by Syrie James
“Did you ever make any other . . . beings like yourself?”
Michael leaned back in his chair and shook his head. “No. As angry and miserable as I was, I still couldn’t bring myself to doom anyone else to my fate. Finally, one day when I was in Salzburg, I met a European vampire who was different from the rest. He was a handsome fellow. He looked a few years younger than I was, but in actuality he was much older—he said he was born in the fifteenth century. He was cultured, sophisticated, and intelligent, and appeared to have some skills and limitations that were different from mine. He took one look at me and said it was a shame that I was wasting my gift. ‘Gift?’ I said, rather mockingly as I recall. ‘This existence is a curse.’ He said he begged to differ. He told me he had learned to discipline himself, to rein in his desires and his thirst—that any vampire could do it, it just took time and required enormous self-control. With nothing but time, he said, there were no bounds to the ways in which a man could expand his mind and talents.”
“Who was he?”
“I don’t know. I think he said his name was Wagner—no relation to the musician Wagner. When I went looking for him the next night, he was gone. But his message stayed with me. I looked in the mirror and decided I couldn’t imagine going on in this debauched way forever. I’d had enough, and I determined to fix myself.”
“What did you do?”
“I returned to Britain and began a new life. I spent a few years in Scotland where I practiced being around people in moderation—it was very difficult at first—until I could do so without being tempted. I restricted myself to drinking the blood of animals, even though I detested it. Then I moved back to England and lived in the countryside. I tried writing for the first time, although I didn’t sell anything. I found steady work by apprenticing myself to a carpenter, where I could labor indoors and at night.”
“So that’s where you learned your woodworking skills.”
“Yes. I enjoyed it immensely. But in the end, it was not my profession of choice. Finally, in about 1825, when I was certain I could be around people and blood without flinching, I began to practice medicine again.”
“You practiced medicine again?” Nicole repeated, surprised. “Oh! Now I see. That’s how you met Dickens.”
He nodded. “Country villages were desperately in need of good doctors, and so were the inhabitants of London when I moved back. None of my previous acquaintances were still alive to recognize me, and not much had changed in medical science since I’d been trained. I had already posed as a normal human for many years with success. Being a physician was—I won’t
Nicole stretched out on the lounge and lay back with a smile. “Let me guess: bleeding.”
“Exactly. Looking back now, I believe I saved a lot of patients.”
“I’ll bet you did.”
“For a long while I was content. I was living a chaste and clean existence, truly helping people, doing the kind of work I’d dreamed of doing as a young man, before I was . . .” His voice trailed off and his eyes grew bleak. “Then one day it all ended.”
“What happened?”
Michael stood up again and paced back and forth across the flagstones. “I had a wealthy patient—an attractive married woman whose husband was a lord, an important man in Parliament. She sent for me and as usual I went to her home, up to her bedroom. I suppose she must have fancied me. She admitted she wasn’t ill and basically threw herself at me. It had been so long since I’d been with a woman, that I . . . I was unable to refuse. I made love to her, and at the height of passion . . .” Michael stopped and turned away, unable to continue.
Nicole tensed apprehensively, expecting the worst. “Did you kill her?”
“I don’t know. I may have. All I remember is that I was overcome by thirst and couldn’t stop myself from tasting her blood. The next thing I knew, she was whimpering, as white as
“Oh my God.”
“People were shocked and thrilled by vampire legends in England at that time, which had inspired several stories and popular plays. She had seen me transform into a bloodthirsty beast and so had he. I knew my career in London was over—in Great Britain for that matter. So I fled. I gathered every penny I had, packed my most prized possessions, and booked passage on the first ship sailing from London harbor. It happened to be heading for America. And that’s how I came to be here.”
“What year was this?”
“It was the autumn of 1860. The trip took forty-four days. I fed from the rats and livestock onboard. I arrived in New York semi-starved, with no real idea what I wanted to do. I worked as a carpenter for a while. A few months later, seven southern states seceded from the Union. Four more soon followed. By summer, your country was embroiled in the Civil War. When the news came in about the Union’s terrible defeat at the first battle of Bull Run, I wondered if I could help. Did I dare work as a physician again? I told myself that my only lapse in all those years had been when I was with a woman, so perhaps it would be all right. There would be no women on the battlefield. So I offered my services as a doctor for the Union Army.”
“Oh!” Nicole said. “I should have guessed that you lived through that, too.”
“Everything you’ve read in my novels was inspired by my experience in one fashion or another. Only the love stories were fiction. Anyway, I served in the army for two years. I managed to The Wind of Dawn—when Dr. Robinson so ‘heroically’ killed the Confederate soldiers who descended on his medical tent?”
Nicole nodded.
“That wasn’t fiction, and there was nothing heroic about it. Those Rebs weren’t there to kill us. They were exhausted and starving and asked me for water. For water. I went to get a cup, when one of my patients—a decorated officer and a friend—grabbed his pistol from beneath his cot and shot one of the Confederate soldiers point blank. The Rebs drew what weapons they possessed and descended on the wounded man. I lashed out in fury. When I next looked around, every one of those Rebels lay dead on the ground. I had slaughtered them.”
