With a shake of her head, she broke into a ground-eating run, yipping with pleasure as she bounded effortlessly over rocks and brush. She reveled in the sense of invincibility that filled her as she raced along.
She hadn’t gone far when a jackrabbit exploded from its cover.
With a short bark, the werewolf gave chase, reveling in the sting of the wind in her face, the myriad scents that assailed her nostrils from every side, the sheer joy of the hunt.
The unfortunate rabbit never had a chance.
* * *
Chapter 3
Verah reclined upon a bed covered with soft furs, a large bowl of exotic fruit at her fingertips, while a pair of handsome male servants hovered nearby, waiting to do her bidding. Her familiar, Rama, stretched out beside her, purring softly.
Verah knew that some of her fellow witches thought her lifestyle a bit on the eccentric side because she preferred to wear long skirts and peasant blouses instead of more modern garb. When they commented on the way she dressed, or remarked that they thought some of her magic was primitive, she merely smiled and told them she had an old soul. Far older than any of them knew or suspected.
There were all kinds of witches, and many forms of magic—some witches were born with it, some learned the craft from another witch. In rare cases, the magical arts were bestowed on some lucky soul as a gift. There was earth magic and water magic, fire magic, and magic wrought by the wind. Verah had inherited her magic from her mother, but she had wanted more power, more knowledge, and so she had sought out the old Navajo shaman who had instructed her mother. Yanaba was respected and feared by his own people, though none dared call him a witch to his face.
Verah had often considered telling the old witch about the magical properties in Gideon’s blood, but whenever she started to do so, some inner voice warned her that such knowledge should not be shared with anyone else.
Verah smiled as she glanced at the two photographs standing side by side on the nightstand. One showed an old woman with stringy gray hair, wrinkled skin mottled with age spots, sunken eyes, and yellow teeth. The other was of a young woman with thick pale blond hair, porcelainlike skin without a spot or blemish, and bright green eyes—a beautiful woman in the prime of her life.
She gazed into the small gold-framed mirror standing on the nightstand on the opposite side of the bed, and the image of the beautiful young woman smiled back at her.
“Ah, Rama,” Verah murmured, stroking the cat’s head. “Hard to believe both photographs are of me, isn’t it?”
Before Gideon, Verah had rarely left her house, too ashamed of her appearance to let anyone see her. Always vain about her looks, she had shunned her cronies when her beauty began to fade, had veiled her face or covered her ugliness beneath a magical spell on the few occasions when she’d had to leave the house.
She smiled as she thought of the handsome nightwalker imprisoned in her basement. She owed her restored well-being to him. His blood nourished her inside and out, gifting her with increased health and strength. And youth. She ran her fingertips over her cheek. The skin was soft and firm and baby smooth. Gone were the ugly wrinkles and discolorations of age, the hideous liver spots on her hands.
She had the vampire blood spell found in one of her mother’s ancient grimoires to thank for her renewed youth. When Verah had first read the spell, she had dismissed it as nonsense. Surely something so quick and easy could not be effective. But as age had continued to take its toll on her youth and her beauty, as her body began to break down, she had gone in search of a vampire. No easy task, she mused, remembering how long it had taken her to find one. The fact that he was young and handsome had been a nice bonus.
Determined to put the age-old spell to the test, she had located the requisite golden chalice, filled it with the required amount of fresh vampire blood, and chanted the necessary words before drinking from the cup. The taste had been vile. Not knowing what to expect she had been amazed by the results, which had been immediate and undeniable.
Best of all, Gideon was virtually immortal. He would serve her purpose, willing or not, for as long as she wished, and that would be a good, long time.
The changes in her appearance were quickly noted by her acquaintances. Verah ascribed it to a miracle elixir she had stumbled upon, the ingredients which were, of course, tightly guarded.
