Night's Mistress (Children of the Night)

by Ashley, Amanda

  Life changed with the coming of the Civil War, a war the South embraced, but had little chance of winning. In spite of the War, the South clung to the old ways.

  I especially remember Lieutenant Captain Jeffrey Dunston. Ah, Jeffrey, with his hair like burnished gold and his blue, blue eyes. Clad in his uniform and plumed hat, he cut quite a gallant figure the evening he rode up to the plantation astride a big black horse.

  Dismounting, he climbed the stairs, one hand on the saber at his side, his bright blue eyes twinkling when he saw me standing in the doorway. Of course, it was considered quite scandalous for him to come calling when I didn’t have a proper chaperone, and even moreso to visit a lone female after dark. I was of the opinion that one of the reasons he enjoyed my company was my open disdain for propriety.

  He bowed over my hand. “Miss Mara.”

  “Lieutenant, this is a surprise.”

  “A pleasant one, I hope.”

  “But of course. Please, come in.”

  After removing his hat, he followed me into the front parlor and, at my invitation, took a seat on the lovely, high-backed sofa.

  “I’m afraid I have come to deliver bad news.” His thick Southern drawl poured over me, warm and sweet, like summer molasses.

  “Bad news?” I sat beside him, my hands folded primly in my lap. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “The Yankees are coming. It isn’t safe for you to stay here, with no chaperone and no one to protect you.”

  “You’re very sweet to worry about me so, but I’m not afraid.”

  “I know you’re not, Miss Mara, but I’m afraid for you. Promise me you will leave tomorrow, while there’s still time.”

  I placed my hand on his and batted my eyelashes. “I appreciate your concern, Lieutenant, but I assure you I’ll be all right.” I smiled inwardly. It was the Yankees who should be afraid.

  “You are far too brave.” Dunston sighed as he covered my hand with his own. “I’m afraid I have more bad news.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “My regiment is leaving tomorrow. I don’t know when we’ll be back.”

  “That is bad news,” I said, and meant it. I had hoped to amuse myself with him for another few weeks. He was such a gentle, easygoing young man, it was hard to believe he was fit for battle. I couldn’t imagine him riding off to war, enduring hardship. Taking a life.

  “Will you . . . ?” He cleared his throat. “Is there any chance that you’d . . .”

  “That I’d what ?”

  “Write to me.” A blush reddened his cheeks. “Wait for me. I know we haven’t known each other very long,” he said, his words tumbling over each other, “but we’ll whip those dirty Yankees in no time, and . . .”

  “Don’t go, Jeffrey.”

  “What?” He blinked at me. “I don’t understand.”

  “Why don’t you stay here, with me, instead of going off to war?”

  “Are you . . . are you asking me to desert my regiment?”

  It was exactly what I was asking. I looked up at him through the veil of my lashes. “It sounds so awful, when you say it like that.”

  “But that’s what you’re asking?”

  “Wouldn’t you rather be here, with me?”

  He sat up straighter. “Yes,” he replied stiffly, “but I cannot bring shame to my family, or to myself. And I cannot help being disappointed that you would suggest such a thing.”

  “I’m sorry, Jeffrey,” I murmured contritely. “But I simply can’t abide the thought of you going off to war where you might be . . .” I sniffed loudly as I pulled a white lace hankie from my skirt pocket and dabbed at my eyes.

  His expression immediately softened at my repentant look. “It’s all right, Miss Mara. And I’m . . . I’m deeply touched by your concern for my welfare. Truly, I am. But I must go.”

  “Of course you must.” I gazed up at him. “Kiss me, Jeffrey. Kiss me once, before you go.”

  “Miss Mara!” He looked as shocked as he sounded. Shocked and eager.

  I seduced Jeffrey Dunston that night, promised him a new life if he would stay with me. Caught up in the throes of passion, bewitched by my preternatural power, he begged me to turn him so we could be together forever. It was a glorious night. I had seduced only a few virgins in my life. Their blood is the sweetest of all.

  Jeffrey’s friends came looking for him the next day, quite frantic because he hadn’t slept in his bed the night before.

  “Captain Cahill’s furious,” exclaimed a towheaded young man. “Iffen Jeffrey don’t show up right quick, he’s gonna be in mighty big trouble.”

  The other two men nodded in agreement, their expressions somber.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, one hand pressed to my heart, “but I have no idea where Lieutenant Dunston might be.”

  “He wasn’t here?” queried the towheaded young man. “He said he was a’ coming here to say his good-byes.”

  “He did, indeed, come to bid me farewell, but he left soon after. He didn’t say where he was going, but I assumed he would be returning to his regiment. I do hope no harm has befallen him.”

  “Obliged for your time and trouble, ma’am.”

  “I’m so sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”

  I stood on the porch, my hand shading my eyes as I watched the trio mount and ride away. When they were out of sight, I went into the house, locked the door, and dismissed the servants for the night.

  Humming “Rose of Alabamy,” I glanced upstairs. Come sundown, Lieutenant Jeffrey Dunston would rise, a newly made vampire. And like all of the newly Undead, he would be ravenous . . .

