From the Dark

by Michele Hauf

  “Bastard.” Michael flicked on the music player and filed through the various programs. “I suppose he looked through my address book and at the unreleased songs.” He thumbed over the Video selection, thinking to check the play count.

  A face flashed onto the small screen. Briefly, but in that two seconds the image burned itself onto the screen.

  “Cripes!” Michael dropped the iPod and, faltering, caught himself against the iron railing fronting the stairs.

  “What is it? Michael?”

  He bent and leaned over the iPod. The screen faced him, but instead of a colored video stream a small file folder flashed at him. He must have screwed it up when dropping it.

  But that face. He knew that face.

  “Did he do something to your stuff? Michael?” Jane tapped his arm. “Talk to me.”

  “I think I just saw a ghost.”

  Chapter 16

  H e had picked her lily of the valley on Monday. On Tuesday, he picked her yellow tulips he discovered out back beneath a loose pile of dried leaves. Wednesday, he’d called into town to have roses delivered because he’d picked all the new growth from the garden.

  On Thursday, Michael unwrapped four dozen peonies with heads as big as a baby’s. Streaks of white painted the deep crimson inner petals. They smelled like exotic wine. The North Lake floral shop loved him.

  Jane had asked Michael to meet her in the basement this evening—she had a surprise for him—so he wrapped his arms around the unwieldy bouquet and, blossoms bouncing like a drummer’s head, went in search of a lady in need of wooing and many, many flowers.

  The entire house smelled like a garden. He’d even allowed her to place a vase of daisies in the recording studio; though, those didn’t smell great.

  Jane invaded his soul like a creeping vine spilling over with ruffle-petaled flowers. And he didn’t mind it one bit. In fact, it kept his mind from his reality.

  Because really, this wasn’t reality, this sharing a home with Jane, was it? No, it was more a fantasy he’d never hoped to live. She wasn’t his type of woman. He wasn’t her kind of man. She’d made it very clear there would never be a blood bond between them. There could not be two more opposite beings. Hell, they were natural enemies. Never, would they have the sort of connection he craved.

  Yet he didn’t want the fantasy to end.

  Cruising by the studio he glanced inside. Michael stopped, his focus fixing to the iPod. It had been a ghost, or some kind of look-alike. Couldn’t be anything but. But how had the image of that woman gotten onto his iPod? Had the reporter put it on there? He had to.

  That didn’t explain a thing. How would the reporter know about anything that could upset Michael?

  Nah, it was probably just a clip from one of his files, a flash from an old video that featured a remarkable face that simply reminded him of his past. To really know, he needed to access the files, but after dropping it, the thing now pleaded to be reformatted and the original software was at home in LosAngeles.

  He vacillated between having it sent so he could reboot the file and check it again, or just convincing himself he’d seen nothing more than a fragment of a file with a familiar face.

  Unwilling to believe in a prank, Michael decided it was a coincidence. He’d been thinking about her and, with her image still fresh in mind, he’d imagined it on the iPod.

  Michael shuffled down the basement steps and into the lit room. “Jane? Where’d you find the lamp?”

  “It’s from my studio. Oh, those are gorgeous.”

  She plunged into his arms, and between them, the crushed flowers wept a heady perfume.

  “I love peonies even more than roses.” She dipped her head into the flowers and closed her eyes to draw in the scent. “They’re like wine, don’t you think? Intoxicating.”

  “Nothing could be more addictive than you—what the hell?”

  Now Michael noticed the chains dangling from the far wall. They hadn’t been there yesterday. Huge black manacles hung at the end of each chain. They were spaced about six feet apart, and secured to the concrete wall by an iron plate and four huge bolts.

  “You like?”

  “I—what?” The flowers fell from his arms and, though Jane caught some, he trampled the peony blossoms with his boots as he crossed the room. “Is this your surprise?” He tapped one of the manacles. “Please tell me this is not my surprise.”

