Night's Kiss

by Amanda Ashley

  A scream rose in her throat, echoing off the walls, the floor, the ceiling. She screamed until her throat ached. Screamed with, terror and revulsion. And mingled with her screams was the sound of Anthony Loken's satanic laughter…

  She woke with a start, her face and body bathed in sweat.

  Scrambling out of bed, she threw back the curtains and opened the window, then stood there drawing in deep breaths of fresh air.

  A dream, it had been nothing but a bad dream, and yet she couldn't shake off a feeling of impending doom.

  Sometimes dreams were just dreams, and sometimes they were glimpses into the future.

  Hurrying downstairs, she went into the kitchen. She pulled a heavy silver bowl from the cupboard and filled it with water, then placed it on the table, her fingertips tapping impatiently while she waited for the water to form a smooth surface.

  Passing her hands over the bowl, she stared into the water, murmuring, "Secrets hidden, dark and deep, show me where my love doth sleep."

  Slivers of color spiraled up from the bottom of the bowl, swirling across the face of the water until they formed a picture of Roshan. He was lying on his back on a large bed with a carved wooden headboard. A dark blue sheet covered him from the waist down. His skin looked very pale against the bedding. Eyes narrowed, she stared at him. He didn't move, didn't twitch, didn't breathe. She shivered in spite of herself. He did, indeed, sleep like one who was dead. But at least he was safe!

  Now, if she only knew the whereabouts of his lair.

  Even as the thought crossed her mind, the water shimmered, the colors running together and then painting a new image on the face of the water, and now she was looking at the hallway that ran from the front entryway to the living room. The focus of the picture narrowed until it showed a small door located near the entrance to the living room.

  Brenna frowned. She had searched the house from top to bottom trying to find where he slept. How had she missed that door?

  Memorizing the location, she ran her fingertips through the water, erasing the image. She poured the water down the sink then went into the hallway. She walked the length of the corridor but there was no sign of a door.

  Standing at the end of the entryway, she gathered her powers around her.

  "A hidden door is here today, bring me the Sight, show me the way."

  There was a ripple in the air, blue motes gathered around her, then outlined a small narrow door located on the left side of the hallway. She stooped in front of the portal. There was no latch. Dropping to her knees, she ran her hands over the door, murmured, "Ah-hah!" when the door opened inward, revealing a long staircase that led down, down, into darkness. At her touch, the blue motes faded and then disappeared.

  Returning to the kitchen, she found a candle, then made her way back to the hidden doorway. A quick incantation lit the candle.

  She hesitated a moment, then, one hand braced against the wall and the other holding the candle out in front of her, she crawled through the doorway, then walked down the stairs.

  She paused at the bottom. At first, she thought she was in the basement, but the basement was much larger and filled with old furniture and boxes. She glanced around, seeing nothing until she used the Sight again. And then she saw it, the faint outline of another door. This one was average size. Once again, there was no discernable latch; once again, she ran her hands over the front and sides but this door refused to budge. She tried several incantations, but to no avail. The door refused to open.

  With a sigh of discouragement, she turned and went up the stairs. What would she have done if the door had opened? Did she really want to see Roshan lying there, unmoving? Had she been able to get close to him, she would have been unable to resist touching him. Would his skin have felt cold, lifeless? Would he have known she was there?

  When she reached the head of the stairs, Morgana was sitting there, waiting for her. The cat regarded her through narrowed yellow eyes, her expression clearly stating that breakfast was long overdue.

  After closing the door, Brenna bent down to scratch Morgana's ears, then went into the kitchen to prepare breakfast for herself and the cat.

  Deep in his lair, awareness stirred through the sleeping vampire, roused by the uncanny feeling that someone had been watching him. Yet he sensed no threat to his existence, no immediate danger. And then Brenna's scent was carried to him on a fleeting breath of air. She had been in the outer chamber of his lair. He had only a moment to ponder such a remarkable occurrence before the Dark Sleep dragged him down into oblivion once again.

  Anthony Loken stood in the doorway of his laboratory, his brow furrowed as he regarded the body on the table. Such a foolish boy, to believe that anyone could produce a cure for the Dark Trick.

  With a shake of his head, Loken removed the tubes from the limp, pale arms, then, careful to make sure the stake remained firmly buried in the boy's chest, he lifted the body into his arms and carried the bloodless corpse up the stairs. Opening the front door, he glanced right and left to make sure there was no one in sight and then tossed the vampire's body out into the yard. There was a feint sizzle as the sun's light fell on preternatural flesh and then, in the blink of an eye, the body of Jimmy Dugan went up in flames.

  Loken stared at the patch of barren ground where the boy's body had been. Nothing remained to show that Jimmy Dugan had ever existed. Efficient, Loken mused. Most efficient.

  Closing the door, Loken returned to his lab. In all his years of searching, Dugan was the first genuine vampire he had found. A good sign, he thought At last, fortune had smiled on him.

