Night's Kiss

by Amanda Ashley

  "So," he said slowly, "you don't want a husband, but you want me to make love to you?"

  "Yes."

  "I guess you're not as old-fashioned as I thought," he muttered.

  "What?"

  "Nothing."

  "I may not want a husband," she said candidly. "But I do want a child. Your child."

  Few things had taken him by surprise since the night Zerena had bestowed the Dark Gift upon him, but Brenna's words had caught him totally unprepared. For a moment, he pictured Atiyana in his mind's eye, her face pale, her eyes empty of life, the sheet beneath her stained with blood. He recalled picking up the tiny infant she had expelled from her womb moments before she died.

  "I'm afraid that's impossible." He held up his hand, stilling the questions he saw rising in her eyes. "I can't create life, Brenna. I can only sustain my own, such as it is."

  "I am sorry," she said quietly. "I did not know."

  For a moment, he regretted telling her the truth. Had he been a less honorable man, he could have taken her to his bed, made sweet love to her night after night, let her believe that he could give her the child she yearned for.

  "I'm sorry, too," he replied. There was hardly a day that went by that he didn't think of his son. Even after all these years, the memory of the infant's death was still painful. His son. Such a tiny scrap of humanity, dead before it had been born, and all Roshan's hopes and dreams with him.

  He shook the memory from his mind.

  Once again, tension flowed between them.

  Brenna turned to stare at the television, all too aware that he was watching her. She tried to forget the taste of his kiss, the pleasure that flooded her whole being when his lips touched hers. She had heard that vampires possessed an aura, a charm that mortals found irresistible. Was that all it was? Or was her attraction to him real?

  She glanced at him surreptitiously, trying to see his aura. Granny O'Connell's aura had been green, which was associated with nurturing. John Linder's had been a dingy orange. Brenna's own aura was blue, an indication of psychic energy.

  Roshan DeLongpre's aura was gray. She frowned, trying to remember what that represented. Gray… ah, of course, it implied a closeness to otherworldly things and the ability to influence the wind and the rain.

  "Something wrong?" he asked.

  "No. I was just wondering… can you make it storm when you wish?"

  He nodded. "Why?"

  "I was studying your aura."

  "Indeed?"

  "It's gray. A rather dark gray."

  "I always thought that was a lot of hocus-pocus."

  "Oh, no. My mother's was pink."

  "And that means… what?"

  "Those with pink auras are very loving and affectionate," Brenna said wistfully. "As was my mother. There was no kinder woman in all our village. Everyone loved her."

  "What happened when your father left?"

  "My mother never got over it. She died a year later. Granny O'Connell raised me."

  "How old were you when your mother died?"

  "Eleven."

  "And how old are you now?"

  "Nineteen."

  He muttered an oath. Nineteen! "Did you ever see your father again?"

  "No." She crossed her arms over her breasts, the gesture blatantly defensive. "I do not want to talk about it anymore."

  He glanced at the window. It was late, after midnight. He shifted restlessly as the hunger stirred within him, reminding him that he had not yet fed.

  Brenna followed his gaze to the window, then looked back at him. "I guess you will be going out soon." It wasn't a question.

  He nodded curtly, the beating of countless hearts calling to him like distant thunder.

  Brenna lifted a hand to her throat. He had bitten her once, tasted her blood. What would it be like if he did it again, while she was awake? Would it hurt? She shook her head, stunned by the turn of her thoughts yet unable to put it from her mind.

  He was watching her, his eyes narrowed. It reminded her of the way Morgana sometimes watched a mouse before she pounced on it. Morgana was a fearsome predator, but sometimes the mouse got lucky and escaped the cat's claws and teeth.

  Roshan was a far more fearsome predator than Morgana, Brenna mused. If she lingered here, in the lion's den, how long would she be safe from his bite?

  * * *

  CHAPTER 10

  Searching for prey, Roshan had moved swiftly through the darkness, enjoying the feel of the night's cool breath against his skin, the whisper of an errant breeze in his hair. He had fed quickly, savoring the rush of energy that flowed over his tongue and slid down this throat like the sweetest nectar.

