhys stared at the fire. It was like a scene out of hell, with the flames shooting skyward and sparks falling in the streets and landing on the crowd. Men and women, some with their clothing on fire, ran out of the building, trampling each other in their panic. Rhys shook his head. There wasn't much in his existence he feared, but fire…It was one of the few things that could destroy him.

Megan watched in morbid fascination as the firemen went to work. A few of them dashed into the burning building while others manned the fire hoses. The air crackled as thick streams of cold water met the hot, hungry flames.

It wasn't long until the reporters arrived, shoving their microphones in the faces of spectators, asking people who had just survived a horrible ordeal the same stupid questions reporters always asked at scenes of death and destruction.

Rhys glanced at Megan. “Are you ready to go?”

Megan shook her head. She couldn't leave, not until she knew whether or not Drexel had survived. And then she saw him, sitting on the curb across the way. His pants were singed, his face and hands were smeared with soot, his right arm looked badly burned. But he was alive.

The reporters saw him, too. Like vultures on a fresh kill, they swarmed around him, all asking questions at once.

“Why can't they just leave him alone?” Megan exclaimed. “Can't they see he's hurt?”

“Do you want me to get rid of them?”

“Can you?” she asked hopefully.

“Watch me.” Flexing his shoulders, Rhys pushed his way through the crowd of reporters. “Drexel, do you want to talk to these clowns?”

Drexel shook his head, then started coughing.

Standing in front of the boy, Rhys fixed his gaze on each reporter in turn. “You heard him, ladies and gentlemen, he wants to be left alone. Now get the hell out of here.”

As though pulled by the same string, the reporters all turned and walked away.

“Come on, kid,” Rhys said, “let's get you out of here.” And so saying, he swung the young man into his arms and carried him toward an ambulance that had just arrived at the end of the block.

When one of the attendants started to protest that there were others more in need of immediate care, Rhys forced his will on the EMT, then opened the ambulance doors, jumped inside, and lowered Drexel onto the bench that ran along one side of the vehicle.

The EMT came in behind Rhys and began examining the burn on Drexel's right arm.

Drexel stared up at Rhys. “You,” he said, his voice gruff from all the smoke he had inhaled. “I know you….”

“We met at Shore's.”

“Young man,” the EMT admonished, “You shouldn't try to talk right now.”

“The medic's right,” Rhys said. “Save your breath.”

“Megan…I saw her….” Drexel broke into a paroxysm of coughing. “Is she…?”

“She's fine. You'll be proposing to her again in no time.”

Drexel smiled faintly; then, with a pain-filled sigh, he closed his eyes.

Rhys stared down at the kid for a moment. Had he ever been that young? With a shake of his head, he jumped out of the ambulance and returned to Megan.

“Is he all right?” she asked anxiously.

“He'll be fine. He's got a bad burn on one arm, and he inhaled some smoke. Nothing too serious.”

Rhys glanced at the six covered bodies lying in the street. He could have told the firemen there were two more inside, but the dead were beyond help, beyond caring.

The fire was under control now. Cops were directing traffic away from the scene. The scream of sirens pierced the night as ambulances pulled away from the stadium. Reporters, their cameramen in tow, prowled the edges of the crowd like wolves on the scent of prey, hoping to chase down a good story.

“Come on,” Rhys said, “let's get out of here.”

She didn't argue this time.

Wrapping his arm around her shoulders, Rhys led her to his car, helped her inside, fastened her seat belt.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.

She shook her head. She didn't want to talk about what had happened, didn't want to think about it, but she couldn't get the images out of her mind—the relentless flames, the firemen rushing into the inferno, putting their own lives at risk to try to save others. It was frightening, the way the fire had spread so quickly. She thought of all the people who had gone to the concert looking to have a good time and had lost their lives. Images of the covered bodies lying in the street flashed through her mind. If not for Rhys's quick thinking, one of those bodies could have been hers. It was the first time she had ever seriously considered her own mortality. She was young and healthy. Dying was something that happened to other people.

Rhys slid a glance at Megan. She was trembling now. After removing his jacket, Rhys tucked it around her. He needed to get her home, warm her up with some hot tea, and put her to bed before she collapsed.

He had no sooner pulled up in front of Megan's place when Shirl came running out the front door, her bathrobe flying behind her. She yanked open the car door, then dropped to her knees. “Megan! Are you all right? I saw the fire on the news. I was so worried!”

“I'm fine, just a little shaky.” Clutching Rhys's jacket closer, she got out of the car. Rhys was instantly at her side, his arm sliding around her waist to steady her.

Shirl glanced up at him and realized there had been nothing to worry about. On some innate level, she knew this man would never let anything happen to Megan.

“Why don't you make us some tea?” Rhys suggested. “And add a little brandy to Megan's, if you've got it.”

With a nod, Shirl hurried back into the house.

“I'm fine,” Megan said, seeing his worried expression. “Really.”

“Uh-huh.” Swinging her into his arms, he carried her inside. He knew it wasn't necessary. She could have walked, but he needed to hold her. He knew even better than she did how quickly a life could be snuffed out. He had been responsible for dispatching a few himself.

In the living room, he lowered her to the sofa. Taking his coat from her, he slipped it on, then covered her with the afghan folded over the back of the couch. Sitting beside her, he took her hands in his. “You're cold.”

“So are you.”

“Yeah.” He needed to feed, something he had been doing more of since meeting Megan. It was the only way to keep his skin from feeling abnormally cool.

“Here we go.” Shirl glanced at Rhys as she placed a tray on the coffee table. “I brought sugar, milk, and honey, since I don't know how you like your tea.”

He grinned up at her. “I don't like tea.”

“Oh. Can I get you anything else?”

His gaze moved to the pulse throbbing in her throat, and then he shook his head. “No, thanks.”

She stared at him a moment; then, with a shrug, she picked up the teapot and filled two cups. She added a spoonful of honey to one of them, and handed the other to Megan.

“Did they say anything on the news about how the fire started?” Rhys asked.

“Something about the wiring backstage. I don't know what that backdrop was made of, but it went up like flash paper. The band was lucky to make it off the stage. I saw Drexel on the news. They said he's going to be all right.” Shirl grinned at Rhys. “They interviewed one of the EMTs. He said some really intense guy insisted he take care of Drexel right away, even though he wasn't that badly hurt. I'm guessing that was you.”

“You'd be right,” Rhys said, chuckling.

“I thought so. I'm just glad you're both all right.” Shirl glanced at Megan, who was yawning. “I think it's time I put you to bed.”

Megan nodded. The tea, heavily laced with brandy, must have been doing its work. She was suddenly very sleepy.

“Come on,” Rhys said, gaining his feet, “I'll carry you upstairs.”

“I can walk,” Megan said, smothering another yawn.

“I know you can,” he agreed, lifting her into his arms, “but why should you?”

She couldn't think of a single reason. Instead, she rested her head against his shoulder and closed her eyes.

“Look at that,” Shirl said. “She's asleep already.”

Rhys brushed a lock of hair from Megan's cheek, then bent his head to kiss her brow. Thanks to his preternatural power, she would sleep through what was left of the night and wake up feeling glad to be alive.

He looked up to find Shirl watching him, an inquisitive expression on her face. “Something wrong?”