  “This is your surprise.” She bopped him on the shoulder with a flower. “So take off your clothes.”

  Michael spun around so quickly he lost his balance. Either that or she’d put a spell on him to make him woozy and surrender to her wicked commands. Could be the inner magic she possessed. Which was no longer as inner as it had once been.

  “You’re serious?”

  “I’m always serious.”

  “You’re not going to do magical experiments on me?”

  “Now that is an idea. But no, Michael, I want to have sex. Don’t you?”

  “Stupid question, Jane.”

  “I figured so. But, much as I know we both want it, we need to keep the beast in chains.”

  Michael scratched his head. “No way. It’s impossible.” At least, that was his initial reaction…But. He scruffed fingers back through his hair. “Really?”

  He vacillated between dread and a weird sexual fascination. The woman actually suggested he let her chain him to the wall and allow her to have her way with him.

  Hands sliding into his pockets, he leaned forward to inspect the manacles. “Where’s the key?”

  “Upstairs, with the instructions. I haven’t had time to read through them.”

  “They come with instructions? Jane,” he breathed. “You are so not serious.”

  “Yes, instructions. And I was surprised because I didn’t order them from some kinky sex shop. I didn’t think they’d be strong enough, so I called an industrial supplier I’ve used for my work. I had the deliveryman install them this morning while you were sequestered in the studio. So,” blithely unaware of his reluctance, she commanded, “strip.”

  “Sure.” Michael stared at the chains. Cold, hard and black, they looked like something a death metal band would use for a prop. Call him outrageous and uninhibited on stage, but at home in bed he liked things simple and unimposing.

  Maybe.

  He’d never tried the kinky stuff so he shouldn’t rule it out.

  “Michael.” Her hands slid down his chest, and she dug her nails in the wake.

  Working the buttons slowly, Michael eventually slid off his long-sleeve shirt—a favorite that sported red skulls against black—and let it drop to the floor. “So what has it been, a couple weeks we’ve known each other? Suddenly Jezebel reveals herself?”

  Jane propped a hand on her hip. “Got a problem with that?”

  “There are too many ways to go with this one, sweetie. I think I’ll defer to you and your worldly wisdom. Wait. Have you done this with previous lovers?”

  “Michael.”

  “I need to know.”

  “Never. Cross my heart.”

  “No, don’t—cross anything. Please.”

  “Sorry. I should know better, having avoided it around my father. So. Strip.”

  “I’m working on it. But I do think we’re going to need a safe word or something.”

  “Stained glass,” she said over his shoulder, because he’d yet to tear his gaze from the black chains. “That’s the word, er, words. You say them, I’ll back off. Promise.”

  Jeans unzipped, but still at his hips, Michael turned to Jane. Floaty strands of hair listed across her face. Her pale smile taunted him so wickedly. “Just what are your intentions, young lady? You got some whips hidden in the coffin?”

  “Don’t be silly.” She drew a fingernail across his chest and when she zinged his nipple he decided the argument had concluded. “Just remember, this is to help you. You can control the blood hunger, Michael. But you’ve got to want to.”

  “I do want to.”
/>
  “As much as you want me?”

  “Chain me up, baby. Let’s get this party started.”

  Turns out the chains were mighty comfortable. Michael didn’t even notice his restraints as Jane’s lips glided up from his belly, and over his chest. His stomach muscles tightened and every part of him strained for release. To capture the wicked and drink it in.

  The clink of chain links had ceased to bother him. Now the only sound was the rhythm of Jane’s heartbeat and the song of her desire.

  An electric fire followed in the wake of her slippery, sliding kiss. A stroke across his nipple forged a longing moan from him. The excruciating pleasure sparked out to his extremities so, he felt he must give off light like some kind of firefly. Sweet flame consumed his entire body, making him feel alive, so alive.

  She pressed a kiss to his mouth. Kir perfumed her breath, sweet, smooth cherry wine, just like Jane. Her body snugged against his, promising so much, and he knew she wouldn’t deny him. The woman wasn’t the sort to lay out treats, and then pull them away just as he reached for them.

