Tears of Blood (The Blood Chronicles)

by Tamela Quijas

  His imagination undressed the woman and pictured her climbing into bed. He wondered how many others had joined her in that same bed, enjoying the softness of her body, caressing her tantalizing limbs, and tasting the sweetness of her lips. His thoughts caused him to shudder, before growling. His scowl increased and drew thick brows over darkly hooded eyes.

  She was nothing more than a fucking whore.

  He slammed a gloved hand against the tree trunk at his side. His teeth ground with his rage and he tottered on the worn heels of his boots, hating and cursing her with every breath he took. The woman behind the lace sheers was nothing more than a slut, had always been one, and she couldn’t deny his accusations. He’d seen her! Tonight, she’d plainly flirted with the man who had stood on her doorstep!

  Shaking his head, he ran the tattered fingertips of his gloves through his unkempt, shoulder length hair before scraping them across his unshaven chin. A stench rose from the material as he did so, but the odor didn’t bother him. Instead, it fueled his fury, which developed into a burning coil in his stomach.

  It had taken him ages to find her, and the passage of time rested like a bitter snake in his gut. Years ago, he’d left her behind, regretting his actions and afraid of the resulting consequences. Obviously, she didn’t understand he meant to return, and had moved on with her life.

  He had returned, searching and wondering what had become of Meg. His search for had taken longer than expected, since she left their home. She’d sold everything and didn’t leave a forwarding address, renouncing her past. She’d reverted to her maiden name, instead of keeping the one she carried for five years.

  He hadn’t imagined she’d ever change her name, and her action angered him.

  Meg Russell had ceased to exist.

  Somewhere in a drunken stupor, when the logic struck him, his search had become so much easier. The pragmatic Meghan Stanley lived in the beautiful brownstone structure. She walked to work every day, her head held high, her white cane tapping the pavement with apparent ease. He watched her go to and from her place of work, sipping coffee at the tiny café on Maple Avenue, and laugh with her bitch of a friend.

  Deep inside, she still wanted him, though. He could convince her to take him back. If he explained, if he promised he wouldn’t hit her again, she’d forgive him. She didn’t have it in her to turn him away…she loved him far too much.

  He stared at the modest house, not seeing the beauty or quaintness of the structure. Anger streamed through him, warming his body until sweat trickled down his spine and alit on his upper lip. He spied Meg’s shadow moving behind the somewhat concealing curtains, his eyes darting rapidly as her slim figure sought the solitary comfort her home offered.

  He loved her, but hated her just as much. Somewhere in his twisted reason, she deserved everything he did to her.

  Meg hadn’t ever left his thoughts, her golden hair a diaphanous memory filling his lonely nights as he slept under the stars. Her voice, her shape, her very smell haunted him, leaving him hungering for the passion they once shared. She had turned her back on him, filing for divorce, shattering his world.

  She didn’t have any right to do such a thing! He’d been the man of the house, paying the bills, and making certain she was comfortable. In return, all she had to do was follow his rules. There weren’t many, but she rebelled at every turn, wanting to attend a stupid function held at a local hotel, spend precious money at the movies, or stare at that damn television screen.

  He wanted was a good wife, a woman who’d do as he ordered. He wanted supper on the table when he came home from work, his laundry done, his bills paid on time, and for her to be completely his. Meg didn’t understand his plans for their future and condemned him for taking her freedom.

  Her friend, Chesca, had too much influence over her. She wore clothes he didn’t care for, dressing more like a woman who was available to every man lingering in the streets. She watched stupid, romantic television shows that made him sick to his stomach. She refused to cut her hair, she….

  Hell! If he didn’t love her, there wasn’t anyone out there who would. She didn’t offer much, being far too skinny, and too pale. She couldn’t carry on a single conversation that interested any man, always too wound up in her books.

  She should have been grateful for everything he did for her, yet, she wasn’t.

