by Syrie James
“I’d give up this accursed excuse for immortality for the chance to be human for just one more day,” he said brokenly. “To be able to eat food, to feel the sunlight on my face, to enjoy the company of other people and not be tormented by the thirst for blood.” Tears studded his eyes as he sat down beside her, taking her hands in his. “Nicole, life is meant to be lived, and you deserve to live yours to the fullest. To marry, to have the children you’ve always wanted. I could never give you that.”
“I don’t want those things anymore. I just want you.”
“You do want them, my darling.” He tenderly stroked her cheeks and wiped away her tears.
Nicole sobbed quietly, knowing deep down that he was right. “But I love you. No one has ever understood me as well you do,” she whispered. “I’ve never been looked at so closely in all my life—and no one has ever made me look so closely at myself.”
“I feel the same,” he said in return, a tear running down his cheek. “I never imagined it could be like this to love someone. But you’re young—so young. You’ll meet another man someday. A good man who will understand and love and treasure you every bit as much as I do. A man who can take you
She shook her head. “How can I leave you here all alone?”
“I’ve been alone for centuries, my darling. I’ve survived. My heart will break to see you go, but you must.”
“No. I can’t do it. What we’ve had is too rare, too wonderful.”
“But it was never meant to last. It’s been four stolen days.” With deep sadness, Michael kissed her hand and added softly, “The road is open, my love. We both know that it’s time for you to go home.”
NICOLE COULDN’T BEAR TO CLOSE HER EYES that night. “I don’t want to sleep away even a moment of this precious time with you,” she said, her heart aching.
She wanted to stay another day at least, but Michael insisted that would only make it harder.
“Every day you’re here is just another day that you’re in danger,” he said, unable to hide his regret.
They spent the night reading aloud to each other from the books in his study. They played piano far into the night—sad, pensive nocturnes that matched their mood. They strolled through his garden conservatory, talking, then lay down on a soft carpet of moss in a bower of orchids and made love slowly, desperately, aware every instant of the risk they were taking but unable to stop themselves, knowing it was the last time.
The next morning, the car rental company arrived and towed away her damaged vehicle. Nicole reserved a flight home that left Denver late that afternoon.
“I’ll drive you to the airport,” Michael insisted.
She packed her suitcase through tear-glazed eyes. Michael loaded her bags into his Range Rover. They were silent for much of the three-hour ride to the Denver airport. Nicole was too choked up to speak.
As they drove, Nicole tried to imagine what her life would be like now. What would she do when she got home? First, hug her beloved cat. Then call her mother, her sister, and her nieces. And then? Then, she promised herself, she would quit her job and move back to Seattle—the city she loved and missed. She’d banished herself long enough from all the things that had once mattered to her. She’d move back in with her friends. She’d play piano again, play with her nieces again, and return to the nursing job that had once so fulfilled her.
Nicole thought of the years ahead and her heart ached. Was this truly the last time she’d ever see Michael’s beloved face? No, she told herself. Somehow, some way, someday she’d see him again—even if just for a week or a day or an hour. The promise of that meeting would help her go on. Life is meant to be lived, he’d said. She knew he was right. She knew what true love was now, and that memory would sustain her. In the meantime, she could read and reread the books of Patrick Spencer with intimate knowledge of the head and heart of the man who wrote them. Through his words on the page, she’d be with him again every day, if only in spirit.
When they arrived at the airport, Michael parked the car and stayed with Nicole while she checked in for her flight,
It was time to say good-bye. The tears Nicole had been holding at bay welled up and spilled down her cheeks. Answering tears glistened in his blue eyes.
“You’ve changed me, you know,” he said, tenderly running his fingers through her hair as if trying to memorize its weight and color.
“How?” she whispered.
“I was used to being alone. I was good at it, resigned to it. But I wasn’t happy. I was closed off, bitter, and angry. I don’t feel angry anymore. I feel . . . alive. Just knowing that this kind of love is possible—that you’re out there somewhere, living your life—that we once had four brilliant days—that will make me smile.”
“You’ve changed me, too,” she said with great emotion. “I see my life more clearly now. I understand what I want and where I need to be. I’m so grateful to you for that. But I’ll never forget you. Not one day will pass that I won’t think of you.”
“Every day, I’ll remember what we had, and wish that you were here beside me.”
“Thank you . . . for everything. For saving my life—twice—on that snowy road. For taking me in. For—” Her voice broke and she couldn’t continue.
He pulled her into his arms and held her tight. “I love you, Nicole.”
“I love you, Michael. I always will.”
He kissed her fiercely. “Have a good life. Be well. Be happy.”
Nicole’s throat was so full she couldn’t reply. She sobbed as he turned and walked away, melted into the crowd, and disappeared through the doors toward the parking garage.
Blinded by tears, Nicole moved into the security line. How does anyone live through such sadness? she wondered, the finality of their separation so profoundly painful that she thought her heart would break in two.
