Watching the man's blood run down the pavement, Dameon felt the darkness, so bleak and infinite rise within him. The man was dead, anyway. What would it hurt? Vampires rarely fed on the dead, but then, he was no full-blooded vampire. He was desperate.
The disease he scented from the man's blood made him recoil, but he still couldn't drag himself away from the gory body.
"Friend, things can't be that bad. Come with me, and I can assure you that I can find you a better meal than that." The voice was soft and clear, a sweet contralto.
Chapter Twenty-two
He looked up. Confused, he rubbed his eyes. The beautiful face was vaguely familiar. A small oval framed in glossy, tousled dark hair curling around her chin, large slanted dark eyes, the heart-shaped lips. The woman stepped closer, small and slight, swathed in something white and furry.
As she knelt beside him, he noticed how delicate her ankles were, how small her feet in their black leather boots. She reached down and touched his face, turning it in her direction for a second look.
"Dameon…LaFaim? Is it you? Sweet Christ, what have you done to yourself?" She smoothed his hair from his eyes and stared down in horror at him.
The fog from his brain was lifting. He stood and moved away from the blood and the dead man. "Lauren? Is it really you, ma ami? It has been so long, but I could never forget your loveliness." He laughed weakly, and captured her hand in his, bringing it to his lips. His own hand was shaking noticeably.
"Good God, Dameon, what on earth have you done to yourself?" She put her hands on her tiny hips and scowled, looking all the more like an angry, beautiful pixie. "You weren't honestly considering feeding on that offal?" She pointed a delicate, manicured hand at the crumpled figure, her long, chinchilla coat swinging with her movement.
He shook his head. "I honestly don't know, Lauren. But I thank you for stopping me."
She stared into his eyes. "I don't like what I'm seeing. I hope this isn't because of that bitch Tatiana. If ever someone deserved to die, it was her. Nasty little piece." She sniffed. "Lamia trash." Lauren was a mind master like Dameon.
Dameon didn't bother asking how she knew about Tatiana. The vampire grapevine was powerful. He began to weave and the dark, wet world began to blur.
She reached to hold him, her arm grabbing onto his with formidable strength in surprising contrast with her fragile appearance. The almond-sized pearl earrings in her ears danced and winked in the light from the flickering street lamp. A human wearing them wouldn't last a minute on these streets at this time of night. Lauren naturally was impervious to the dangers.
"You're coming home with me," she said, her words reaching through the darkness clouding his brain. "I'll take care of you. What are old friends for, after all?"
Just then, another voice came from the shadows. "Lauren," it timidly asked, "are we still going to the Cosmic Station for drinks?"
Another voice broke in. "Don't pester her, Cecilia. Lauren doesn't have to go everywhere with us." The voice directed itself to Lauren. "I'm sorry, Lauren, I hope you don't think we're presumptuous. If you'd like us to leave, don't hesitate—"
Dameon could suddenly make out the two figures. The first voice belonged to a young, pretty girl with blonde curls framing her pink-cheeked face. Her companion was an equally young man, clean featured with the sleekness and confidence of those born to affluence. But his voice was almost subservient when speaking to Lauren. Both young people were watching Lauren with open, unabashed adoration. Neither had batted an eye at Dameon or the bleeding corpse on the ground.
Lauren spoke gently and warmly. "Tony, you and Cecilia are never a bother. Why, you're both like a sister and brother to me." Her voice was satin smooth as she continued. "Why don't you go on to the Cosmic Station? Tell Robert to put the drinks on my tab. Give me an hour and then come on up. The doorman will let you in." She smiled so enchantingly that Dameon wasn't surprised to see her two young friends smile eagerly back and agree with such willingness to please that he expected them to genuflect at her feet.
Dameon and Lauren watched silently as Cecilia and Tony scampered off.
"Shame, ma ami, to exploit these human children so blatantly," Dameon said with a shake of his head. But humor was in his voice.
"Bah, children, they're not. That young man is heir to a fortune larger than—well, do you remember a certain young sheik who was in love with me many years back in what is now called Saudi Arabia? Oh, well never mind." She tossed her head airily. "I'm not hurting either of them. They're only benefiting from my friendship."
