by Syrie James
“Well, it’s aptly named,” Nicole said, unable to tear her gaze away from his handsome face. “It’s very dark and dramatic and . . .” beautiful . . . Like you, Nicole wanted to add. Her face grew hot. An automatic mister came on overhead and she was grateful for its delicate, cooling spray. She stood up, trying to calm her beating heart by inhaling deeply the moist, humid air with its delectable, earthy scents. “I can’t believe this place. It’s so peaceful. It’s like Eden. I can see how it would bring you hours and hours of pleasure.”
He nimbly rose from the ground to stand beside her. “I hoped you’d like it. You did say you enjoyed gardening.” He started down the path and she walked alongside him.
“I’ve loved playing in the dirt since I was a little girl. My mother says that at age three I could describe the face of a ladybug and a caterpillar. My first memory is digging up a flower in our garden with a little toy shovel.”
“Why did you dig it up?”
“I think I wanted to see what was beneath the soil, what made the flower grow. To my delight I found a big, squiggly earthworm, and then a bundle of roots. I was intrigued by the roots and wondered what they were for. Of course by the time I got around to asking my mother about it, the plant had died, and I was devastated.”
He laughed. “An interesting lesson. What else did you like to do when you were a little girl?”
“I liked taking care of animals. I had a snake and a hamster and two cats and a lizard. And I loved reading and math and science. I got so far ahead that I ended up skipping fourth grade.”
“So you were a child genius?”
“Hardly. I just read a lot. I don’t recommend skipping grades to anyone. I was a year younger than all my class-mates which was socially problematic at times. I got through it by focusing on schoolwork. I got straight A’s every semester of my life. I did science fair projects every year from elementary school up through junior high school, focusing on natural wonders at first and then progressing up to medical themes.”
“Medical themes?”
“I was fascinated by the circulatory system, the smell and hearing systems, and what makes the body tick. In fifth grade
“Bravo. It sounds to me as though you would have made an excellent doctor.”
Nicole felt color rise again to her cheeks. Inadvertently, she’d moved into dangerous territory. “I did think about becoming a doctor for a while,” she admitted honestly, “but—I changed my mind. How about you?” she asked, quickly changing the subject. “When did you decide you wanted to be a doctor?”
His smile faded and he didn’t answer right away. “It was so long ago, and the memory is so faded, sometimes I’m not sure if it actually happened to me or if I dreamed it.” He shoved his hands in his pockets as they walked. “Like you, I was very young at the time. Nine years old, if memory serves.”
“What year was it?”
He paused, doing the mental calculation. “1721.”
“1721?” Nicole repeated in amazement.
“I told you—”
“I know, I know, you said you were born in the eighteenth century. I couldn’t quite wrap my brain around that before. Okay. It’s 1721. Go on. Where did you live?”
“I grew up in the county of Lincolnshire. My father was a farmer.”
“A farmer? I thought you said he was a carpenter?”
“In truth, I learned carpentry skills much later. I had seven brothers and sisters—there was always a baby in the cradle at our house—but my favorite was my brother Patrick.”
“Patrick?” Nicole repeated.
Michael’s silent, meaningful nod confirmed it to be the origin of his pseudonym. “Patrick was just a year younger than I was. He was like my twin, my second self. We did everything together. When he was eight years old he became ill with a high fever. My parents didn’t have the money for a doctor, and by the time they finally did send for one it was too late. Patrick died.”
“Oh! I’m sorry.”
“It wasn’t until years later, when I became a doctor myself—and saw how limited the knowledge and resources of the profession actually were—that I came to realize my brother would have probably died that day even if a medical man had been in attendance. But I didn’t know that then. I was overcome with grief. I decided that when I grew up, I’d become a doctor. I’d learn how to heal the sick, and I’d treat people who couldn’t afford to pay.”
“A wonderful goal. Did you achieve it?”
