by Kira Hillins
Tristan wondered if he’d lost his trust. “You wish to speak more of this, but you will despise me when you learn what I have done.”
Mac looked at him as a father might do his wounded son. “Is that why you came back to the bar?” He shifted the car into drive then drove through the empty parking lot. “Were you afraid I’d be angry with you?”
“The thought crossed my mind.”
“Honestly.” Mac steered the car onto the highway. “I’m disappointed. No matter how bad a person is, they certainly don’t deserve judgment from anyone else but God. It’s up to him whether a person lives or dies.”
“I am an atrocity to mankind. I deserve your hatred.”
“There’s nothing you can do or say to make me hate you.” Mac shook his head. “Yes, I’m disappointed. But I also understand why you did what you did. Slate was an old warmonger, a murderer, in fact. By the looks of you, you defended yourself, as any other man would. And that’s different.”
Tristan tossed him a glance. “I have never heard you speak an unkind word. Why do you not hate me?”
“I know you’re a good man, Tristan.” Mac kept his gaze on the road ahead. “Struggling with your illness must be difficult. I can’t imagine and I don’t want to. But I know you’re trying. And you’re doing a good job. I’ll do the best I can to take care of you, to help you through your fight.”
Tristan cast a short grin. “And I will do my best to return the effort.”
The trip seemed longer than usual. Maybe it was the faint light on the highway before them and the shadowing trees to their right. Or maybe it was the other side of the road that made the world seem to stand still.
Night had its wondrous scenery, a serene but monochromatic landscape to demon eyes. Like a wolf in the night, he saw everything when others viewed the dark. What he loved most was when he used his human eyes. To see sunlight creeping across the ocean blue; to see seagulls soaring through the sky above the rough waves that crashed into the beach. To a tormented soul, it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
Tristan looked away. He was unworthy. It burned his eyes—punishment for gazing upon such splendor. Maybe he deserved such a fate when all else seemed so grim.
Mac steered the car into the hidden driveway. As he drove down the dirt road toward the house, branches from fir trees and blackberry bushes scraped both sides of his car. He mumbled a few curse words as he parked in the driveway.
“It’s a good thing I don’t own a Mercedes.”
Tristan was blind, but he imagined the dark stone house built into the cliff. Home was still shadowed by the coming dawn. “Thank you, my friend.”
“Are you sure you’ll be all right? I can stay if you like.”
Tristan shook his head. “I will be fine by nightfall. Go home and rest.”
“I’ll see you tonight then?”
“Sure.” Tristan stepped out of the car. He fled for the front door, and then slipped inside the house just in time for the sun to rise over the mountains.
Chapter Three
Immortal
As Tristan lay in his bed in the lowest room of the house, his body mended. Muscles and nerves intertwined in regeneration, pushing the bullets from his ribs and side out onto the floor. Coagulated blood oozed over top of the round metal until it ran like liquid then stopped.
As if being sewn on an operating table, his torn skin clenched together, recreating his scalp and finding his ear in union. Empty follicles refilled and his hair grew as the hole closed tight without a scar or even the slightest mark to show he’d even been wounded. Then, the pain was gone.
It was strange to be aware of what went on during the day. Seagulls cried out as they flew through the sky. The ocean roared over jagged rocks. The slightest drip from the caves and crevices was easy to hear when the waves subsided.
The sound was heart-wrenching, and he envisioned it with desperate longing. To sit on the terrace and watch the day pass to sunset, to see the sun rise without blinding his shaded eyes would be divine. He’d trade every night he’d lived for just one perfect day.
He opened his eyes to the dark room. Unable to remember what the sunset looked like, he rolled to his side. He’d never witnessed the coming night over the ocean, but he imagined the sky was rich in gold. Damn you for thinking such torturous things. This shell of a human held a disease he’d lost hope of curing. He was an emotional mess, an evil presence that haunted him, tortured him with blood eternally cold and his temper a conflicting fire.