"As you are, also?" Dameon said wryly.
Lauren didn't want to discuss it another minute. "Enough, I'm taking you to my penthouse. Can you teleport on your own?"
Nausea and vertigo suddenly rendered him speechless and turned his limbs to water. He tried to answer, but nothing came.
"Never mind, I'll help you. Here, my darling, lean on me," she crooned softly to his near unconscious form. "This may be difficult. You are such a large man. Dameon, try and wake up. Please, I'll need your help."
He struggled to focus, squeezing out every drop of his power. He concentrated, feeling Lauren's arms around him, and abruptly, they both were moving, leaving the alley and body behind. In seconds, they were in her penthouse. Staring at the enormous living room, which was all a glitter in white and gold, he mumbled, "I remember this room. You had a party here once that I attended." And with that, he collapsed into unconsciousness.
When he woke, he imagined he had slept for days, or at least hours. His eyes began to focus and he saw he was stretched out on silken cream couch the size of a boat. His body awoke as well, the severe hunger for blood and for the drugs warring instantly and without mercy. Wincing, he wished for the kindness of oblivion. He was surrounded by a dozen frou-frou pillows. A genuine Miro was staring down at him in a gold frame. The Picasso on the opposite wall had been personally painted for Lauren, he recalled. Picasso had been quite enamored with her.
Lauren was at his side in a flash. She appeared as if from the shadows, dressed in tight white dress slit to the thigh. The silk of the dress rustled as she moved. Her citrus perfume wafted down as she sat beside him. "Oh good, you're awake. You definitely need some care, darling. You're in terrible shape."
"How long have I been unconscious?"
"Only an hour, at most. You really need more rest. But first—"
Her eyes followed Dameon's, which noticed, for the first time, Cecilia and Tony sitting across the room, laughing and talking softly on another enormous couch. In the dim shadows, he couldn't see their faces. He imagined they were still in Lauren's thrall. A low marble table was set with glasses and plates. Wine bottles peeped out from a bucket of ice. Tony Bennett was crooning Dancing in the Dark in the background. They were having a party. Dameon tried to sit up. He didn't belong here. He was too weak to stand or move.
Lauren got up and pulled back the curtains, the circular picture window revealing the star-studded night sky, a flawless backdrop for the sparkling city skyline. It was beautiful and it cut him to the quick with its vitality and life.
"Isn't it lovely? I can open the window. A little fresh air would be marvelous," she said as Dameon shut his eyes against the scene. He remembered showing Jen the night view from the window of her "Thornhall." Thornhall, which he'd sold before abandoning her. He flinched.
Lauren was studying him with narrowed eyes. Quickly, she pulled the curtains closed. "What you need is nourishment, and that's exactly what I have for you."
She turned toward Cecilia and Tony cuddling across the room.
"No," Dameon whispered.
"Don't be silly. They're thrilled by the honor. They cut their own veins themselves so that we can drink." Her voice turned to warm honey. In a flash, she was by standing over the young couple. He could see their shining, adoring eyes and their hands cutting into their own flesh. Sickened, and yet trembling with hunger, he watched as they squeezed the blood into crystal goblets.
La
uren's eyes flamed red in the soft light, her face so sweet and lovely. He watched as she drank from the glass and wiped her mouth with a cloth afterwards. Her eyes met his and softened with emotion. She smiled at him and, he smiled back.
"I know you can't get blood the traditional way, without unfortunate ‘consequences,’" she said, delicately emphasizing the last word. "Why I hardly ever use that method myself. This"—she waved her hand at the glasses of warm blood, watching while the couple pressed linen napkins to their open cuts, beaming as they watched Lauren. They would be ready to re-open the cuts in a second, if Lauren desired—"is a more dignified, civilized way for everyone around," she finished, not taking her eyes off Dameon.
"And, now it's time for you to eat." She rose, carrying a full glass in her hand.