“Eventually. It wasn’t an easy road. We were so poor. My father needed every hand he could get to run the farm. I didn’t mind the farm work. I loved taking care of the animals—the horses in particular. I liked tilling the soil and seeing the crops grow. It instilled in me a love of nature that has stayed with me to this day. But I’d made up my mind: I wanted to become a doctor. I knew my father could never afford to send me away to school. No one in my family even knew how to read or write. So I appealed to the reverend at our church. I was very fortunate. He took a liking to me and offered to finance my education, all the way from grade school through Trinity College, Cam-bridge. I apprenticed with a physician for a few years, and then moved to London where I started my own practice.”
“So your books about Dr. Barclay—”
“In large part, they’re based on my own experiences, yes. I attracted a roster of wealthy and generous patients. That income enabled me to send money home to my parents, and to realize the dream that had motivated me from the start: to fund a small clinic where I could treat the poor in the overcrowded parishes.”
Nicole wanted to ask Michael more about that, but he seemed to be finished with the subject (or was he avoiding something?). He suddenly picked up a nearby plant, saying, “This needs to be repotted. Come on, I’ll show you my hothouse.”
Michael brought her into the small, glassed-in room he called his hothouse. A rush of even warmer, moister air hit her as they stepped inside, where many dozens of potted plants in various phases of bloom sat on long, wooden tables or hung from racks suspended above their heads.
“I rotate these plants into the garden when they’re at the height of bloom,” Michael explained, as he set to work repotting the plant in question.
His repotting process turned out to be far more painstaking and meticulous than her own, revealing a skill and attention to detail that Nicole couldn’t help but admire. Michael began by spreading out newspapers on a wooden work surface, then donned sterile gloves and flame-sterilized a pair of shears with a canister of propane.
“Now I see why so few of my houseplants survive,” Nicole said with a grin. “I usually just pop a plant into a bigger pot and hope for the best.”
“A little extra care goes a long way,” Michael said.
After inspecting, removing dead leaves, and judiciously trimming the plant, Michael gently removed it from its pot,
Watching him work, Nicole was struck by a sensation of timelessness, of observing a procedure that had remained fundamentally the same for many thousands of years. At the same time, as she took in the caring expression on Michael’s face, she was aware of another sensation building within her, and her heart did a little somersault.
How, she wondered, could she have ever feared the extraordinary man before her? When she’d woken up that morning, she’d still thought vampires were a myth. Was it possible that every frightening thing she’d ever read or heard about vampires was a myth as well? This man cared deeply about people. He wrote books she adored. He was skilled and artistic. He made things with his hands. He nurtured things, brought them to life, and made them grow. Michael created life; he didn’t destroy it.
The truth hit her all at once with a swelling shock, like the rising crescendo of an aria, a truth she couldn’t deny. There was only one word to define the feelings welling up inside her, which were stronger and more deeply felt than any she’d ever before experienced. Love.
Was it possible to be in love with someone you’d known for only two days? It must be, Nicole tho
ught. She was in love with Michael, had been falling in love with him a little bit at a time ever since she’d woken up in his living room the day before. Knowing who and what he was, she couldn’t possibly voice
Her reverie was interrupted when Michael turned abruptly, as if sensing her study of him. His eyebrows lifted as he dropped the gardening gloves onto the table, his eyes colliding with hers.
“If you keep looking at me that way,” he said softly, “I’m afraid I won’t be able to keep up my defenses much longer.”
“What defenses are those?” Nicole asked, her blood quickening in her veins.
“The ones I’ve been carefully building up to keep from pulling you into my arms.”
Nicole swallowed hard. “Maybe we don’t need all those . . . defenses anymore.”
“Don’t we?”
“No.” She moved closer. “Michael: you told me that I shouldn’t fear you. I believe it now.”
“Do you?”
“Yes. I see who you are. I’m not afraid anymore.”
For some reason, there was hesitation in his eyes; but he took her hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed it. His breath was warm against her fingertips. “Nicole.” He whispered her name like a caress, then drew her to him and pressed his lips lightly to hers.
