SCROLLS OF THE DEAD-3 Complete Vampire Novels-A Trilogy (16 page)

He took her across a field and to a riding path. He didn't move fast, never went into a trot, but Dell felt she was kissing the wind on the back of a giant, valiant steed. She was free! They were one, she and the horse, moving under the dappled shade of the path, all alone.

She forgot that she was unnatural trying to live a natural life. She was not a vampire who depended on blood to live, but just a girl riding gently through a forest on the back of her very own horse, Lightning.

Time stopped and she had no idea how long she'd been riding when finally the horse, knowing where he was to go, returned to the stalls. Her parents sat at a concrete picnic table in the shade of the stalls, while her brother stood trying to pet a goat tied to a stake. The goat was bucking to free himself, whinnying at Eddie's strange scent.

Dell rode up, pulling at the reins and calling, "Whoa," to Lightning. She dismounted, her legs shaky, the reins in her hand. "This is the best surprise I've ever had," she said.

Her father came over and when Lightning shied from him, jerking his head back, waited for the horse to calm down. "He's twenty years old," he said. "He was owned by a family whose children all rode him, but now they're all grown and didn't want him anymore. I thought since you always wanted a pet, he'd be just right for you."

Dell kissed her father's cheek. "I love him," she said. "He's wonderful."

"Well, you're going to have to come out here and take care of him. He needs grooming and needs riding to get his exercise."

"Don't worry! I'll come see him all the time. I can get a job this summer and help with the costs."

Her father waved that off. "It's not so expensive. I think I can afford it."

On the way home Dell couldn't stop chattering. She was going to braid his mane. She was going to brush him and get to know him and together they'd wander all over the riding paths at the stables. One day, she'd get her own place where she'd have a stable built, and put him where she could see him every day. How long did horses live anyway? Wouldn't Lightning live for a long time yet?

Despite hearing most horses didn't live as long as thirty years, she thought she'd never been so happy before. She knew her parents had done this to help her adjust into her new life. They knew she needed something of her own to love and cherish, something she could talk to that would never betray her secrets. They were the best parents in the world, she thought, the best there ever were.

That night in her bed she relived her joy in how the horse had been comfortable with her despite what she was. She remembered the excitement of riding Lightning and recalled how time had stopped, dropping her into a timeless world where there were no worries or problems. As the horse walked, she had grown accustomed to his pace and let her body go loose so that finally she hardly bounced in the saddle, but rode Lightning's back as if she were a part of him.

She thought she could probably sneak out of the house and go to Lightning without using a car at all. But she didn't know how to do that yet, how some of them could transform into something else that vanished and reappeared elsewhere. But when she did know how, when she did learn how to vanish and reach her horse without the benefit of human transportation, she could visit him at night when no one was around. She'd make him her best friend of all, her confidant, her closest ally in a world where she was an aberration, an abomination, a . . . dead girl.

He already knew in some way that she was not like others who rode him. Yet he'd accepted her strangeness once she'd spoken to him telepathically, and he had taken her willingly down the riding path just as if she were still human, still just a young woman out for a trail ride.

She fell into a deep sleep while happiness flooded her and burned away all her questions and fears. She would never forget this kindness of her parents and never take for granted whatever sacrifices they were making in order to give her what she'd always wanted.

She might be vampire, she might not be permitted to live as a mortal being, but as long as she had Lightning, she thought she could find a way to cope. Only once did the thought occur to her that because the horse was already twenty, he might live only another ten years or even less and then she would lose him. She banished the thought immediately, not wishing to let reality intrude on her bliss. Deep down, she knew there were going to be a great many losses over the years to come. Not just beloved horses, but friends and relatives who had never contracted the disease. One day she'd lose Aunt Celia. And Carolyn. Like all humankind, she would have to bear those losses and go on, somehow. That there would be more of them than any human ever faced wasn't something she could think about right now.

All that mattered was that she had been given a wonderful gift and Lightning was his name.

Chapter 13

Bette Kinyo lived alone in a small house she'd purchased in an ethnically-mixed neighborhood. It was inexpensive and at the time, ten years before, she had not been making as much as she did these days. Nevertheless, she hadn't moved, even though she could have afforded a nicer place. She'd never felt an urge to abandon either the neighborhood or the home she'd made in the little house. In the privacy-fenced backyard, she had a Japanese garden that had taken her two years to construct. It was ringed with small conifers and miniature viburnums and holly. In the center of the greenery was her masterpiece, a raked bed of white pea gravel that she tended once a week, changing the rake marks and praying small prayers for a continued peaceful existence as she worked.

Inside the house she had stripped and refinished the stair rails and spindles that led to a loft bedroom she'd decorated in Victorian style with bouquets of roses from her gardens and flowered chintz easy chairs facing a slanted rooftop window overlooking the Japanese garden. She took tea there in the late evening just before sunset, after a spare dinner. In her living room light glowed like gold, reflected from Tiffany-style lamps, and bookcases overflowed with well-worn volumes of history and poetry.

Her kitchen was left as she found it, not even a dishwasher installed to modernize it. There were open cabinets displaying a collection of Japanese Nippon dishware and on the wall she'd hung handwoven baskets she bought from local Mexican artisans.

She knew the house and every crevice and corner in it. It was her sanctuary and the most beloved possession she owned. So when the intruder appeared, she knew it even before he spoke.

She had her back to the room, her hands deep in sudsy water washing the dinner dishes. She stiffened and turned her head to look behind her. "Who are you?" she asked in a strong voice. She did not ask how he had got into her home through the locked doors. She knew immediately that he was not human and was in fact something obscene and unnatural. She had felt it the moment she knew he was there, standing behind her on the oval hooked rug in the center of her kitchen.