  He opened the small refrigerator where he had stored the vampire's blood and withdrew one of the vials. Now that he had what he needed, perhaps he would finally be able to discover what it was about the blood of the undead that allowed vampires to heal almost immediately from any wound, to change their shape, to travel great distances in a blur of movement. But it was the vampire's ability to survive for centuries that Loken craved. Why should he be subject to the few years of a mere mortal life span? He was a man of intelligence and power, a warlock without equal, yet he was subject to the ravages of age, disease, and death. True, some wizards lived to a vast old age, but he did not intend to grow old and weak. His lifelong goal had been to find away to enjoy a vampire's power without a vampire's cravings or limitations. And now, at last, that goal was within his grasp!

  He pulled the microscope from the shelf and placed it on his desk. After pulling on a pair of gloves, he prepared several slides with the blood of the vampire.

  He placed the first one under the microscope, and then, quivering with excitement, he bent his head over the instrument and stared into the eyepiece. For several moments, he forgot to breathe but simply stared at what he saw. He had spent years studying hematology, yet nothing in his experience enabled him to interpret what he now saw, a constantly shifting mass of red blood cells so dark as to be almost black, cells that appeared to devour one another until only a few remained, and these, to his complete astonishment, quickly began to multiply, and then the whole sequence started again.

  Shaking his head, he removed the first slide and replaced it with a second, and then a third.

  What did it mean? If he was to inject himself with the vampire's blood, would it endow him with the vampire's power? Or would the vampire's blood consume his own until nothing remained?

  A guinea pig, that was what he needed.

  He quickly put everything away, wiped a bit of dried blood off the examining table, removed his gloves, and turned off the lights. A guinea pig shouldn't be too hard to find. One of the gullible pseudo-vamps from the Nocturne. A bum off the street. A runaway teen. One of the unemployed young men who gathered near the bus stop in the south end of the city looking for work. He had only to take his pick.

  Whistling softly, he left the lab, making sure to lock the door behind him.

  Roshan found Brenna in the kitchen fixing dinner and talking to the cat. He stood there a moment, admir
ing the softly rounded shape of the woman, the silky sheen of her hair, the way her jeans molded to her slim shape, the sound of her voice.

  She blushed when she glanced over her shoulder and saw him standing in the doorway.

  "Don't let me interrupt your conversation," he said.

  "Morgana looked quite interested in what you were saying."

  "How long have you been standing there?" Brenna asked, her blush deepening to a most becoming shade of pink.

  "Not long enough."

  Morgana glanced from Brenna to Roshan, then darted out of the kitchen.

  "I don't think she likes me," he mused.

  "She will, in time."

  "I doubt it. Few animals will tolerate my kind."

  "I am sorry. I do not know what I would do without Morgana. She is all the family I have," she said wistfully. "All I have left of my past."

  "You were looking for me today." It wasn't a question. "You were in my lair."

  She looked at him, her silence an admission of her guilt.

  "Why?"

  She lifted her chin defiantly, refusing to be intimidated even though she knew she was in the wrong. "I was curious," she said, and then frowned. "How did you know I was there?"

  "I felt your eyes watching me."

  "'Tis not possible!"

  He lifted one brow. "No?"

  She shook her head. "How could you?"

  "You admit it then? You were spying on me?"

  "I summoned your image in my scrying glass."

  Clever girl, he mused. "And what did you use for a mirror?"

  "A bowl of water."

  He recalled the conversation they'd had earlier when she had told him she had been thinking of buying a mirror. He had assumed she wanted a mirror for the same reason as any other woman. But she wasn't like any other woman. Still, there was no reason why she couldn't have a small mirror for scrying, if that was what she wanted. No reason why she couldn't have a full-length looking glass in her bedroom. Just because he avoided them, there was no reason why she couldn't have a couple if she wished.

  And then, drawn by her scent, by the warmth of her living flesh, he forgot all about mirrors and witchcraft. Closing the distance between them, he took her in his arms. His body quickened immediately, every cell and nerve ending remembering the night they had made love.

  She looked up at him, her green eyes luminous.

  "Ah, Brenna," he murmured helplessly, and lowering his head, he kissed her.

  She went up on her tiptoes, her arms twining around his neck, her body molding itself to his.

  The heat of her body warmed him, the sweetness of her lips enflamed him. He held her closer, tighter, felt his fangs lengthen as his hunger stirred to life. The memory of making love to her rose in his mind, tempting him to sweep her into his arms and carry her upstairs, to lay her down on the bed and make love to her until the sun crept over the horizon. Temping, so tempting. Only his guilt at ravishing her the first time, and his fear that he might indulge in more than the pleasure of her sweet flesh, kept him from putting thought into action.

  Muttering an oath, he released her.

  She blinked up at him, her gaze unfocused, her lips swollen, stained with a single drop of blood where his fangs had broken her tender skin.

  A low growl rose in his throat as her tongue slid over her lower lip to lick the blood away.

  "I'll be back later," he said gruffly, and hastened out of the house and into the night.

  Lifting her fingertips to her lips, Brenna stared after him. One kiss, that's all it took, she thought One kiss, and she was ready to let him carry her upstairs to bed. She had known him only a short time, yet she could not imagine her life without him. It was as if she had known him all her life, as if they were bound together by invisible cords, as if, in some strange metamorphosis, he had become an integral part of her and she had become an integral part of him. Was that what happened whenever two people made love? Did it happen to everyone, that sense of belonging? She knew making love to Roshan without the blessing of the church had been wrong. It was immoral, a terrible sin, and yet right or wrong, all she could think of was being in his arms again, making love to him again. Even now, she felt bereft, lost without him. Even the house felt different when he was away.

