“I’m a writer.”
“Really? What do you write?”
“Books.”
She glanced at the bookcase on the far wall. “Are any of these yours?”
“Yes, the ones written by Eva Black.” He had written the ones by Ebon and Raven, as well, but they had been published before she was born.
“Wow, I’ve never met a real writer before. Could I read one?”
“If you like.”
She moved to the bookcase, her gaze roaming over the shelves. “Why don’t you use your own name?”
“I write mostly romances,” he replied easily. “I thought they would sell better if readers thought they had been written by a woman.”
Even his editor didn’t know he was a man. With his need to sleep during the day, and the differences in time between one coast and the other, it was virtually impossible for them to communicate by phone. Ronan had informed his editor and his agent that he slept days and wrote through the night, and since writers tended to be a little eccentric, they had accepted his excuse. All their correspondence had been by letter or email.
She nodded. “How long have you been writing?”
“I’ve been writing for a number of years,” he said, “but my first book was published seven years ago.” In truth, he had been writing for more than sixty years, but he had been Eva Black for a relatively short time. He often wondered what his editor would think if she knew that her publishing house had been selling his books under various pseudonyms since 1946.
Skimming the titles, Shannah ran her fingertips over the spines of the books. Pulling one from the shelf, she read the back cover blurb.
After a century of searching, he had found the woman of his dreams. Being a vampire had brought Paul Stark nothing but misery and loneliness until he met Lily Adams. It seemed a cruel trick of fate that Lily came from a long line of vampire hunters. Their attraction was mutual and immediate. Only two things stood between them—his lust for her blood, and her determination to kill every vampire she found.
She looked at him over the top of the book. “This is about a vampire.”
“Yes.”
She stared at him speculatively, her eyes narrowed. He could see all her earlier suspicions roaring back to life.
“I write about pirates and unicorns, as well,” he said, looking amused. “And doctors, lawyers, and Indian chiefs.”
She felt a rush of heat flow into her cheeks. “I get the message,” she muttered. Just because he wrote about vampires didn’t make him one. “Could you tell me where my clothes are?”
“I sent them out to be cleaned. They’ll be ready tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” She glanced down at the robe she was still wearing. “Do you have a T-shirt or something that I could wear until then?”
“I think so.” Heat pooled in his groin at the thought of her wearing one of his T-shirts and nothing more.
With a nod, she tucked the book under her arm and left the room.
Ronan leaned back in his chair, his elbows resting on the arms, his fingers steepled. Since Eva’s last six books had made all the bestseller lists, including the prestigious New York Times list, his editor had been after him to let them put his photo in the backs of his novels. A couple of the talk shows wanted to interview him on early-morning radio and his agent had been pressuring him to do so. Thus far, he had refused for obvious reasons. But what if Shannah pretended to be Eva Black? He could send Shannah’s photo to his editor. Shannah could do the interviews at the radio stations.
It was an intriguing idea. He could please his agent and his editor and get the publisher off his back all at the same time.
He turned back to the computer screen, his senses acutely aware of the woman in the kitchen. She was making spaghetti sauce. He could smell tomatoes, basil and oregano. But mostly, he could smell the woman. The scent of her blood was tantalizing, more so now that he had tasted her.
His hands curled over the edge of the desk. Why had he let her stay here? Did he really think he could keep his hunger under control when she was so close, so available? His grip on the edge of the desk tightened. The wood creaked under the strain.
Muttering an oath, he rose and began to pace the floor. Over the centuries, he had seen death in all its forms. None of them were pretty. Only a few mortals were lucky enough to expire peacefully in their sleep. She was dying, and she was far too young, and far too fair, to succumb to such a cruel fate. So he had given her a few drops of his blood to buy her a little more time, though he didn’t know how much. A couple of days, a couple of weeks, perhaps a month or so, if she was lucky.
She didn’t want to die.
He could arrange that. He knew how, though he had never bestowed the Dark Trick on anyone before. It was tempting, so tempting, but that would defeat his purpose for letting her stay. Aside from wanting photos and pestering him to do interviews and local book signings, his editor and his agent were both pressuring him to go on tour. It would be good publicity, they said. Readers liked to meet their favorite authors. It would be beneficial to meet the managers of some of the larger romance-friendly bookstores. It would be good for sales.
He had stalled as long as he could but he was running out of valid excuses.
Hence his need for Shannah. He could give her enough of his blood to form a link between them. He would be able to read her thoughts; if he wished it, she would be able to read his. They could go on tour together, with her pretending to be him when necessary. Through the link, he would be able to give her the answers to whatever questions readers or the news media might ask about his writing, at least after sundown. And if her health started to fail again, he had only to give her a little more of his blood.
It seemed an easy solution to the problem, and the more he thought about it, the more he liked it. Now, he had only to convince her. And if she refused…He smiled. She would agree, whether she wished it or not.
