She was lying on a bed not her own.
In a room. Not her own.
Panic slithered down her spine when she realized she was naked beneath the covers. Jackknifing into a sitting position, she glanced around the room. Pale mauve-colored walls. Deep mauve carpeting. There was a large walnut dresser against the far wall, a rocking chair in one corner.
She frowned as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She didn't know where she was. She didn't remember how she had gotten there, but she was leaving. Now.
She stood, the covers clutched to her chest, swaying as a wave of dizziness passed over her. What had she done? How had she gotten here?
Pills. She remembered taking a handful of pills, leaving the squalid boardinghouse where she had been staying. Walking for what seemed like hours. Falling… Falling? And then she remembered the dark water beckoning to her, the wind in her ears as she tumbled over the end of the pier…
With a faint cry, she fell back on the bed, suddenly too weak to stand. The pier. She had jumped from the pier. She had wanted to die. Still wanted to die. Why wasn't she dead?
She gasped as the overhead light went out and the room went dark. Panic swept through her when she realized she was no longer alone. "Who—who is it? Who's there?"
Pulse racing, she peered into the dark, but she saw nothing, heard nothing but the frantic pounding of her own heart. Was it her imagination, or had she felt a breath of cold air against the back of her neck?
"Do you really want to die?"
"Yes. No. I don't know." She jumped as an unseen hand brushed her cheek. "Who are you?"
"I am no one."
"Are you the one who brought me here?"
"Yes."
She was afraid to ask why. Terror rose up within her. She didn't stop to wonder at this; she had been ready to die on the pier, had thought she had died in that last moment of consciousness when she hit the icy water that felt as hard as cement on impact, driving the consciousness from her. But she had not died. Why? So that she could die now? One thing was certain: she was closer to death now than she had been when she plunged off the pier.
"Have you come to take me?" she asked. "Are you the Angel of Death?"
A soft chuckle rippled through the air. "You could call me that."
"Grandma was right," she murmured, her voice tinged with wonder. "Will it hurt?"
"Only a little."
"I'm ready."
He looked down at her. He could see the pulse beating in her throat, hear the blood thrumming through her veins, smell her fear. Yet she lay on the bed, the blankets drawn up to her chin, her arms extended, her eyes closed, like a virgin about to be sacrificed to some heathen god.
She is yours. You have only to take her…
The voice of his hunger whispered in the back of his mind, urging him to feed the demon that now lived within him, to slake his thirst, to ease the coldness of his existence by filling himself with her life force, weak as it still was. His noble sentiment at the pier, of strengthening her so that she would not die, seemed a distant memory in the exquisite agony of this hunger. She wanted to die anyway. What would it be like to take it all?
"Angel?"
"I'm here."
"Please hurry. I'm… I'm so afraid."
The fear in her voice, coupled with an almost childlike trust, reached deep down inside him, stirring his best and worst selves. Moving swiftly, he knelt beside the bed and drew her into his arms, blankets and all. His fangs lengthened, pierced the tender skin at her neck. He closed his eyes and drank… and knew her.
She had no one. She lived alone. Once, she had aspired to be an actress. Once, she had dreamed of a romantic love everlasting. Then that love had abandoned her for another woman. Devastated, depressed, she had lost her dreams of stardom, drowned them in alcohol, burned them away in drugs. Now she was out of money, and out of hope… Her choice had been prostitution or death…
He drew back. Though the room was dark, he saw her clearly. She was thin. Too thin. There were hollows in her cheeks. He could feel each rib beneath the blankets that covered her.
And she was young, much younger than he had first thought.
"Angel?" she murmured.
"I'm here."
She lifted a trembling hand to her neck. "Am I dead?"
"No." He searched her mind for her name. "No, Kelly. You are not dead."
"I'm cold."
He drew the bedspread over her, lifted her into his arms—bedspread, blankets, sheets, and all—and carried her to the faded overstuffed chair in the corner. Sitting down, he cradled her to his chest though he doubted his body—his cold, dead body—could offer her much heat.
Gazing deep into her eyes, he whispered, "Go to sleep, Kelly. There's nothing to be afraid of. You are warm now, warm and safe."
He felt his mind connect to hers in that curious bond common between vampire and prey, felt that curious sense of power sweep through him as he bent her will to his.
Obediently she closed her eyes. "I'm not afraid anymore," she murmured. "Grandma was right. There's nothing to be afraid of."
"No," Ramsey said as he lowered his head to her neck. "There is nothing to be afraid of."
He brushed his lips over her throat, his nostrils filling with the scent of her skin, her blood. The faint musty smell of the river clung to her hair. But her blood was warm and sweet, infinitely sweeter and more satisfying than any he had tasted. The first taste chased away the coldness that gripped him, banished the hunger, filled him with a sense of euphoria. Sweet, so sweet.
He drank slowly, wondering that her blood did not repulse him, even as he cursed Chiavari for transforming him, cursed himself for what he was doing. He drew back a little so he could see the girl's face. She was, if possible, even paler than before. Her lashes lay like dark fans against her cheeks. Her breathing was slow and shallow. He had been so pleased the other night, proud of his self-control, of his ability to subdue the raging demon that now lived within him. Why was he having such trouble tonight? Why did the thought of draining her dry hold such appeal even as it sickened him?
