Night's Kiss

by Amanda Ashley

All the appliances in the kitchen were recent additions, purchased a few months back when he had been thinking of selling the house and finding a new dwelling place.

  He smiled faintly as he left the kitchen and headed toward his lair. Tomorrow night he would take Brenna Flanagan shopping for a new wardrobe, and then he would take her out and show her a world she had never seen before.

  He paused in the hallway, then turned right and went into his library. Pulling the book on ancient myths and legends from the shelf, he thumbed through the pages.

  He had indeed changed history, he mused as he replaced the book on the shelf and walked toward his lair.

  There was no longer any mention of Brenna Flanagan being burned at the stake. There was no longer any mention of her at all.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 6

  Brenna woke with a start. She stared around the room, forgetting for the moment where she was. And then she remembered. She was in Roshan DeLongpre's house. In his bedroom. In his bed. Even though he said he didn't sleep in it, it was still his bed.

  Vampire. The word whispered through her mind. Growing up, she had been taught that vampires were soulless monsters, merciless creatures who preyed on the living, draining them of blood or, worse, turned them into creatures like themselves. Granny O'Connell had said they were fiends of the worst kind.

  Brenna had never met one, of course, nor had she truly believed they existed, any more than she had believed in werewolves or elves or any of the other fey folk of ancient legend and myth until she met Roshan. He was very real, though he didn't seem like a ravening monster. He had saved her from an agonizing death, and she would be forever grateful for that. Less grateful that he had brought her here, to this time and place.

  Why hadn't he just taken her to another village, someplace where no one knew her? How was she to find her way in this new world where everything was strange and everyone was a stranger?

  Pressure on her bladder sent her into the bathroom. She regarded the toilet for several moments before finding the courage to hike up her skirts, lower her drawers, and sit on the cold slippery seat. Did everyone in this century have an indoor privy? Who had ever thought of such a thing? It seemed rather indecent, somehow, having it right inside the house, but then she thought of all the cold winter nights when she'd had to bundle up and go outside. Perhaps an indoor privy wasn't such a bad idea after all.

  Rising, she put her clothing in order, then turned and flushed the toilet. She jumped a little at the noise it made, then stood there, staring at the water as it swirled in the bowl and then disappeared, carrying the scrap of toilet paper with it. A moment later, the bowl was full of clean water.

  Amazing!

  A loud rumbling in her stomach reminded her that she hadn't eaten since yesterday, and that yesterday had been three hundred and thirteen years ago. No wonder she was hungry!

  She ran her fingers through her hair, which was badly tangled, and then tried to smooth the wrinkles from her dress. A glance out the window showed that the sun was high in the sky. Impossible as it seemed, she had slept the morning away, she, who had always risen with the sun.

  With a shake of her head, Brenna unlocked the door and padded down the stairs. There was no reason to be cautious or quiet, she decided. Since the sun was up,

  Roshan DeLongpre was undoubtedly sleeping the sleep of the dead.

  She thrust the grisly thought from her mind as her stomach again sounded its displeasure.

  She paused at the bottom of the staircase, her nostrils filling with a wonderful aroma. Following the scent, she went into the room with all the cupboards. An odd-looking contraption sat on a long counter. A large cup and a spoon sat beside it. She picked up the spoon and turned it over in her hands. Shiny and white, it was unlike any spoon she had ever seen before.

  Lifting the glass pot, she filled the cup. Thinking it was tea, she took a sip.

  It definitely wasn't tea. It was too strong, and too bitter. Grimacing, she set it aside, wondering how something that smelled so good could taste so bad.

  Glancing around the room, she noticed one of the cupboard doors was open. When she went to close it, she saw to her surprise that the shelves, which had been empty the day before, were now stocked with an odd-looking assortment of boxes and bags.

  She pulled them out, examining each one. Corn Flakes. Rice Krispies. Oatmeal.

