From the Dark

by Michele Hauf

  He’d turned away woman after woman, some far more beautiful than she had been. Yet his bed simply remained empty, as unfulfilled as his heart. He had almost gone to ground a few decades ago, unwilling to stalk the night if he could not do it by her side.

  No woman had ever attracted beyond the blood that she could give him. If it could not be her, then he had wanted no other.

  Only after decades of this idiot behavior, had Michael finally slipped out of it—and into an even more destructive habit. The quest for adrenaline.

  Blood trickled down Michael’s throat. A fine, acrid stream. He’d bitten the side of his tongue. Swallowing seemed an immense task.

  Blood scent—no, it’s your own. Michael shook off the urge to attack; yet it didn’t dissipate, nor did he wish it to.

  Attack? The impulse didn’t feel right. It shouldn’t be right.

  A stream of weary evening sun entered a side window, and beamed across the bare hardwood floor. It stopped, as if a carpet of light, before a blue velvet sofa with curved wooden arms. Dust motes sifted in a deceptive barrier between Michael and the pale figure.

  Before the sofa, she stood, her back to him, most of it revealed, for the low cut of the gown dipped to just above her hips.

  Palest flesh-colored silk, dotted with shimmers of diamond, clung to her narrow, yet curvaceous figure. Her skin blended seamlessly with the fabric. Long hair cascaded like cream down the inviting slope of her bare back, and ended at the gentle rise of her derriere.

  She looked over her shoulder, revealing but the left side of her face, not quite making eye contact. The pose was merely that, Michael presumed—a pose. He had seen this a thousand times before in the media. And he’d posed for enough pictures to know. Never reveal the complete picture; leave them wanting more.

  But more than want, he wondered.

  Why now?

  La Belle Dame sans Merci had stepped back into his life. It had been his nickname for her. He’d given it to her, not because she was a merciless tyrant, but because she’d always wanted one more orgasm when they’d made love. One more, and then another, and another. So many she demanded, and mercilessly, she took from him. Not that he’d argued terribly much at the time.

  But then she’d left him. In the worst possible manner.

  Unexpectedly, Michael blinked at the bleary oblivion threatening his calm rationale.

  Did merely standing in the same room with the woman who had created him do it? Could his blood sense hers? Well, of course. For now that he focused, he could feel her. Heartbeats racing like a hummingbird’s. Not like Jane. So frenzied. She must be nervous. Good.

  “It has been a while, Michael.”

  The voice, deep and calm—always a surprise coming from one so delicate—filled Michael’s blood like whiskey to a recovering alcoholic’s. They stood at too great a distance to touch, and yet, the shimmer traced Michael’s veins in a speeding rush. He could feel her…everywhere, inside and out. Her blood pumped inside his veins. He had been her creation. She still whispered in his blood each time he fed.

  “Isabelle.” He said it with the hard long EE at the beginning, as she preferred it pronounced.

  It had been decades since he’d put voice to that name, but not a day passed he didn’t know her.

  The beam of sun avoided her, but she needn’t the light. Like a winter queen standing amidst the drudgery of a barren landscape, she shone. And her eyes were gold—the one he could see—like a cat’s iris, surrounded by so much white. Eerie. Devastating.

  Why did she not turn completely to face him?

  “Do you forgive my absence?”

  It was a ridiculous question. And he, wound up tightly like a spring, and utterly stunned, took it with a chuckle. Michael let out all the tension, shaking his shoulders and releasing his voice as if on stage.

  “Forgive?” he barreled out. “Hmm, let’s see?”

  Pacing away from her, because he didn’t want to look at the porcelain face that hadn’t changed in five decades, Michael reeled through his thoughts. “We had an amazing affair that lasted six months. I lived only for your regard. In fact, I quit my job at the radio station so I could be at your beck and call. Every night at nine, there was Isabelle, standing in my doorway. Ready for sex. I suspected nothing. You didn’t tell me a thing about yourself. And then when you decided to reveal all? You bit me, changed me to a vampire and said ‘Have a nice life, lover.’”