Going on tour would solve another problem, as well. He grimaced, annoyed with himself for choosing to quit the field rather than to simply stay and kill the vampire hunter who had come to town. He didn’t know if the hunter was hunting him or if it was merely coincidence that the man had come to this place at this time. Ronan leaned against the edge of his desk, his fingertips drumming on the surface. He didn’t want to kill the man if he didn’t have to, but, should it become necessary, he wouldn’t hesitate to do what had to be done.
Dropping back down into his chair, Ronan picked up the magazine he had bought a few days earlier. It was a national entertainment magazine, published weekly. An article touted on the front cover had caught his eye. The story “Vampires Among Us—Truth or Legend?” had been written by a freelance reporter named Carl Overstreet.
Ronan wondered if it had been the article that had brought the hunter to town. Propping his feet on the corner of his desk, he began to read:
Vampires. The very word makes your flesh crawl…with terror or titillation, depending on your point of view.
Vampires have been a subject of fascination and horror for countless centuries. Every culture and civilization throughout the known world, both past and present, have their own myths and legends about vampires, be they skeletal creatures who feast on human blood or psychic vampires who prey on the energy of their victims, leaving them exhausted in both body and spirit.
Thanks to the creative imagination of Bram Stoker, Count Dracula is probably the most famous bloodsucker of all time. Unlike the skeletal creature depicted in the silent movie, Nosferatu, the Count has been played as being suave and sensual by Frank Langella, witty and winsome by George Hamilton, sympathetic by Gary Oldman, downright scary by Christopher Lee in a series of Hammer films, as well as for laughs in Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein, and by Leslie Nielsen in Dracula: Dead and Loving It.
So, what do we really know about these creatures of the night? Popular fiction says they sleep by day and hunt by night. They can’t be seen in mirrors, they are repelled by crosses, holy water a
nd garlic. Some believe they must sleep in their coffins; others believe they must rest on the earth of their homeland. Some believe vampires are capable of flight, of transforming into bats or wolves and of changing their size and dimension. It is commonly believed that they are able to control animals and the weather, and hypnotize mortals to do their will.
But did vampires ever truly exist? Do they exist now? Do vampires walk among us, unseen and unknown? Every year, hundreds of people disappear without a trace, never to be heard from or seen again. Are vampires responsible? During the next few months I’ll be traveling the country, digging deeper into the legend and mystique of vampires and other so-called creatures of the night.
Until next month, dear reader, watch your neck!
Muttering, “You’d better watch your own neck, you damn fool,” Ronan tossed the magazine into the wastebasket beside his desk.
Shannah glanced over her shoulder. She hadn’t heard him enter the room but she knew he was there, standing just inside the doorway like some huge bird of prey ready to swoop down and carry her away. She grinned inwardly. Since her illness, her imagination had gone into overdrive.
“Did you change your mind about dinner?” she asked.
“No.” His gaze focused on the pulse beating in the hollow of her throat. He could hear the blood flowing through her veins, its music like a Siren’s call to his ears. Though he had fed earlier, the hunger, ever-present, clawed at his vitals. His fangs pricked his tongue.
“Are you all right?” she asked, frowning.
Nodding, he looked away. By sheer force of will, he subdued the craving that burned through him, demanding to be satisfied.
“I’m going out for a while,” he said. “I won’t be gone long.”
“Oh, well, I should probably be going home after I eat. If I don’t see you again, I want to thank you now for your hospitality and everything…”
“I’d rather you stayed. Besides,” he said, “you can’t very well go out dressed like that.”
He was right, of course. She had forgotten that she didn’t have anything to wear, and she couldn’t very well go home wearing nothing but his robe, no matter how nice it was. Maybe, when he returned, she could borrow one of his shirts and a pair of sweatpants, though his clothes were certain to be far too large. Still, it was better than what she had on now.
“All right,” she said reluctantly. “I guess I can stay until tomorrow.”
“That’s not what I meant. I want you to stay here, with me, indefinitely.”
She didn’t like the sound of that one bit and she stared at him in sudden alarm, wondering if she had made a fatal mistake in coming here.
Sensing her inner turmoil, he said, “Shannah, I mean you no harm.”
She didn’t know why, but she believed him. Still, she couldn’t stay. “I can’t, really…”
“Of course you can.”
“No. I have to go home. My apartment…” That was hardly a convincing argument. Her whole apartment would fit inside his living room. Of course, he didn’t know that. She thought of her small place, and compared it to his house. There was nothing at home that she would miss. And whether it was the man or his mansion, she felt much better here than she had in months. That made no sense, of course, but then, these days, very little made sense. Still, she couldn’t move in with this man. This stranger. She had been raised better than that.
She shook her head. “No,” she said again, “I couldn’t, but thanks again for your hospitality.”
He smiled faintly. “When I get back, I’d like a chance to convince you to stay. I won’t be gone long.”
She watched him turn and walk away, heard the front door open and close as he left the house.
What a strange man he was. Why would he want her to stay here, with him? Perhaps because he was a strange man? The thought sent fear flooding through her. Maybe he really was some kind of homicidal maniac. Maybe the reason she suddenly felt so good was because he was a drug dealer and he had slipped her something last night. Maybe he planned to sell her on the white slave market.