Unlike Westerners, she had no prejudice against the idea of the supernatural. Though she had attended American universities and was a scientist, she saw no reason to discard the centuries of wisdom that had come down through her family from their ancestors in Japan. The man who had appeared out of thin air in her kitchen might be a spirit of the house only now making itself known to her. Her little home had been built in the late 1800s, and she had wondered if any of the people who had lived in it before would want to communicate with her. But for ten years they had remained silent. Until now.

She was not afraid. She wiped her hands dry on a dish towel, planted her feet apart, and faced the being.

He had not yet spoken. Again she asked, "Who are you? What do you want?"

"You're not afraid," he stated, a little surprised.

"Why should I be? Or. . . should I be?"

"You know I'm not someone from the neighborhood who has broken into your house?"

She nodded. "Yes, of course I know." She gave him a scornful look as she put the dish towel aside on the counter. She took two steps closer to him, wondering about him. "You're not quite real," she said. "I know that much."

He smiled, and she stiffened again, but this time with mounting fear. There was something wrong with the smile, something wrong with the shape of his teeth . . . his eyeteeth. She sucked in air slowly and now she knew a greater fear that crept up her spine and insinuated itself into the lizard part of her brain.

"But you don't know who or what I really am, do you, Bette?"

She sagged a little and reached for the counter to steady herself. "I thought you might be . . .”

"A ghost. Someone from the past who occupied this old house before you."

"Yes," she whispered.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you. I am not a ghost. I am as solid as you. As real as you. Would you like to touch me and see for yourself?"

She shook her head quickly. She waited for him to go on. What could this thing want with her? If it had not come from the many memories imprinted on the floors and walls and ceilings of her house, then where had it originated?

It was after sunset, and the bright overhead light in her kitchen made him appear to be as solid as any man, just as he'd claimed. If it had not been for the glimpse of his teeth when he'd smiled at her, she knew she would not feel this uncommon fear rising as a tide inside her mind. She fought back the edge of panic and glanced about for something she might use against him to protect herself. The small iron skillet on the stove burner? The heavy glass teapot on the counter? She doubted she would ever get the drawer open so she could reach for a sharp knife.

"There's no point in doing any of that," he said, as if reading her mind.

She snapped her gaze back to him. "What are you and why do you want to talk to me?"

"We must have a meeting of minds," he said, coming closer to her. "A mingling of minds, Bette."

She stepped back until the base of her spine hit the sink's edge. She brought up both her hands as if to ward him off. He was old, probably eighty or more, but she knew his age was deceptive. She could feel his power as if it were an electrical current springing out and touching her like a force field. It was causing small electrical shocks all along her arms and chest and face. If anyone else would have touched her at that moment, she thought he would have been electrocuted.

"Don't," she pleaded, tearing her gaze from his depthless eyes and staring at the floor. "Please, don't."

"I have no choice, Bette. You'll be in great danger if I don't do this."

What he said made no sense to her and yet in some way her intuition knew what he was about to do was irrevocable. He was primed to do something horrible, she knew that, but did not know exactly what. It wasn't a physical threat; she did not fear for her flesh or her life. He thought whatever he was going to do would keep her from further danger. But what he meant to do to her was far worse; something he was about to unleash would invade and change her. She would fight with every ounce of her energy and strength against it.

"You can't,” she whispered in terror, cringing away from him so that she was leaning backward over the sink, gripping the edges with her hands until her knuckles turned white. She turned her head as far away from him as possible.

She had been born with some psychic skills she had never questioned because they were always there, always present. She could sometimes divine the future. She often had dreams about colleagues and friends and the dreams would come true later.

She could sense life beneath the surface of the world, as if there was an alternate reality just beyond the five senses, and although she had never penetrated that world, she had a feeling it couldn't possibly be as dangerous and alien as was the event unfolding in her spare kitchen.

Just as the old man stepped closer to do whatever it was he was determined to do, she heard a knock at the front of the house. Her head snapped back, and she held the being's gaze with her own. "Someone's here," she whispered in newfound joy. She knew he must be alone with her to "mingle with her mind," as he'd put it.

"Yes," said the man, stepping back again. His hands hung at his sides, and she thought she detected disappointment and then sadness creeping over his old wrinkled face. "I'll come back," he said, stepping back once more so that he was at the same spot where he'd been standing when she'd first seen him.

The knock at her door was insistent. She could not move. The being before her was winking out of existence, rippling the way a sheet waves in a wind. "Go!" she whispered breathlessly. "Go away!"

And as suddenly as he'd appeared, he was gone. She was alone in her kitchen, clutching hard at the sink's edge, trembling uncontrollably. She felt tears rise in her eyes and blinked hard to clear them.

The knocking at her door had not let up. It was as if whoever was outside knew she was in imminent danger and was about to break the door down if she did not answer it.

She stumbled across the kitchen, down the narrow hall, and to the front door. She held onto the dead bolt lock for long seconds trying to find a reserve of strength to turn it. Finally she had it unlocked and the knob turned and the door standing open to the night. Her entrance light was on and in the flood of light outlining the front steps stood Alan Star, his face twisted with anxiety.

"I saw your car here and the lights on. I was worried something was wrong when you didn't answer."

"Oh, Alan!" She fell into his arms, so weak she nearly buckled at the knees. He caught her and stepped inside, half carrying her. He reached back and shut the door behind him.

"What happened?"

"I . . . I . . . there was . . ." She couldn't get it out. She didn't know what to tell him. He would think her crazy.

"Someone was here?" He had guessed it. He led her into the living room and lowered her to the sofa. He turned immediately and hurried down the hall to the dining room, then out of it and into the kitchen. He came back, puzzled, and looked up the stairs to the loft that lay in darkness beyond the landing. "Up there?" he asked, about to take the stairs. "Is he up there?"