After Sundown

by Amanda Ashley

  He shivered with the recollection. Until that moment, he had been lost in the intoxication of his new condition, preoccupied by Khira's attention, as dazzled as a schoolboy by her lovemaking. But that night he had seen her for what she was: a ruthless, soulless hunter, a predator without feeling or remorse. She had been a vampire for so long that she was no longer hindered by any empathy for her victims. And in that frozen moment of time, he had seen what he was well on his way to becoming, what she wanted him to become. In his mind's eye, her victim that night had blended with his lost children and reawakened the furious hatred that had spurred him to accept the Dark Gift. Mesmerized as he had been by her, he had forgotten why he wanted the Dark Gift in the first place.

  He had looked deep into her eyes when he wrested the child from her grasp. He had seen no remorse reflected there, no regret, no shame—nor any love for him. He had, however, seen his own destruction in the depths of her hungry eyes.

  But, to his surprise, there had also been a trace of fear. Fear of his strength, his power.

  Grabbing the boy from her arms, he had fled into the night. She had not followed him. He had shaken her to her core with his rebellion. It was a simple matter to probe the boy's mind and discover where he lived. He had returned the boy to his home, confident Khira would not follow, that she would not dare to attack that particular child again. He knew other innocents would fall prey to her hunger, but he could not protect them all. And there had been a far darker evil in the land, and his name had been Alexi Kristov.

  As soon as the boy was safely home, he had gone in search of Kristov.

  It had been a long and frustrating quest, but Kristov was dead now, destroyed with Ramsey's help. Had it not been for his search for Kristov, he would never have met Marisa.

  Turning, he let his gaze wander over her face. With his preternatural senses, he could see her clearly in the darkness, hear the whisper of her breath. A faint smile tugged at her lips, and he wondered if she was dreaming of him. They had made love earlier. As always, her tenderness, her total acceptance, touched a chord deep within him. It still amazed him that he had won her heart, that she looked at him with love and desire instead of fear and revulsion. When she was ready, he would bring her across, and she would be his forever. It was a possibility he looked forward to with mixed emotions. He loved her as she was—vital and alive. He had no wish to watch her beauty fade, to see her steps slow, watch the sparkle dim in her eyes; and yet, on a level he did not quite understand, he was reluctant to bestow the Dark Gift upon her. She would be the same as she was now, and yet not the same.

  He stood at the window a few moments longer. In the distance, the sky was growing lighter as dawn lifted her curtain on a new day. Next door, a dog barked at an early-morning jogger. His body grew heavy, heavier, as the sun climbed higher. Once, the deathlike sleep had claimed him at dawn's first light, but no more. With each passing year, he was able to rise a little earlier, seek his rest a little later.

  With a sigh, he returned to bed. Sliding under the covers, he drew Marisa into his arms, where she belonged.

  Marisa woke slowly. Though it was after three, the room was as dark as night, due to the heavy curtains that covered the windows, shutting out the glare of the sun. She had changed her lifestyle to accommodate Grigori's, staying up until dawn so that they could be together before he surrendered to the Dark Sleep.

  Sitting up, she glanced over her shoulder at Grigori. She knew now where the term "sleeping like the dead" came from. It was a little disconcerting, seeing him when he was trapped in the Dark Sleep. She knew he would hear her if she spoke to him—knew that, with a great deal of effort and energy, he could fight off sleep's hold for a short time.

  Rising, she went into the bathroom to shower and brush her teeth. She dressed quickly in a pair of well-worn jeans and her favorite Beauty and the Beast T-shirt, then went downstairs. Grigori often teased her about the T-shirt, claiming she was indeed the beauty and he was the beast.