Word of her miraculous elixir spread across the Internet like wildfire and soon wealthy women were ordering it online, willing to pay whatever she asked for a bottle of the remarkable tonic that was guaranteed to shave ten years or more off of a woman’s appearance.
Of course, Verah couldn’t let it be known to anyone—mortal or witch—that she had a vampire in her basement, or that, combined with the spell she had found, it could guarantee good health and long life indefinitely. Vampires were notoriously hard to find. And witches notoriously clever. She couldn’t take a chance on someone spiriting Gideon away. After some consideration, she tore the spell out of the grimoire and burned it, thereby assuring that no one else would ever duplicate it.
She accepted credit cards from mortals, but demanded payment in humankind from witches and wizards.
After all, she had to provide suitable nourishment for the handsome vampire chained in the cellar.
* * *
Chapter 4
Kay stifled a yawn as she finished filling the food and water dishes for the dogs and cats—and one bad-tempered ferret—that would be spending the weekend at the clinic. A pretty little cocker spaniel, who’d had some surgery earlier in the day, whined when Kay closed the cage door.
“You’ll be better soon, Blackie,” Kay said, scratching the dog’s ears. “I’ll see you Monday.”
Leaving the kennel, she grabbed her sweater, then waited by the door for Wanda, who was shutting down the computer.
“I’m starving,” Kay said. “Let’s go grab some dinner at Conklin’s. I’m in the mood for a good steak.” She always had a healthy appetite, and never more so than right before the full moon. Hard to believe it was almost that time again.
“Sounds good to me,” Wanda said. “I’m going to go home and change first. I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes.”
“Okay. And then we can go to my place for dessert. I made an apple pie.”
“You make a mean apple pie,” Wanda remarked, licking the last of the crumbs from her lips.
“There’s more.”
“Don’t tempt me.” Wanda put her plate on the coffee table. “So, what shall we do tonight?”
“I don’t know.” Kay glanced at the new paperback waiting for her on the end table. “It’s been a long week, and …”
Wanda followed her gaze, then shook her head. “Oh no, you don’t. I know exactly what you’re thinking, and you can put it out of your head right now. It’s the weekend, girlfriend, time to kick up our heels.”
Kay shook her head. “I know what you’re thinking, too. And you can just forget it. I’m not going to that nightclub. We can go to a movie or bowling or whatever, but no nightclubs. I don’t party and I don’t sleep around and that’s all the guys who go to places like The Roan Horse are interested in.”
“How do you know that?” Wanda demanded, arms akimbo. “You’ve never even been there.”
“I’ve heard stories about that place.” Kay regarded Wanda’s appearance. With her spiked blond hair, black lipstick, black sweater, and skintight pants, Wanda looked like an escapee from a horror movie, but it was all the rage now. Kay had tried the Goth look once, but it wasn’t for her.
“Do you believe everything you hear?” Wanda asked.
“Not everything,” Kay admitted, but there were more strange things in heaven and on Earth than Wanda knew.
“Come on,” Wanda said impatiently. “Let’s at least check it out. It’ll do you good to get out of the house. You’ve been moping around here long enough.”
She had good reason to mope, Kay thought glumly. In just a few months, her father was going to announce her enga
gement to Victor Rinaldi, a man who was, in Kay’s opinion, an arrogant ass.
Wanda tapped her fingers on the arm of the sofa. “If you don’t like the club, we’ll leave and go to the movies.”
“You promise?” Kay asked, her resolve weakening.
“Yes, now hurry up and change and let’s go.”
Tired of arguing, Kay hurried into her bedroom. Shrugging out of her jeans and sweater, she pulled on a long-sleeved white silk shirt, a short black skirt, black leggings, and a pair of knee-high black boots that had cost her a month’s pay and were worth every penny.
Wanda grinned when Kay returned to the living room. “You’ll knock ’em dead.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Cheer up, girlfriend. Maybe a little firewater will put a sparkle in your eye and a spring in your step.”
