by Holley Trent
“We’re not going there.” His voice lowered. “We’re going to my house.”
His heated gaze scorched her nerves. And what was that? She could have sworn his eyes flashed a hint of red. Her heart thudded. Though a veil of fear engulfed her, she didn’t want to escape. She felt drunk, but energy drinks and nonalcoholic beer didn’t add up. The intoxication was his doing. Her head swam with something that seemed to radiate from him, and her heart tugged to move closer, to touch his flawless face. She also wanted to reach over and unzip his jeans. Instead, she clasped her hands in her lap. Get a grip, Abby. “Actually, we couldn’t go to my apartment anyway. Four of my students are there. I let them use my place for a study group.”
“Is there no end to what you will do for your students?”
Abby pursed her lips, and then said, “Not that I can think of.”
Malcolm McClellan’s antebellum farmhouse stood just beyond Gettysburg in the rolling country that skirted the battlefields. Recently, when Abby took some friends on a tour, she’d seen him riding a black horse across the broad plains that had once seen unspeakable carnage. One friend had remarked about his striking figure. Abby had to agree.
As he offered a hand to lead her to his front porch, her pulse raced. All those years of avoiding him, and now all she wanted was to be wrapped in his arms. Her eagerness surprised her, as though she’d been waiting for this, longing for it. At this rate, by the time they reached the bedroom, she’d be delirious.
The house was deathly dark inside.
“I’ll light a few candles.” He rounded the room and soon the glow of candlelight revealed Victorian furnishings and a mantel of Civil War photographs.
She thought her knees would give out when he took her hand and pulled her to him. She pressed herself against his broad chest. Wrapped in his arms, she tucked her head under his chin. It had been a while since she’d kissed anyone, and somehow she knew Malcolm would be an expert. Hoping she’d leave a good impression, she raised her face to his … and waited.
His lips were soft against hers … and cool. For a moment, she savored the feel of them, but then she wanted more. She took his bottom lip between her teeth and sucked gently. Her eagerness and lack of restraint were not like her.
He let out a low moan, like the weight of a hundred years had lifted from his shoulders.
She entwined her fingers in his thick hair, and then her tongue found his. She’d known it would be special, but she wasn’t prepared for this. What started out as a gentle exploration ended with both of them breathless. When she came up for air, she brushed her fingers across his lips, now slightly swollen, and then touched her own. His teeth had scraped across her lips when they pulled apart, sending a jolt of electricity up her spine.
The mantel clock chimed, shifting her attention to the photographs there. As much as she didn’t want to leave Malcolm’s arms, the Civil War images drew her, and she slipped out of his embrace. An officer on horseback stood out. She picked up the frame, and then almost dropped it. The officer looked exactly like Malcolm. She’d recognize that steady, intense gaze anywhere, even in a Civil War uniform. She was no expert, but the uniform, horses, and setting looked awfully realistic. She sucked in a breath. With shaking hands, she replaced the frame on the mantel. She blew out her breath, and then looked at Malcolm. “I’m assuming that’s your great grandfather?”
“No.”
Abby looked at the photo again. “So, these are re-enactment photos, with you playing the role of a Union officer.”
“No, they’re vintage.”
Her eyes widened. What was going on here? How could he possibly be in photographs from the 1860s? This was simply too odd, almost otherworldly. She’d never had an anxiety attack, but with Civil War images ricocheting around in her head and her pulse racing, a meltdown seemed imminent. She needed to get out of this house … pronto.
She backed toward the door, reaching behind her for the doorknob. “I’ve got an early day tomorrow. I’d best be going home.” Realizing her shoulders were under her ears, she willed them down. “Rehearsal is at four o’clock.” She dared one last glimpse at him. His eyes telegraphed lust, and her breath caught in her throat.
She slammed the door and teetered toward her car as quickly as she could in her stiletto boots. Sliding into the front seat, she immediately clicked the locks. She’d recently read that wearing stilettos thrusts a woman’s pelvis forward, making her feel sexier. Tonight, bunny slippers would have been a better choice, because if she felt any “sexier,” she’d implode. Like the Phantom of the Opera, Malcolm McClellan had some kind of power that pulled her into his vortex.