  He turned to find Isabelle’s calm, unchanging stare. “Did I get all of that right?”

  “You haven’t changed, Michael. Still cocky and arrogant, and as full of yourself as ever. Yes, that’s about right. But I never promised you forever. I had thought you’d be over it by now.”

  “I am completely over you, Isabelle. I haven’t thought of you for decades.”

  “Not a day has passed that I haven’t thought of you.”

  “You lie.”

  “You’re still the most handsome man I’ve ever held in my arms.”

  He twisted his neck to cast her a grin. “I should hope so.”

  “I love your arrogance. Come, give me a kiss, will you?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. I’m not going to fall back into the old rhythm, Isabelle. I have a life now. And it doesn’t include you.”

  “Is she very pretty, then?”

  “What?”

  “Your life?”

  “It’s been decades. I’ve accomplished a lot. I have a marvelous life. I own property and have security for an endless future. And you can only guess it is a woman that fulfills me?”

  “That’s usually the case with you public personas. I suspect the vampire got lost behind the flash of camera bulbs and adoration. I’ve seen your music videos. The Fallen. What an appropriate name for a music group featuring a vampire as lead singer. You’re very daring to put yourself out there before the masses like that. Aren’t you afraid you’ll be discovered?”

  Michael sought her gaze for the threat that she held. If she wished, she could expose him. But not so wise, considering the source.

  If he stepped closer, would he then step back into their rhythm? Already her heartbeat raced alongside his. Those furious, fast beats, always challenging, calling to him to meet the match, to dive into the excitement.

  Michael reached out, his fingers grasping but air. Nothing there to touch. No not-witch to cling to for support.

  But he didn’t need Jane to help him now. What could she offer him? Beyond the strength you’ve received from her magic? She offers you home, love and—not the fiery adventure Isabelle had once given him. Jane could never stand next to Isabelle and outshine this woman’s pale moonlight glow.

  Plain Jane. But no longer, for she had gained real magic. Is that what troubled him lately? She was growing stronger, a match to him. Would she go beyond him? And then, would she no longer need him?

  Isabelle brushed a hand down the side of her torso, smoothing gracefully across her hip. Slender, pale, a dream. The curl of her fingers drew attention to the curve of fabric cutting low upon her back. “I did so try to look presentable for you.”

  “You are lovely, as ever.” Truly, she was. “But why now?” Michael asked. “Why did you wait so long to seek me out? Weren’t you, at the very least, curious if I had survived, if I had learned to live as a vampire?”

  “You have always been strong, Michael. I had no doubts you would rise to the challenge and flourish. As I see you have. You’re flush with blood and I can smell your strength. You look so…virile. Michael, you’re so much more than when we last met. Admit it, I gave you a great gift.”

  Fisting his fingers, he snarled and punched the air. “I will not breathe your lies!”

  “I’ve no lies to give. Merely admiration.”

  More blood streamed down Michael’s throat. He couldn’t stop pacing, or wondering. Or looking. The woman drew his attention like a singer on the stage. Yet Isabelle needn’t talent beyond the twinkle in her forged metal eyes and the tilt of her head. Wicked ch
arm coaxed at him, so obviously twisted, and yet, alluring.

  Slapping his palms together before him, Michael bowed his head to his thumbs and shook his head.

  All right, so this was real. Like it or not, they were connected through blood.

  “What do you want from me, Isabelle? You’ve had me followed. You’ve stalked me, obviously. It can’t simply be that you’ve missed me.”

  “Come closer, and I’ll tell you.”

  He should have replied that he didn’t need to take a step to hear her, but instead Michael found himself walking toward her before the thought against it occurred.

  Sunlight shimmered in Isabelle’s hair, but still she did not stand directly in it. As he got closer to her, the scent of expensive perfume surrounded him. It was subtle, oriental, and exotic—like her.

  “Look at me,” he said. “Turn around, Isabelle.”

