SCROLLS OF THE DEAD-3 Complete Vampire Novels-A Trilogy (44 page)

This happened every time he came, yet she never gave in. She feared Mentor, of course, but, more, she couldn't deny a deep yearning to know him more intimately. Here was a creature who had once been human and yet had lived hundreds of years beyond his natural death. His wisdom had widened over those centuries until he became the repository of a world history not gleaned from the dusty pages of textbooks, but from experience earned in the midst of human events. There was so much she could learn from him if she could get him to speak of his past.

This night, as on all nights when he appeared, she struggled to stay in bed next to her sleeping husband, and away from the vampire. For long minutes she won against the urge.

And then she sat straight up in bed, flinging the covers aside, and swung her feet to the floor. She found her bathrobe lying on the end of the bed and slipped into it. She got her bare feet into the white satin slippers. Before she let herself rethink the wisdom of her actions, she had crossed the darkened bedroom and was halfway down the stairs. In the kitchen where her back door led out to the garden, she paused, hand on the lock. Did she want to see him? Did she really?

She threw the dead bolt and turned the knob, knowing she couldn't stop now. She stepped out onto the concrete stoop and slipped down the three steps to the scattered stone path that led to the bench beneath the willow tree. She saw him as soon as she was clear of the door. He sat like a large black bird perched on the bench. He hunched over his knees, hands folded and supporting his great shaggy head. At her approach he turned slowly and even in the darkness she saw the glow of his steady gaze.

"Do I disturb you?" he asked.

She was at his side now and taking a seat next to him on the bench. She stared out at the white gravel sea she'd created in the center of the garden. Shadows and moonshine undulated across the surface, shifting as the light breeze moved through the branches of the willow. "I wake up when you come."

“I should not come, then. I didn't mean to cause you trouble."

Bette reached over and took hold of one of his hands. She didn't know whether she meant to comfort him or to comfort herself. He was cold. She held the hand of a dead thing, but it did not frighten her. "Don't let me force you away. This garden is . . ."

"It's sacred," he said.

"Yes. It was made in a prayerful attitude and reflects my love for Buddha."

They sat without speaking for a few minutes. He had closed his other hand over hers, so that she felt her small, warm hand encased in the hard cold box of his flesh.

"Do you always wake when I come here?" he asked.

"I can't explain it," she said, "but I always know. I've been wanting to see you, but until tonight I never acted on the impulse."

"You're not afraid?"

She looked at him. "Of course I'm afraid."

Mentor hung his head. "I would never harm you, Bette. Not in a million years."

She knew her small smile was hidden by the shadows. "I know. We share more than the secret of your existence, don't we, Mentor?"

He sighed heavily and did not respond. Finally he said in a sad voice, "You know how I love you, don't you?"

She took back her hand from his and folded it into her lap. "I think I must. And I don't think it's wise."

"When was love ever wise?" he said. "I loved another mortal once, my wife, Beatrice. It may have been a mistake in the eyes of others like me, but even now I know it was destined I love her."

"Was it long ago?"

"Yes, a very long time ago. I met her when she was just eighteen, a girl on her father's farm in the Scottish countryside. I'd been traveling alone, staying away from the cities, agonizing over my self-enforced loneliness and my need for . . .”

"Blood?"

"Yes, my need for blood. I'd already abstained from taking humans at that time. I couldn't live that way anymore. Though my nature is that of a Predator, I fought my nature and won over it, but I was always starving, always waging the fight. I had been living on the blood of animals when Beatrice appeared in the lane, a basket over her arm. She was going to the house of an ill relative. I saw her and my first thought was to kill her, God help me. As she saw me and shyly smiled and nodded her head, the thought fled. I was as captivated as the proverbial fly in ointment. I stopped and asked directions. I said I'd been on the road a while, and she invited me to her home where her father would give me food and a bed for the night.

"I hurried to her father's house and, just as she promised, he invited me to stay and rest a bit in my travel. They received few visitors and were happy to have someone give them the news from the cities. Beatrice returned that afternoon and the rest, as they say, is history."

