by PG Forte
“What?” Her face ashen, Julie dropped the shirt she’d been folding back into the pile of clothes on her bed and quickly crossed the room. “No, Conrad, stop it. Please. I didn’t mean anything like that! It was just an argument. No—not even. A disagreement. And I think…I think he’s scared of me.”
“Scared of you?”
She nodded. “And I don’t even know what I did.”
The quaver in her voice, the pain in her eyes, went straight to Conrad’s heart. “Ah, carissima, I’m so sorry,” he said as he held her close. “I wish I could make it otherwise for you but that’s just not possible. I’m afraid there’s very little that can be done. It’s our nature to be frightening. And it’s a rare human who can remain in close proximity to us for any length of time without becoming aware of that, without becoming just a little afraid.”
“But it’s more than just a little, I think,” she mumbled, her face buried in his shirtfront. “And I don’t want him to be afraid. We were happy. At least…I thought we were.”
“I know. I’m sure you were.” He almost added, the course of true love never did run smooth, but held his tongue. What she had with the human was not true love—nor would it likely ever be. To suggest otherwise, would surely be unfair; would be to tempt her with what she could not have. “I’m sorry, my dear. So very sorry.”
Not knowing what else to do, he continued to hug her to him as he thought about all the lovers in his past. The ones he’d injured in some way or another. The ones who’d run from him in terror. And the very few who’d ever dared come back…
Chapter Ten
Sevilla
Fifteenth Century
Skulking unseen in the upstairs corridor, Conrad watched as Damian rounded the corner and headed his way. It had taken very little time for the duke to succumb to the drugs Conrad had slipped into his wine; but it appeared to have taken Damian even less time to settle the seemingly inebriated duke in his bedchamber. Now, as he hurried along the hallway, he had the look about him of a man who’d just been let off on holiday, the look of a man speeding toward his lover’s bed, rather than away from it. Conrad wondered briefly where Damian thought he was going. Wherever it was, he was almost certainly not going to reach his destination tonight.
Conrad stepped from the shadows and placed himself in the nobleman’s path. “My lord. I would have a word with you, sir.”
Damian stopped short, surprise giving way to delight—or so it would have appeared, if the gleam in his eyes or the sudden smile that wreathed his lips had been something in which Conrad still believed. He had to stop himself from scowling. No one should be allowed to smile in such a fashion and not have it mean something.
“Why, my dear Señor Quintano,” Damian purred as he gracefully essayed a deep bow. “But of course you may. El placer es mío. I am at your complete disposal. Only, please, tell me, in what way might I be of assistance to your esteemed self this evening?”
“You are too kind,” Conrad replied, pleased to note the boy had finally resolved his doubts as to Conrad’s identity. That was good. After all, where would be the lesson learned if Damian could not properly recall the name of the man who was about to ruin him? “But, on the contrary, it is I who wish to be of assistance to you.”
“Do you?” A small smile played over Damian’s lips. “Well, then I am indeed honored. Pray, do continue.”
“I’m afraid I could not help but overhear part of your conversation this evening, with His Excellency, the duke,” Conrad said as he moved closer. Close enough that Damian was all but caged within one of the deep doorways that lined the corridor. Close enough that the boy’s heartbeat was clearly audible and the scent of his blood an almost overpowering lure. “You appear to be laboring under a small but rather grave misconception and I thought, if you would but allow it, I might be able to correct your thinking?”
“Sí. By all means.” Damian’s eyes gleamed and Conrad could all but feel his anticipation. “I look forward to your correction.”
Holding his own anticipation in check, Conrad shrugged. “Perhaps not, my friend. For I am afraid what I have to say to you will not come as a happy surprise. Speaking as one who has had a great deal of experience with…certain elements of society, I must tell you that most of the peasants with whom I’ve been acquainted have been sadly lacking in skill when it comes to the subtle art of pleasuring a man, and not nearly as proficient as you seem to think.”