  Going outside, she strolled down the long driveway and picked up the newspaper. Moving back up the walk, she recalled the first time she had seen the house. Situated on an acre of land, surrounded by a high brick wall, and shaded by tall trees both front and back, it had reminded her of the spooky old houses Dracula always haunted in the movies. Since moving in, they had spent a small fortune fixing up the inside of the old place, but it had been worth it. The rooms had all been restored to their former elegance, but the outside was still in need of work. She stared at the peeling green paint. Next week she would see about hiring someone to paint the exterior, assuming she could decide on a color. She didn't care for green, wasn't fond of white or yellow. Perhaps driftwood or sand. It was hard to believe that this house was hers, that Grigori was hers. Never in her life had she expected to live in such a fabulous place, or to be loved by such a fabulous man.

  She stopped to pluck a few weeds from the flower bed alongside the driveway. Once the house was painted, she would hire someone to landscape the yards. Some fruit trees would be nice. And roses, lots of roses. Maybe a fountain or a small waterfall.

  Returning to the house, she fixed herself some toast and a cup of hot chocolate, then sat down to read the paper. She stared at the headline.

  FOUL PLAY IN WESTWOOD. ROCK STAR PRINCE DRACULA MISSING, BELIEVED KIDNAPPED

  Marisa frowned as she read the story. Dracul had been reported missing by his manager. Police reported that bloodstains had been found on the floor mats of the rock star's car. They suspected Dracul might have been kidnapped; however, there had been no demand for ransom.

  Grigori had told her that Dracul was a vampire, making her wonder if the blood in the man's car had been his own, or that of some foolish fan who had followed her idol and got more than she bargained for.

  She was reaching for her cup when she saw the second headline, smaller than the first.

  BODY OF UNIDENTIFIED YOUNG WOMAN FOUND IN SANTA MONICA

  It was with a sense of d�j� vu that she read the story. The woman's body had been found behind a restaurant near the waterfront. Her body had been drained of blood.

  "No," she murmured. "Please, not again."

  She had thought such horror had ended with Alexi's demise. She stared out the window, wondering if the kill was Dracul's. Grigori had told her he was a reasonably young vampire. And if it wasn't Dracul's, then whose? Edward's? Khira's? She shook her head, unable to believe that Edward would murder an innocent girl, and equally unwilling to believe that the beautiful vampire she had met the night before could be capable of such a thing. Yet she knew Khira killed and enjoyed it. Grigori had left her because of it.

  She glanced at the clock. It would be hours before Grigori awoke. Needing something to do to occupy her mind, she went out into the backyard and began pulling weeds. In spite of the warmth of the sun on her back, in spite of the blue sky and the gentle hum of insects, she couldn't help feeling that something terrible was lurking just out of sight. Time and again, she glanced over her shoulder, but there was nothing to be seen but the house and the yard and an occasional bird flitting from one tree to another.

  She told herself it was just her imagination, that one body drained of blood didn't mean another vampire was running amuck; but she knew in her heart that she was only kidding herself. Any vampire was capable of killing, and though she didn't like to admit it, she knew that included Edward and Khira. And Grigori.

  She shivered, suddenly cold in spite of the heat. And what if she became a vampire? Would she then be capable of killing?

  She put the thought from her. She wouldn't think of that now. There was plenty of time to make that decision.

  Grigori regarded her through hooded eyes. "What do you want me to say, cara?"

  "I don't know." Wrapping her arms around her body, she watched the sky turn dark and wondered if she would ever feel warm again.

  "It wasn't me."

  "I know that," she said quickly. "Do you think it was Edward? Or… or Khira?"


  "Khira would not leave a body behind. As for Ramsey…" He shook his head. "I don't know." Grigori moved to the window and looked outside. Night was making her way across the land, slowly spreading her dark cloak over the earth, stealing the last bit of the day's light from the sky. A woman drained of blood. A missing vampire. Coincidence? He blew out a deep breath. In his experience, there was no such thing.

  He sensed Marisa standing behind him, felt her hands slide down his back. "I know it wasn't you." She pressed her face into the hollow between his shoulder blades and kissed him. He could feel her breath through his shirt, feel it warm his skin.

  Turning, he drew her into his arms. "It will be all right, cara."

  She rested her head on his chest and closed her eyes, and hoped he was right.

  "Marisa."

  "Hmm?"

  "Do you want to tell me what it is that is bothering you?"