Maybe she had better get the hell out of here while she still could!
She turned off the stove and ran out of the kitchen. She wasn’t going to hang around to find out what kind of man he was, or just what plans he had in store for her. She was leaving this place right now, clothes or no clothes.
Chapter Five
Ronan stalked the ever-changing shadows of the night, a predator in search of prey, a hunter on the prowl. He loved the night, the taste of the wind on his tongue, the anticipation of the hunt. There had been times, in the beginning, when he had despised what he was, loathed what he had to do to survive, but those feelings hadn’t lasted long. He had once been human, prey to what he had become. Now he was the predator; preying on mortals was natural to his kind. The memory of mortality and its inherent weaknesses were dim, overshadowed by the passing of time. The revulsion he had expected to feel the first time he satisfied his unnatural thirst had never materialized. One taste of the rich red elixir of life had driven all thought of repugnance from his mind. Nothing had ever tasted sweeter. Nothing had ever satisfied him more.
Now, he moved through the darkness with ease, his preternatural senses testing the evening breeze. Sounds and smells assailed him on every side as he sought for the one who would satisfy his hunger.
He bypassed a young couple holding hands, so caught up in each other he doubted either of them would have noticed had he chosen one or both of them.
He moved past an old man sitting on the sidewalk in front of a seedy tavern, as well as several boisterous young men who reeked of booze and drugs.
Moving on, he passed a rookie cop walking a lonely beat.
And then he saw her, a middle-aged woman about to enter a single-story house at the end of a quiet street. Falling into step beside her, he mesmerized her with a glance and pulled her into the shadows beside the building. Taking her into his embrace, he took that which he needed to sustain his existence, and left her standing there, bewildered but unhurt, his memory erased from her mind.
With his thirst sated for the moment, he turned toward home, his thoughts on the woman who waited for him there. What would she think of his proposition? Dare he tell her the truth of what he was? In five hundred years, no one who had discovered the truth of his existence had lived to tell the tale. He remembered all too well the way his kind had been hunted in centuries past, hordes of frightened people storming through cemeteries, digging up the graves of suspected vampires, mutilating the corpses.
These days, people were generally too civilized to believe in the supernatural, although vampire hunters still plied their trade. He knew it would be a mistake to tell Shannah the truth. Why, then, did he feel compelled to do so? And why, of all the people he had known through the centuries, was he tempted to work the Dark Trick upon her? It was nothing to him whether she lived or died, yet the thought of her death filled him with an aching sadness he had not felt in hundreds of years.
Perhaps it was just that he had been alone for too long. How often had he seen young lovers entwined and yearned for the closeness and the intimacy they shared? How often had he hungered, not for blood, but for the love of a woman? For one kiss, freely given?
Eager to see Shannah again, he quickened his pace, relishing the touch of the night air on his face.
Lights burned in the downstairs windows of the house. He grunted softly, thinking how odd it looked. Before Shannah, the house had always been dark when he returned. With his preternatural vision, he had no need for artificial lighting.
No one had ever left a light burning for him before. A smile curved his lips as he hurried up the long narrow drive. It faded as he opened the front door. He didn’t have to enter the house to know that it was empty. To know that she had gone.
Pulling the door closed behind him, he went out into the night once more, his senses reaching out, his head lifting to sniff an errant breeze for her scent. He found it quickly,
followed it easily, much like a hungry wolf on the trail of fresh blood.
It led him to a four-story red brick apartment building on the far side of town.
Sitting on the sofa clad in a pair of comfy old sweats and a pair of heavy socks, Shannah reached for the book she had stolen from Mr. Dark, if that was indeed his real name. Somehow, she doubted it. Not that it mattered, she thought as she opened the book.
She had fled his house as though pursued by demons. Keeping to the shadows, his robe clutched tightly around her, she had made her way home, praying that she would remain unobserved, especially by the police. It would have been difficult indeed to explain what she was doing running through the streets clad in nothing but a robe and her underwear. Thankfully, she hadn’t seen anyone, and no one had seen her. She wondered now if she had overreacted. He had been nothing but kind to her since she showed up at his front door.
With a shake of her head, she turned her attention back to the book. There was a poem on the first page.
In the darkness, I dream of light
Under Sol, I beg for night
Each dawn I die, at dusk reborn
Eternal shadow
Alone
Forlorn
Though short, the aching loneliness inherent in the words touched a chord deep within her. Had he written the poem as well as the book? He didn’t seem like the poetic type, she thought as she turned the page.
In minutes, she forgot everything but the story unfolding in front of her. Never before had she read anything that captured her attention so quickly. His writing was compelling, riveting, so visual she could see every scene unfolding in her mind as though she was there in the midst of the story, living each adventure with the vampire and his lady love.
She was so captivated that she was hardly aware of time passing. She was completely caught up in the plot. She was the heroine, in love with a man who was not a man at all, and her life was in danger…
She practically jumped out of her skin when someone knocked on the door. Frowning, she wondered who it could be. She wasn’t expecting company; no one except her parents knew where she lived.
Dead Perfect Page 3