  With a sigh, Mara sat back in her chair. Poor Jeffrey. In the throes of passion, he had begged her to bring him across. When he woke as a vampire, with the hunger raging through him, he had begged her to make him mortal again. And when he learned it wasn’t possible, he had turned away from her. She had tried to convince him that being a vampire wasn’t a bad thing, but, alas, she had failed. The next morning, before the Dark Sleep claimed him, Jeffrey had run out of the house to meet the dawn. When she realized what he intended to do, she had hurried after him, but she had been too late. One touch of sunlight on newly made preternatural flesh, and he had burst into flames. It had been over in an instant, but the sight of his body being consumed by flames had haunted her dreams for months. Years had passed before she turned anyone else.

  She was rereading what she had written when Logan came up behind her. “Still writing your life story?” he asked, dropping a kiss on the top of her head.

  “Mostly jotting down memories. Once I get it all down, I guess I’ll have to put it in some sort of order.” She shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.”

  Logan grunted softly. “Digging up some unpleasant memories, are you?” he asked, reading over her shoulder.

  “A few.”

  “Well, come on, let’s go for a walk.”

  Stretching, she ran a hand through her hair. “Now?” “Why not now? Didn’t Ramsden say you needed to get some exercise? Besides, there’s nothing like a stroll in the moonlight to put your mind at ease.”

  That had been true once, she thought, remembering how she had always loved the night. “Let me shut down the computer first.”

  “I’ll get your jacket. It’s cold out.”

  Minutes later, they were strolling down the sidewalk like an old married couple. Logan wore faded blue jeans and a black T-shirt; Mara was bundled up in sweatpants, a long-sleeved shirt, a jacket, and fur-lined boots. She grinned inwardly, thinking they looked like ads for summer and winter.

  She sighed as her thoughts returned to Jeffrey. He had been a bright young man, easy to talk to, with a dry sense of humor. She had been quite fond of him. His destruction had been such a waste, but some people just weren’t cut out to be vampires. They hated their new existence, hated the one who had brought them across. Unable to embrace what they had become, they went out to meet the dawn and instant destruction. Others
, unable to take their own lives, sought out older vampires and asked to be destroyed, or spent their lives trying to deny what they were. They refused to feed until the hunger became unbearable and then, almost mad with pain, they hunted. Driven by an insatiable need, they often ripped their prey to shreds, only to suffer nights of remorse afterward. Truly, they were the most miserable of all the Undead. Of course, there was no way to know how a person would take to being Nosferatu until it was too late.

  After Jeffrey’s death, Mara had sent her servants away and abandoned the plantation. She had taken to haunting the battlefields, where she ferreted out those who were beyond any hope of recovery. She soothed their pain and their fears, eased her hunger, and sent them peacefully into whatever lay beyond the grave.

  “You’re very quiet,” Logan remarked.

  “I’m sorry. I guess I’m not very good company tonight.”

  They walked in companionable silence for a time, and then Logan said, “I heard some disturbing news today.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. You ever hear of a vampire by the name of Travis Jackson?”

  “Jackson, yes, I remember him.”

  “Someone took him out.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. The vampire who told me about it heard it thirdhand. Happened somewhere in North Hollywood.”

  “Really? The last I knew, he was down in Texas with his grandmother.” She had never been fond of Jackson. He had been a hunter before he was turned. At last count, he had destroyed thirty-six vampires, killed eighteen werewolves, and a were-tiger. During the War between the Vampires and the Werewolves, Jackson, his grandmother, Pearl, and Pearl’s friend, Edna, had caused a great deal of trouble. Pearl and Edna had concocted a serum they had hoped would cure the vampires and the werewolves. They had rounded up a number of test subjects, Rafe and Kathy among them, and injected each one. Fortunately, it had had no effect on vampires or humans. Werewolves had not fared as well. The experimental drug had killed two of them.

  “Do you think the Jackson killing was an isolated incident?” Logan asked.

  “How would I know?” Mara replied testily. “I’m a little out of the loop these days. What do you think?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s the first killing I’ve heard about in quite a while. Well, except for Tasha.”

  “Yes, Tasha,” Mara murmured. Tasha had killed Savanah’s father, and Savanah had driven a stake through her heart.

  “I hope Pearl and Edna have enough sense to lie low for a while,” Logan said.

  Mara snorted softly. She had no liking for either of the old biddies. Had it been up to her, she would have destroyed them both after the War. How like her softhearted Rafe to bring those two meddlesome old fools across rather than destroy them as he should have done.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The next morning after breakfast, Lieutenant Jeffrey Dunston was still on Mara’s mind. Lingering at the table, she thought again how sad it was that he had taken his own life rather than accept being a vampire. She had intended to spend a few years with him, to teach him how to wield his powers, to take him to London and Paris and Rome, to see the world anew through his eyes. But he had been too weak to accept the gift she had given him.

  After Robert E. Lee surrendered, Mara had stayed in the South for a time, but living through the reconstruction period had been no fun at all, and so she had headed West. With no particular destination in mind, she had traveled from town to town, staying in one place or another for a month or a year as the spirit moved her.