Weakly, he shook his head, his eyes still on the fresh-faced Cecilia and self-assured but puppyish Tony. He noticed that Cecilia, in white leggings with a long, baby pink sweater, looked like a little girl with her bouncing blonde curls, or like a pink frosted cupcake. His stomach lurched.
"If you'd rather, they can feed you directly. They can direct a stream right into your mouth without coming in contact with your teeth. You won't have to worry about vampan 'side effects.’" Lauren paused t, kneeling beside Dameon, her beautiful eyes sweeping his face. "Tony and Cecilia won't mind if you prefer that method instead of a glass. Isn't that right, my darlings?" The couple nodded.
"We'd be happy to serve," whispered Tony, awe in his eyes. He started to remove the cloth from his arm.
Lauren slipped her arm around Dameon's shoulders, her full lips close to his. "Let me help you, Dameon," she whispered. "Let me take care of you."
Dameon groaned and shut his eyes for a moment. He then sighed and nodded. "The glass is fine, ma ami."
Lauren held the glass to his lips and watched as he took in the red, life-giving fluid. The blood hit his system like a bomb. Nerves fired, his cells replenished. The chemicals primed for his treatment weakened. Jen's face flashed before his eyes. He pushed the image back and took another drink of the blood.
Chapter Twenty-three
Well, you've done it, she told herself. There's no going back now. Jen stared at her box of belongings beside her in the car. She had made a decision that was either the greatest or the stupidest one she'd ever made. Quitting Kriegles was a monumental step and she should be more nervous than she was.
Christmas had been dreary. She had spent it almost entirely alone. If it wasn't for dinner at Nancy's, the holiday would have been a total loss. Jen's parents had sent her a blouse and skirt from New York. She also received enthusiastic postcards of the Empire State Building and Ferris Island. It was her parents’ first time in the city. Holding up the prim, Peter Pan-collared blouse and the A-lined paisley skirt, tears had come to her eyes. Her parents meant well, and she loved them, but they'd never understand her.
Jen had spent New Year's with Cobbs watching the ball come down in Times Square. She and Cobbs had shared a bowl of ice cream, and at midnight, Jen had sipped a glass of red wine.
She had turned down Joe's invitation to go dancing, though she had nearly been tempted into saying yes. Anything sounded better than moping around at home. But, she couldn't do that to him, now when he was still hoping for romance. She could only disappoint him.
The best thing about the holidays had been that it gave her time to think. She was stagnating at Kriegles, safe, but bored and unhappy. She was itching to do something more fulfilling, to give her life more spice. Her photography cried out to her. The desire to pursue it whole-heartedly could not be ignored.
Her boss made a surprising effort to keep her, which boosted her sagging self-esteem. At least someone wanted her. She stared at the scar on her hand, a souvenir from breaking the window in Dameon's house. A knock on her car door startled her from her thoughts.
Joe's face was peering in. Jen rolled down the window.
"I can't believe you're really leaving," he said mournfully. His little-boy face was wrinkled with worry. "Do you really think it's the right thing to do in this economy?" He hurried on before she could speak. "I've got contacts. Just let me know if you're ready to start job hunting. I can line you up with an interview in no time."
"That's very sweet, Joe. But cross your fingers and hope with me that my photos will sell." Joe's anxious, cherubic face triggered off echoes of unease inside of her. Resolutely, she forced a cheery smile. "Don't worry. I'll be fine. I just know it."
"Will you still have coffee or dinner with me sometimes?" His voice was plaintive, his eyes hopeful.
"Of course. We're friends, right?"
He nodded his head dolefully and opened his mouth. One look at her face and he closed it again. Jen had made it clear that friendship was all she had to offer. She also made clear that they shouldn't meet for coffee if it was going to lead him on and stop him from dating other women.
Waving good-bye to Joe and driving cautiously down the slick road, Jen felt a wild sensation of freedom and fear. This was it. She would be living off her savings, and taking a giant risk. Snow began to fall in soft, sugary flakes, a relief for the dreary, grim February scenery. The sky was heavy and a dull pewter gray. It had been days since she'd seen the sun.
A sudden impulse made her turn left instead of right, and she drove blocks till she reached the intersection. She parked near the dry cleaners and stared at the stop sign. To think that it all began here.