Taking a deep breath, she gripped the steering wheel and then clonked her head against it. Why was it that the first guy in forever who made her heart flutter also scared the crap out of her? She drove home on autopilot and was relieved to find her students gone when she pulled into her driveway.
She threw her purse on the couch and headed to her computer. With trembling hands, she opened her web browser and searched “vampire characteristics.” She’d done this before at her office, but at that point it was about building a character for her play. Tonight, it was about comparing attributes that she hoped wouldn’t match. Her heart clenched as her eyes scanned the list. It was like confirming poison ivy when you’d just trudged through the forest and your skin was on fire. Everything added up. Eyes glowing red — check. Uncanny reflexes — check. The intensity of his stare — check. The need for speed — check. Top all that off with the dead ringer photograph. And how had he gotten to the Goth club? He’d either vaporized or traveled as a bat. But the most compelling characteristic was the one that made him deadly. Vampires could mesmerize you with eye contact. Humans became putty in their hands. Maybe she wasn’t attracted to Malcolm the man. Maybe his appeal was all about being a vampire.
Well, Abby, you wanted a convincing thespian. You got one. She shivered. She’d come dangerously close to surrendering to his charm. And what if she had? Would she now be a vampire? Or dead? She got up from her desk and paced her apartment until her thighs burned and her path made a rut in the old shag carpet. Get a grip. He was a professor. He doesn’t want to expose himself. He wouldn’t risk doing anything stupid. His reputation at the college was at stake. Stake? Okay, bad choice of words.
Wait a minute, Abby, where’s your logic? She must really be exhausted. She was starting to believe this nonsense. Vampires didn’t exist. No way. And worst case scenario … even if they did exist, Malcolm wasn’t a vampire. She returned to the fang-framed, blood-dripping list that still glared from her computer. Surely, something wouldn’t add up.
Scanning, scanning. Aha. Characteristic number twelve: Vampires burn in sunlight. That proved it. Malcolm had a day job. She’d seen him trekking across campus numerous times in broad daylight. Malcolm McClellan was simply a charismatic, sexy man. She’d never met anyone who came close to his magnetic charm, but he wasn’t a vampire. He’d probably taken a course in hypnotism, and that accounted for the intense stare. He wasn’t supernatural. In fact, she’d read that Steve Jobs used to stare people down to get what he wanted. Steve Jobs was a brilliant marketer, but no vampire.
She boiled water for tea, and while she watched the leaves steep in the glass carafe, she contemplated what she should do. Actually, the more she considered it, the more she realized how ideal the situation was. She could make this work. She’d just need to avoid eye contact. By the time she’d washed her face and brushed her teeth, she’d convinced herself that having Malcolm in her play was a distinct asset. Sure, he was the hottest guy she’d ever seen, but she’d be content with admiration from afar. She could bask in his incredible presence without getting close.
• • •
Way to go, Malcolm. Next time, flash your fangs. Watching Abby walk away was becoming a habit. She’d surely put two and two together. Malcolm shook his h
ead at his stupidity. But he had to admit there was something oddly comforting about being discovered — like a murderer who’d harbored his crime for many years, and then confessed.
Sometimes he envied young vampires. They flaunted themselves as Goths, so even though they weren’t “out,” they could act the part. At least this play would give Malcolm the opportunity to be himself, to exercise his true nature, even if only on a stage.
For years, he’d had periods of recklessness, almost daring people to find him out. He’d flash a fang in a crowd or move too quickly in his classroom. He supposed it was a kind of death wish, retribution for abandoning Sarah those many years ago. If he hadn’t taken that covert mission, he’d have known she needed him. But no, he couldn’t be reached. If he’d just gotten to her in time, before she had a relapse, he could have saved her. Oh, God, he’d played this scene in his head thousands of times. Wasn’t death preferable to this guilt?