  Bread. Salt and pepper. Spaghetti. Spaghetti sauce. Pure Cane Sugar. 100% Grated Romano Cheese. Boysenberry Jam. Bisquick. Gold Medal Flour. Skippy Creamy Peanut Butter. Some of the words were peculiar and made no sense to her. Others she recognized.

  She studied the boxes for several minutes, her stomach growling all the while. She wasn't sure what most of the items were, but she figured Roshan must have bought them for her, since he didn't eat.

  Secure in the knowledge that he wouldn't be rising for several hours, she poked around in the kitchen, touching everything. There was a sink similar to the one in the bathroom upstairs, and beside the sink was a bag with a picture of a smiling cat and the words Tabby Cat Food.

  She smiled at Roshan's thoughtfulness even as she wondered what Morgana would think of food that came out of a sack.

  When Brenna came to a pair of large double doors, she opened one, gasped with surprise when she felt a breath of cool air against her face. Peering inside, she saw more odd-shaped boxes. One said milk, one said eggs, another said butter. She placed her hand against the one that said milk, surprised at how cold it was. She opened a drawer in the bottom and saw apples and lettuce, potatoes, onions, tomatoes, and cucumbers.

  Closing that door, she opened the other one. More cold air brushed against her cheek. This cold cupboard held chocolate ice cream and funny-looking little packages. She picked one up. It was as hard as ice. The label said chicken breasts. Another one said New York steak. Another said center-cut pork chops.

  Brenna frowned. She had never seen meat quite like this before.

  With a shake of her head, she closed the door and continued exploring. She discovered a package that said "paper plates" in one of the cupboards, along with paper towels and small containers that read "plastic knives," "plastic spoons," and "plastic forks." They were made of the same strange material as the spoon beside the cup. She found pots and pans in one of the bottom cupboards.

  Growing hungrier by the minute, she opened the package of bread, spread butter on two slices, then looked at the container of jam. After several tries, she managed to get it open and she spread a thick coat of jam on the bread. She poured the contents of the cup down the sink, then filled the cup with milk.

  She quickly wolfed down both slices and drank the milk, which didn't taste anything like the milk she was used to.

  With her hunger appeased, she wandered through the house again, running her hands over the sofa and chair, marveling at the fine material, at the thick dark green carpet that stretched from wall to wall. She dug her toes into the softness, thinking how much better it felt than the raw plank floor of her cottage back home.

  Going upstairs, she went into the bathroom and turned on the water in the bathing tub. She watched the tub fill with hot water, thinking again what a miracle it was.

  Smiling with anticipation, she removed her apron, stepped out of her dress, shift, and drawers. Taking the shampoo from the cabinet, she put it within easy reach and then stepped into the tub, sighing as warm water swirled around her ankles. Sitting down, she let the tub fill with water, turned off the faucet, then lay back and closed her eyes.

  She woke, shivering, to find that the water had grown cool. She quickly washed her hair and then her body, rinsed the soap away, and stepped carefully out of the tub, which was quite slippery.

  Grabbing a towel from the shelf, she wrapped it around her hair. When that was done, she wrapped a second towel around her body; then, kneeling beside the bathtub, she washed her clothes. She drained the water, then filled it again to rinse her clothes. Frowning, she looked around for a place to hang them. In the
end, she draped them over the rod above the tub. Removing the towel from her head, she shook out her hair, then ran her fingers through it as best she could.

  Going back into the bedroom, she stood in the middle of the floor. Until her clothes were dry, she had nothing to wear unless… Did she dare?

  Worrying her lower lip between her teeth, she went to the chest across from the bed and rummaged through the drawers until she found a large white garment with a round neck and short sleeves. When she held it up, the hem fell almost to midcalf. Still, it was better than wearing a towel. She slipped it over her head, her nostrils filling with a fresh, clean smell, and a faint masculine scent she recognized as DeLongpre's. The material was soft and warm against her bare skin.