"You never wanted to make her like you?"

Mentor smiled and Bette saw his large incisors slip down and then slowly retract. She forced herself not to move abruptly at the sight. Be calm, she told herself, he does not murder humans.

"Often I wanted to take her so she'd live with me forever. But I knew her wishes, and they were that she never give up her humanity. I watched her age, grow frail and, finally, sick. Simply said, I loved her enough to let go when death came."

"You've never regretted that decision?"

"I've always regretted it. But I would have despised myself so thoroughly if I'd done it, I'd never have been happy again. Beatrice would never have forgiven me; she might even have lost all love for me. It was the best decision."

"Why do you feel love for me now?" She really wanted to know. If he'd loved his wife so much and had been alone all those intervening years, why her? Why now?

"I wish I could say. Why did I fall in love with Beatrice? I may know many things, but I know nothing at all about why we fall in love—even when we hope not to. It's a mystery."

Again they sat quietly, sharing the cool night and the vista of the miniature Japanese garden. A few clouds floated across the face of the moon, dropping them into an inkier darkness. Bette shivered. When the clouds passed and the moonlight once again gleamed over the yard, she felt prompted to break the silence. "Do you believe in God? Do you think He watches over you? These are questions I've wanted to ask for a long time."

"I do believe in God," he said firmly. "Before I was vampire, I had aspirations to join the Catholic Church and become a priest. The Church then was the most glorious institution. It held hope of redemption from a sinful world. And it was the most powerful entity in all of England, even stronger than the king. Since those days, so many things have happened. Now I have no confidence God even knows I live or had anything to do with my . . . condition."

Bette thought about his answer. It had to cause him to constantly fight off despair if he thought God had deserted him forever. She thought he had been an evil creature at one time, as he admitted, but believed now he was not. This feeling couldn't be logically explained; it was something she knew, the way she knew when he was near her home. Also, she felt he wouldn't have found peace in her garden had he been evil and corrupt. He wouldn't have recognized the sacred heart of it.

The sound of the back door opening brought both of them to attention at the same time. Mentor possessed all the supernatural qualities of his kind, but Bette had been born with a natural telepathic ability that she accepted as a birthright. Her ability was almost as strong as the vampire's. Bette stood, knowing it was her husband. Mentor remained seated, only his head turning to take in the interruption.

"Alan?" Bette took a few steps toward the house. She had never meant to wake or worry her husband.

"What are you doing out here?" Alan stumbled a little as he came down the path to meet her. His hair was mussed, and he knuckled his eyes, wiping sleep away.

She turned to the side so she would not block his view. When he saw the vampire, he stiffened. The look in his eyes was one of primitive fear. She took his arm and said in a gentle tone, "I knew he was out here. I wanted to talk to him."

"It seems I've upset your whole household," Mentor said, rising to excuse himself. "I'll go now."

"But why are you here?" Alan's voice was unsteady.

"I think your wife knows why. I never meant to bother you, however. Please forgive me."

"He feels at peace in my garden," Bette said. "He's been coming for a long time."

"Has he?" Alan's face reflected his confusion. Bette could see from his expression that he wondered at it all. She needed to reassure him in some way. She turned to Mentor only to find he was gone. She shouldn't have been startled, but was. She flinched at finding him absent before turning again to her husband. She walked with him to the house, her hand still clasped on his arm.

"He's gone," she said, knowing she spoke the obvious. "Let's go back to bed."

"He comes here all the time?"

She laughed a little at his amazement. "Yes, sometimes a few times a week. I don't know how many times he's been here over the past three years."

"Why didn't you ever tell me?"

"It might have ruined your sleep."

He shut the door behind them once in the house, shot the dead bolt, and tried the doorknob. "You're right about that. I don't think I like the idea even a little bit."

"Alan, he's not here to hurt us. He's a tortured soul. He discovered my garden makes him feel at peace. I wouldn't want to take that from him."

"What about my peace? How will I sleep knowing he might be out there and you might go to him?"

