“All right. Say you really are a vampire, although if you are, you’re very different from any vampire I’ve ever read about or seen in movies. Why didn’t you tell me this when we met? Or before we made love?” Her words trailed off as she remembered—his touch, the heat of his hot seed bathing her womb.
“I did tell you last night. And I had a very important reason for not revealing myself to you immediately. You are in danger, and the reason I am here is to protect you. I didn’t know if you were a person who, like many, would have run in fear from me, shut yourself away from me where I could not protect you.” He hesitated, then parted his lips.
Julie gasped. The incisors that had seemed just a bit longer than the normal person’s had elongated, so now they curved wickedly over his bottom lip. Then she blinked, and they had retracted by the time she looked again. He laid her hand carefully on his own knee, withdrew his own and then lifted his lids, meeting her gaze with the expression of a man prepared to be struck between the eyes with a lethal instrument.
“I want you,” he said roughly. “Too much for your own good. Make no mistake about that. I’d leave now to protect you from me, but I’ve come here to save you from a serial killer who has you marked as his next victim. I cannot leave you as long as he’s a threat.”
“Please. Don’t insult my intelligence. Tell me the truth about what’s going on.” Emotions warred inside her. Hurt, anger . . . and something more. Some deep, enduring emotion she wouldn’t let herself accept was love. Was Stefan being deliberately cruel? Was he insane? What was going on? Why did she feel her world was spinning away off its axis, her mind and soul torn between incredulity and betrayal? She jerked her hand from his.
Julie hated the conflicting emotions that gripped her and fought hard to swallow the lump that had developed in her throat. A lump that threatened to strangle her. Though too overwhelmed to get out the words—the questions that flooded her mind—she forced herself to meet Stefan’s emerald gaze. “You’re . . . you’re really a vampire?”
He held out both hands. “What do you see, Julie? Why do you think I’m so pale, and why do you imagine I have no body hair? Though I can function in daylight better than most of my kind, I must avoid direct sunlight. Looking into a mirror temporarily blinds me. Normally I do my feeding at vampire bars, but the only sustenance I require is blood. Human blood.”
She backed away from him, stumbling in her haste to put some distance between them. “W-why? How?”
He shrugged. “A mutation of genes in my family’s case, or so I’m told. The mark of Elaine, I’ve heard it called by those of my clan who like to wax poetic. Elaine was the unfortunate young wife of a long-ago d’Argent lord who birthed a vampire babe before she died. Rollo, the baby’s father, resisted the efforts of all to have him do away with his son, and so it was that the child lived and thrived. Alain d’Argent lived nearly a thousand years and fathered four sons. My father was one of twins born to Alain’s first wife. Alain’s third son was born over a hundred years later, and Claude, the youngest, came along shortly before Alain was destroyed while trying to protect Europe from an Austrian madman named Hitler. Claude is the only one of Alain’s sons who still lives. Alina, Alexandre and I are Claude’s niece and nephews, although all of us are centuries older than he.”
“When?” Julie asked, trying to make sense of Stefan’s abbreviated chronology.
“All this began a thousand years ago or more.”
“You mean you’ve always been a vampire?” Gruesome scenes from late-night movies Julie had seen came back to her, of ghouls rising from their coffins at night, of handsome men shifting into bats and swooping down to feed on unsuspecting women. She’d heard stories that some vampires were good, not evil, but all the images that crowded her mind now came from those ghoulish movies and horror stories. “I thought vampires were created from people who had died, and that they only come out of their graves at night.”
“Yes, most humans think that. There are clans of vampires who proliferate themselves by turning those who’ve died. Others multiply by preying on unsuspecting humans and making them vampires. These made vampires tend to be evil, which bodes no good for the rest of us.” Stefan’s expression turned fierce. Frightening. His pupils dilated, so much that his eyes looked more black than green.
“So what kind of vampire are you?”
“A vampire born. A d’Argent. A hunter of evil vampires throughout the world.” He looked at her, his look softer now. “A vampire who would die before he’d hurt you. Say you don’t believe I’d . . .” He looked as though he wanted to say more, yet could not find the words.