  Graceful as a dove, she turned, and twisted up her head to look him directly. The movement was awkward, perhaps even painful for her to perform.

  Michael gasped. The right side of her face was riddled with ugly red scars, the flesh puckered as if stripped away then, when moist with blood, it had settled there in that shape.

  “Isabelle?”

  “It’s recent,” she said, the regal tone to her voice softening. She tilted down her head so her hair swung over the tormented side of her face, but not completely. “From a witch. I was a very lucky. Most vampires never walk away from the death cocktail.”

  The magnitude of her confession struck Michael in his heart. Stalked by the horrors of his ugly reality. He gripped his chest, stepped back a few feet, and blew out his breath.

  “Don’t be frightened by me, Michael. I am still the woman you once made love to for days on end.”

  “I’m not frightened. I’m sorry for you. It’s just…” He looked upon his future. His fate, should Jane’s blood ever contact his flesh. And that was if he were lucky. “How? To survive?”

  “She spat at me,” Isabelle explained. “I am so…tired.”

  Now she sat on the blue velvet couch behind her, crossing her legs elegantly and leaning back, though she laid the scarred side of her face against the back of the couch.

  “I was able to wipe away the blood with my clothing, but it was too late,” she said. “The blood works very quickly. It burned long and so deep. Right through to my mouth. It ate away half my teeth. It’s been months. The inside of my mouth has healed, the teeth are coming back, but the outside…A burn from witch’s blood is much different than one from the sun. No matter how much mortal blood I drink, it serves little toward the physical repairs I require.”

  “And how do you repair?” Oh, stupid question. The answer punched him in the gut.

  “That is why I’ve come to you, Michael. I need your blood.”

  Of course it couldn’t be something easy like a simple handshake.

  And yet, to give her blood should be easy. One bite?

  A long exhale shuffled out the vibrations of anger. Calm and resolute control were required. Michael would not rage. No, it wasn’t necessary. He pitied this woman. He hated her. He adored her. He was twisted into all sorts by her.

  Should he give her his blood, she would heal.

  In essence, he would be betraying Jane.

  “It’s not so much to ask, is it, Michael? Your woman won’t mind. She needn’t even know. I require you serve me for a week or so.”

  “A week?” Serve her?

  “It requires much blood. To bathe in it would be preferable.”

  “Absolutely not!” Almost, almost he had been in her hands again. Like a lovesick fool, a naive boy who craved the attention of a worldly woman. “You’re doing it again, Isabelle. You march into my life, seduce me, take what you will, then traipse off in your diamonds and silks like a spoiled princess grown bored of her playthings.”

  “I wouldn’t leave you if you would have me. Does she mean that much to you? Could you love me, Michael?”

  He’d never seen Isabelle beg. To reduce herself to a wanting, pleading…thing.

  “I can’t do this. Not now. I need…to think.”

  “But you won’t rule it out?”

  “Isabelle!” He swung around to put his face before her, to make her see that he struggled, that he hurt, that he was a man who did not need her. But there, so close to her, and surrounded by her seductive scent, her life, her blood and her pulse, he fell—and got lost in the memory of better times.

  Michael curled his hand up the back of Isabelle’s head and drew her in for a kiss. A long, deep, moaning kiss that tortured him while it fed the wanting hole he’d carried in his heart for the years following her abrupt departure.

  Their heartbeats traced a furious path, pounding, pounding inside his skull. But he did not relent. The taste of her in his mouth, oh…her blood…

  Realizing his teeth had come down, and that he’d cut her lip, Michael pulled away abruptly. He swiped a hand over the blood on his lower lip. Isabelle grinned.

  Her blood, not his. She could have bitten him, latched on to his neck just now and taken the elixir required to heal, and yet she had not.

  “I want you to give it freely,” she said, sliding a finger across her mouth to clean away the blood. “That kiss was a reaction. You didn’t even know you were going to do it until it happened, yes?”

  “Yes.” He knelt there on the floor, huffing, wanting, aching. The taste of her he tried to forget, but he would never ignore champagne poured into his mouth. “I can’t do it, Isabelle. I—I love Jane.”