It was a cardinal sin for vampires to reveal themselves to humans. If he were found out, the vampire council would inflict swift justice. Over the years, the council had evolved from an honorable forum to a group of thugs, headed by a French chancellor who’d been in the U.S. since the American Revolutionary War. It was no secret that Michel Auchamp wanted to harness Malcolm’s ability to function in daylight. So far, he’d managed to stay under the council’s radar.
But sometimes, particularly in the dead of night, the prospect of living forever became almost too much to bear. The loneliness and remorse would creep in like fog, leaving him longing for permanent release. He should have died in the war. But no, Sarah had died, and he would forever live with that guilt.
Maybe Abby would blow the whistle, exposing him. Or what if she guarded his secret? Which would he prefer?
Chapter Four
Malcolm trudged down Baltimore Pike, dragging feet that had been in stirrups since daybreak. He’d tethered Midnight just outside town, letting the battle-worn animal munch on grass. It was unlikely there’d be any hay left for the horse in town. Taking the last quarter mile by foot, the sheer will to let Sarah know he’d survived was the only force left in Malcolm’s body.
Sorrow rose like bile in his throat as he thought about the men he’d lost that day. Through the haze of smoke and dust, he’d watched them fall like chess pieces across a board of rolling farmland. He touched his arm where a bullet had marked a clean path through flesh and muscle, nicking vessels but thankfully not hitting bone. The makeshift bandage was soaked with blood. An inch to the left, and he’d have lost the arm for sure. There was no compromise for shattered bone.
As he approached the first houses, he saw the bullet-ridden facades and the trampled gardens that only yesterday had been lush with summer roses. His heart clenched at the thought of Sarah being struck by a stray bullet, but with Caroline’s house on a side street, she and her sister should not have been in immediate danger.
The acrid smell of artillery fire hung in the air, stinging his nostrils, and a thin layer of dust, stirred by passing caissons, grayed over porches that had welcomed visitors with spit-polished shine. The weight of battle that had passed through that day dented the brick streets.
Malcolm walked the three blocks to Caroline’s house surrounded by an eerie silence, punctuated by moans emanating from upstairs windows. His men would not be here in town as their injuries were being treated in field hospitals. But he suspected that most of the homes and businesses throughout Gettysburg were now laden with thousands of soldier casualties. He hoped the civilians had taken to their basements when the Confederates marched through and that no one had been injured.
Before he could knock on Caroline’s door, she rushed out of the house to meet him. “Malcolm, thank God you’re all right.” She squeezed his arm. “But you’re white as a ghost.”
He grimaced. “Careful, sister-in-law. I’m in one piece, but the arm’s a bit sore.” He looked beyond Caroline to the house. “Where’s Sarah?”
“She’s at the High Street school. They’ve turned it into a hospital. As soon as the gunfire stopped, she headed over there with a stack of sheets.”
Malcolm backed down the porch steps. “Isn’t that just like her?”
Carolyn nodded and wiped her hands on her apron. “Wait. I’ve been cooking all day. Take my soda bread with you.” She ran into the house and returned with two baskets filled to the brim with her crusty loaves. “Can you carry a basket on your bad arm?” She proffered both baskets to Malcolm.
“I’ve fired a carbine and reined a horse with it, so I’m sure I can.” Malcolm took both baskets in his good hand, and then transferred one to his injured arm. He staggered.
Caroline rushed forward to grab the basket. “Let’s go there together.”
They walked the two blocks to High Street. Malcolm’s legs tingled with numbness, but he pressed on, anxious to see Sarah. Blood from his wound leeched into his uniform jacket like a scarlet tide. As they approached the red brick school, screams from an upstairs window signaled the unmistakable agony of an amputation.
Caroline faltered. “I don’t know if I can go in. I’ve never been as brave as Sarah.”
“Give me your basket.” Malcolm held out his good arm, and she looped the basket just above his wrist. “Sit down on the steps and take some deep breaths.”
Malcolm pushed open the heavy front door. Three women in the vestibule tore sheets into strips. One of them looked up at Malcolm, registering his blue uniform. “Union soldiers are on the second floor,” she said.
“Does that mean that Confederates are on the first?” he asked.