He stared at the droplets of bright-red crimson at her throat. He had done that. He ran his tongue over his fangs. Long. White. Sharp. He had only been kidding himself.
Monster. The word rang out in his mind. He was one of them, a creature of the damned, doomed to prey on the blood of innocents.
And even as the thought crossed his mind, he bent his head and drank again.
Chapter 5
The vampyre stirred while the sun hung low in the sky. Lying amid an array of black silk sheets and feather pillows, she contemplated the events of particular interest to her that had transpired halfway across the world.
Alexi had been destroyed.
Grigori had bequeathed the Dark Gift to another.
Her blood flowed in the veins of a newly made vampyre.
Grigori. She had not seen him in centuries. She let her mind expand then fold in on itself, and she knew, within that part of her being that had created him, that he was well.
Rising, she went to the window and drew back the heavy velvet draperies that shut out the sun during midday, when she was the most vulnerable. She ran her hand over the soft velvet. She was a sensual creature, and she smiled, enjoying the feel of the velvet beneath her palm, the texture that was smooth yet rough, the material still warm from the heat of the late-afternoon sun.
Her timing was second nature now, precise. The sun had descended just beyond the distant hills moments before she parted the curtains. The sky was ablaze with streaks of bloodred crimson and scarlet and lavender as the sun descended behind the distant hills.
Sweetest night, mistress mine, a toast to thee with mortal wine. She smiled as she recalled a poem Grigori had written for her centuries ago, when he had been enamored of her. It had been his first attempt at poetry. Caught up in his new life, he had been hungry for every new experience. Hungry for blood. Hungry for her. How romantic he had been then, she mused
as she remembered the rest of the poem.
Moonlight, fangs, glitter, shine, harvesting the human vine. Eternal game, Hunter, Prey, mortals always slower, they. Instinct sends them running, madly; always ending the same, badly. Chase them, tease, feed their fear; whisper in their dying ear. Too soon 'tis done; they are gone, horizon lightens, hated Dawn. As morn approaches, I am prey; soon I must secret away. Coffin waiting, satin lined, soon I shall be deaf and blind. Deepest sleep through bitter light, come swiftly beloved, Mother Night.
Grigori… She had never met a male, human or vampire, who challenged her as he had, excited her as he had—as he still did, though she had not seen him in decades. He had been a lover without equal, tender and gentle, yet masterful, sure of himself, secure in his masculinity. She had been older, stronger, but he had made her feel young, vulnerable.
"Grigori." She whispered his name, and felt the old sweet stirring in her veins.
In centuries past, she had visited all the countries in Europe, but she had never been to the United States. Perhaps it was time. It had been years since she left Italy. No matter where she went, she always returned here, to the place where she had met Grigori.
A faint smile curved her lips as she contemplated seeing him again. He had always held a special place in her affections. She recalled the first night she had seen him, grieving over the graves of his children. His grief had burned like a bonfire in the night, drawing her with its warmth. Even in the mire of his desolation, his life force had been powerful, throbbing. He had looked right through her, blind to her beauty then, his whole being infused with pain and hate.
"What are you doing here?" she had asked, and he had told her what had happened—how Alexi had taken his wife and killed his children.
"And do you wish to join your children in death?" she had asked.
"No!" he had declared vehemently. "I want to avenge them! But how can I? How can I?"
"How indeed," she had replied softly. "Shall I show you how?"
"Only show me," he had replied with a bravado she had known was false. "And I will do whatever you ask."
She had smiled then, and he had recoiled from the sight of her fangs. "You're one of them!"
"Will you not join me, my handsome one? It is the only way you will ever be strong enough to find the vengeance you seek."
"You're asking me to become the same kind of monster he is!" Grigori had exclaimed.
"We are not all monsters," she had replied. "Look at me. Do I appear a monster to you?"
"No," he had replied. "Who are you?"
"Khira." She had offered him her hand. "Will you join me?"
He had cocked his head to one side, giving her easy access to the large vein in his neck, and she had taken what he offered. It was always so much sweeter when they were willing, when they didn't fight.
She had bestowed the Dark Gift on only a few, and her blood and her power were strong. She had taught her fledgling how to find his prey, how to survive. He had taught her a depth of passion she had thought long vanished with her mortality. She began to entertain thoughts of an eternal relationship, and taught him all the things she wanted him to know: how to read and write, and the complex etiquette of the upper classes.
She had introduced him to all the finer things: art, opera, literature, architecture. He learned it all with zest, and seemed to have forgotten his vow of vengeance. But she knew better. He could not hide his inmost thoughts from her, but she did not press. There was world enough, and time enough. He was strong yet gentle, full of passion and tenderness, if a bit arrogant. And he was handsome, so very handsome. He had embraced the Dark Gift fully, and the Gift's powers had enhanced his natural good looks; she was sure that all women wanted him. She knew his prey submitted willingly as he eagerly explored his new life. In one sense, she had watched him, as proud as any mortal mother watching a child of her womb mature into his manhood. In another sense, as his powers grew stronger, she began to feel uncertain—she, who had never doubted her own allure. Would he leave her? Would he find some mortal woman more desirable than she?