  He realized he’d lost his temper with her more than once. He beat her because he loved her, and wanted her to appreciate his love. Besides, her duty was to understand the stress he suffered at work, the pressure she placed on him, on their relationship…

  He grunted and shoved away from where he stood. He was angry, furious with the woman who slept so innocently in her expensive home. Stupid Meg didn't grasp the idea of their future. Destined for each other, she was the only one he’d ever love, and he wasn’t going to let a different man into her life.

  Kevin Russell wasn’t giving her up, despite any judge's decree.

  Chapter Nine

  “So, since when did I hire you as my bodyguard?”

  The abruptness of the question startled him and, after a second of gathering his thoughts, he burst out laughing.

  “I’m not your bodyguard.” Amado denied between bouts of choked merriment. “Whatever gave you that impression?”

  “You meet me at my house and you walk me to work. You sit with me for coffee every morning, and don’t drink yours.” Meghan pointed out, her chin lifting high as she set her unsighted gaze on him.

  “How do you know, Meghan?”

  “I can hear you.” She answered. “You don’t lift your cup, or sip from it.”

  He stifled a tight smile, averting his eyes from her. Even though she only saw him as an outline against the sunlight, she read more into his actions than most sighted people did.

  “Honestly, bella, I don’t care for coffee.” He confessed. “My libations tend to travel on a more exotic line.”

  She seemed puzzled by his admission. “Like what?”

  “A deep red…wine,” he supplied with relative ease. “The flavor is a weakness of mine.”

  “You prefer wine, you aren’t fond of coffee, and your dance studio is three blocks in the opposite direction of my work.” She pointed out astutely. “So, why do you insist on sticking around?”

  “Would you believe me if I said I enjoy your company?”

  “That’s so lame, Amado.” She commented without condemnation, reclining into her chair. A soft breeze ruffled the loose tendrils of hair from her tightly pinned bun, making her appear more fragile than a china doll, and he couldn’t help but staring at her appreciatively.

  “You don’t consider that I find your company entertaining?” He asked with feigned innocence.

  “You and I both know that was a very idiotic response.”

  “My answer wasn’t idiotic, Meghan.” He protested as he moved his cup aside and leaned earnestly across the table. “I find you fascinating and, what's more, mi rendi felice.”

  “What does that mean?” She colored magnificently and her gaze glistened with amusement. “Are you trying to charm me?”

  “You make me happy, bella.” He supplied with disarming ease. “As for charming you, is it so unbelievable I find your friendship enjoyable?”

  “My companionship has to be more than pleasant for you to be around every time I take a breath.” She grumbled without conviction. “I’d swear you were a stalker.”

  “How do you know I’m not?”

  Amado would be the last person to admit he guarded her day and night, desperate to keep her from Declan’s clutches. The other vampire had issued a threat, and he never took Declan’s words as a jest. Her safety was foremost in his mind, followed by his ever-growing attraction.

  Meghan shrugged. “I don’t…”

  “Allow me to assure you I’m not a stalker, Meghan, nor do I have any evil intentions designed for you.”

  “I…”

  “What will it take for you to trust me?” Amado qu
estioned gravely, his mottled regard lingering on her ivory features. “I’ve been nothing but a gentleman, and have rescued you from the worst denizens to haunt Bentham’s streets.”

  Meghan took note of his sigh, knowing he was weary of the excuses she provided over the last few weeks. She intentionally ignored him when he appeared at her house in the morning. After the first week, when she’d asked why he bothered to show up, she half-heartedly accepted his excuse that she required an escort to and from work.

  She wanted to laugh when she remembered his antiquated phrase. Meghan hadn’t ever needed a guide to the building a few blocks from her house. She’d worked at the offices for over four and a half years and knew the route as well as she did the layout of her home. Grudgingly, she accepted his company, but strolled in silence. He tried to engage her in conversation, casually mentioning the unseasonable warmth, telling her of his dance studio in the now-fashionable Fourth Street Warehouse District, and insisting they share a morning coffee at the small café on Maple Avenue.