The woman nodded. “It seems crazy to me that men who’ve been shooting at each other all day should now be united in suffering. That’s the way of war, I suppose.”
Malcolm handed the baskets off and took the stairs two at a time. His arm throbbed, and he had to steady himself on the landing before mounting the last few steps. His eyes scanned the room. A surgeon was sawing on a soldier’s leg in an alcove at the far right. The boy, who couldn’t have been more than sixteen, screamed like an Irish banshee. Sarah stood by his head, clutching his hand to her heart. She wore her drab gray riding dress, now spattered with blood.
The scene unfolded: the soldier’s fearful eyes, Sarah’s lips moving with words of comfort, the surgeon’s furrowed brow as he doggedly set to his task. Malcolm stood frozen in admiration of his wife, so young, yet so brave. He wanted to sweep her away from this tragedy, to tell her that all would be well, but the scene here was magnified a hundredfold on the battlefield. The preamble to war may have been glorious, with great expectations, hearts afire, and strains of “When Johnny Comes Marching Home,” but the reality was hell.
The surgeon finished his amputation, and another soldier would walk on a peg leg for the remainder of his days, providing his stump didn’t become infected or typhoid fever didn’t claim him. He’d mercifully lost consciousness from the trauma of metal on bone, and Sarah mopped his brow and smoothed the hair from his face. She returned his hand to his chest, but not before kissing it. Malcolm was certain she’d said a silent prayer for the soldier, too.
Malcolm shut his eyes and said a prayer as well. When he opened them, Sarah looked up and slowly turned her head toward him, as though they’d prayed in unison. Her eyes grew wide and her hands went to her mouth. She locked her gaze with his and stepped toward him. She reached out, and then stopped. “Please tell me you’re not an apparition.”
A smile curled his lips. “I may be back to haunt you, but I am no ghost.”
She reached up to touch his cheek. “Thank you, Lord.” She closed her eyes, and when she opened them she saw his arm, now soaked with blood. “Oh my darling, you’re injured.” Taking his uninjured arm in hers, she led him to a chair. When he sat, he realized it was the first time he’d done so that day.
“It’s nothing, Sarah.” He started to get back up,
but a wave of lightheadedness hit him, and he collapsed back in the chair.
“You’ve lost a lot of blood,” she said, “and that wound could get infected. At least let the doctor have a look at it.”
“I’m fine. “ He struggled to get up, and then the room began spinning and his world went black.
Chapter Five
Abby and Kyle sat in the first row of the theater, mapping out the blocking for scene two. The supporting cast sat behind them.
“I’m just going to observe today,” Kyle said.
Oh, great.
Abby sensed Malcolm’s presence before she saw him, like static in the air before a lightning strike. The hair on her arms stood up, and she jerked her head toward the theater entrance. Her heartbeat sped up. Stay neutral. She’d successfully blocked him from her thoughts, but being in his presence posed a challenge.
“I think we’re all here now.” Abby looked back at the papers on her lap, determined not to make eye contact with Malcolm. She shot a glance at Kyle, who frowned at her.
“Let’s get started.” Kyle rose to shake Malcolm’s hand. “Whoa, your hand is cold. Getting a bit chilly out there, is it?”
“More like a heat wave,” Abby said under her breath. Vampires’ skin is cool to the touch — check.
“What was that?” Malcolm asked.
Vampires have exceptional hearing — check. She glanced in his direction, and her eyes made it as far as his crotch. Exceptional everything. “Nothing, just babbling.” She pushed herself out of the chair, took the stage steps two at a time, and then turned to face Malcolm, Kyle, and the rest of the cast.
“Good afternoon, everyone. I want to personally thank you all for participating in our annual holiday production. It’s always an exciting day when the tryouts are over, and the full cast assembles for the first time. I’d especially like to welcome Dr. Malcolm McClellan to the cast. He’s graciously accepted the role of our vampire hero. I’m sure his experience as a Civil War re-enactor will serve us well as we steep ourselves in the history of those tragic days that put little Gettysburg indelibly on the map.” Okay, now I sound like a chamber of commerce brochure.