Nicole encircled him with her arms, returning the kiss with gentle affection. As the kiss lengthened, it grew more passionate. Nicole felt tiny sparks igniting in every corner of her body. She heard Michael’s deep, staccato breath, the mirror of her own quickening respiration.
There was profound longing in his eyes as he stepped back, one hand sliding up to caress her arm, the other brushing back a lock of hair from her forehead. “I think we’d better stop now.”
“Why?” she asked. “Don’t you want to . . . ?”
“Nicole: there is nothing I’d desire more than to make love to you.”
“Then let’s make love.”
He shook his head. “It’s not a good idea for us to be intimate.”
“Why not?”
“Because I want to keep you safe.”
“Safe? But I am safe. You said you won’t hurt me.”
“I would never hurt you intentionally, my darling. But that doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen.”
“I trust you.”
“I don’t trust myself.” With a grim look he turned, shoved open the hothouse door, and strode back out into the conservatory.
Nicole raced after him, the slightly cooler air of the garden area coming as a relief after the hothouse. Her bare feet pounded on the soft wood chip path as she caught up to him. “Michael: the man who made this beautiful place would never hurt me.”
He said nothing, just kept walking.
“What are you worried about? Is it because physically you’re so much stronger than me?”
“That’s part of it,” he admitted tensely, “but not the biggest part.”
“Then what is it?”
“Can’t you just take my word for it when I tell you that I can’t—that I shouldn’t touch you that way? That—”
“No! I won’t take your word for it. What I feel for you is too strong, and I know you feel it, too. If you can’t kiss me—if you can’t love me—then I want to know the reason why.”
Michael whirled to face her, his blue eyes blazing, hands tense and clenched. “You want to know why? I’ll tell you. Your instincts before—they weren’t wrong, Nicole. You have every reason to fear me.”
“Why?” she said again.
“If you knew more about me, you’d understand.” Heaving a deep sigh, he added, “You asked me how it was that I became a vampire. I can see now: it’s time that I told you.”
CHAPTER 13
“I WAS THIRTY-FIVE YEARS OLD, working as a physician in London,” Michael said as they slowly meandered along the path. “Between my private practice and my clinic, I’d kept so busy over the years that I’d had little time to socialize. But that year I met and fell in love with the daughter of a shipping merchant.”
“Did you marry her?” Nicole asked.
“We were engaged to be married. I had never been happier. And then . . .”
Nicole waited. Michael’s eyes were haunted as he continued.
“I was on my way home one night after visiting a patient in the poor district, walking down a dark, deserted lane, when I saw a young woman lying on the ground. Presuming that she was sick or intoxicated, I bent down to see if I could help her. When I touched her shoulder, her eyes blinked open and—I’ll
“An exquisite sense of what?”
“Pain,” he concluded, a bit too quickly. “I blacked out. I awoke in her rooms a little while later, lying on a filthy bed with her sitting beside me. ‘Aren’t you a handsome one?’ she said with a leer. ‘You’re a keeper, you are.’ I was so weakened from loss of blood that I could hardly move. She said her name was Clarissa and that if I wanted to live, she could help me, but first I would have to drink her blood.”
“Drink her blood?”
“Yes. She drew one long fingernail across her neck, then pressed my mouth hard against the weeping wound. I couldn’t move. I didn’t want to drink her blood, but it was that or suffocate. So I drank. And drank. I suppose that was the last moment I was truly human.”
“Did you die?”
“I don’t know. I don’t really understand what happened to me. I don’t think any of the vampires I’ve met since did either. But one thing is for certain: vampire blood is like a virulent poison. A large enough quantity, ingested when a person has suffered a severe blood loss and is on the point of death, seems
Michael yanked off a large, waxy leaf from a plumeria tree and began to dissect it in his fingers as they walked. “I lost consciousness again and when I awoke late the next afternoon, I still had no inkling of what I’d become. My strength had returned. The harpy was asleep, and I fled her lair.