"Oh, Alan, you're not jealous, are you?" She snuggled against him, wrapping her arms around his waist. "You know how much I love you. I could never love a . . . a . . ." She couldn't say it. Of course she could never love an undead creature such as Mentor. The very idea made her feel a fear that crawled along her hairline and made her lips twitch. It was not love, but kinship, which drove her to his side this night.

"I don't think it's jealousy," Alan said in his defense. He hugged her close. "I just worry about your safety. I mean, I've seen what they can do. They're no more human than a fire truck or a . . . a . . . doorknob."

"And that's what's so pitiful about them, Alan. Because Mentor once was a man, just like you. He loved a wife, just as you do. He hasn't forgotten his life, you know."

"Well, I think you have more empathy for him than I do," he said. "Let's go to bed. We both have to be up early for work tomorrow. You won't go out there again, though, will you? When he comes back?"

"If you prefer I don't, then I won't. I'm not sure why I did it this time." She followed behind him up the dark stairs, careful to hold to the railing. In their bed she drew close into the circle of his arms. It was only then she regretted saying she would not go out into the night to see Mentor again. Didn't her husband understand there was so much they could learn, there was so much to know, so many more secrets she could discover? How many humans ever had the chance to interview a vampire about his life?

She sighed into her husband's chest and breathed in his scent, loving it, loving him. She never wanted to cause him any worry. She should stay away from the old vampire; she knew Alan was right. He had watched one of them murder two women, ripping their throats with fanged teeth, taking their blood as they fought him. She must keep their lethal thirst foremost in her mind. She did not think Mentor killed, as had the vampire they called Ross who ran the blood bank and whom Alan had witnessed killing without remorse. But Mentor was vampire, and who could know what he might do one midnight in the garden, a warm, human subject at his side.

She really shouldn't tempt a creature of such fierce strength without knowing what he might do. It was like trusting the tiger in the cage or a sleeping bear in his den.

She drifted into sleep, remonstrating herself for her actions. She should do nothing to put herself or her husband in jeopardy. She would stay in her bed, in her house, and away from the dark hunched silent figure who frequented her garden. She would. She really must . . . she knew . . . she had to . . .

~*~

Mentor moved so quickly in the garden that the humans never saw him leave. He flew across the sky, a darkness against the darkness, until he reached Ross' large double-winged ranch home on the outskirts of Dallas. He did not knock on the door, knowing Ross was aware of his arrival. He opened the door and entered, finding Ross sitting on a very uncomfortable-looking silver metal Eames' chair. Ross put aside the book on art history he was reading and looked up. "I'm glad you could make it," he said.

Mentor sat on the bright orange sofa with a figure-eight back. He could not understand Ross' love for strangely-shaped modern furniture. He was never comfortable with Ross anyway, thinking him impulsive and murderous, but when he had to visit Ross' home, he felt he was in a future world where he did not fit. In his old-fashioned, rumpled black suit and white shirt with his windblown, unruly Albert Einstein white hair, he might as well be a homeless person at a White House reception.

"I know you called for me an hour ago, but I happened to be busy," he said. He'd rather not tell Ross he spent some nights in Bette's garden. It might be taken the wrong way. Ross knew he had some affinity for the young couple, but he had no idea the depth of Mentor's feeling for the woman.

"What if I'd summoned you because of something momentous?" Ross raised one eyebrow in his arrogant way.

"Then you would have told me." Mentor disliked sounding impatient, but Ross drove him to it.

Ross stood and went to a glass-topped table to retrieve a cigarette from a silver box. He took his time lighting it with a silver table lighter. He exhaled and said, "I love the idea that it doesn't matter what I do to this body with cigarette smoke. It gives me such freedom because tobacco is an exhilarating substance, don't you think?"

"I don't know since I never smoked. You have to know it does stink, though. So, come on, Ross, the night is late. I need some rest."

"Upton." Ross blew out a cloud of smoke in Mentor's direction before moving back to his chair. "He's onto something."