Kay rolled her eyes at the firewater reference. Wanda didn’t do it often, but every now and then she couldn’t resist making a remark about Kay’s Lakota heritage.
Wanda moved toward the door, then paused and glanced over her shoulder. “You coming or not?”
“All right, paleface,” Kay said with an exaggerated air of resignation. “Let’s get it over with.”
Wanda was right, Kay thought as they climbed into Wanda’s red Jetta and drove to the club. She might as well go out and have a good time while she could.
It was Friday night and The Roan Horse was rockin’. Located within driving distance of several small towns, it was a magnet for singles—mostly young Lakota and Cheyenne males. Kay shook her head as she crossed the threshold. It was too crowded, too noisy, and after one glance at the occupants, she knew coming here had been a mistake.
She tugged on Wanda’s sleeve. “All right, I’m ready to go.”
“Are you kidding me? We just got here. We haven’t even had a drink yet. Any chance I can talk you into something stronger than a virgin piña colada tonight?”
Kay shook her head. She’d gotten drunk only once, on a single martini, and once was enough. She didn’t know if it was her werewolf blood, her Lakota blood, or a combination of the two, but she had no tolerance for liquor.
“I’ll see if I can find us a table,” she said, thinking that what she really needed to find was another friend, someone who liked country music and old movies. Wanda was always into the next new thing, no matter what it was.
Trevor stood at the bar, his gaze drifting over the crowd. He didn’t know what he was doing here tonight. Friday night was date night, even at The Roan Horse, a bad time for what he had in mind. He was thinking of calling it a lost cause and going home when two females entered the club. The blonde with the spiked hair had a worldly air about her that would likely make her hard to charm. But the black-haired one … she looked perfect. Innocent. Gullible.
When the blonde headed for the bar, Trevor made his move. Pasting a benign smile on his face, he walked past the dark-haired one, accidentally bumping her arm. “Excuse me,” he said, flashing an easy grin.
“No problem,” she said with a friendly smile. “There’s quite a crowd here tonight.”
He nodded. “My name’s Trevor Clark.”
“Kay Alissano.”
“I don’t suppose you’d care to dance?”
“Of course she would,” the blonde said, coming up behind them, a drink in each hand. “Go on, girlfriend, have a little fun for a change.”
The girl, Kay, glared at her friend, but allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor.
All too easy, he thought. He asked her about herself, her family, and when the dance was over, he urged her to have a drink with him.
Kay glanced at Wanda, who was out on the dance floor, practically glued to her partner. No help there. She regarded Trevor thoughtfully. He was tall and good-looking, with a winning smile, short brown hair and brown eyes.
“One drink,” she agreed, taking a place at an empty table. After all, what could it hurt? “A virgin piña colada, please.”
Trevor smiled as he made his way to the bar. One drink was all it would take.
Returning to the table, he handed a glass to Kay, then lifted his own. “A toast,” he said. “To new beginnings.”
It was the last thing Kay remembered until she woke up in hell.
Hell smelled like urine. And even though Kay knew it was only her imagination running wild, it also smelled like blood. And death.
She didn’t open her eyes. If she kept them closed, she could pretend she was trapped in a remarkably vivid nightmare. She could pretend she was sleeping in her own bed even though she knew she was lying on something hard and cold and damp, like cement.
She could pretend that she was alone, when she knew she wasn’t.
Warily, she opened her eyelids a crack. And found herself staring at a man with shaggy black hair, skin so pale it was almost translucent, and dark gray eyes that burned into hers like hot coals.
Kay shuddered. Maybe she really was in hell. Because the creature hunkered down across from her was either the devil incarnate. Or a vampire.
Either way, she was as good as dead.
Gideon’s nostrils twitched as he inhaled the female’s scent. She smelled of perfume and fear and something he knew instinctively was a drug of some kind, which explained how she had come to be here. But it was another scent that lay beneath the rest that had him frowning. She smelled … feral.