  Going downstairs, she went into the room with all the books, browsing through them until she found a Bible that looked similar to the one she was used to. Carrying it to the chair, she sat down and began to read, grateful once again that Granny O'Connell had known how to read and had insisted that Brenna learn, too.

  She read for a while, then went into the kitchen. Taking an apple from the cold cupboard, she poured milk into the cup, and then carried both outside. Sitting on a stone bench, she admired the shrubs, the changing leaves on the trees, the smooth, green grass. She wondered if Roshan cared for the grounds himself, though she could not visualize him cutting the grass in the middle of the night. It seemed out of character for a vampire to have such a well-tended yard. It was easier to imagine him living in a run-down house surrounded by gaunt trees and dying shrubs.

  Birds flitted from branch to branch, their songs lifting her spirits. She nibbled at the apple, which was crisp and sweet. Lifting the cup, she took a drink, thinking again that it tasted far different from the milk at home. But then, here in this strange world, everything was different.

  She took a leisurely stroll through the gardens, then went back into the book room. After opening the curtains, she sat down in the chair and began to read again, soothed by the lyrical passages of the Psalms. Sometime later, Morgana padded into the room.

  "Morgana, where have you been?" Brenna asked as the cat leaped onto her lap.

  The cat blinked at her, arched her back, then curled up and went to sleep.

  From somewhere outside, a clock chimed the hour. Four o'clock. Putting the Bible aside, Brenna stroked the cat's fur and then, feeling suddenly sleepy herself, she rested her head against the back of the chair and closed her eyes.

  And that was how Roshan found them when he rose an hour later.

  He gazed down at Brenna, amazed again by her resemblance to Atiyana, at the pale beauty of her skin, the way her hair spread out over his T-shirt, like a splash of bright red blood. She looked incredibly warm and sexy curled up in the chair, and yet she looked innocent and vulnerable at the same time. It was a potent combination, arousing his desire, his hellish thirst, and a strong urge to protect her all at the same time.

  She stirred, a sleepy sound emerging from her throat. He groaned softly as his nostrils filled with the scent of soap and the warm musky scent of woman.

  Of prey.

  He imagined himself bending over her, sweeping her hair away from her slender neck, burying his fangs in the soft, sweet flesh just below her ear.

  He was so intent on fighting his hunger that it took him a moment to realize that she was awake and staring up at him, her face suddenly pale, her eyes wide with horror.

  He turned away from her, his hands clenched as he fought his hunger and his desire. It took all his considerable self-control to keep from drawing her into his embrace, from slowly seducing her until she was under his spell, her will subjugated to his. Only his fear of incurring her hatred, and the even stronger fear that, once he had satisfied his desire for her flesh he would be unable to resist giving in to his desire for her blood, kept him from making his fantasy a reality.

  When he turned to face her, all his hungers were again under control.

  She was still staring up at him.

  He took a step toward her.

  She lifted one hand. "Stay away from me," she warned.

  Roshan shook his head. "Let's not go through this again. How many times do I have to tell you that I won't hurt you before you believe me?"

  "I know not. Perhaps when I look at you and I do not see your fangs, or see the hunger in your eyes."

  He lifted both hands in a gesture of surrender. "You're perfectly safe."

  She looked skeptical.

  "Why don't you go upstairs and get dressed? We need to go shopping."

  "Shopping?"

  "For clothes. Fashions have changed in the last three hundred years or so."

  She glanced around the room. "So have dwellings."

  He grinned at her. "Yes. I guess I'd better show you how things work."

  She studied him a moment, then nodded.

  He watched her walk out of the room, noting the gentle sway of her hips, the way his T-shirt seemed to cling to her body even though it was many sizes too large.

  Going into the living room, he paced the floor, her image strong in his mind. She had courage, his little witch. Her fear of him was a palpable thing, yet she had been ready to take him on.

  He heard her footsteps on the stairs a few minutes later, and then she was there, walking toward him, her hair falling over her shoulders in glorious disarray. It occurred to him that he had forgotten to buy her a hairbrush and a comb, as well as a toothbrush. He would remedy that tonight.