God, but she wanted to believe him. Still, visions of ghouls danced in her head. Stefan was no ghoul. “Of course I never believed those gruesome stories. But I don’t believe you either. You’re not dead. You’re very much alive.” Tears stung her eyes, threatened to spill over the lids and down her cheeks.
“Come here, Julie.”
His tone brooked no argument. Besides, this was the same man—vampire—with whom she’d made hot, sweet love. Whose arms had held her safe and secure while they slept. Slowly, she moved from the bed, stopped a foot or so from Stefan. “Well?”
“I’m not dead, but I’m not mortal either. Put your hands on my chest. Do you feel my heart beating?”
She did as he asked, felt cool flesh against her fingertips. Still flesh. None of the regular pulsing of life she expected to feel. It must have been his suggestion. This couldn’t be. Telling herself not to panic, she moved her hands, seeking . . . feeling for the slightest movement. Anything. Affirmation that it had been a mortal being who’d taken her to heights of sensation she’d only imagined.
Her own breathing grew faster, shallow when she felt nothing, not even the coursing of his blood through the prominent vein in his neck. As though to soothe her, he covered her hands with his own, dragged them to his lips. “Do you believe me now?”
“B-but I felt you breathing. I felt your heart beating last night.”
“I don’t have to breathe, but I can when I choose to. And my heart does beat, but so slowly as to be virtually undetectable unless I’m feeding or aroused. Last night, Julie, I was very much aroused. I’m becoming so again, from the mere touch of your hands on my flesh, but I dare not do as my body bids me and take you again now, when I’m in dire need of sustenance.”
“What . . . who . . .” She barely could speak the words. “Do you feed on living humans? Sleep in a coffin or a grave somewhere?” A horrific scene of Dracula, staked, rising from his grave, resurrected with a priest’s spilled blood, flooded her memory. Dracula Has Risen from the Grave had given her nightmares for months after she and her friends had watched the classic horror movie one Halloween night. Scenes from that movie, of the vampire draining the blood of women, replayed in her head, taunting her. The worst thing was . . . Julie still ached for Stefan’s touch, still longed for him to drag her to him and make love with her until they both were sated, devour her if that indeed was what he desired.
He met her gaze, held it, compelling her to listen. “Yesterday I fed on a jogger in Lincoln Park. Pierced a vein in his throat and sucked my fill of his blood.”
“You killed him?” Her mouth gaped open with horror at the stark picture he’d painted in her head.
“No. He’s fine. Woke up happy, without any memory of what had left him feeling so good.”
Julie’s own blood surged with revulsion—or was it a macabre fascination? “Did—did you know Lincoln Park used to be a cemetery more than a hundred years ago? That they moved the bodies from there to Graceland because the city fathers had concerns about contaminating the water supply?”
“No. I know almost nothing of Chicago’s history. I chose the park because of the privacy afforded on some of the more secluded jogging trails. Julie. Please listen. I’m not a ghoul. Graves and graveyards hold no fascination for me. When I’m not chasing vampires who would hurt mortals and destroy the good names of all of us, I live in
an old, comfortable home built of stone and timbers, overlooking the English Channel. I sleep there as I did here last night, in a comfortable bed.” He shrugged, then shot her a smile that made her heart beat faster, her nipples tingle. “I must admit that my bed isn’t as comfortable as I found yours, with your flesh warming mine.”
“But—but you drink blood.” If Julie didn’t keep reminding herself, she’d be crawling on Stefan’s lap, seducing him, looking for more of the pleasure he’d brought to her last night. She’d be cuddling up to him much as Noodles was doing now, resting her head on his muscular thigh. She’d be tasting his flesh, stroking the satiny skin that stretched over well-toned muscles in his thighs.
“Yes, I feed on human blood. My usual habit is to take my sustenance in vampire bars or on fresh blood purchased from blood banks. I’ve not yet found a source here in Chicago, so I had no choice yesterday but to prey on a mortal. I left the man dazed but quite unharmed. Please believe me. Those of my clan do not destroy mortals. We are an ancient and proud family, descended from Norman noblemen who followed the conqueror.”