  "Nothing," she said guiltily. "Why?"

  "You cannot lie to me, cara mia. Something has been troubling you since Khira's visit. What is it? Are you having second thoughts about accepting the Dark Gift?"

  "Not exactly." She looked up at him, knowing there was no point in lying. He could easily read her thoughts if he desired. "It's just that, well, I was thinking about what Khira said, about not having children."

  "I see."

  "Maybe we could adopt a child." She had thought of it earlier. They could adopt a baby and raise it. She looked up at Grigori, wondering what his reaction would be.

  "Do you think that would be wise?" he asked gently.

  "No, I guess not. I'm sorry I mentioned it."

  "If you are having regrets, you have only to tell me."

  "I'm not!"

  "If you ever do, I will let you go."

  "Just like that?"

  He nodded. "Just like that."

  "You told me once you would never let me go."

  "It would not be my choice, but I would not keep you against your will, cara. Your happiness means more to me than my life."

  Tears glistened in the depths of her eyes as she placed her hand over his. "I'm not going anywhere."

  Chapter 9

  It was full dark when Ramsey awoke. It was something he hadn't gotten used to yet, the sudden lethargy that engulfed him at the sun's rising, the sense of disorientation when he first woke from the Dark Sleep. How long would it take before he got used to it? Months? Years? He knew that Chiavari was able to move about for short periods after the sun's rising, that he woke before sunset. Something to look forward to, he mused grimly. A benefit of growing older as a vampire.

  He showered and dressed, the urge to feed driving him out of the house and into the darkness…

  The darkness. He had never realized how much he would miss the sun—the feel of it on his skin, the warmth of it, the brightness. Like most people, he had always equated light with goodness, dark with evil. Was he evil now? Candlelight, electric light, firelight: none of them could compare to the natural heat and beauty of the sun. So many things he had once taken for granted: a brisk morning walk, a cup of strong black coffee, the sound of birds singing. Chiavari had stolen them from him just as he had stolen his life, and in return, the vampire had given him an eternity of darkness, inside and out.

  He paused at the corner, perusing the front page of a newspaper in one of the vending machines while he waited for the light to change. The headline hit him like a blow to the gut.

  They had found the woman he had preyed upon late last night. The fact that her body had been almost drained of blood was related in lurid detail. It was the kind of story that would have fired his instinct to track down and destroy the monster whose pathetic leavings now resided in the city morgue.

  Only this time he was the monster.

  He swore softly, his guilt rising up to haunt him. He had not meant for her to die, had not meant to take so much, but she had been so sweet, so sweet. Perhaps, if he had taken her to her home and warmed her, offered her something to drink, she would have lived. But the flashing lights of a passing police car had filled him with a sudden panic and he had fled into the shadows. Left alone in the cold, the woman had died. With grim determination, he read the details of her family and life. A life cut all too short. He had not intended to kill her, but she was dead just the same. No matter how long he survived, he would never forget the look of fear in her eyes, the sudden silence when her heart beat its last. No more. He would not kill again. No matter what the cost, no matter if his accursed hunger went unfed and he endured the pains of hell, he would not kill again. He thought of Kelly. Perhaps he could atone for his sin by seeing that she was returned to vigorous health.

  He laughed softly, bitterly, at his rationalization. The hunter had become that which he had once hunted.

  He had never hesitated to destroy the creatures of the night when he found them. Why had he not destroyed himself? He was no better than those he had hunted. What made him think he deserved to live? Sadly he admitted that he lacked the courage to take his own life. He was ashamed to ask Chiavari for help. But what about Khira?

  He dismissed the idea as soon as it formed. She intrigued him even as she filled him with a growing sense of unease. She was an ancient vampire, her powers without compare. Would he become like Khira in time? Indifferent to mortals, incapable of caring whether they lived or died? Once, he would have viewed Khira as the ultimate trophy for the last of the Ramseys—a difficult quarry to be hunted down, staked, beheaded. He would have been as indifferent to her fears as she was to the hapless mortals she hunted. Was he already changing? Would his rationalizations become fewer with each victim until he saw them as nothing more than a ready source of food? Them. In his mind, he had already separated himself from mankind. He was no longer a part of their world, no longer human.

