After Sundown

by Amanda Ashley

  "Who are you?"

  "Edward."

  She looked at him warily when he offered her his hand.

  "You have nothing to fear, Kelly," he said, and hoped it was true.

  She hesitated a moment more, then placed her hand in his and let him draw her to her feet. He led her down a dark hallway, through a living room furnished with a black leather couch and matching chair. The end tables were also black. There was no light in the room save that provided by the fire burning in the hearth. The kitchen was painted white. The appliances were mirrored black and looked new. A covered tray waited on a small round table.

  She sat down, her stomach growling as he uncovered the tray to reveal a bowl of vegetable soup. There was a thick steak, rare, and mashed potatoes, beets, a slice of corn bread dripping with butter and honey. And a large piece of apple pie for dessert.

  "I did not know if you preferred coffee or milk," he said, "so I ordered both."

  Kelly nodded. "Thank you. Aren't you going to eat?" She felt a chill slide down her spine as his gaze moved to her throat.

  "Perhaps later," he said with an ambiguous smile.

  She felt uncomfortable eating while he watched. He hovered over her, reminding her of a vulture. The steak was very rare, thick, and juicy. He licked his lips as she cut into it.

  She turned her attention to the meal, always aware of the man standing nearby.

  Ramsey took a deep breath. Needing a distraction, he went into the living room and turned on the television. Sitting in the easy chair, he flipped through the channels, pausing when he heard the name Dracul. A female reporter stood outside the gates of a mansion, informing the public that Prince Dracul, well-known rock star, had disappeared.

  He frowned. Dracul was a young vampire masquerading as a human. Had someone discovered the singer's true identity and destroyed him? Was there another accomplished vampire hunter in the area? Or was it merely some sort of ploy to gain media attention?

  Thoughts of Dracul faded, overshadowed by the enticing scent of the girl in the next room. Her heartbeat echoed in his ears, he felt his own heart begin to beat in rhythm with hers, felt his fangs lengthen as the hunger stirred to life within him.

  He had just fed; he had no need to do so again. And yet he rose to his feet, unable to resist the siren call of her blood. Khira's facetious remark about having room for dessert crossed his mind.

  The girl looked up at him, fear reflected in her eyes. "No! No, don't."

  But he was past hearing, past caring about anything but the need roaring through him. The pain…

  She ran for the door, but he caught her easily. He gathered her into his arms, his mind seeking to calm hers. She fought him, her nails raking his cheek, until he bent her will to his.

  When she lay pliant in his embrace, reason asserted itself above blood hunger. The woman had just eaten; there had been no time for her metabolism to have converted the food to life-giving strength. She was still weak. He had vowed just this night to exercise restraint… and failed. Had witnessed the extinction of yet another human life, had shared in its extinction.

  Khira had said if he wanted to keep his "little human" alive he needed to treat her well, feed her well, ensure she was strong enough for his purpose. It was time for him to prove he was strong enough to do so. No more killing. It was time to make good on his vow.

  Gently he carried her to her bed and tucked her in.

  He stalked the dark streets, his mind filled with the memory of the horror in the girl's eyes as he had bent over her. He had seen enough bloodthirsty vampires to know how he must have looked to her, his skin taut, as pale as old parchment, his eyes glowing hellishly red and hungry. She had screamed when she saw his fangs, struggled against him until he took control of her thoughts.

  He lifted a hand to his face. She had raked her nails across his cheek hard enough, deep enough, to draw blood, yet the scratches were already healed.

  He had no need to hunt, but he prowled the night restlessly. He wasn't surprised when he found himself standing in front of Chiavari's house. Taking a deep breath, he climbed the steps, knocked on the door.

  "Edward." Marisa smiled, surprised to see him.

  "Is Chiavari home?"

  "No, but he'll be back in a few minutes."

  "Do you mind if I wait?"

  "Of course not." She stepped back. "Come in. I was just fixing myself something to eat."

  He followed her into the kitchen. It was a large room, painted a pale, pale yellow. White curtains covered the windows. There was a small table for two in one corner.