  Reluctantly, she’d conceded. She should have refused, but couldn’t turn away from him. However, inside her bruised heart, she enjoyed hearing him speak and he was always around.

  That’s what irked her the most, her vision preventing her from knowing when he was nearby, his steps as stealthy as a ghost. She imagined the silence was because of his training, his skill as a professional ballroom dance instructor, but she hated the unintentional stealth. Meghan never knew when he arrived on her doorstep, or left. All she understood was he was there, his enthralling voice a whisper on the wind when he called her name.

  Despite the secretive delight she drew from his presence, Meghan wanted to damn him when he casually mentioned the fateful night of her attack. The fearful reminder sent her pulse thudding and her breath became tight.

  Trust the man to instill a bit of fear in her, and make her hate her impairment worse than she already did!

  Hiding her frustration, Meghan didn’t answer him. Instead, she took a long sip of her coffee, her dim gaze focused on an abstract spot beyond his shoulder. She realized he watched her, ever patient and she sighed. He waited, wordless, his eyes resting on the dark depths of her damaged soul.

  Meghan swallowed again and lowered her cup unerringly back to the saucer. She scowled and considered how to put her thinking into words, phrases and jumbled comments dancing through her brain. Despite the chaotic thoughts, unclear images, and her outright confusion, Amado touched her in a way she’d thought long dead.

  Without meaning to do so, he was stealing her heart.

  Grudgingly, she gave him kudos for his tenacity. Most men would’ve run off with the first girl who passed by them, not wanting to be saddle with a visually impaired woman. There were too many young women out there with so much more to offer…enchanting conversation, sight, and unsoiled pasts crowded with nightmares of an abusive husband. Meghan lacked every plus for a possible relationship, from a tarnished history, to the gigantic chip he caustically reminded her she carried.

  Mysteriously enough, something drew her, and his nearness made it impossible for her to catch her breath. When he approached, she couldn’t make out his stealthy footsteps, but she sensed him. She would tingle, small alarms going off in her fingertips and along the base of her skull, sending the tiny hairs on her skin upright. Her lungs would tighten, and a strangely drunken feeling would numb her body, filling her with glowing warmth. Meghan understood the emotion for what it was, but she did like the fact he made her feel like she hadn’t ever experienced in her lifetime.

  Her body, she realized, was starting to give off betraying telltale signals.

  Although she fought her emotions, she was falling for him.

  Presently sitting before her, he was nothing more than a dark shadow silhouetted by the morning sun, a faceless image with a voice that rocked her to the core. To her finely tuned senses, she’d learned to become aware of the small vibes filling the vicinity around him. When he was near, the air contained an electrical charge that sent a static current outward and rushing toward her, enveloping her body in a surge of almost forgotten heat. She hated knowing the desire was tingling over her skin, that she wanted him with a passion that made her feel slightly crazy, and she was determined to shove every emotion aside.

  “I don’t know if I can ever trust anybody.” Her admission was honest and vibrated with a chilling calm she scarcely realized she possessed.

  Amado managed a tight smile and stilled the urge to shout aloud. He wanted to tell her she meant more to him than she could ever realize, but suspected the words were useless, though they lingered on his tongue. He didn’t speak about his emotions, but did manage to hold inane conversations with her daily.

  Lifting his hand, he questioned if he could break the curse holding him in the realm where the undead existed among the living, and where their secrets remained hidden from mortals. Amado questioned how she’d react, if she were capable of understanding how he wandered the fine line separating him from the breathing. In his heart, he supposed Meghan would run in horror if she guessed he was a fiend thirsting for blood.

  His mind drifted back to a time when he had sought human comfort, and longed for the gentle touch. He wanted to feel the warmth of a woman’s arms about him, and not just any woman. He wanted to delight in her sweet lips, and hear he her sighs of pleasure. He wanted to hold her close, and press his mouth to the curve of her jaw, her taste tantalizing to his starved senses. Amado sighed deeply, the sound a purr of forgotten and unnecessary breath.