Her suitcase, as she lifted it up onto the moving belt, was heavier than Nicole remembered. When it appeared on the X-ray monitor, she glimpsed a small, rectangular shape inside which the TSA agent studied intently, then let pass by. What was it?
At her gate, the plane was already boarding. Determined to find out what was in her suitcase, Nicole quickly knelt down, lay her case on the floor, unzipped it, and tearfully searched inside. Buried among her clothes, she found what felt like a small wooden box. She brought it out and gasped in surprise.
It was a music box. The music box. The one with the exquisite red rose and music motif.
MICHAEL TURNED ONTO THE HIGHWAY, staring through the windshield with tear-glazed eyes. His CD played, the lyrics and melody of his favorite song so beautiful that he thought his aching heart might burst.
What was he going to do now? How could he go on, day after day, year after year, with only the memory of her to console him?
As he drove, he pictured her in his mind. How could he keep that image fresh and alive as the decades, the centuries unfolded?
An idea began to form. An idea for a love story that featured a captivating, green-eyed, red-headed heroine—the kind of woman he’d only been able to conjure in his imagination before, but now could see and hear quite clearly in his head. Yes. Yes. Work had always been a solace to him, a distraction from pain and loneliness. He welcomed that distraction now. In writing about her, he would have the joy of bringing her to life, hearing her voice, and being with her again every day and every night—forever. It was not the same, it could never be the same, but it was all he had, and he would devote himself to it.
He knew what he would call the book. He’d call it Nocturne.
THROUGH MISTY EYES, Nicole ran her hands lovingly over the smooth varnished surface of the music box, then lifted the lid and listened to its beautiful tune.
It was such a precious gift, and knowing that Michael had made it with his own hands made it doubly precious. Had he written her a note? There was none inside the music box. She looked through her things again, thinking a note might have fallen into her suitcase, and discovered a parcel she didn’t recognize.
It was the size and shape of a book, neatly wrapped in brown paper. Had Michael given her one of his novels? she wondered, her heart skipping a beat.
As the last boarding call was announced, Nicole zipped her suitcase, raced up to the ticket agent, and hurtled down the jetway, boarding the plane with the parcel in hand. After stowing her luggage above, she dropped into her seat by the window and unwrapped the gift.
Her breath caught. It was indeed a book—a very, very old book—of Scottish songs and poems. The type and spelling were very old-fashioned, the leather spine was soft from frequent readings, and its pages were brown and tattered with age.
Inside the front cover was an inscription in Michael’s handwriting. As she read it, her heart seized and her eyes filled with fresh tears.
My darling Nicole,
My red, red rose,
This is one of my most treasured books. I know you’ll appreciate it as much as I have. I hope when you listen to the music box, it will make you smile.
Have a good life, my bonnie lass. Look forward, not back. Be happy. Have no regrets. Fall in love again—do it for me. And know that I will love you until the end of time.
Michael
A page of the book had been marked by a scrap of paper. As the plane pulled away from the gate, tears streamed down Nicole’s cheeks as she turned to the designated page and read:
O My Luve’s Like a Red, Red Rose
by Robert Burns (1759-1796)
O, my Luve’s like a red, red rose,
That’s newly sprung in June.
O, my Luve’s like the melodie,
That’s sweetly play’d in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I,
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun!
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I AM DEEPLY INDEBTED to the following people for their help during the creation of this book:
Mary Ann Elder, devoted horsewoman, for her enthusiasm, generosity, and patience in providing so many invaluable details on every subject from the care and training of horses to blizzards, barns, Colorado winters, road clearing, wild animals, medical emergencies, and sports. I’m especially grateful for her verbal inspiration in helping to design the layout of Michael’s property, her descriptions of Colorado in all seasons, and her suggestion regarding an unexpected use of horsehair. Mary Ann has the soul of a poet, and I will be forever grateful to her.
My cousin Adam Rosenberg, DVM, for his time and knowledge on a wide range of topics including Colorado wildlife, blood banks, backup generators, communications
My cousin Jessica Rosenberg, RN, PNP, CNS, for giving me such wonderful insight into her particular specialty in the medical profession, for sharing her expertise and personal experiences, and for helping me to craft the crisis at the heart of Nicole’s character. I can never thank her enough.
My friend Michelle Shuffett, MD, for her invaluable input with regard to all the injuries and treatments in the book, and her careful review of all pages with medical content. Thank you!
My friend Cynthia Bosworth, for the Audrey Catburn story that made me laugh, and the phrase about the face of a ladybug and a caterpillar.
My brother, Mel Astrahan, PhD, computer guru, and horseman extraordinaire, for so generously coming to my rescue when my computer died, sharing his passion for bitless horseback riding and the Indian Hackamore, all the memories with Posse and Pockets, and for teaching me how to ride bareback.
My sister-in-law, Cheri Astrahan, for the war stories from her sojourn in the world of medical insurance claims.