  She gestured at a chair. "Sit down."

  His vampire senses automatically separated and cataloged the domestic odors of the kitchen: frying chicken, flour and cooking oil, potatoes and corn, soap and cleanser. And, over all, the warm, womanly, mortal scent of Marisa herself.

  She slid a pan of biscuits in the oven, then took the chair across from him. "How've you been, Edward?"

  He shrugged. Only a few weeks a vampire, yet it seemed like centuries since he had tasted solid food.

  "Fried chicken used to be one of my favorites," he said wistfully. ' 'Now just the smell of it makes me sick to my stomach."

  She laid a hand on his arm. "I'm sorry."

  He gazed down at her hand on his arm, saying nothing.

  "Edward? Is something wrong?"

  He blew out a deep breath. "Are you happy with him?"

  "Is that why you came here?" she exclaimed softly. "To find out if I was happy?"

  "I don't know. Are you?"

  "Yes, very happy. I love him, Edward."

  Her words cut through him like a knife. He wanted to grab her, shake her, make her love him instead. He gazed deep into her eyes, felt the Dark Gift unfold within him, fueled by frustrated love and lust. She loved a vampire, did she? Then why not him? His power flowed through the room, gathering like storm clouds. His vampire senses expanded, filling with the sight of her, the scent of her. Desire welled within him—not a desire for blood, but for the feel of her in his arms. Caught in the web of his power, she was his for the taking. She leaned slowly across the table toward him, her gaze cloudy and unfocused…

  "That's enough!"

  Ramsey jerked backward as Chiavari's voice cut across the thick stillness.

  "What the hell do you think you're doing?" Grigori glared down at Ramsey, his black eyes smoldering with fury.

  Marisa blinked up at her husband. "What's wrong? What happened?"

  "Nothing. Ramsey was just leaving."

  Ramsey pushed away from the table and stood up, never taking his eyes from Chiavari. Chiavari's rage was a frightful thing to see. He felt his own power rise to the challenge. He had been close to death before, he thought, but never as close as he was now. The tension in the room was palpable.

  Confused but sensing the danger, Marisa started to rise, but Chiavari put a hand on her shoulder. "Stay here, cara. I will see him out."

  Without taking his gaze from Chiavari's face, Ramsey made a courtly bow in Marisa's direction. "Forgive me," he murmured, "I must be going."

  He stalked out of the room, with Chiavari close on his heels.

  "What the hell was going on in there?" Chiavari demanded when they reached the street.

  Ramsey shook his head. "Nothing. I…" He ran a hand through his hair. "I loved her, damn it. She should have been mine."

  Fury emanated from Chiavari like heat from a forest fire. When he spoke, his voice was a low growl. "So you came here to seduce her with the Dark Power?"

  "No." Ramsey shook his head. "I came to see you. I don't know what happened in there. I…" He began to pace the sidewalk in short, jerky steps. "Sitting there with her, I remembered how much I wanted her, and I knew I could make her love me… knew I could make her forget you… Damn! What is happening to me?"

  Grigori took a deep, calming breath. "One does not adjust to being Vampyre overnight, Ramsey. Give yourself some time. What did you want to see me about?"

  "I c
an't go on like this. I want you to destroy me. Now. Tonight."

  "What has happened?"

  "Happened?" Ramsey repeated. "Happened? You happened! You saw what happened in there! I can't go on like this. Damn it, you did this to me. Now undo it!"

  "Calm down, Ramsey, it has been but a few weeks. Give yourself some time."

  "Time." Ramsey groaned. "I feel it weighing down on me like the earth that should cover my grave. I can't bear an eternity of this. I can't and I won't!"

  "Calm down."

  "I am calm! Damn it, you've killed before. Why not me? You made a mistake. I'm not cut out to be a vampire. Now undo it. Release me from this accursed existence!"

  "It can be a good life, if you let it. Think of all you will see, experience, as this new century unfolds! And the next one…"

  "Damn you!" Past reason, past hope, Ramsey lunged at Chiavari, determined either to kill the creature who had bequeathed this curse… or be killed.