“Surely you don’t blame yourself for killing those men,” Nicole said slowly. “They were the enemy, and you were defending your friend.”
“I do blame myself. Those men didn’t have to die. They had nothing but knives and muskets, which I could have knocked away before they had a chance to use them. I could have talked them down; I’d done it plenty of times before. But that’s not the worst part. There’s more to the story. There was so much blood—the tent was awash in it—and I lost all sense of myself. I dragged the first dead man outside and drank every drop of blood in his body. Once I started I couldn’t stop. Like a demon, I fed off all six of those men until I was full and bloated.”
“Oh!” was all Nicole could manage.
Michael’s face was consumed with guilt, his voice soft and low. “That’s why I left the army. That’s why I moved out west. I had to disappear again, to start over in a new, less populated place far, far away. When I saw this land, I knew I’d found my sanctuary. It was miles from anywhere. Down the back side of this ridge is a deep, protected valley that lies under cloud cover most of the year, which meant I could spend a decent amount of daytime outside. I homesteaded the property and built a cabin and . . . you know the rest.”
“Yes.”
Michael stopped a few feet away from the chaise lounge where she lay and looked at her, his expression grim. “Have I shocked and horrified you?”
Nicole swallowed hard. Parts of the story were incredibly shocking and horrible. Some inner voice warned her that she ought to recoil in terror from the demon he claimed to be. But her heart spoke louder, refusing to be afraid. Michael struggled on a daily basis to deal with powerful thirsts and dark temptations that she couldn’t even begin to imagine—yet it seemed that, today, he had learned to control those urges. “The parts that shock and horrify all happened a very long time ago,” Nicole said quietly.
“Some things don’t change, even with the passage of time.”
“I think they
do change.” Nicole rose and moved to stand before him, earnestly taking one of his hands in hers. “You’ve changed a great deal, Michael. Yes, you’ve done terrible things, but you also worked hard to rise above terrible adversity and created a purposeful life for yourself. For most of that life, you dedicated yourself to helping others. You’ve done so much
“It’s kind of you to say so. But at heart I’m still that monster who craves blood; a demon who, centuries ago, murdered countless people.”
Nicole reached up and rested her hand gently on Michael’s cheek. “No. At heart, you’re not a monster at all. Not anymore. You’re a man. An extraordinarily talented, dedicated, sensitive, caring man. A man with a good heart.”
Michael’s hands slid around to clasp her back, pulling her to him. “Haven’t you been listening?” he cried desperately. “Haven’t you heard anything I’ve said?”
Nicole felt as if her very soul would melt under the compassion and yearning she saw in his eyes. “I have. It only helped me see who you really are. I’m not afraid, Michael. I want to prove to you that you’re no monster. I want you to prove it to yourself.”
“Nicole . . .”
“No more talking,” she insisted softly. “Just kiss me.”
CHAPTER 14
NICOLE DIDN’T WAIT FOR HIM to comply. She pressed her lips against his, infusing her kiss with all the affection that welled within her. Michael’s resistance crumbled. He returned her kiss immediately and with rising passion as their bodies came together and clung.
A primitive force seemed to be controlling Nicole’s hands and body as she pressed herself to him, swallowing his kisses feverishly, each one only increasing her thirst for more. One hand roamed the hard muscles of his back, the other twisted into his silky brown hair. Soon, she felt desperate to heighten their contact. The clothing that separated them was an intrusion ; she yearned to feel his bare flesh against hers.
With trembling fingers Nicole grabbed hold of the hem of his T-shirt and began to tug it upward. Michael finished the
Nicole took a step back, panting, and ripped her own shirt over her head. In seconds the rest of their clothing was gone and Michael was lowering her onto the soft cushion of the chaise lounge, his hard, naked body pressed tightly against hers, his mouth coming to hers in a hungry caress.
They didn’t speak, communicating only through touch, taste, sight, and sound. As they kissed, Michael’s hand glided up to cup her breast, shaping and kneading it, his thumb gently seeking and prodding her nipple. Desire spun through her like electricity. Nicole’s hand slipped down to knead the flesh below his navel, and then moved lower, her fingers seeking and massaging, giving him the pleasure that he was giving her. She both heard and felt his soft moan. Then his lips left hers and followed where his fingertips had been, taking her nipple deeply in his mouth and rolling it back and forth with his tongue. Nicole’s back arched in answer to the caress. Her blood seemed to be spinning through her veins, her pulse pounding in every pore of her body.
His mouth still at her breast, Michael’s hand traveled down her belly to the private sanctum between her inner thighs. With rising pleasure, Nicole received the deliberate attention of his fingertips, her own hands exploring the hard knit muscles of
The magic he worked with that tongue sent her into a delirium, filling her with liquid, molten need, bringing her almost to ecstasy. Fiercely she grabbed his muscled biceps, urging him upward, silently letting him know that she wanted him, now. In a fraction of a heartbeat he was above her again, spreading her legs with his body, and inside her, filling her, moving above and within her.
Nicole felt the thud of his pulse against her breasts. Her head fell back, exposing her throat to his lips. He planted tiny, hot kisses there, moving down the length of her neck. Then he paused. Nicole heard his ragged breath against her ear and she briefly froze, pulse racing, holding her breath, wondering.