Julie mentally reviewed her very limited knowledge of vampire history, came up short. “Then you’re from England. Or France. I thought vampires came from Romania.”
“Some do. My clan hails from Normandy. The vampire who intends to kill you is of the Reynard clan, which I believe may have its roots somewhere in Eastern Europe. The Reynards are all made vampires.”
“You’ve mentioned ‘made’ vampires before. What—”
“Made vampires all were once humans. Legend has it that they originally came about when a born vampire fed on a newly dead corpse. They cannot reproduce, so they increase their numbers by that means. Only born vampires are able to reproduce in the conventional way.”
A sudden chill in the air made Julie tremble. Louis Reynard? Not a kind gentleman but rather . . . She imagined him in a long black cloak, fangs extended, swooping down on her as she slept, spiriting her away . . . destroying her. No. This was all too bizarre. Too incredible.
Stefan cleared his throat. “When the moon completes its waning two nights from now, Louis Reynard will try to make you his twenty-first victim in as many months. I am here to ensure that he doesn’t succeed.”
Louis Reynard. The kind, gallant gentleman who’d sent her flowers as a gesture for their meeting in the park was a vicious serial killer? A vampire? Julie’s mind spun as she tried to process Stefan’s words. “But—”
“If you believe nothing else I say, believe this. Four days ago in Atlanta, Reynard brutally murdered his twentieth victim. I had tracked him there but caught up with him too late to prevent another death. When I caught up to him, he was standing over her body. Blood was pooling around her from the cut in her throat. A white rose much like the ones he sent you lay in her hand. Before that, the bastard had slaughtered an Argentinean heiress and eighteen more young women like her in cities and out in the countryside of every continent on earth.
“So far Reynard has eluded the best hunters of my clan. He’s cunning, stealthy . . . appears and disappears without a trace. With each killing he grows bolder. This time he dared to provide us with your name and address, where up until now he has provided just the city . . . and in Atlanta, a hint as to where he’d kill his victim. I was waiting to see you, hoping for an opportunity to meet you, when I saw him approach you in the park the other evening. It was then I entered his mind, determined that he intends to kill you not on the next full moon but on the first night of the crescent.”
“You entered his mind?” Stefan’s story grew more incredible every moment—yet strangely Julie tended more and more to believe he was telling her the truth. Pieces of articles she’d read in the papers about the “accepted” vampires were filtering back to her. Those articles had fascinated her for a time, making her wonder what it would be like to meet a “good” vampire. What he’d be like, how he’d be different from her . . .
“Vampires have telepathic abilities, Julie. Some of us more than others. Mine are said to be among the best developed among the males in my clan, yet I’m unable to connect consistently with Reynard or to influence his actions at all.” He shot a sheepish glance her way. “With most, mortal or vampire, I’ve been fairly successful at persuading them to heed my will.”
Julie recalled the voice in her head that had warned her not to invite Louis Reynard into her home, and the ease with which she’d done so as Stefan asked and she offered him, a complete stranger, her couch the other night. “You—you used that ability to communicate with me.” She didn’t know whether to be furious at the blatant invasion of her mind or grateful that he’d saved her from disaster, assuming the rest of what he’d said was true.
“Yes.” He paused, looked into her eyes. “I did it to protect you. Not to spy. And only at first, to get you to let me stay close to you.”
Julie’s head was spinning. “If what you say about Louis Reynard is true, why haven’t you called the police? Why didn’t you call the police in Atlanta?” Julie searched for an excuse—any excuse—to reject what her heart told her must be true. This was all too farfetched to believe—from Stefan’s declaration that he was a vampire to his allegations about Louis Reynard being a vampire serial killer.
“Two of my clansmen tried doing that, in London and Brussels. They wound up in jail and had the devil’s own time talking their way out. The police investigating the serial killings have begun to believe they’re dealing with a vampire, but they’ve rejected any help or involvement on our part, even tips about where Reynard may strike next. My cousin Alexandre went to the local lawmen in Montana a few months ago, only to get himself locked up for a week or more as a suspect in the murder Louis had just committed at a western resort.