  They struggled in silence. The ancient blood that ran through Ramsey's veins gave him a strength almost equal to Chiavari's. For a moment, he almost believed he would win. But Chiavari had more than physical strength on his side; he had experience and a cool head.

  Breathless, Ramsey quickly found himself on the sidewalk, flat on his back, Chiavari's fangs only inches from his throat. "Do it," he urged. "Do it!"

  Chiavari's eyes blazed like hell's own fury. Ramsey felt strangely peaceful, awaiting the end. Then, as if someone had banked the fires, the rage faded from Chiavari's gaze.

  He stared down at Ramsey with preternatural calm. "Are you ready to listen now?"

  "Damn you."

  "Give it some time," Chiavari said. "Six months. Then, if you still want to die, come and see me."

  Ramsey started to speak, but before he could form the words, Chiavari was gone.

  Ashamed and humiliated, Ramsey gained his feet. He could not endure this for another six months, not for another six days. He would not!

  He was a vampire hunter, a destroyer of the undead. He was now a vampire. And he would do what he had been born and raised to do. Do what he should have done from the beginning.

  Destroy the vampire.

  Chapter 10

  Ramsey stood in the backyard, his face turned toward the east, and waited for the sunrise. Would he burst into flame at the first touch of the sun? Would it be quick?

  He thought of Marisa. He thought of Chiavari. But mostly, he thought of Kelly. In another life, he might have loved her. Perhaps she would have loved him.

  Before leaving the house, he had untied her hands, covered her with a blanket.

  He had written a will, leaving her everything he owned: the house, the car, the money in the Ramsey family bank account. He smiled to think of her bemusement at learning she now was the trustee of quite a considerable fortune—the heritage of generations of successful vampire killers.

  His heart and soul aching with grief and regret for the abominable way he had used her, he had stood beside the bed, watching her sleep, one hand lightly stroking her hair.

  "Rest now," he had murmured. "You have nothing more to fear. Soon the angel of death will be gone."

  Now, standing in the predawn light, he closed his eyes, and the image of her fragile beauty rose up in his mind, her hair like a waterfall of black silk, her dark-brown eyes fringed with long, dark lashes. He remembered how perfectly she had fit in his arms, the sweetness of her blood, the touch of her skin, soft and warm, beneath his hands.

  He opened his eyes, his skin crawling with the knowledge that dawn was near.

  His last dawn.

  Fear uncoiled deep within him as the dark sky gradually grew lighter, the black fading to indigo then exploding with color as the sun peeled the cloak of night from the sky. It was the most beautiful sunrise he had ever seen. Gold and crimson, lavender and fiery red.

  For a breathless moment, he basked in the beauty of it, in the warmth of the sun upon his face. But only for a moment. All too soon, the pleasure turned to pain.

  He groaned as the light seared his eyes, trembled as the warmth increased, until what would once have been a pleasant warmth became intolerable, scorching heat. The skin on his face, hands, and arms blistered under the touch of the sun.

  The sun rose higher, hotter. His body grew heavy, lethargic. Darkness called to him—the darkness of sleep, of death. The preternatural blood in his veins grew hot, burning him from the inside out.

  A cry rose in his throat and he choked it back. Pain. Agonizing. Excruciating. Beyond bearing. Pain unlike anything he had ever known or imagined.

  Terror engulfed him. A scream clawed at his throat as the torment became unbearable. With a strangled cry, he turned toward the refuge of the house, his only thought to escape the agony that engulfed him.

  The house. So close. There was blessed darkness there, relief from the pain. It was so near, so near. His arms and legs felt heavy. His feet were like lead. The sunlight burned through the clothes on his back, seared the skin beneath.

  He dropped to his hands and knees, fighting the dark sleep as he dragged himself toward the door, his fingers plowing deep furrows in the earth as he pulled himself, inch by slow inch, across the grass.

