Vacation With a Vampire & Other Immortals

by Maggie Shayne

  “And you’ve been at sea ever since?” he asked.

  “Until that storm, yes. I was hoping my boat would outlive me, but, um, it didn’t work out that way. And now I’m not sure what I’m going to do. When I leave here, I mean.”

  He nodded, saying nothing. The conversation had taken a turn for the awkward.

  “Because I have no home to return to, no job, no money, and only another month or so before I’m due to…you know…check out. If it all goes down the way Mary said it would.”

  “It is a dilemma,” he agreed, and then he nodded. “Here we are. Why don’t you cook some of that fish while I take care of a few chores around the island, hmm?”

  She frowned at him, but nodded. “Chores?”

  “I’d like to spend some time working on my new sailboat. In the workshop.”

  She smiled. “I’d love to see it sometime.” Then she frowned. “But I’m so tired just from the walk back from the beach, I don’t think—”

  “There will be another time. You’ll love this boat, being a sailor yourself. She’s all wood, twice as big as the Santa Maria XIII.”

  She smiled, visualizing. “How close are you to being ready for her maiden voyage?”

  He shrugged. “A few more weeks. No longer.” He smiled at her eager excitement over his project, a work of the heart, truly. And he found himself eagerly anticipating taking her out to his workshop, showing her the boat, watching her reactions. Damn, she was getting to him. Far too deeply.

  She was staring back at him, deep into his eyes, and looking as if she wanted to do more…as if she wanted to embrace him. But she held herself off and said, “Go ahead, then. I’ll make enough fish for both of us, if you want.”

  “No need. I’ve…already eaten.” He hadn’t, and that was part of the problem, wasn’t it? He was hearing the gentle call of her, the thrumming rush of blood flowing through her veins just beneath her supple, warm, salty skin, and it was doing things to his mind. Making him want to blurt that she should just stay here, with him, for the time she had left. Making him want to take her in his arms, to taste her skin, just a little. Maybe take a sip, one tiny droplet, to sate himself.

  Right. And then the next thing he knew, he would begin to care for her. To believe that she cared for him, too. And then he would tell her that she didn’t have to die. That she could live by night, endless night, as he did. He would tell her what he was, and offer to share the Dark Gift with her.

  And she would pretend shock and surprise, and then calm, beautiful acceptance, and she would accept the Gift. He would drink from her, drain her to the very edge of oblivion, and then he would feed her from his own veins. And she would awaken a newborn vampire, a fledgling with wonder in her eyes.

  And then she would leave him, laughing at his naive belief that there would be some fairy-tale ending, some happily ever after, for the two of them. She would leave him, laughing at his innocence, his trust. She would leave him, alone, in the paradise he had wanted to share.

  He saw it all playing out in his mind, the memory stabbing into his heart like a red-hot blade. Cassandra laughing at how easily he had fallen for her. Laughing as she told him she had what she had come for and would be leaving now. Calling him a sap—and worse.

  No, he would not fall so easily again. Not again.

  Chapter 7

  He left her at the door, and as Anna watched him go, she felt a sense of clarity. That was, she supposed, the positive side of facing one’s imminent demise. Clarity. It suddenly became very, very easy to see what was important and what was not. It became easy to know what you wanted and almost impossibly irrational to do anything other than go after it.

  And right then she knew what she wanted with that clearness of mind that only a condemned woman could have. She wanted to stay here, on this island, with this man, for whatever time she had left. Because no matter what he said or what tale he told, she knew she had met him that night near the lighthouse. And she knew he was the one she was meant to be with. She didn’t know how it could be true. She didn’t know what he was, exactly, only that he wasn’t quite…normal. Wasn’t quite…earthly. Or maybe…mortal.

  And it was as that notion hit her that her gaze seemed drawn, almost of its own volition, to the corner of the cabin, way down low where the foundation met the earth. The solid square stones were fitted together perfectly, partially hidden by tall, graceful grasses and ornamental reeds. Still, she saw something in the stone and moved closer, frowning. October, 1965.