“They have accused those of us who tried to enlist their help of being accomplices, so now we hunt the killer on our own. And if Reynard keeps on with his killing, we fear law enforcement will conveniently forget we tried to help and blame us all. We’ve only recently been acknowledged in your society. We’re far from true acceptance.”
“Surely the FBI—”
“Your FBI and Interpol are searching for Reynard too, but they won’t catch him. If they should get lucky, he’ll escape from any mortal’s prison. It will take another vampire to stop him. Or vampires. The Fox is nine hundred years old, with powers and cunning no younger vampire can match. Not even a born vampire.”
“Assuming I believe you’re a vampire”—she wasn’t at all sure she did—“and there has been this rash of killings . . .” That part seemed plausible, for she could easily research it and expose a lie. “How do I know this is for real, that this Reynard is after me, and it is not all an elaborate ruse? Or that you are not the killer?” Instinct and Noodles gave the lie to that question, but Julie wanted his reassurance.
He bent and retrieved a paper from the pocket of his slacks that he’d left on the floor beside the chaise lounge. “As for how I know Reynard has you picked to become his next victim, he sent this to Alina, queen of the d’Argent clan. Here, read it for yourself.”
The folded sheet of ivory vellum slipped from Julie’s bloodless fingers when she saw her name and address scripted in rusty brown letters. Script reminiscent of another time, another place. Ink that looked suspiciously like . . .
“Blood.”
She shuddered. “Surely not?”
“Yes, he writes his notes in blood. Fitting, isn’t it?” Stefan picked up the paper, stared at the lettering. “No, we don’t ordinarily use blood except for nourishment.”
God. He’d told the truth about being able to tell what she was thinking. She wondered, just for a moment, if the letter was a fake, made up by Stefan to fool her into trusting him. No. She did trust him. So did Noodles, who’d strongly objected to Reynard but made instant friends with Stefan. “Do you always know what’s in my mind before I speak?”
“Not always. Never, if I’m focusing on other things—such as the lush feel of your breasts against my c
hest, the incredible feel of your flesh when it’s gripping mine.” His slight smile, the twinkle in his deep green eyes, reminded her as much as his words that they’d been lovers. “I know that now you’re at war with yourself, trying to decide if I’m telling you the truth or spinning an incredible tale.
“Come. Let’s get dressed and find a library that carries newspapers from around the world. I’ll show you I do not lie about the murders at very least. We can take Noodles with us for her morning walk.” He scratched the sleek red fur on the dog’s back then set her gently onto the floor.
“We can’t take her with us. The libraries don’t allow dogs inside. Except guide dogs for the handicapped.” Perhaps they should. Dogs’ instincts tended to be basic, not colored by the nuances of civilization. Then she remembered how Stefan had deliberately closed the drapes a few minutes earlier. “The light? Won’t it bother you?”
“It will bother me, but it won’t turn me into a crumbling heap of cinders. That’s nothing but myth. Just as it’s pure folklore that vampires sleep in coffins and require the dirt of our home ground in order to rest.” He bent and stroked Noodles’ silky ears. “Supposedly animals recognize us for what we are and steer clear of us. I think it’s that they’re able to sense good or evil intentions in every other creature. Noodles, you’re a smart pup. You must sense I mean you no harm.”
Stefan rose, letting the towel drop to the floor. His magnificently sculpted body glowed like ivory in the filtered light from the morning sun. “Don’t worry about me going outside. I often venture out in daylight, fully dressed, with dark tinted glasses to protect my eyes.”
Julie’s body tingled when she looked at the rippling muscles in his arms and shoulders, his rock-hard thighs and beautiful, gently curved penis and satiny scrotum. She wanted to believe him, did believe his story about the women dying. Then she remembered the roses—the white roses that had come while he slept. And the single blossom he’d seen clutched in that unfortunate victim’s hand.
Shadowing the Beast Page 9