  He was moaning helplessly when he reached the house. Grasping the door knob, he opened the door and then fell across the threshold. Crawling into the kitchen on his hands and knees, he dragged himself toward the door that led down to the cellar. He pushed it open with the last of his strength, felt himself pitch headlong into darkness as he tumbled head over heels down the stairs…

  The sound of her own screams woke Kelly from a deep sleep. Breathing heavily, she jackknifed to a sitting position. The nightmare had been so real. She looked at her arms, surprised to see they weren't burned, only then realizing that she was no longer tied to the bed.

  The dream faded as she glanced around the room, her gaze searching for the monster who kept her here against her will. She shuddered as she remembered the way his eyes had burned red as he bent over her, her helpless horror as his fangs pierced the skin of her throat, the weakness that had spread through her, the uncanny sense of two hearts beating as one as her blood mingled with his…

  She shook off the memory. That, too, must have been a nightmare, she thought It had to be a nightmare. There was no such thing as a vampire, not really. She knew there were people who pretended they were vampires. They dressed in black and drank blood and avoided the sun. No doubt some of them actually believed they were vampires.

  Perhaps the man who had brought her here, wherever "here" was, was one of those. No less frightening or dangerous than an actual vampire, when it came right down to it.

  She threw off the covers, surprised to find that she was wearing a nightgown, embarrassed because she knew he had to have undressed her.

  Rising, she tiptoed from the bedroom. The house looked familiar, but she had no memory of having been here before, no recollection of how she had gotten there.

  In the kitchen, she found an envelope with her name scrawled across it.

  Curious, she picked it up and withdrew a single sheet of paper. She read it once, and then again:

  I, Edward James Ramsey, being of sound mind and body, do hereby give and bequeath all my worldly goods and property, both real and monetary, to Kelly Lynne Anderson. Ms. Anderson is hereby vested by me with trusteeship of the Ramsey Trust Fund, to do all acts and perform all duties as she sees fit.

  It was signed and dated.

  What did it mean?

  She had the irrelevant thought that he had not had a witness sign the document, so it probably wouldn't amount to much if it was contested, and dropped the paper back on the table. Whatever he had been thinking, he had left her unguarded. It was time to make good her escape.

  She glanced down, wondering what he had done with her clothes. She couldn't very well go running down the street wearing nothing but a nightgown.

  It was when she turned to go back to the bedroom that she saw the ope
n cellar door. She moved cautiously toward it, her heart pounding as she stared down into the darkness below.

  She stood at the top of the steps, recalling every horror movie she had ever seen where the foolish young girl, usually attired in a nightgown, walked down a dark flight of stairs to her death.

  "Not me," she said. "No way."

  Yet even as she spoke the words, she was compelled to move forward. She saw her left foot moving toward the top step, and it was like watching someone else's foot. Her right hand searched the wall, hoping to find a light switch, but to no avail.

  Unable to help herself, she took another step, and another, her heartbeat pounding like thunder in her ears.

  When she reached the bottom, she tripped over something. Something large. She put her hand on it to push herself away, shrieked when she realized it was a body. Scrambling to her feet, she backed away, gasped when she smacked into a wall. A light switch jabbed into her arm and she whirled around, her fingers trembling as she flipped the switch.

  Light flooded the cellar.

  Afraid of what she might see, yet unable to keep from looking, she slowly turned around. Her eyes widened. It was him. The man who thought he was a vampire.

  He looked dead.

  She moved slowly, warily toward him.

  She could see no sign that he was breathing. He had fresh, ugly burns and painful-looking blisters on the skin of his face, hands, and arms. Summoning her courage, she touched his cheek. His skin was cold, as if he had been dead a very long time. In spite of all he had done to her, she felt a surge of pity for him.

  Gingerly she picked up his arm and placed her fingertips over his wrist. There was no detectable pulse.

  She laid her hand over his chest. She couldn't feel a heartbeat.

  The word vampire whispered through her mind again. They slept during the day. They went Poof! in the sun. She thought of the paper on the kitchen table. What if he was a vampire? A real vampire? The sunlight streaming through a partly open curtain in the kitchen could have caused those dreadful burns, if the mythology was accurate. There was no evidence of a fire in the house, no smell of smoke.