  How could that be? He’d said he’d built this place with his own hands. But he couldn’t possibly have been here for more than forty-five years. He didn’t look a day over thirty.

  What the hell…?

  She backed away, into the house, with a certain knowing settling into her. He wasn’t mortal. But she wasn’t dead. He wasn’t an angel. He slept by day. He didn’t seem to eat food.

  Okay, just take a breath, she told herself. Just take a step back here and think on this. Could he be…something else? Something besides human?

  That’s ridiculous, Anna. It’s just…

  What if he was? What if he had the power to make her…that way, too? They could stay together then. She could be with him.

  It hit her then, that rather than fear or disbelief her mind had jumped right to what had been her goal all along. Finding a way to stay with him. So staying with him was clearly what she wanted, what her heart desired. And she’d learned—from the man himself, in fact—that doing what her heart desired was the only way she wanted to live ever again. Dying or not.

  The means to achieve that goal were just as clear: she had to make him want her to stay.

  What if she was wrong, and he was just an ordinary man? What if the rest was all in her mind? Would it be fair to him to try to make him care for her when she was more than likely going to be dead in a few weeks?

  But life was too short to always do what was best for others. He’d told her that. Or she thought he had. So she would spend her remaining time doing what was best for herself.

  Besides, she’d told him her condition. He knew she was dying. He wouldn’t be entering into anything unaware. She had to make inroads with the man. Somehow.

  But he was so different from any man she’d ever known, she wasn’t exactly sure how. So she watched him vanish around a bend in the trail, taking a fork they hadn’t taken before, and then she went inside the house and explored it thoroughly. There really wasn’t all that much to see. Very little food in the kitchen. Almost none. And while there were dishes in the cupboards, most of them wore a thin film of dust, as did the range. The fridge was the only appliance that appeared to be used regularly. Though it, too, was all but bare. Fresh fish, cleaned and ready to cook, lay in a glass dish with a tight-fitting plastic cover. But though the fridge looked well used, there was nothing else inside besides a pitcher of what looked like iced tea.

  And the rest of the kitchen looked positively bereft.

  How very odd.

  There was no dining room, just a big archway that led back to the living room where she’d first awakened. Logs were stacked neatly beside the fireplace, and the room looked far more lived-in than the kitchen. A blanket lay over the back of a chair as if left there by someone who’d been enjoying its warmth. Books on wildlife and local vegetation lay here and there, one open, facedown, as if to hold its place.

  Her eyes turned, drawn to the stairway, cleverly made of halved logs. She was pulled toward it, even though she sensed that she was dancing along the borderline of his tolerance. Even in her own mind, snooping was out of line. The bit she’d done so far seemed within an acceptable range, but as she walked up the stairs, she felt worse and worse.

  She stood outside his bedroom door, her hand hovering near the antique brass doorknob that had the face of a bear engraved on it. But something stopped her. Something just wouldn’t let her invade his privacy by sneaking into his bedroom. His sanctuary. It wouldn’t be right.

  Sighing, acknowled
ging inwardly her own disappointment in her willingness to pry, wondering what discoveries she might have made had she pressed on, she backed off and went instead to the very large bathroom that was the only other room on the second floor.

  And she was glad she had.

  The tub was a giant round Jacuzzi. Beside it, a shower stall twice as large as any she’d ever seen stood invitingly. She opened the etched glass door and saw that it was equipped with six showerheads at varying angles and heights. Wow.

  The soaps and shampoos were mostly male-oriented, woodsy scents, or spicy ones. And her clothes, her own comfy pajamas, that she’d been wearing when the storm had tossed her little boat onto the rocks, were lying across a counter. They smelled of mild soap and fresh, ocean air. He’d washed them and hung them out to air-dry, she suspected.