  He frowned when he saw she was wearing her boots, but carrying her dress over one arm.

  "I washed my clothes earlier," she said. "They are still damp."

  A wave of his hand brought the fire in the hearth to life. Bringing two of the kitchen chairs into the living room, he draped her dress over the back of one, her underwear over the other.

  "I'll show you around the house while we wait for your clothes to dry. So," he mused, "where to start?" He glanced around the room. "Here," he said. "This is a television set."

  She regarded him warily.

  Roshan picked up the remote. "You turn it on like this," he said, showing her which button to push.

  Her eyes widened as the screen flickered to life and an old I Love Lucy rerun appeared.

  "What sorcery is this?" she asked softly. "How did you capture all those people in that little box?" She took a step closer. "Have you captured their souls? Why is everything in black and white?"

  "And you change the channels like this."

  Her eyes grew even wider as he flipped through the channels, the black and white images giving way to color. Cowboys and Indians, old sitcoms, country music videos, news, weather, and sports. He tried to explain what she was seeing, the difference between news programs, which informed watchers of the day's events, and movies, which were like stage plays and had little basis in fact.

  She looked up at him, speechless.

  "I know, it's pretty amazing," he said. "But it isn't magic, at least not the way you know it. It's just technology…" He shrugged, not knowing how to explain it to her in terms she would understand. "Anyway, it's a form of amusement, something to while away the hours if you've got nothing else to do. Practically every household in America has at least one." Most had two or more.

  He showed her how to turn the lights on and off, stood there, grinning, while she played with the light switch.

  He took her into the kitchen and explained what frozen foods were, then showed her how to work the stove and the built-in microwave, then the dishwasher. He opened the silverware drawer and showed her the plastic utensils.

  She picked up one of the forks. "I have never seen anything like this," she remarked. "'Tis made of an odd substance." She bent the handle of the fork and it broke in her hand. "Oh! I am sorry."

  "It doesn't matter," he said, taking the broken pieces from her hand and tossing them in the trash. "They're disposable. Only meant to be used once."

  "'Tis wasteful. Of what are these made?"

  "Plastic,"
he said. "It's quite common."

  He took her through the rest of the house, assuring her that she was to make herself at home.

  When they came to his office, she pointed at his computer. "What is that?"

  "It's a computer." He booted it up, then turned on the screen.

  "It looks much like the television in the other room," she observed, "only smaller."

  "Yes, it does."

  "I saw it, in my scrying mirror, when I saw you."

  He nodded. He had read about the ancient art of scrying when he'd been doing his research on witches. Mirrors were the preferred method, but countless other objects had been used throughout the centuries. The Egyptians used ink, blood, or other dark liquids. The Romans used shiny objects and stones. Water was also used. Scrying was derived from the English word "descry" meaning "to make out dimly" or "to reveal." Witches used it to see into the future, or to find lost objects or people.

  "This is where I found your picture." Sitting down, he signed on, then went to the Internet and pulled up the Web page where he had seen her photo.

  Brenna stared at her image, wondering how John Linder's painting had found its way to this time and place.

  "Listen to this," Roshan said, reading the words beneath the image. "Woman in White, painted by renowned seventeenth-century artist John Linder. This painting is one of Linder's first works. There is speculation as to the model's identity. Some claim she was a local witch; others opine that she was Linder's first love, Brenna Flanagan, who disappeared under mysterious circumstances." He glanced over his shoulder at Brenna. "I guess he didn't jump to his death after all."

  "You saved two lives that night," Brenna murmured. "Mine and his."

  Roshan grunted softly. "So it would seem."

  "I owe you my thanks for his life, as well as my own."

  "Were you in love with him?"

  "No."

  He regarded her a moment, as if searching for the truth, then turned back to the matter at hand. "This is a printer," he said, indicating the gray object beside the computer.

  He hit "print." Brenna jumped a little when the machine made a soft whirring sound and started printing the photograph.