Many times he’d envisioned himself taking one last look around while he burned to ash, but he was a coward. At what point would he let the struggle end? Why did he need to stay alive now the antidote could never be found?
Footsteps coming up the walkway interrupted his thoughts. The intruder rattled the knob with a key. The hinges creaked as the door swung open.
He rose from the bed. As he draped the dark wool blanket over his head, he listened as the person walked through the kitchen. He journeyed up the stone steps then opened the door to the smallest stream of light. Blinded, he lowered his head then stepped back into the darkness.
“Hello? Is someone there?”
For years he’d stayed away from women. What were the odds to speak to two in a matter of a day? “Who are you?”
“Real estate agent, Shanna Rey.” The woman stepped in front of the door, blocking the light. “I had an appointment today with Mr. Wallace. Is he here?”
The owner of the house had been dead for months, and yet this woman had an appointment with him? “He resides here no longer.”
“I came to help him put his house up for sale, just as he’d promised we’d do last summer. He was in such a hurry to move to Vancouver with his fiancée. Oh gosh. I suppose he found another realtor.” She sighed. “Are you the new owner?”
“Yes.”
“Well, drat! I can’t believe he went behind my back.” The rise and fall of her petite voice worked his nerves. “Oh well. Hey. Do you know if they had the baby yet? He was so happy to hear he was going to be a dad. I just wish he would’ve told me before he left that he’d sold the place. It would’ve saved me the trouble of driving up this awful driveway.”
Tristan cocked his head to the side. Baby?
“You know, you should cut the branches away from the road so people won’t scrape their cars. I can give you the number of the local tree and shrub removal service. It’s my husband’s business. They also log close to Astoria, and then replant the trees. You know we have to keep Oregon beautiful.”
“What do you—?”
“—spring is the perfect time to put the house up for sale. After you replace the broken statue of the angel in the dead garden, I suggest planting flowers. Maybe a little bit of paint on the walls. New windows would be good too. The bedrooms look a little run-down. But with a few minor touches from your wife, it’ll be in ship shape.”
Just as he thought she’d talk him to death, she paused. He dared to breathe, but refrained. She might just lure him out into sunlight to end his misery.
“I do not own a wife.”
She inhaled a short gasp. “You don’t own a wife? What’s that supposed to mean?”
His inward chuckle sprung out in a grin. It was obvious he’d offended her. Owning a wife didn’t sit well with her or any woman in these modern times. He imagined the bubbly spirit of this realtor had slipped away.
“I am not married.”
“Oh, okay then.” She dug through her purse. “I suppose I’ll leave the house key on the counter. Here’s my card, just in case you decide to sell.”
He stretched his pale fingers out from beneath the dark cloak, palm up, and ready to receive her offering. She cleared her throat then placed the card in his hand.
Her heels tapped on the stone floor as she left in a hurry, frightened he was sure. His amusement diminished when the front door slammed. He made his way back to the bed, thoughts in an uproar.
James Wallace had a mistress. B
eyond doubt, this information intrigued him. Where was this woman? Had she conceived a female with James? Could this child be the one who carried the cure for his illness?
He breathed as if someone pushed a sharp sword into his chest. He should feel hope, but regret ate at his insides. If the chance to be mortal again existed, he didn’t deserve it. All the lives he’d taken still haunted him. Women and children had screamed as he fed his pitiful self. Tears of anguish and pain, cries for mercy and prayers to God—he’d ignored every last one of them. He was the hand of God doing the devil’s deed just to remain alive, and for what purpose? To stay strong enough to find one small soul that might bring him back to the living?
Pathetic. Undeserving of life, unworthy to feel warmth again, he’d dismiss this new information and move on. He’d forget about this mysterious woman who carried his messiah.
When nightfall came, Tristan rose from the bed. Thankful his eyesight had returned, he scaled the stone steps and opened the door to the glorious dark.