But his teeth didn’t touch her tender and pliant flesh. Instead, his mouth quickly returned to hers and he buried himself more deeply within her. Nicole’s body answered, quivering with anticipation and then shuddering deeply each time he slowly thrust himself into her. Together, they moved to an unearthly rhythm. Deep down inside her womanhood she ached and throbbed. Her mind emptied. She could think of nothing but the need to give herself to the rising fire within her. Just as she heard his passionate exclamation, she gasped with pleasure, her body exploding into a million fragments of white hot sensation.
AFTERWARD, THEY LAY CLASPED in each other’s arms on the chaise lounge, faces almost touching, the moist air of the conservatory enfolding them in its luxurious warmth. Michael’s
“Do you know what I ask myself every time I look at you?”
“No, what?” she asked breathlessly.
“I ask myself: is she real? Or is she just another one of my fantasies?”
“I’m as real as you are.”
“Nicole, you are so lovely in every way, you couldn’t be more perfect if I had conjured you out of thin air.” Michael caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. “I can’t stop touching you. I’ve lived so long in my imagination, I still can’t believe that . . .”
“It’s never been like that for me,” Nicole whispered with similar wonder. “And,” she added with a soft, slow smile, “may I point out that you didn’t bite me.”
“No. I didn’t.”
“That’s a little victory for you, isn’t it? That you could make love and not lose control?”
“I suppose it is.”
Hesitantly, she asked, “Were you tempted?”
“Yes.”
Her brow furrowed with concern as she looked at him. “How tempted? Was it . . . difficult for you not to . . . ?”
Michael moved on top of her, his eyes smoldering as he wrapped her more tightly in his embrace. “Shall we try it again and find out . . . at a more leisurely pace this time?”
LATER, AFTER THEY DRESSED, Michael brought her home from the conservatory in the same manner in which they had arrived.
Setting her down in the mud room, Michael shut the door with his foot, his arms still around her, gazing enraptured into those bright green eyes, not wanting to let her go.
“What?” she said, her smile meeting his.
“Nothing. I’m just . . . memorizing the moment.”
He was still reeling with elation from the beautiful, incredible thing that had just happened between them. He’d told Nicole everything and she hadn’t been afraid; she’d still wanted him. Centuries ago, when he’d come to terms with his nature and made his choice of how to live, he’d given up the hope of ever being able to love a woman again. Nicole had helped him see that it was still possible. He’d just made love to her twice, and he hadn’t harmed her. It was like a miracle.
Michael couldn’t stop smiling as they hung up their heavy winter garments, couldn’t take his eyes off her as they made their way upstairs. He could admit it now—if only to himself: Nicole was everything he’d ever dreamed of in a woman. He loved her, had loved her from the first moment he saw her, and every moment in her presence since had only reaffirmed it. Was it possible that his love for her was responsible for silencing the demon that was inside him? Would it remain silent a little while longer, so he could enjoy and love her while she was here?
He knew she would only stay two more days; he couldn’t expect more than that. He knew, too, that she was still holding something back from him. Something haunted her from her past, and he suspected that it had to do with her fear of blood. He hoped that eventually she would open up to him.
Taking Nicole by the hand, he brought her to the curio cabinet where he displayed his music boxes.
“You asked about this yesterday,” Michael said, opening the cabinet and taking out the box she’d admired—the one inlaid with the red rose design and a scroll of music. “I thought you might like to look at it.”
Michael wound up the music box and handed it to her. Reverently, Nicole studied the detailed, colorfu
l mosaic of the lid, running her fingers over its lacquered surface.
“It’s truly beautiful. The red rose is perfectly done—it looks so real, I can almost smell its fragrance.”
He smiled, flattered, and watched as she lifted the lid. Inside, the high-quality brass cylindrical mechanism began to play its tune.
“It’s lovely,” Nicole said, listening, “but I don’t recognize it.”
“Don’t you? It’s one of my favorite songs. Come, I’ll play the CD for you.”
They retreated to his study, where he built a fire in the hearth. Retrieving a CD from his collection, he popped it into his stereo and set it to play the appropriate track. It was a tender, old-fashioned Scottish song, sung by a gorgeous tenor to the accompaniment of a full orchestra.
O, my Love’s like a red, red rose,
That’s newly sprung in June.
O, my Love’s like the melody,
That’s sweetly played in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in love am I,
And I will love thee still, my dear,
Till all the seas run dry.
The song went on with simple but heartrending elegance, describing a love that was fresh and everlasting. As Nicole listened, Michael strode up and wrapped his arms around her from behind, pressing his lips against the radiant abundance of her long, flaming hair. Her waist was so small; she felt so delicate, feminine, and breakable beneath his hands. Nicole leaned her head back against his shoulder and sighed as the music and lyrics of the full-bodied, melodious tune filled the room. He’d heard it at least a thousand times, yet it was so beautiful and heartfelt that it always gave him a rush of pleasure. Nicole seemed to share his reaction, for when the song ended, he saw tears brimming in her eyes.