  “Jane Rénan, the daughter of a witch and a vampire.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve my ways.”

  Right. She’d put the weird video on his iPod somehow. Of course, she was following him, and those he associated with.

  “So you’re with the daughter of a witch? Doesn’t her blood have any effect on you?”

  “I’ve not bitten her.”

  Isabelle laughed. So deep and tremulous, it registered in Michael’s belly, teasing him to a quick arousal. “Such restraint, Michael. How long do you think that will last? With me, you’ve no worry of death. My blood will feed you, make you stronger.”

  “I am stronger,” he spat. “Much stronger than you will ever be.”

  Standing, Michael paced over to the door. He’d stayed long enough. If he remained, he’d be on the couch tearing that thin fabric from her breasts in order to feed the lust. “Strong enough to walk away from you. Goodbye, Isabelle.”

  “You said you’d think about it!”

  Without a glance to the master of his creation, Michael marched outside into the sunlight. “I will,” he said. “I will.

  Chapter 21

  H ow could he not think about the only woman he had ever loved? Sure it had been five decades earlier, but there were days, if Isabelle’s image crossed his thoughts, he could feel the intense emotion they had shared as if it were new and present and real.

  Isabelle LePierre, daughter of a count, born in the sixteenth century. Seductress. Lover. Vampire.

  Michael had already gone through the obvious questions: Had she done this to other men? Make them love her, and then bite them and flee? Of course. Did she care? She may have once, while they were together, but not after she left. The very minute she slipped away from him, Michael suspected she had already thoughts of a new conquest in mind. Was it habitual for her to go from one man to the next? Probably, after living for so long, it had to be her way of survival. He knew addictions. She may not be aware of her sexual need, and yet, nothing could stop her from seeking that next fix.

  But the troubling question was: Why him?

  If Isabelle had created other blood children, then why hadn’t she returned to one of them to ask for the healing blood she required? Why Michael?

  And why now, when he suddenly found himself involved with a new woman, someone who could erase every memory of Isabelle LaPierre with but a smile and a flash of those sexy faery tale eyes.r />
  He loved Jane.

  But you are not bonded to her. You can never be.

  Without the blood, there would always be something lacking between them. That sense of utterly being a part of the other person—just by thinking of them. Like it was with Isabelle.

  Michael shrugged his hand back through his hair. He drove toward Jesse’s house. And Jane. Moving away from Isabelle.

  Is this what he wanted? To return to Jane. To step away from a past that had haunted him for years?

  Wasn’t he supposed to be in exile, getting over his addiction? Not that he was concerned about that. Hell, he may have already replaced that habit with the sex magic. And yet, women would enter and women would leave his life. The need for blood would always remain.

  Thinking of which…He was hungry. It had been days since he’d taken blood. And going home to Jane wasn’t going to make anything easier. He should have stopped in town.

  The Mini pulled onto a gravel road and rumbled slowly over the pot holes and loose pebbles. He could turn around, head back.

  Instead, he stepped on the gas.

  He’d have to deal. Somehow. So long as Jane was busy with her work, maybe he could slip inside and slink down to the basement. If he shut himself away in the coffin, sleep would come, and he could ignore the blood hunger.

  But could he ignore Isabelle’s plea for wholeness?

  Hanging up the phone, Jane delighted at the expectation of seeing the cake she’d ordered. The baker had said it would be an interesting challenge, but nothing was impossible. It would be delivered tomorrow, on Michael’s birthday.

  Now, if only the rest of her life were so easy as ordering cake.

  Michael breezed through the doorway and when she thought he hadn’t noticed her in the kitchen, he paused and looked to her. Something wasn’t right. But he smiled and tilted his head in earnest concern. “Jane. What are you up to?”

  She beamed. “Nothing. I’ve been waiting for you.”

  He could sense her anxiety, she knew that, and so she wished it away. Don’t think of tomorrow night.