  She had always had a thing for men in uniform, whether they were wearing Confederate gray or Army blue, and so it was that in 1876, she found herself in Dakota Territory at Fort Abraham Lincoln. Women had been scarce in the Old West, especially women with soft hands, and faces that weren’t browned by the desert sun and lined by the stress of living on the frontier. The men she met treated her with the utmost courtesy, and if they weren’t quite as refined as their counterparts in the South, they made up for it in enthusiasm.

  But it had been a Lakota scout named Runs With Thunder who had captured her interest and her affection during that time. In all her travels, she had never met a Native American and Runs With Thunder fascinated her. He was unlike any man she had ever known, and perhaps that was his attraction. He wasn’t the least bit interested in her, and that, more than anything else, had made her determined to have him.

  She started her campaign slowly, asking questions about his people, how they lived, what they believed in, why he was working with the Army. At first, his answers had been cool, stilted, but her interest had been genuine and after a week or so, he began to answer her questions.

  The Lakota were a proud race, their warriors fierce and brave. He told her of their customs, how the number four was sacred, how the tribe moved with the seasons, following the sun and Pte, the buffalo, how warriors went into the Paha Sapa, the sacred Black Hills, to ask the Great Spirit for a vision to guide them through life . . .

  Rising, she hurried downstairs and booted up her computer, wanting to record her memories of Runs With Thunder while they were fresh in her mind.

  “Have you sought a vision?” I asked. We were sitting on a blanket out on the prairie, away from the dust and distractions of the fort.

  Runs With Thunder nodded. “When I was sixteen summers, I went to the Paha Sapa. I had been there for three days, fasting and praying, when a red-tailed hawk landed on a tree branch above my head. He spoke to me, telling me to beware of a white woman with hair as dark as night and eyes like greening grass. I know now he spoke of you.”

  “Me? Why would he warn you about me?”

  “He told me you would bring change to my life.”

  “What kind of change?”

  “Not in a good way. He said you would kill me but I would not die.”

  “This bird really spoke to you?”

  “Ai.”

  “But you don’t believe what he said?”

  “My spirit guide would not lie.”

  “If you believe him, what are you doing here, with me?”

  “I do not know. You are wasichu, and yet . . .” He lifted a hand, as though to stroke my cheek, then curled it into a fist. “I should not be with you, but I cannot stay away.”

  I knew it was my vampire glamour that drew him. I wondered if he would feel the same if I were human, and knew he would not. He was Lakota, I was a white woman, his enemy. But he wanted me, and that was all that mattered. Because I desperately wanted him. He was beautiful, with his long black hair and tawny skin. Clad in a buckskin shirt, trousers, and moccasins, he looked every inch the warrior that he was.

  “What change will you bring to me, chikala?”

  “Perhaps one day I’ll tell you. What does chikala mean?”

  “Little one.”

  “Little one,” I murmured, smiling. “I like that.”

  “Are you going to change me?”

  “Do you want me to?”

  He regarded me through serious black eyes for several moments, his expression thoughtful and then worried. “How can you kill me and yet not kill me?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “Ai.”

  “Your people believe in spirit guides. Do they also believe in vampires?”

  He nodded. “There are stories of those who drink the blood of the living and walk in the night, but”—he stared at me, his eyes wide—“you cannot be one of them.” He shook his head. “They are skeletal creatures, with long teeth and hairy palms, and they smell bad.”

  I couldn’t help it. I laughed. “Perhaps there are vampires like the ones you describe, but I’ve never met any.”

  “This is a bad joke, Mara.”

  “It isn’t a joke.”

  “Show me, then.”

  “Some other time, perhaps.”

  Now it was his turn to laugh. “I knew it was not true.”

  I saw him often in the next few weeks, and then, one night, he told me he
was leaving the fort.

  “Why? Where are you going?”

  “Long Hair Custer is going to the Greasy Grass to battle against my people. I must go home to fight with the Lakota.”

  I tried to dissuade him, but, like Jeffrey Dunston, Runs With Thunder was a man of honor. His people were going to war, and he was determined to fight alongside them. I thought of forcing the Dark Gift on him, but I remembered Dunston’s reaction all too well. The thought of Runs With Thunder meeting such a horrific end was more than I could bear.

  After Runs With Thunder left the fort, I contemplated leaving as well. Instead, I followed Custer’s regiment from a distance. What a grand sight they made, with Custer riding proudly at their head while the band played “Garry Owen.”

  I had met Custer at a dance at the fort shortly before he left. I had thought him an arrogant fool. He was so sure of victory, so certain that he was indestructible.

  I trailed the Seventh by night and burrowed into the welcoming arms of the earth by day. Resting in the ground on June 25, 1876, I heard the sounds of battle as white man and red man met on the banks of the Little Big Horn. I heard the war cries of the Lakota and the Cheyenne, the bugle calls of the Seventh Cavalry, the gunshots and the sibilant hiss of arrows flying through the air, the screams and sobs of the wounded and the dying. Even buried deep in the earth, I smelled the blood as it soaked the ground. So much blood.