At that, Damian’s smile flickered and went out. Color suffused his face. “You read lips,” he said, his voice dull. “I had not realized you numbered that among your talents. What a very…useful skill to possess.”
Conrad sighed. “Alas, no. I fear you are once again mistaken. I do not read lips. I do, however, possess very excellent hearing. Right now, for example, I can hear the pounding of your heart. It is kicking so fiercely against your ribs that it calls to mind a young buck that’s been pulled down by wolves and knows it’s about to have its throat ripped out.”
Damian had gone altogether still. He cleared his throat with obvious difficulty. “How exceptionally…vivid,” he murmured, lips curling in disgust. “It is a wonderfully descriptive image your words have painted for me. Muchas gracias, Señor. I’m sure I shall treasure the memory of it always.”
“I am sure you shall.” Once again Conrad shortened the distance between them. “In fact, I am confident I shall give you sufficient cause to remember this evening for a very long time indeed.” He stretched out a hand as he spoke, laying his palm against the center of Damian’s chest. Damian’s eyes widened in alarm. His heart lurched. Conrad smiled. “There it goes again. My apologies, my lord, I fear I must be frightening you.”
Damian shook his head. “No, Señor. This time it is you who are mistaken.”
“Do you really think so?” As he took in the stubborn set of Damian’s jaw, the rebellious gleam in his eyes, Conrad could not help but smile. The hunter in him was unexpectedly pleased with this sudden show of boldness. Where was the fun, after all, in a chase that was over too soon? “Myself, I do not see how that could be possible. For, as it happens, I am rarely mistaken.”
Damian swallowed hard. “I do not doubt it.” His chin lifted infinitesimally. “But I, on the other hand, am hardly ever frightened.” And, suddenly, he was in motion. Leaning in, he erased the gap between them, cupped his hands around Conrad’s face and kissed him—hard.
The move took Conrad by surprise. Damian seized the advantage and pressed closer. He slanted his head to the side in a bid to deepen the kiss, which Conrad allowed, giving in to his own, almost overpowering, curiosity. What is he up to? How far will he take this?
An instant later, however, even his curiosity deserted him under the weight of a momentous discovery. Damian’s lips seemed to fit Conrad’s mouth so perfectly it was as though they’d been divinely crafted for just that purpose. Made for me. The thought was so alien it would have shocked Conrad had he still been able to think clearly, but Damian’s tongue darted between Conrad’s lips and hunger churned anew. His fangs pulsed with their need. Thinking clearly was no longer a possibility. He was made for me.
Growling now, Conrad took a grip on Damian’s shoulders and forced him back against the door. Damian went willingly, arching against him, thrusting his hips into Conrad’s, leaving him with no doubt as to what Damian wanted from him tonight: the very same thing he wanted from Damian—wanted, and fully intended to have, with no thought to the consequences. Afterwards, they could both die on the spot, and he’d be content.
“Careful, young one,” Conrad warned as he pressed his lips to Damian’s throat and let his tongue trace over the veins that flowed beneath the surface, searching for just the right place to begin the feast. “You’re playing with fire.” As close as he was to losing control, the same could be said of himself.
A wild laugh escaped Damian’s lips. “Ah, but this old castle can be so dreadfully drafty at times. Do you not find it to be so? How else is one to stay warm?”
How, indeed? Conrad couldn’t help but agree. A moment later, his mouth found what it had been seeking. He sank his fangs into Damian’s neck, shuddering with the bliss of that first, sweet taste. Made for me. Unbidden, the thought came again. For me and for me alone.
“Dios,” Damian gasped as the venom hit. He clutched Conrad tighter, legs shaking as though they were about to give way.
Conrad pressed him harder against the door, using the weight of his own body to keep Damian from falling. His actions had unintended results. Damian’s erection rubbed against his own, reminding Conrad that there were other needs to be met, other desires to be fulfilled. He wrenched his mouth away from Damian’s throat.
“Your chambers,” he demanded hoarsely. “Where are they?”