He built a fire in the fireplace then made his way to the refrigerator. Cold blood— he couldn’t stand it. Overwhelmed with thirst, he filled his tall wineglass then gulped the cold liquid down. Bottle still open, he poured another then drank that down. The growl in his stomach calmed, but he still ached for more.
If the rain outside would turn to blood, he’d bathe in it. He’d drink it in to calm the urge to find something fresh. Small animals ran scarce in this area, as if they knew evil lurked here. Maybe he should move closer to town, or better yet, far into the forest away from people.
He couldn’t leave this place. This was his home now. The house was secluded and overlooked the most marvelous views on the coast of Oregon. On those rare clear nights, the universe presented itself in a vast display of stars. It had rained almost every night since he’d arrived. Sometimes, the day would get so dark that he could walk the house without consequence.
Tristan sat at the table in the corner of the kitchen. He peered out the window overlooking the ocean. It would be a good night to stay in. He had all the drink he needed here. If he went to Mac’s, he might find himself in the same predicament as last night. If he killed someone the town would notice was gone, they’d point fingers. They’d drive him away from his home.
Tristan stepped down into the sunken living room then turned on the stereo. He sat on the long leather couch by the fireplace as a woman’s voice began to sing.
Opera—how he adored this art. This song was of love, heartache, and tragedy. The woman’s haunting voice could sweep him away with the tides, just as she had when he’d met her so many years ago.
She was as lovely as her voice. Her pink gown had accented her supple white bosom that rose and fell with her breath. The white wig did no justice to her rich brunette curls that hung to the small of her back.
He’d watched her perform on stage for weeks before he charmed his way into her dressing room. Afraid he’d scare her with his dark appearance, he had approached her with a subtle step. He was surprised that she’d accepted his ailment with open arms, and a relationship was formed.
He’d fallen in love. Hard. Fast. He was desperate to make her his wife. When he’d bent down on one knee and proposed, tears had streamed her powdered cheeks. She’d accepted everything he had to offer right there on the floor of her room.
It had been too long since he’d made love to a woman who had accepted him for who he was. The hunger inside had driven him beyond passion. She had pleaded for him to stop, but the monster had taken over his body and mind. It relished her screams as it indulged in her blood until he heard her no more.
Tristan closed his eyes. The beauty mark on her rose-colored cheek had smeared on his palm. He’d cried out as she died in his arms. Her veins emptied, song forever silenced. She was the last woman he’d ever desired. His punishment for murder was an eternity of loneliness.
The soft brown suede had warmed by the roaring fire and felt good against his skin. With wineglass resting on his knee, he let the dark memory fade from his mind and listened to her remarkable soprano voice.
Amidst the proverbial tones he loved, something was off tonight. A tone he’d never heard before came through the woman’s vibrato and then stopped. The off-tone voice came again, but much closer than before.
A woman’s scream seemed to come through the speakers, off-key and frantic. Tristan switched the stereo off and listened. Her footsteps treaded on muddy ground. Her heart raced as if Death chased her. Damn it. She was bleeding.
Tristan clenched his jaw to hold back the canines that struggled to come out. The aroma of fresh blood made him want it, long for it.
Unsure of what to do, he stood in the middle of the room and listened. Her painful cries ended. The footsteps that had pounded in his ears subsided. How could a woman find herself so far from town in the middle of this cold, rainy night? Had she run here to throw herself from the cliff? Or maybe she had found her way down the road. If she was strong enough, she would find her way through her misfortune and make it through whatever nightmares chased her.
Her body slid down the front door. Tristan’s gut hurt as if his side had never mended. The gunshot wound had become a permanent part of him, a reminder of his sins and immoral thoughts. His demon desired to go to her and have his way with her. The furnace beneath him growled, as if it too hungered for her flesh.
She whimpered. “Please. If anybody’s there…help me.”
Tristan strode to the door. It wouldn’t be right to take advantage of an injured woman. He gripped the door handle, unsure of whether to let her in. At least that’s what his mind told him as he opened it to reveal her sitting on the step, soaked, eyes full of tears.