  Now, after sending the woman on her way, he walked the dark streets of the city. As always these nights, his thoughts turned to Brenna. She was unlike any woman he had ever known, and not just because she was a witch. She was afraid of him, yet she stayed in his house. He admired her courage in coming to terms with life in a world so vastly different from the one she left behind. He loved the fact that she wasn't afraid to give him the rough side of her tongue. If he had one complaint, it was that she was so young. Nineteen. He could scarcely remember what it was like to be that young, and even though his physical body appeared to be that of a twenty-seven-year-old man, in reality he was three hundred and thirteen years old. Far too old for a sweet young thing like Brenna Flanagan.

  Returning home, he went upstairs to Brenna's room. He stood beside her bed for twenty minutes, watching her sleep. He listened to the slow, steady sound of her breathing, admired the soft golden glow of her skin, the way her eyelashes made perfect crescents lying against her cheeks. Moonlight filtered through the window, casting silver highlights in her hair. A soft sigh escaped her lips, followed by a faint smile. He wondered what she was dreaming about, wondered if he dared hope she was dreaming of him. Grunting softly, he turned away from the bed. Any dreams she had about him would no doubt be nightmares from which she would awake screaming.

  Going downstairs, he went into his den and sat at his computer. Bringing up his journal, he opened the file titled 2005. Before Brenna entered his life, he had written in his journal every night. Ah, Brenna. What a welcome distraction she was in his existence! He smiled, thinking of her. How pale and empty his nights had been without her.

  He stared at the last entry in his journal and blew out a sigh. He had a lot of catching up to do. His fingers flew over the keys as he recorded his thoughts, starting with the night he had decided to end his existence. He had written a few notes soon after rescuing Brenna; now he expanded on them, writing his memories of what it had been like to travel through time, the exhilaration of speeding backward through the centuries, catching glimpses of people long dead and places long gone from the earth. He described his surprise at actually arriving at his destination, the sheer delight of watching Brenna Flanagan dance in the light of the moon, his horror when he saw her bound to the stake, his apprehension as he reached through the flames to free her.

  He wrote of her reaction to the twenty-first century, of teaching her how to drive and taking her shopping. He described, in great detail, her wary acceptance of what he was, the attraction that burned between them whenever their eyes met, the first time he had kissed her.

  Grinning, he went back and added a few sentences about his feelings when she had tried to turn him into a frog. He had been highly amused at the time. The memory made him laugh now, and it felt good. Laughter had been sorely missing from his life until now. He had Brenna to thank for making him laugh again, among other things.

  Two hours later, his journal was up-to-date. He wondered what she would think, should he let her read the story of his existence. Would she find it fascinating, or would she be repulsed by his thoughts and deeds as he adjusted to life as a vampire?

  Sitting there, with hours yet until dawn, he pulled up some of his older files. He skimmed through the years, reliving the confusion he had felt in the beginning, when every sunrise had filled him with dr
ead and the niggling fear that he might not rise again. Vampire hunters had been everywhere in those dark times. Vampires had been more numerous in those days, and though he had called none of them friend, he had met with others of his kind to exchange information. In those days, every night brought reports of new deaths. The most fearsome hunter of them all had been Stuart Ramsey. He had destroyed more than fifty vampires before he died sometime in the seventeenth century. The name Ramsey had been feared through the ages as the descendents of Stuart Ramsey followed in his bloody footsteps. Today, the name Edward Ramsey was enough to send vampires scurrying for cover, though Roshan had recently heard a rumor that Ramsey was no longer a hunter but had become one of the hunted. An amusing irony, if it was true.

  In the early 1800s, Roshan had taken a ship to America. It had been the worst journey of his entire existence. He had been trapped inside a coffin down in the hold of the ship by day and had prowled the deck by night, feeding off rats and an occasional crew member.