But it had not been another woman's beauty that took him from her. She closed her eyes tightly, remembering. It had been her own insatiable hunger. In his enthusiasm for his new life, he had pushed all thought of Alexi into the back of his mind until the night he saw her bending over a child and remembered his own children, his own reason for becoming Vampyre. He had taken the child from her, his eyes blazing with contempt, and she had never seen him again…
She sighed as she turned away from the window, wondering if he had yet forgiven her. She had destroyed others who had left her side before she tired of them, but not Grigori. She had loved him at first sight. She recalled the sweet taste of his blood the night she had bestowed the Dark Gift upon him, and all they had shared before her foolish error.
Surely time enough had passed by now. Time enough to heal his anger. Grigori had his revenge at last; Alexi was destroyed. Perhaps he would be in a forgiving mood, and if not, then she would have to persuade him to see things her way. She was not without her own power, her own irresistible charm.
Her mind made up, she threw off her melancholy mood as easily as she changed her gown. She had never been one to brood or lament the past. Grigori would see her whether he wished it or not.
Humming softly, she fastened her cloak, excited and intrigued by the journey ahead. She contemplated the distance, careful to time her departure so she would arrive in the New World after sundown. Young vampires who wished to travel long distances had to make careful plans so that they might travel safely in their coffins on long trips. But she was no longer a young vampire. Mortals grew weaker as old age set in, losing youth and strength and beauty. It was not so among vampires. Increased age brought increased powers and the ability to travel great distances with supernatural speed.
She closed her eyes, and in moments, she was where she wanted to be.
Chapter 6
Ramsey stared at the woman on the bed in horror. Kelly. Her name was Kelly, but he could not bear to call her that. Acknowledging her by name only made what he had done seem more monstrous somehow. Her skin was as white as the sheet upon which she lay. And she was still, so still. What had he done? He had kept her here for three days, trapped between life and death.
He backed away from the bed. He hadn't meant to kill her. Never that! He was not a murderer.
Aren't you? The voice of his conscience whispered down the tortured corridors of his mind. What of all the lives you have taken in the past?
"But they were monsters. Vampires who preyed on the innocent…"
Sardonic, silent laughter mocked him. And now you have become one of them. You are what you hunted, Edward Ramsey, what you and your family have hated and destroyed for centuries…
"No!" Anguish sliced through him, and he screamed the word in denial, even though he knew it was true. He was a vampire. He had become what he had hated, what he had spent his lifetime destroying.
Vampire. Vampire. Vampire!
He pressed his hands to his temples in a vain attempt to block the word and the horror it entailed, but it seemed to echo off the walls, the ceiling, even the floor.
Vampire… vampire… vampire…
Killer of innocents.
Drinker of blood.
Unholy.
Unclean.
Monster.
"No, no." He sank to his knees and closed his eyes to shut out the image of the woman on the bed: her body limp, lifeless, the single drop of blood that lay like a scarlet teardrop on the pale skin of her neck—but her image was burned into his brain.
She had wanted to die…
But even that thought offered no absolution. The Ramsey of old would have offered her comfort and solace. His family had provided protection for the innocents of the world. Yet he had feasted on her blood, drawn on her life force, until he had taken too much, taken it all. The self-satisfied restraint he had prided himself on had been nothing but an illusion.
He had only been kidding himself, thinking he could do this, live like this. The thought that he had taken her blood, and found an almost sensual pleasure in it, burned through him like acid.
He had killed her. He was a vampire. There was nothing to do but accept it, just as there was only one way to ensure that such a thing would never happen again. Not for the first time, he thought of walking out into the sunlight and ending his existence. Did he have the nerve to end his own life? After what he had just done, how could he not?
Lost in his own misery, he failed to realize he was no longer alone.
"She is not dead," a low, throaty voice said. "Soon, but not yet."
Ramsey jumped to his feet and spun around, his nostrils filling with the scent of jasmine. His gaze pierced the darkness, focusing on the woman standing in the doorway. Wrapped in a long black cloak, a shadow within shadows, she was tall and slender, with silver-blond hair. And she was a vampire. A very old vampire. Her power slid over his skin, raising the hair on his arms.
"Who the hell are you?" he demanded.
A faint smile tugged at her lips. "You might say I am your grandmother."
Ramsey frowned, surprised that he was no longer afraid. "Grandmother?" He laughed softly. "What big teeth you have."
"The better to eat you with, my dear," she replied, and her laughter joined his. "I am Khira."
"Khira!" The vampire who had brought Grigori across.
"The very same. May I come in?"
He hesitated, then shook his head as the habits of a lifetime of vampire hunting took over. "I'll come out."
She laughed softly and stepped aside so he could join her outside. "What will you do with her?" she asked, gesturing at the woman lying on the bed.
"What do you mean?" He couldn't bring himself to look at the woman lying so cold and still.
"You seemed grieved when you thought she was dead. Will you bring her across?"
"No! I don't make vampires. I destroy them."
After Sundown Page 4