  Would it be so bad, being married to a vampire? True, there was much they could not share, but there was ever so much more that they could. She enjoyed his company, his caring. He was kind and patient; he would protect her, help her learn her way around in this new place. Though her days would be her own, her nights would be his. Best of all, he wasn't afraid of her witchcraft, nor was he intimidated by her power. Quite the contrary, he seemed pleased by it, proud of her abilities, limited though they might be.

  Of course, she was taking a lot for granted. Just because they had made love didn't mean he wanted to marry her. If there was one thing she had learned, it was that a good number of people in this century had no qualms about living together, or having children together, out of wedlock. But, accepted or not, she knew it was wrong. Children deserved a mother and a father, a home secured by the bonds of marriage.

  Perhaps it is time you became like him, whispered an insidious little voice in the back of her mind. If there is no cure, if he can never be mortal, then perhaps you should embrace the Dark Gift. It is the only way you can truly share his life, the only way he can share yours.

  She thrust the disquieting thought from her mind. To be a vampire was a life against nature. It meant giving up the sun's light and all hope of ever having a child. It meant giving up her humanity, living in the shadows, existing on the blood of others.

  It was not a life she would willingly choose for herself or anyone else.

  And yet the seed had been planted. Repellent as it was, it took root in a distant corner of her mind.

  Leaving the house, Roshan willed himself to the Nocturne. Clad all in black, he quickly blended in with the rest of the crowd, his hunger growing as the sound of a hundred beating hearts called out to him. His nostrils filled with the scent of prey, ripe and ready for the taking.

  A young woman moved toward him, threading her way through the crowd on the edge of the dance floor, her hips undulating, her breasts thrust out. Her dyed black hair fell long and straight over her shoulders.

  "Dance with me?" Her voice was low and husky. Looking up at him through eyes that promised more than a dance, she ran a black-painted fingernail across his chest. "Well?"

  "Sure." He pulled her into his arms and swept her onto the dance floor.

  "I've seen you here before," she purred.

  "Indeed?"

  "I was watching for you tonight, hoping you'd come alone."

  He smiled down at her. "Then I'm glad I came."

  "So am I." She studied him intently for a moment. "You don't look like the other guys that hang around here," she remarked. "Or act like them."

  "Oh?"

  She shook her head, her brow furrowed in thought. "Maybe it's because they're all just little boys at heart. But you, you seem much older."

  He laughed softly. "You have no idea, Carrie, my sweet."

  Her eyes widened. "How do you know my name?"

  "As you said, I'm not like the others." He drew her closer, one hand sweeping her hair from her neck. "Look at me, Carrie, only me."

  She stared up at him, her lips slightly parted, a trace of fear in her eyes.

  "See only me," he murmured. "Hear my voice, only my voice."

  "Yes," she whispered. "Only you."

  Slowly, he lowered his head. To anyone watching, it would seem he was kissing her neck as he turned her slowly around the floor. He drank quickly, taking only what he needed, and quickly sealed the two tiny puncture marks left by his fangs.

  He lifted his head just as the music ended.

  "Carrie?"

  She blinked up at him, her gaze unfocused.

  "Thank you for the dance."

  "You're welcome." Frowning, she lifted a hand to her neck
, then blinked at him again.

  He kept his arm around her waist. "Are you all right?"

  "I don't know. I feel a little dizzy."

  "Come," he said, taking her by the hand, "let me buy you a drink."

  Roshan was leading Carrie toward the bar when he saw Anthony Loken sitting at one of the tables toward the back. The warlock saw him at the same time and animosity flowed between them, a palpable sense of malice so strong that Roshan was sure the others in the room felt it without knowing what it was.

  At the bar, Roshan ordered Carrie a tall glass of orange juice. Standing beside the woman, he was careful to keep Loken in sight.

  The warlock turned his back to him, his attention again centered on the young man who shared his table.

  Using his preternatural hearing, Roshan eavesdropped on their conversation. The young man was tired of pretending to be a vampire and he had come to the Nocturne in hopes of finding one of the undead. Loken nodded sympathetically. Leaning closer to the young man, he told him that his search was at an end. He, Loken, was a vampire. If the young man was sincere, he had only to come to Loken's lair to begin the transformation. The young man, whose name was Roger West, quickly agreed. Loken paid the check and the two men left the table, heading for the rear exit.

  Roshan swore softly as he watched them leave the club. He had seen the results of Anthony Loken's last experiment.

  He stood there a moment, undecided. It was of no consequence if Loken killed West. The young man meant nothing to Roshan. Mortals, in general, meant little to him other than their ability to satisfy his hellish thirst.

  He danced with another one of the women in the club, drinking from her as he had from the first. Leaving her at the bar, he was about to go home when, on a totally inexplicable impulse, he found himself headed for Loken's laboratory on the outskirts of town.

  * * *