My agent, Tamar Rydzinski, for her tireless support and encouragement, and for insisting—immediately, when I gave her no more than a paragraph synopsis—that this was the book I was supposed to write.
My publishers, Georgina Levitt and Roger Cooper, for seeking me out and for trusting me to write the book that was in my heart; Francine LaSala for reminding me that sometimes less is more; Chrisona Schmidt for her light yet precise copy-edit; Annie Lenth for her diligent work getting the text and page layout just right; and, of course, the rest of the wonderful Vanguard team; thank you so much for the beautiful cover, which really knocked my socks off!
My son, Ryan, for inspiring me to write from two points of view, and for his usual thought-provoking feedback, delivered in such a timely manner, while incurring much loss of sleep.
My husband, Bill, for his loving attention and devotion when I needed a sounding board, for being so understanding and supportive of the vampiric hours and habits I was obliged to keep during the writing process, for helping me find the music, and for suggesting his favorite song—a song that was so perfect, it moved me to tears.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I FELL IN LOVE WITH Nicole and Michael while writing this novel. They became so real to me that I feel as if they truly do exist, and this story really happened. I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if, while driving around that particular bend of Highway 40 high in the Colorado mountains, I was to actually see Michael’s beautiful house perched up there, nestled between the pines.
I hope you found this book exciting and romantic. It came to be because the wonderful team at Vanguard Press, who’d read my novel Dracula, My Love—which features a dashing, highly accomplished, and charismatic Dracula—asked me to write a romantic vampire novel for them. I couldn’t resist the offer.
It was the first time I’d agreed to write a book without knowing what it was going to be about. But almost immediately,
For some reason, I just knew the story had to take place on a mountaintop in Colorado. I delved into my research. The challenge was to create an entire novel that has only two characters and takes place in a single location, and yet keeps the sexual tension, twists, turns, and surprises coming. Before I knew it, the story and characters began to appear fully formed in my head. The tale poured out of me, as if I was downloading it from the universe—or as if it was a true story and I was simply recording it.
The most satisfying part of any story, for me, is the character’s arc. No matter the genre, I think the main characters must go through some kind of learning curve. I like to begin with a haunting, deeply felt inner wound that has in some way prevented the character from moving forward in his or her life. Over the course of the story, they grow and change, and come out on the other side transformed and ready to tackle life’s challenges with new insight and perspective. I believe that Nicole and Michael did that for each other; that the four magical days they spent together have changed them forever.
I loved every minute of the time I spent with Michael and Nicole. I got so deeply inside their heads and hearts that I feel
But I’ll tell you a secret: in my mind, Nicole and Michael’s story is far from over. I fully believe that they’ll see each other again, and not just for a week, or a day, or an hour.
Because I believe in the power of true love.
True love always finds a way.
NOCTURNE
by Bestselling Author Syrie James
AUTHOR QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS
1. Question: One of the surprising elements of the book is Michael’s amazing relationship with his horses, even though he is a predator. Though Michael is confident that he can restrain his true nature around the horses, why can’t he have that same willpower around Nicole?
Answer: Michael acknowledges that his horses might instinctively see him as a predator, which is why he’s had to work so hard to learn to communicate with them. During the years when Michael forced himself to feed exclusively on animals, he would have taken blood from any other creature in the forest before he would have touched one of his horses, because they were his friends. It is this emotional connection, founded on Michael’s innate sense of decency, that hel
ps to keep his primal instincts in check, both with regard to horses and human beings—but as we’ve seen, that control could falter in a heartbeat if he’s enraged by a dangerous wild animal. Michael’s problem in Nicole’s case is further complicated in that it’s not just about his thirst for blood; the intense passion of lovemaking can also cause him to lose control.
2. Question: You must have had a lot of fun including real historical personages, such as the Scottish poet, Robert Burns, and Charles Dickens as friends of Michael in his past life. How did you
Answer: That was fun! I didn’t really plan which historical characters to include in the story—they chose me. I wanted Michael to have a signed novel in his library. It had to be a famous British writer from the Regency or early Victorian era, but it couldn’t be Jane Austen or one of the Brontës, whose books were published anonymously during their lifetime. I didn’t know it was going to be Dickens until Nicole pulled the book off the shelf, and then it was fun to invent how and when Michael knew him in a way that was historically accurate.
As for Robert Burns—I asked my husband to please help me find a wonderful, romantic song to serve as the theme for the novel that could also be played on a music box. Bill played the CD My Luve is Like a Red, Red Rose, and it was so perfect I immediately started crying. When I learned more about Robert Burns, I decided that Michael had to know him, and I added a jaunt to Scotland to Michael’s backstory.
3. Question: Music plays a major role in Nocturne. In fact, a major turning point in the novel is when Nicole and Michael really connect as they discuss Chopin’s Nocturne and then play a duet together. How and why do you use music in your writing? And do you think music can be used to highlight or emphasize important themes in the novel?