There were times when Jen was convinced she could still sense Dameon. Muffled and blurred, she thought she felt his loneliness and sorrow. And something worse, too. Something painful and scary that she couldn't bear to think about. In some far off, disconnected way, he felt her, too, she was convinced.
Jen knew that the New Age movement was fraught with sham and foolishness. For someone who for years wrote about nothing but facts and figures, it was easy to challenge and dismiss the new spirituality. But technical writing hadn't wiped out her romantic dreams or her hopeful heart.
Surprisingly, Nancy was the one who confessed she had her Tarot cards read, and wore a pink crystal when she was worried or anxious. Down-to-earth Nancy, the math teacher. Jen found this reassuring. Nancy was embarrassed, but eager in sharing all she knew with Jen and told her about the Light Hearts store, which carried books and paraphernalia on the subject.
Maybe I'm just fooling myself, she said to herself as she drove. I want to believe in a psychic bond with him because I can't bear to think that it's over between us. An unwanted image rose tauntingly, the too-clear picture of Dameon dancing, kissing and making love with another woman. It scalded her to the quick. He probably had his pick of beautiful women anywhere in the world.
Maybe I'm crazy, and I should try to give Joe a chance. A woman almost thirty, grasping at straws, who just quit her job. She winced as she pictured her parents' faces when she mentioned her latest move.
Her parents had stopped for a brief visit after New Year's, laden, as usual, with lacy, fluffy things like embroidered napkins, dried flowers and, of all things, a single setting of patterned china. "A starter," her mother had said, "which you can add on to when the time comes." Her mother had raised her brows and smiled. "Hopefully, the big event will happen before your father and I die."
The big event was the wedding her mother had been planning since Jen's birth. The visit had been painful with Jen trying to cover her grief and hurt, but mercifully short. Her parents were all smiles and hugs, but worried about her.
Jen learned this from the snatches of a conversation she had unintentionally eavesdropped on. She had come home earlier than expected and had heard an earful.
"...just not realistic. She lives in a fairy tale. I worry about that girl. What's to become of her?" She heard their disapproval and dismay loud and clear through those few words, and in her father's mumbled agreement. "For heaven sakes," came her mother's wail, "she's twenty-eight and she still acts like a school girl."
It was impossible to imagine discussing Dameon
with them, so impossible and unthinkable that she had to smile. Of course, Dameon himself was impossible, unthinkable, unreachable. The smile died.
The snow began to fall faster as she drove home. She would stop and get Chinese carry-out to celebrate the beginning of her life as a full-time photographer.
Feeling more than a little at loose ends, Jen decided that it was time to check out Nancy's bookstore, Light Hearts. It was odd being home and not at work, and she was suddenly disoriented by the abrupt loss of regime in her life. Today was as good a day as any to visit the store.
What did she have to lose? It couldn't hurt, and it might heal the persistent aching emptiness inside of her. The store smelled good like cinnamon and roses. Mobiles of unicorns and stars tinkled as she walked by. A small bowl of gold and silver paper stars sat on the counter with a sign that urged passersby to take one and "dream a dream of hope and goodness" on it. Jen almost took one, but moved on, studying the displays of crystals, rocks, candles and amulets. Incense added to the sweet smells. Postcards and cards imprinted with fantasy designs shone brightly from the revolving racks. Cassettes and CDs of nature sounds and harmonic music were tempting. If nothing else, the store was colorful and pleasant.
She was browsing through titles on chakras and on reading runes when a petite woman with a cloud of red hair unexpectedly drifted to her side. The woman was beautiful in an odd way, her skin like cream, with large brilliant blue eyes that dominated her delicate features. The woman laid a fragile hand on Jen's arm, her touch somehow soothing. Jen felt drawn to her.
"You are looking for answers?" Her gentle and musical voice rose in a question, but her eyes seemed to read Jen's heart.
Jen hesitated, but then plunged ahead. "Do you have anything that would explain psychic or telepathic bonds between...certain people?"
Kiss Noir (BookStrand Publishing Romance) Page 23