The enticing scent of her blood, the rapid beating of her heart, overshadowed everything else. It had been over a month since his last kill. The woman’s nearness freshened his hunger and he reached for her, his gaze drawn to the pulse throbbing in the hollow of her throat.
She scrabbled backward, but there was nowhere for her to go. In a move too swift for human eyes to follow, he grabbed her ankle and drew her slowly, inexorably, toward him.
She lashed out at him, her eyes wild with fear, her nails leaving long, bloody furrows down his arm and across his cheek.
His hand tightened on her ankle, his predatory instincts sharpened by her struggles.
As though realizing that, she went suddenly still.
“There’s no escape for you.” His voice was deep, quiet, and edged with regret. “I can kill you now, quickly, or drain you a little at a time.”
“You won’t like the way I taste,” she warned. “I can promise you that.”
“I’m past caring.”
“How long have you been here?” If she could just keep him talking, she might be able to make him think about something besides killing her.
“How long?” He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
It couldn’t be very long, she thought, since he didn’t have a beard and his hair wasn’t overly long.
“My beard doesn’t grow,” he said. “Neither does my hair.”
“Why not?” She stared at him, suddenly realizing she hadn’t spoken the thought aloud. “How did you know what I was thinking?”
He pressed his forefinger to his temple. “Vampire.”
It was disconcerting, knowing he could read her mind, but before she could think overly much about it, he began to stroke her ankle, his thumb moving lazily back and forth, back and forth. Even through her leggings, his touch sent a shiver down her spine. It took her a moment to realize her boots were gone. Why would someone take her boots? And why was she worrying about that when a monster had hold of her leg?
He cocked his head. “What year is it?”
“Two thousand and twelve.”
“Has it only been three years, then?” he muttered. “It seems longer.”
Monster or not, Kay couldn’t help feeling sorry for him as she glanced around the cell. There was no bed, no blanket, nothing but a cold stone floor, iron bars, and damp cement walls. A small table stood just out of reach on the other side of the bars. She shuddered. How had he endured being locked up in this place for three years without going mad? But that was the least of her concerns. Right now, she wondered if she was going to survive until sunrise.
With the speed of a stri
king snake, his hand curled around her forearm and he dragged her closer.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice gruff.
“Please, don’t.”
He closed his eyes for a moment. If he hadn’t been a vampire, she might have thought he was praying. More likely, he was saying grace, she thought with morbid humor.
She glanced around the cell again, looking for something she could use as a weapon, but there was nothing save for a dim lightbulb that hung from a knotted cord outside the cell.
And then he was looking at her through those hellish red eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, and folding her into his embrace, he pulled her shirt collar aside and bent his head to her neck.
Kay shuddered when she felt the sharp prick of his fangs against her skin. It was useless to fight, she knew. He was larger, stronger, deadly, but her instinct for survival quickly took over. She pulled his hair and scratched his face. Her nails left bloody furrows down his pale cheeks. She sank her teeth into his arm, and lashed out with her feet. All to no avail. It was like trying to punch her way through a brick wall.
Winded from her struggles, growing weak from the loss of blood, she closed her eyes and waited for death. And then a strange thing happened. As soon as she stopped fighting him, her fear slipped away. There was no pain as he drank from her, only a sense of pleasure that was oddly sensual.
It was her last thought before she drifted away into oblivion.
Gideon gazed at the woman in his arms. She was lovely. Her hair, Indian straight and black, fell past her shoulders, her inky lashes were thick and long. Her complexion was pale now, but her cheeks had been rosy before he drank from her, her skin the color of pale copper. Her eyes were a warm golden brown. She had been right about one thing: He hadn’t liked the taste of her blood. It was strong, bitter. Had he not needed nourishment so badly, he would have spit it out after the first swallow. Had it not been for the sour taste, he would have drained her dry; instead, he had taken only enough to take the edge off his hunger.
Desire the Night Page 2