  He had loved America at first sight The crowded cities, the diversity of its people. A veritable smorgasbord. Italians and Mexicans, Russians and Slavs, Poles and Germans, Danes and Swedes. And Indians. He had spent some time in the West, intrigued by the way the Indians lived. He had moved among the tribes, Sioux and Cheyenne, Crow and Arapaho, Apache and Comanche, studying their ways and their religions.

  He had found it interesting that no matter the culture, whether the people were red, white, brown, or yellow, the mythology of every civilization included vampires, from the vampir of Hungary and the upior of Poland to the vyrkolakas of Greece. He supposed that accounted for the fact that vampires were the most popular monsters of all, and that vampire tales had been told and retold for thousands of years. He remembered reading his first vampire novel, Varney the Vampyre, which had been published back in 1847. Hundreds of books and movies had been made about the undead since then. He had read all the books, seen all the movies.

  But none of those fictionalized works came close to the reality that he had lived for the last two hundred and eighty-six years.

  Never, in all that time, had he felt the way he did now. For the first time in his long existence, he had hope, and that hope was embodied in the red-haired woman sleeping in his bed.

  * * *

  CHAPTER 11

  Brenna slept late the following morning. Lying in bed, the blankets pulled up to her chin, she stared at the ceiling, thinking about her life and how drastically it had changed in such a very short time. Who would ever have thought that poor Brenna Flanagan, who had barely had the means to keep body and soul together, would ever be living in a house as grand as this one? She had more than enough food to eat, not to mention enough raiment to clothe a dozen women. She had seen wonders and inventions that no one in her time had ever imagined and would never believe possible. If she was dreaming, she wasn't sure she wanted to wake up.

  She smiled as Morgana slid under her arm, begging for her attention.

  "Good morrow," Brenna said. Rolling onto her side, she scratched the cat's ears, smiling as the cat began to purr.

  Brenna's eyes widened suddenly. Roshan had promised to unlock the gates before he went to bed. Today, for the first time, she would be on her own, able to go anywhere she wished. Independent, she thought, just like the women of the time.

  Rising, she went into the bathroom and filled the bathtub with water. Pinning her hair on top of her head, she stepped into the tub. Morgana sat on the lid of the toilet, tidily washing her paws while her mistress luxuriated in a hot bubble bath.

  Lying there, Brenna marveled anew at how wonderful it was to have hot and cold running water inside the house. The soap she used to wash with smelled like lavender.

  Thirty minutes later she stepped out of the tub and dried off with a large fluffy blue towel. Dropping the towel into the hamper, she shook out her hair, then went into the bedroom. Opening the top drawer of the dresser, she pulled out a pair of pretty pink panties and a matching bra (a truly strange and slightly uncomfortable contraption). Clad in her underwear, she opened the closet, frowning while she tried to decide what to wear. Never, in all her life, had she had so many choices! Dresses, skirts, pants, blouses, sweaters, shirts, shoes, sandals, and boots, not to mention a wide variety of undergarments, nylons, and socks.

  Finally, she slipped into a pair of blue jeans, a fluffy white sweater, and a pair of soft leather boots that laced up the side.

  Going downstairs, she filled Morgana's dish with cat food, and then fixed herself a big breakfast—oatmeal smothered in brown sugar, scrambled eggs, buttered toast, and a glass of buttermilk.

  She had never cared much for cooking, but here, with all the modern conveniences, it seemed less of a chore. She didn't have to make her own bread. She didn't have to milk a cow, or gather eggs. She didn't have to collect wood for the hearth, or worry that her skirts might catch fire when she reached into the hearth to stir a pot of soup. Of course, it had taken several days and a lot of trial and error to learn how to cook on the gas stove, but with the help of the cookbook Roshan had bought her, she was learning.

  Of course, she had learned a lot of other things in the last few weeks, thanks to Roshan. He had patiently answered her endless questions, taken her into the city so she could get used to this strange new world, taught her to drive his car which, she now knew, cost a great deal of money. In spite of the fact that he was a vampire, she felt safe with him. Maybe he was right. Maybe she would get used to this time and this place.