  All right, enough with the snooping. It was time to do some basking. Life was short, and there wasn’t nearly enough basking being done by most of those living it. She ran the tub full of steaming hot water, which took far less time than she had expected. While it filled, she found several brand-new, still-wrapped toothbrushes in the nearby medicine cabinet and helped herself to one of them.

  In short order she was soaking her bruised, battered limbs in the bubbling bath, head leaned back, eyes closed. She was exhausted from her little walk from the beach and her minuscule spying expedition. She’d really discovered very little, except that the man didn’t seem to eat.

  She was still very curious about him. But she would just keep her eyes and ears open. She would ask him the things she wanted to know. She would look around some more when she had the chance, she told herself. Maybe even try to position herself close enough to the bedroom to get a glimpse inside when he opened the door.

  Or maybe get herself invited in there in…some other way.

  That idea appealed more than it ought to. Well, of course it did. She’d been dreaming of this man her entire life. Whether he believed it or not, she had. He was meant for her. Even if it was destined to last only a very little while.

  She felt tears spring into her eyes at the notion of dying, of leaving him behind, and they were still burning there as she fell asleep.

  She was in the house, though he would be damned if he could tell where. Her scent, however, that essence of Anna, was everywhere.

  His houseguest had been snooping. The realization made his heart trip over itself, even though he had taken precautions. What if she had found something?

  If she had, he asked himself, what was she going to do about it? Besides, hadn’t he already suspected that she knew full well what he was? That she was only pretending not to know? Playing him, the way Cassandra had?

  His inner voice silenced that train of thought before he could ponder it through to the end. What she might do about it was hardly the point. His secrets were just that: his, meaning not hers to go digging around in. And secrets, meaning they were not for public knowledge. She had no right.

  She wasn’t in the living room, but her energy was. It was everywhere, on every shelf, in every corner. Not unpleasant, never that. Her essence was like a soft perfume, but more than a scent. It was her aura. Fragile, but fiery, like the tiny, spitting flame of a stubborn candle in a gentle rain.

  And yes, he liked that about her.

  But this was…too much. She’d touched his books, running her fingers over the spines as she’d skimmed the titles. She’d walked around the entire room, pausing near every shelf and painting, every stand and bauble, every heavily curtained and darkly shaded window. What had she made of those? he wondered. Heavy drapes of forest green, hanging over matching colored window shades, with shutters on the outside as an additional barrier against the sun. What had she thought about his need to completely shut out the daylight, assuming she didn’t already know?

  Her essence led him into the kitchen, where she had opened every cabinet and the refrigerator, too. Had she noticed the lack of food? Had she gone looking for what really kept him fed? He’d removed his bags of cold, clean human blood from the fridge only a few hours after he’d brought her here. He’d waited long enough to put warm, dry clothes on her, to cover her in blankets and build a fire nearby, to make sure she was going to live, then removed his stores of blood to the cooler out in the workshop.

  Not finding Anna in the kitchen, he surged up the stairs, pausing where she had at his bedroom door. He felt the energy of her hand hovering near the doorknob and lowered his head in disappointment, before he realized that her essence ended there. She hadn’t turned the knob or opened the door. The sense of her went no farther. She had not intruded into his bedroom. And not because he’d taken the precaution of locking her out. No. She hadn’t even tried the door.

  He felt a smile tug at the corners of his lips, felt the tension slowly ease from his body. His feelings of violation and resentment evaporated, and curiosity replaced them. What had stopped her?

  And then a sneaking suspicion arose that caused the smile to falter. Had she simply run out of time? Had she heard him coming and had to scamper away, giving up on her day of prying into his shadows?

  He lifted his head, turning and sensing her nearby, in the large bathroom that took up the other half of the second story. The door was ajar, far enough for him to see a naked, water-beaded knee in the tub. It wasn’t moving. He stepped a little closer and saw more of her revealed. Her thigh vanished into the water, the sight of it blocked further by the tub itself. Her arm dangled over one side, long and slender and surprisingly toned for one so thin. But she’d been alone at sea for over a month, hadn’t she? That would firm a person up, even a sick one.