She reached out with a shaky hand. “I can’t get to my feet anymore.”
Holding her rounded stomach, she motioned with a glance. His immoral plans dissipated. Against his better judgment, he scooped her up in his arms then brought her inside. He laid her on the couch in front of the warm fireplace.
“Thank you.” She sniffled as she took him by the hand. “My car broke down on the highway. I was on my way here when I went into labor.” Her lips curved into a solemn smile. “That’s just my luck.”
Long, wet curls pressed against her pale face. Her eyes, as blue as he remembered the sky, looked upon him in grief. Blood soaked her white dress and soiled the couch beneath her.
“I will seek medical assistance.” He tried to leave her side, but her grip tightened around his hand.
“It’s too late.” She parted her knees then let out a shriek of pain. “The baby is coming!”
What a predicament. If he’d just left the door closed and let her die with the child on his front step. It would’ve been easier to dispose of their bodies.
“What shall I do?”
“You’ll need to look,” she whispered between breaths. “Do you see the baby’s head?”
He helped her remove her undergarment. He slid the bottom of her dress to her hips then looked between her legs. The baby’s head had breached into the world. It was drowning in blood that flowed like a fountain from the mother. So artistic. Beautiful.
“You will need to push.”
She took hold of his hands then sat up. Her face grew red as she pushed hard. Her scream filled the room as the baby’s shoulders emerged with a gush of blood.
“Something’s wrong.” The mother leaned back to catch her breath then cried out. “I’m dying. I can feel it.”
Her wait wouldn’t be long. She’d lost too much blood to be saved. “You are dying.”
She held on to Tristan’s arm. Tears rolled down her cheeks. “James is dead. My baby won’t have anyone when I die. Please. Take care of her.”
James Wallace was the last male in the bloodline. Madeline had killed him out of impatience for him to procreate. What the realtor had said this morning was true. This was James’s mistress.
She rose up and held her breath. Eyes shut tight and face red she pushed again until she no
longer had the strength to continue. “Promise me.” She fell back on the couch. “Promise…”
“You do not understand what I am.”
“I don’t have any family.” Her heartbroken voice changed to a soft, sweet whisper. “She’ll have no one to take care of her.”
“I have no experience with children,” he replied, feeling like a child himself.
“Just remember how your mother cared for you.”
“My mother?” She’d died during his youth, leaving him with a father who cared nothing for him.
“It’s so sad a man could forget his own mother.” She turned her gaze to the ceiling. Her bluish lips thinned as she gave one last meager push. “Don’t let her forget me.”
“What is your name?”
“Sia…Hart.”
Tristan stared in awe at the tiny naked body below the woman’s knees. At first the baby was quiet, and he wondered if it had died during its birth. The quick sound of its heart told him she was alive.
A grin crept across his face. “It is a girl.” In his joy for her newborn child, he’d failed to see the woman had drawn her final breath.
The baby’s gurgled cries pierced his ears. He needed to pick her up, but she was still attached to her mother. He strode to the kitchen. He found the sharpest knife he could find from the drawer then hurried back.
A vision of the one birth he’d witnessed entered his mind. The doctor had cut the umbilical cord then handed his baby brother to his mother. Brea. She was a beautiful maiden with flowing white hair and wine-colored lips. A glow had surrounded her as if she were an angel from heaven. He loved her then despised her for leaving him with his devilish father.
Tristan severed the cord. It was a solemn ending to a wondrous beginning. The mother would never hold her child in her arms, or sing a lullaby disheartened him.
Why? Why did he feel so human at this moment? Why was this birth more satisfying than any death he’d ever seen? For the first time in centuries, he cast a full grin; one allowed by his human side, one his demon would look down upon and punish him for. He felt nothing of his monster, even at the very moment he picked the child up from the blood-soiled couch. Not as he cradled her in his arms and her petite cries grew louder.