  After breakfast, she brushed her teeth, then ran a comb through her hair and pulled it back with a ribbon.

  Roshan had left his car keys on the kitchen table, along with four hundred and fifty dollars. Feeling suddenly rich and carefree, she pocketed the cash, picked up the keys, and left the house. Moments later, she was driving toward the gates. Had Roshan remembered to remove the wards?

  But yes, the gates swung open as she approached. Filled with excitement, she drove through the high arch, turned right, and headed for the city.

  She drove up and down the streets, looking at the houses and the people. Until now, she had only seen her new world by night. Once again, she was struck by the noise of the city. The honking of horns, the rumble of trucks, the distant blast of a train's whistle, the quiet purr of the Ferrari's engine, the roar of an airplane overhead. She had never realized how quiet her own cottage had been until now. Roshan's home was never completely quiet. There was the hum of the refrigerator, the soft hiss of the forced air heating cycling on and off, the creak of the wood as the house settled.

  Bypassing the mall, she parked on a narrow side street. Exiting the car, she locked the door, then strolled slowly down the street, pausing now and then to peer into one of the shop windows. The stores along the street were not so large or as crowded as the ones in the mall.

  She passed a candy store, a video rental store, several dress shops, a shoe store, a toy store. There was an ice cream parlor on the corner. Seeing a picture of a malt in the window, she went inside, and after a moment's hesitation, she sat down at a small round table by the window.

  She had no sooner taken her seat than a waitress came to take her order.

  "Do you have chocolate malts?" Brenna asked, remembering the one Roshan had bought her at the mall.

  "Sure thing," the girl said with a smile. "The best in town."

  "May I have one, please?"

  "Sure, honey. Anything else?"

  "No, thank you."

  When the waitress left the table, Brenna turned and looked out the window, watching the people pass by. Men in suits, women in shorts and halter tops, boys on skateboards, girls giggling together, they all seemed to be in a hurry to get somewhere.

  Brenna smiled her thanks as the waitress placed the malt on the table. Brenna ate the whipped cream and the cherry, wishing she dared ask for more. As the waitress had promised, the malt was delicious. Brenna sipped it slowly, savoring the rich chocolate taste, thinking that this malt was even better
than the one she'd had at the mall.

  She felt quite proud of herself when she paid the check, even though it was Roshan's money. Although purchasing a malt was a relatively small accomplishment, it was the first thing she had bought and paid for herself. For the first time since arriving in this century, she had accomplished something entirely on her own. Perhaps she could find her way in this new world after all.

  Leaving the ice cream shop, she crossed the street and continued down the other side. Three young men wearing baggy pants and black T-shirts were standing outside of a liquor store. They all looked her up and down as she approached. One of them whistled at her.

  "Hey, pretty mama," another one called. "You're lookin' mighty fine today."

  The third one nodded in agreement and then, as she drew closer, he reached for her arm.

  Brenna murmured a quick incantation as his fingers closed over her arm. With a cry of pain, the young man jerked his hand away, yelping as if he had just touched a hot stove.

  Grinning inwardly, Brenna kept walking.

  When she reached the end of the block, she looked both ways and then crossed the street and started back the way she had come. And then she saw it, a large black sign in the shape of a pointy black hat. The words The Wiccan Way Coffee Shop and Bookstore were painted on the hat in neat white letters.

  Quickening her step, Brenna hurried down the street. She hesitated at the entrance, then, taking a deep breath, she opened the door and stepped inside.

  It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the rather dim interior. The walls were a creamy white, the floor was done in square tiles of black, white, and gray. Looking to her right, she saw a wall of glass shelves that held an assortment of crystals, goblets, and dragons made of glass and pewter. Another shelf held small pots of herbs. To her left was a floor-to-ceiling shelf filled with books on witchcraft, paganism, folk magic and medicine, urban legends, Celtic traditions, astrology, tarot, spell casting, channeling, and psychic development, as well as a numbers of almanacs and calendars.