Damian frowned, as though struggling for comprehension. In the silence, Conrad could hear the approach of footsteps ascending the stairs at the far end of the hallway.
“Quickly. Someone is climbing the stairs. If you’ve any wish to avoid being discovered, you must take me to your room. Now, hidalgo.”
Damian’s eyes flickered briefly in the direction of the stairs, then back to lock with Conrad’s. Still he hesitated, as though weighing his decision.
“Now,” Conrad repeated impatiently. “I swear, if you do not, I will have you right here in this corridor, in plain sight of anyone who passes, whether it results in your ruination or not.”
At that, Damian’s chin lifted. “I thought, perhaps, that might be a part of your plan?” He spared another quick glance in the direction of the stairs then whispered urgently. “Have I misunderstood? Was it not your intention to humiliate me as punishment for my having insulted you?”
Conrad stared at him in disbelief as he struggled to restrain his inner beast. It appeared Damian was less a fool than he’d originally thought him—not that he was exhibiting much intelligence by baiting him in this fashion. Conrad’s hunger was so far from satisfied he might very conceivably kill anyone who attempted to take Damian from him right now. He might kill Damian, as well, if he didn’t stop thwarting him like this. “Plans can change,” he growled quietly.
A wicked smile broke over Damian’s lips. “I am delighted to hear it.” He reached behind him, his hand scrabbling briefly, finally making contact with the door’s handle. He shoved the door open and practically fell backward into the room, pulling Conrad in with him.
Where are we now? Conrad glanced around the empty bedchamber as Damian secured the door behind them. Whose room is this? He scented the air, searching for clues to the room’s owner. Only one scent lingered on the still air, however, and it was a scent with which he’d become intimately acquainted in the last few minutes—Damian’s.
Snarling in disbelief, Conrad turned and pinned the younger man against the door. “What are you playing at tonight?” he demanded in furious tones. “This is your room.”
Conrad could think of only one reason why the boy would risk being caught with him in the hallway when he was this close to safety. It must amuse him to tease the poor, besotted peasant with his kisses. He must be planning on laughing about it tomorrow with his royal patrón. Conrad swore silently as he struggled to hold his beast in check. If what he suspected was true, then ruining Damian might not be punishment enough. This might well become the very last night of his reckless young life.
Chapter Eleven
San Francisco
Present Day
Conrad could not contain his fury. It erupted within him, filling his soul to overflowing—just like the blood and the bitter taste of venom that filled his mouth. He forced the vile mixture down and bit again, sinking his fangs into soft, unprotected flesh; paying no heed to the pleas of his victim, pinned beneath him. He barely even heard the man’s anguished cries for mercy over the thundering of his own blood.
“For the love of God, Conrad! What are you doing? Stop it. Stop it, please!”
The voice was Damian’s. And the body beneath him…
“No!” Conrad pushed himself upright, away from the carnage he’d created…and woke himself from the dream. His throbbing fangs streamed venom. The scent of blood seemed to fill the evening air. Heart pounding, he glanced around. He was in his own room again—and alone, thank the heavens—but, all the same, was that blood smeared across his pillowcase? He gazed at it in horror, wondering who he’d hurt this time, until his probing tongue found the laceration still healing on his lip and he realized the blood was most likely his own.
He leaned back against the unsoiled pillows and closed his eyes wearily. He would have thought he’d be over this by now. The dreams, the nightmares, the memories that haunted him nightly—was there no end to them? Apparently, there was not. His mind had a seemingly limitless supply of grief and guilt to choose from and perhaps that was as it should be. After all, why should he not continue to suffer for his sins? Why should he expect clemency for himself, when he’d so rarely extended it to anyone else?
“Enough.” Growling impatiently, he tossed back the covers and got out of bed. He was what he was and there was nothing to be gained by wallowing in self-pity. Tonight was the twins’ birthday and it was past time he was up. He had a party to host.
He had not wanted this party. In fact, he’d argued strenuously against it when Damian first introduced the subject. But, eventually, he’d agreed…or he’d been worn down. With Damian, he was never completely certain.