  Not that he could reach for them now.

  Yes, he trusted her. Nothing in this world made him happier than to simply stand before her, taking in her dark, rich aura. And her magic.

  Unsure how the actual transference of the magic occurred, Michael sucked in deeply, opening himself to every part of her.

  “I’m a long way from mastering spells,” she whispered. “But I’m working wishcraft on you right now.”

  “What are you wishing for?” He nudged his erection against her groin. “Isn’t this enough for you?”

  “Plenty. That’s why I’m wishing your desire for need to stay dormant.”

  “Don’t feel too terribly hungry right—ohhh.”

  “You’re so hard. I don’t know if I can climb up on you with you up against the wall like this. Oh, Michael.”

  “Jane, I want to be inside you. Right now. I can’t do it in chains.”

  “You’re right. This isn’t going to work.”

  “No, it’s working. All I want is you. Your sex wrapped around me.” Firm, exploring fingers stretched him tightly. It was enough to make a man do what he had to do. “Promise I’ll behave. But—”

  Michael strained against the manacle on his left wrist. He pulled, the chain snapping taut. The bolts in the wall jiggled.

  “Michael, wait there’s a key!”

  “No time. Don’t let go of me. We’re almost there, Jane. Just one more…tug.”

  The bolts gave free. Michael’s arm swung out and he stepped up to catch the ends of the chain so they wouldn’t slap Jane. He’d worry about a key later.

  In no time he had Jane pressed to the wall, and lifted her leg to wrap around his hip. He didn’t need both hands. And he’d lost all patience. And so he plunged into her and they came together.

  He clung to her for the longest time, listening to her slowing breaths, following her heartbeats and they settled and began the usual rhythm inside him. Perspiration moistened her hair at her temple. He nuzzled there, loving the salty aroma of her skin.

  Without releasing her, he tugged at the chain that still secured one of his arms. No exertion. It pulled free. A chunk of cement swung at the end of the chain, and he moved his arm to the side and set it on the floor so she wouldn’t trip.

  “That’s incredible, Michael.”

  He shrugged. Sure, his strength had increased. Wasn’t like it was magic.

  “You could have done that earlier? When we were having sex?”

  “Probably.” Probably. And yet he’d been too distracted to attempt it. He should have been able to twist these manacles off and take control of their coming together. To pin her against the wall with both hands and thrust into her over and over, even after the first climax.

  What kind of man had he become? Was she becoming stronger than him? He had never allowed a woman to control him. And he wasn’t about to begin now.

  “Michael. Should we go again?”

  “Not interested.” He stepped around, collecting his clothes, dragging the cement chunks along with him. “You just want to increase your magic anyway.”

  “What? Michael, how dare—”

  He swung around. “Enough,” he hissed. “I’ve had enough for now. Go get the key.”

  She left silently, and he was pleased. No, she wouldn’t control him.

  Chapter 17

  M ichael drove off in the Mini, without word to her. Fine, Jane thought.

  She completely understood now when her mother would get upset with her father for his arrogant, demanding ways. It was as if they felt they walked slightly above all others. Of course, it could be the vampire/witch thing. Witches felt superior to vamps, and vice versa. Or was it a male/female thing?

  Jane wasn’t feeling superior, just lucky. If not a little cautious. She had never been afraid of magic before, because she couldn’t use it. But now…What if she couldn’t command it so skillfully as her mother did? Would she make a terrible mistake? How to reverse a spell gone bad? She had so much to learn!

  Wandering out to the garden in the long periwinkle slip dress she’d donned after they’d made love, Jane bent over the fountain to inspect it. The water had stopped flowing. She located the motor housing, but it required lifting the bowl off to get at it, and it was far too heavy to even attempt.

  “Hmm.” On the other hand. Who needed a raging, muscle-bound vampire?