  And she was sick. He’d seen it before, the ravages of the antigen going to work on a mortal. Not in himself. He’d been turned before it got that bad, but he’d seen it in Cassandra. It was what had made him want to save her.

  He banished that memory from his mind and moved a little closer, pushing the door wider now, but not quite going inside.

  Anna was leaning back, her head tipped to rest against the edge of the tub. Her eyes were closed, mouth slightly open, hair bundled on top of her head, with curls cascading around her like a waterfall. As he stared, she inhaled and snorted a little.

  His smile returned. No artifice there. She wasn’t faking. She was truly asleep, and judging by the stillness of the water, the Jacuzzi jets, that ran for fifteen minutes before shutting themselves off and requiring you to hit the start button again, had long since gone silent. She’d been there awhile.

  And that told him all he needed to know. She hadn’t gone into his room because she had chosen not to. As curious as she must be, she’d chosen to respect his privacy.

  For the first time, he considered that maybe she was genuine. Not a liar, like Cassandra. Not a user. Not a cold, calculating thief out to steal eternal life under false pretenses.

  Maybe she was for real. As sweet and wonderful as she seemed.

  And if he took one more step closer, he thought, he might see a whole lot more to like about the woman. But since she’d respected his privacy, though she obviously hadn’t wanted to, he figured he ought respect hers in turn.

  He backed out of the bathroom without so much as peeking at her body. Besides, he’d already seen it when he’d stripped off her sopping-wet clothes and dressed her in his own. And it wasn’t a sight he was likely to forget. Not only because he hadn’t glimpsed a naked woman in years, but because she was a beautiful specimen. A tempting one.

  But he wasn’t going to let his mind go in that direction.

  He pulled the door closed, then knocked sharply, twice, to wake her. “Anna?” he called. “Are you in there?”

  “Wha—oh!” There was a sloshing of water. “Yes, give me a minute.”

  “Of course.”

  More sloshing. Then the distinct sound of gurgling as the water started to drain. Moments later she was opening the door, holding one large plush towel around her torso, with another draped over her shoulders. Her hair was still up, wet tendri
ls dangling around her neck, and her face was sleepy. Leaning on the doorjamb, she smiled up at him. “I fell asleep in your tub. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s perfectly all right. You’re here to rest and to heal. Nothing to apologize for.”

  She nodded, but her eyes shot lower. “Not much healing that can be done, though. At least, not for what’s really wrong.”

  “The weakness…it’s getting worse?” he asked.

  “I’m so sleepy all the time. I want to be exploring and playing and relishing what’s left of my life, and particularly my time here on this beautiful island with you. But instead I’m falling asleep in the bathtub.”

  “There’s a lot to be relished about a hot bath in an oversized Jacuzzi.” He tipped his head slightly. “At least, as far as I recall from the last time I did so myself. You enjoyed it, yes?”

  Her smile returned, as he had intended it to do. “Yes.”

  “Then no time was wasted. And there’s still enough night left to enjoy. And since you so enjoyed the sunrise this morning…” He paused there, frowning at her. “You did, didn’t you?”

  “Not all of it.” She lowered her head so that her curls fell damply across her cheek, then peered up at him from behind them with a sheepish grin. “I fell asleep then, too.”

  “Well, then, this will please you doubly. How about watching the moonrise instead?”

  She frowned. “But it must be nearly…”

  “Midnight,” he filled in. “But it’s a half-moon. They rise at midnight, set at midday, more or less. Very predictable, the moon.”

  “Yes, I love that about Her.”

  He lifted his eyebrows at her personification of the luminary, but other than that, let the comment go. “How quickly can you get dressed?”

  “Five minutes.”