It was imperative that the entire nest be made aware of his special fondness for his two youngest children—he did see the wisdom in that. It was equally critical he and Damian not appear to be hiding anything of importance with regard to them. Again, he could not fault Damian’s logic, nor deny that this frivolous party thrown on the twins behalf would be the perfect vehicle with which to achieve both aims…and oddly fitting besides, had Damian but known it.
Still, as a result, the greater part of Conrad’s nest would soon be assembled in the ballroom downstairs, expecting to see their sire as they’d always seen him before: commanding, invulnerable, more than a match for the lot of them. Not as the weakling he’d lately become.
He had barely enough energy—he hoped—for one small show of power, should the necessity arise. But failure was not an option. For the good of the nest, for the safety of those dearest to him, he must somehow find the strength within himself to pull off this charade. He need only hold himself together for one night, just long enough to convince everyone he was still the vampire he once had been and, if luck were with him, might someday be again.
Julie breathed deep, allowing the musty attic air to fill her lungs. For someone who’d grown up vampire, an attic such as this was paradise; dark and gloomy, filled with even darker, gloomier shadows and all sorts of intriguing scents.
Armand had been right about the clothing. It was like uncovering a treasure trove. But the more she found and the more cluttered corners she poked her nose into, the more she wanted to know. Who were the people who’d worn these clothes? Where were they now? Why had they chosen to keep these things here, untouched for decades, rather than throw them away? She could swear the dust was whispering to her; hinting at all the secrets that lay stored here, all the tragedies that had been packed away and forgotten over the course of a century or more.
She’d narrowed her choices to two—flapper or Gibson Girl—when a small suitcase shoved deep into one of the eaves, caught her attention. There was something about its scent… She couldn’t say it was familiar, and yet it seemed as though she should know it.
She pulled the suitcase out and studied it more closely. The leather was so brittle the handle almost crumbled at her touch. She undid the latches and opened the lid. It was filled with clothing, hastily packed—women’s clothing from no more than a half century ago—and there was that fragrance again, stronger now but no less a mystery.
There was nothing in the suitcase to indicate ownership, but as she examined its contents an exciting suspicion formed in her mind. A suspicion born of hope and imag
ination and a lifelong desire to know about her past. A suspicion that was probably nothing more than wishful thinking. Was it possible these clothes had belonged to her mother? Or, failing that, to someone who might have known her mother? She held up a short, paisley-print dress with a high collar and long, flowing sleeves and her costume indecision vanished. She knew exactly what she would wear tonight. She would go to her party dressed as a hippie.
Despite what Conrad had said this morning about not keeping secrets, Julie knew there were still questions he’d never fully answer, certain topics he’d never willingly discuss. Anything having to do with her mother being chief among them. But Conrad couldn’t be the only person to have known her.
According to Damian, tonight’s party would be attended by virtually every Quintano vampire within traveling distance of the mansion—that meant all the vampires Julie had met since her arrival here, and many others as well. Surely someone in that multitude would have been around during the sixties. Surely one of them would have met her mother. And if, perchance, someone recognized the garment Julie was wearing and chose to answer her innocent questions regarding the original owner…well, even Conrad couldn’t fault her overmuch for that. Could he?
The cemetery had changed very little since the last time Armand had been here—a year ago to the day. Then again, it hadn’t changed much in the past four decades, either. He brushed the dead leaves away from the headstone then placed his flowers in one of the twin vases that flanked it. As he did so, he could not help but notice the larger, showier arrangement that had been laid across the grave, partially obscuring the stone. That, too, was just as usual.
Once his own flowers were arranged to his satisfaction, Armand turned his attention to the others. They were from Conrad, of course, and Armand could hardly begrudge him pride of place. After all, his sire’s grief must surely be even greater than his own. He did wish, however, that whoever delivered the flowers would not always choose to display them in such a way that the words inscribed on the stone could not be read.