  So far, she had only to think for something to happen and it did. Wishcraft. So she focused on the inner workings of the fountain, envisioning the flow of water up through the plastic piping and spewing—

  “Yes!” Water splashed out of the angel’s mouth, and splattered Jane’s hands. “Now this could come in handy.”

  Why did the one man she cared about act like he could care less about this significant event in her life? That she could use her magic, after living one hundred and twenty five years without touching it was nothing less than remarkable.

  And she owed it all to Michael.

  Sitting on the grass right there at the circumference of the fountain, she crossed her legs, and caught her forehead in her palms.

  “Well, Jane, what are you going to do now?” She was a nomad. She took lovers. She fell in lust. But never love. Having sex with a vampire? That was good. And he hadn’t lost control last night.

  But it didn’t mean love. Did it?

  For a very long time, life had been blessedly uncomplicated.

  So how had a man, the complete and utter opposite of herself—why, a vampire—been able to capture her soul so easily?

  It mattered to Jane what happened to Michael. She wanted him to master the darkness within himself so that material success could be possible. And she wanted to protect him from the stalkers and tribes and other shadows that lurked in hopes of stealing the last few morsels of his innocence.

  Like you, Jane? Don’t you want a piece of that innocence?

  Sometimes her conscience could be so honestly cruel. And this time it spoke with Ravin’s voice. For no matter the wonders that came to her, Jane could not ignore the ritual much longer. She had but days. And still no source to be found.

  Save the one stripping you naked nightly.

  Brushing away the thin ribbons of grass clinging along her bare legs, Jane sighed. She did reconnaissance on the garden. No bees buzzing about.

  Had Michael become like the bees? Compelled to her, yet unable to hurt her beyond a few quick stings?

  She had lied to him about having had a boyfriend. Decades earlier, Jane had walked away from a man she had truly loved. Guy had been in her life for sixteen years. Never once had he questioned her parents or her unflagging youth. And when finally he had? She’d freaked, leaving him without word and rushing back to the bitter sanctity of her father’s arms. Much easier to run away from the truth than to face it.

  And yet, she’d given Michael her truth without second thought. Now that was curious.

  “You really are
in love, you crazy woman.”

  “Okay, so you like him,” she argued with her conscience. “Love? Maybe. Could be. Probably. He’s so sexy. He is so—” Alive. Frenetic. Exciting. “And he’s a great lover.” And their sex gave her an undeniable boon. “But what will I do with him in ten years? Twenty?”

  If he survived that long. The fact he hadn’t bitten her yet was nothing less than remarkable.

  Her mother and father had made immortality—and marriage vows—work. Not that Jane would ever consider marriage. Domestic pairing belonged in the same category as babies—she had no interest. But she had to look at what the future would bring if she intended to allow Michael into her life. It wasn’t as though he’d die soon and she could go on to the next lover. This man would ever remain her peer—that is, if she completed the immortality ritual.

  “Can you do it, Jane?”

  “What’s that?”

  Now that was a familiar voice. Elation pressing her up to her feet and twisting her around, Jane skipped across the grass to land in the arms of her father. He lifted her feet from the ground in a generous bear hug and spun her once.

  “Jane, dearest, you’re always so wild when I see you.” He looked her up and down. “Do you ever wear shoes?”

  “Daddy! Why didn’t you tell me you had plans to visit? I would have—Oh, you look so good. I can’t believe it’s been but a year. I miss you like it’s been ten.”

  Indeed, Baptiste Rénan did cut a figure. Pushing up dark sunglasses onto the crown of his head, he drew her into the shadows edging the back of the house and then stood back to display the tailored charcoal suit he wore. Armani, no doubt, for Jane knew he favored the Italian designers. An elegant hint of pale green shirt peeked out between the lapels. Celadon, his favorite color. Any observer would remark he looked like Jane’s peer, so little the centuries had done to age his face. Yet he’d trimmed his long dark hair to a stylish, over-the-ear swish that looked short in the back.