  "Edward."

  He swore as Khira materialized beside him. "Damn it," he exclaimed irritably, "don't do that."

  "Aren't you happy to see me?" she asked, pouting prettily.

  "Yes, of course. What are you doing here?"

  She smiled up at him, her eyes glowing like sapphires. She was outrageously beautiful. The moonlight shimmered in her hair like liquid silver. Her hand was warm on his arm, her skin flushed, her cheeks almost rosy. She had fed recently, he mused, and fed well.

  "I felt your thoughts," she said, her voice low and sultry.

  "Did you?"

  "Indeed." She tilted her head to one side, her gaze fixed on his. "You've not yet fed."

  An image of the woman lying in his bed at home flashed through his mind. "No."

  Her predatory grin revealed perfect white teeth. "Let us go, then." She slipped her arm through his. "I find I still have room for dessert."

  Ramsey grunted softly. She had already fed, yet she was eager for more. Chiavari had told him that vampires required less nourishment as they aged. It was not hunger that drove Khira, he thought, but the love of the hunt, the chase. The kill.

  Hunt. Chase. Kill. It was easy to get caught up in the excitement of it all. Khira made it seem like fun, hunting the dark streets, chasing her prey. She was the perfect predator. She was not troubled by matters of conscience, didn't worry about right and wrong. Her eyes glowed a clear, bright blue during the chase, glittered a hellish red as she sank her fangs into her prey.

  Her eyes blazed like sapphires in the lovemaking that came later, a fierce and tumultuous coupling that burned between them when a different kind of hunger claimed them…

  Later, when their passion had cooled, she smiled at him, rather like a well-satisfied cat.

  "You were as hungry as I," she said softly. "You must have been a long time without a woman. Though not as long as I have been without a man!"

  "I will not discuss that with you," he said flatly as, unheeded, an image of Katherine rose in his mind. Katherine, young and innocent, a victim of the kind of monster he himself had become…

  "Shh…" Khira placed a finger gently against his lips, and he knew she was reading his thoughts
. "We have all had losses, mi amour. The Dark Gift never comes without its price."

  Her gaze turned inward, and something like regret crossed her flawless features. Then she smiled again, and he wondered if he she was capable of feeling anything other than a lust for blood. And flesh.

  And then she fixed him with her glowing gaze. "The first thing a vampire must learn is to dispose of the remains. You were careless with that kill. The one reported in the press. Did you learn anything from tonight?"

  Ramsey met her harsh gaze with one of his own. "Far more than I ever wanted to," he said grimly.

  "Ahh…" A long sigh escaped her lips. "Do not spoil this moment for us. Who knows when, if ever, it will come again?" She stared at him, her expression speculative. "While you struggle with your quite active conscience, pay attention to what I say. A careless vampire is a danger to us all, Edward." She ran a long, blood-red nail down the side of his neck, the implied threat very clear. "Do you understand?"

  Ramsey nodded. "It won't happen again."

  She kissed him lightly on the lips, then rose from the bed, graceful as a cat, to slip into her carelessly discarded clothing. "See that it doesn't," she whispered—and vanished from his sight.

  The girl, Kelly, was awake when he got back to his house. Though it had grieved him to do so, he had tied her hands to the bedpost to ensure that she would be there when he returned.

  She stared at him through frightened green eyes when he entered the bedroom. "Where am I?" she asked, her voice weak. "Who are you? What are you going to do with me?"

  "You have nothing to fear."

  She tugged on the rope binding her wrist. "Don't I?"

  Moving to the bed, he released her hands, knew a moment of guilt as she massaged her wrists. The skin was red and slightly swollen.

  "I'm sorry," he murmured.

  "You're not an angel, are you?"

  "A dark angel, perhaps," he remarked, his gaze meeting hers. "Are you strong enough to stand? I've brought you something to eat."