“I stumbled toward home, increasingly baffled by the changes I perceived in myself. I seemed to break everything I touched. All the sounds of the city seemed louder and more distinct. My vision was so acute, I could see every tuft, barb, and vane in the feathers of a bird sitting atop the highest building. But the warm sun made me feel light-headed and nauseous, so sick that I had to rest in the shade of doorways. Finally I was obliged to wait for dusk before I could continue on. At the same time, I was overwhelmed by a simmering rage and a powerful thirst. I drank from a barrel of rainwater but became violently ill. A strange, enticing essence emanated from the people walking by. To my horror, I realized it was their blood I was smelling—but it wasn’t blood’s familiar scent. It was far more fragrant, potent, and aromatic. I could hear it pumping through their bodies, and I thirsted for it.”
Nicole’s eyes widened. “Can you . . . hear and smell my blood?”
“Yes.”
Nicole glanced away, struggling to quell the uncomfortable feeling that seized hold of her. “You said you gave up feeding on humans long ago,” she said slowly, “so I assume that . . . in the beginning . . . you must have drunk blood from people. And perhaps you . . .”
Michael dropped the leaf he’d mangled, his eyes consumed by guilt. “That first night, driven by a compulsion I could neither explain or control, I attacked a man walking alone by the river. I was astonished by my own strength; he quivered powerless in my hands. I think I drank every drop of his blood and still it didn’t seem to be enough. The worst part was, when I saw what I had done—that I’d killed a defenseless young man—I felt nothing. I just dropped his body in the river and moved on.”
An eerie sense of déjà vu came over her as Nicole recalled the frightening dream she’d had the night before while sleeping in Michael’s bed, and her skin prickled in alarm. “You felt . . . nothing?”
“No. I had dedicated my life to tending the sick—yet I had just committed murder, and I didn’t care. I felt only emptiness, rage, and confusion. I found Clarissa and I shouted, ‘What the hell has happened to me?’ She laughed when she tol
d me. She invited me to live with her, saying it wasn’t so easy for a vampire to find companionship; that’s why she’d made me. I was so filled with blind rage that I . . .”
“What did you do?” Nicole asked.
Michael stopped, crossing his arms over his chest and staring at his feet. “I killed her,” he said in a low, ragged voice. “I grabbed a knife from the table, I slashed her throat, and I watched her bleed to death.”
Nicole caught her breath, struggling against the confluence of emotions running through her. After a moment, she circled around to stand in front of him, placing her hands gently on his muscular biceps. “Michael. It wasn’t your fault. You were under a force far beyond your control that day.”
“That day?” He let out an ironic laugh. “You don’t understand, do you? It wasn’t one day. That was just the beginning of a murderous rampage that went on for nearly fifty years.”
“Fifty years?” Nicole drew her hands back in shock and dismay.
“That’s better,” Michael said bitterly. “You should flinch at my touch. It’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I was a madman, Nicole. I had barely a shred of humanity left, just enough to convince me to abandon my clinic, my practice, and my fiancée. I never saw her or anyone in my family again. It wasn’t just because I was afraid I’d murder them; it was because I’d lost interest in any kind of human connection. I only wanted two things: sex and blood.”
It was the first time she’d ever heard Michael utter the word sex. His dark look and tone, and the way he seemed to interconnect it with the key word that followed—blood—made Nicole’s own blood run cold.
They entered a small, adjoining gallery with a flagstone patio that was adorned with several potted, blooming rose bushes and other plants and trees. Michael dropped onto a wicker chair and bent forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands as he talked, as if he couldn’t bear to look at her. Nicole sank down upright on the edge of the cushioned chaise lounge beside him, listening tensely.
“I rented rooms in a part of the city where I wasn’t known,” Michael went on. “I lived on the outskirts of society, stealing, making love to women, and drinking people’s blood. Blood was like a narcotic; when I drank, I went into a kind of daze. I always wanted more; I couldn’t stop. My victims had to die. How could I let them live, with the knowledge of what