  He shook his head, realizing she couldn’t see his thoughts flashing behind his intent orbs. She’d never know how much he adored her, nor realize there wasn’t another woman who captured him so completely. Meghan held the shadow of his heart in her hand and the shattered fragments of his soul in the pale luster of her eyes.

  Scowling, unable to speak, Amado turned and stared across the crowded sidewalk. His piercing orbs ignored tables occupied by morning patrons of the small café, and the flurry of benign conversation flowing from each of them. Instead, his attention became riveted to the strange building that stood out from the rest.

  The structure was an apothecary of the strangest kind, he mused, nestled amid a collectible bookstore and a craft store displaying antique dolls and gaily-decorated scrapbooks, a hodgepodge of tourists, businesspeople, and locals mingled with teens wearing torn jeans. Outside the small shop, a skillfully painted Art Nouveau figure emerged from the beveled glass, the gentle features of a woman breathing the store’s name through wisps of golden hair…The Mage. He bit back his reluctant smile, the woman’s image a reflection of the person sitting across from him, and he wondered if Chesca had a hand in immortalizing the blonde beauty.

  He surveyed the area. Over the last hour, the quaint street had become crowded with the curious, and people on their way to work. Voices hummed, cell phones chimed, and the aroma of coffee and fresh bread rose from the air.

  Still, Amado’s watched Chesca’s shop. As the bells above the door jangled, he examined people of various ethnic backgrounds pausing to read the gilded sign hanging overhead, before entering through the worn wooden doorway.

  The building exuded a magic of which he wasn’t familiar.

  Chapter Ten

  He deduced Chesca worked inside, carrying out her trade in gypsy fortune telling while her co-worker plied the clientele with mysterious items from a forgotten time. Amado squinted and looked for the vibrant redhead, realizing her chair behind the large bay windows was empty.

  Today, she didn’t sit in her normal place.

  Despite the crowd filling the quaint street that remained closed to auto traffic, he couldn’t identify the gentle jangle of her bracelets from inside the darkened interior of The Mage. Listening intently, Amado heard her speak with breathy delight to her customers, and the jingle of an antique cash register opening and closing. Patrons milled about, pausing before Chesca’s table, their disappointment obvious, before moving to a shadowy regio
n of the shop.

  Today, a new figure remained motionless near where the vibrant redhead normally dealt her colorfully illuminated cards. To Amado’s discerning eye, the man stood scarcely beyond the table where the woman generally worked. Cloaked by the interior gloom of the store, he was nothing more than a darkly garbed body, silent and watchful. He stayed in the shadows, his essence not enough for people across the street to recognize his presence.

  All the same, he was there…

  Unconsciously, Amado shivered. Darkly dressed, his pale hair in stark relief against the black fabric of his shirt, the man nearly glowed with an unearthly light that sent chills burning through the vampire. The man who co-owned The Mage could send the fine fingers of fear radiating into the undead, and he didn’t understand why.

  Brilliant shards of cut crystals glimmered behind him, and his piercing eyes glowered at Amado, strangely luminescent. Speechless, the figment of his remembered breath caught in his chest, and he lowered his head. Shivering with a cold he hadn’t experienced since the early years of the last century, he wondered why hostility radiated from Chesca’s associate.

  His breed, the depraved souls hungering for the innocent, were meant to strike fear in the unsuspecting. There weren’t any creatures in existence capable of sending the identical sensation through his bloodless veins. Above all, humans couldn’t cause unconscionable terror to radiate in his soulless form.

  Somehow, he sensed the co-proprietor of The Mage was far from the typical mortal.

  “What caught your attention?”

  “It’s nothing, Meghan.” He pulled his gaze away from the man. “It’s nothing you’d understand.”

  “Are you looking at the shop?” Meghan inquired placidly. Despite her impairment, she held the uncanny knack to know what was going on around her.