A Whisper Of Eternity

“Yes.” She slipped her hand into the pocket of her shorts. He saw her hand clench and he wondered what sort of defense she carried in there. A can of Mace, perhaps, or pepper spray. He watched her summon her courage.

“I’m afraid you’re trespassing,” she said, her tone cool but not unfriendly. “This is a private beach.”

“Yes, I know. I have a house nearby.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know that. I’m new here myself.”

He extended his hand. “Dominic St. John.”

After a moment’s hesitation, she placed her hand in his. “Tracy Warner.”

His fingers curled lightly around hers. It was then that he felt it, a sharp jolt of recognition as his essence brushed against hers. A thrill of excitement swept through him. It was she, his soul mate, the woman he had found and lost countless times through the centuries. His beloved one. He had known her in many guises, by many names.

She was staring up at him. It took him a moment to realize he had fallen silent, that he was still holding her hand.

He smiled. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Warner.”

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Table of Contents

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Elizabeth Camp

Nightingale House perched near the edge of a high, rocky cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The first time Tracy Warner saw the house, she thought it was the most beautiful place she had ever seen. Sunlight glinted off the arched, leaded windows. Birds sang in the trees. A covered verandah wrapped around three sides of the house; she had imagined herself sitting out there on balmy nights, sipping a tall glass of iced tea while she admired the view of the ocean.

The inside of the house had been equally impressive. The walls and ceilings were freshly painted, the oak floors and banisters gleaming with wax. Though the house was old, it had been remodeled to accommodate all the modern conveniences.

As much as she had loved the big, airy feel of the house, she’d had every intention of asking the realtor to show her something a little less pricey, so she wasn’t sure who was more surprised, herself or the realtor, when she said she’d take it. Once the decision was made, she was sure it was the right thing to do, even though it would mean using all of the sizeable inheritance her grandfather had left her, and wiping out most of her savings, as well.

Still, a house by the ocean was bound to be a good investment and she had been pleased with her decision and eager for escrow to be closed.

Now, looking at the place sixty days later, she found herself having second thoughts. The house that had looked so bright and cheerful the morning she had first looked at it seemed somehow ominous with night approaching. Windows that had sparkled in the morning sun now reminded her of dark, soulless eyes staring out at her.

With the sun setting behind the house, it looked like a huge, prehistoric bird about to take flight, or perhaps a cobweb-infested castle that the infamous Count Dracula might have lived in. Glancing around, it occurred to her that the only thing missing was the requisite dark and stormy night. She wouldn’t have been at all surprised to see a giant black bat hovering overhead, or to hear the melancholy wail of a wolf in the distance.

For the first time, it occurred to her to wonder why there were two chimneys but only one fireplace.

Climbing the creaky porch steps, she wondered what had possessed her to buy the place. Had she seen it at this time of day instead of early morning, she would certainly have looked elsewhere! Tall trees grew close to both sides of the house. The first time she saw the house, there had been birds singing in the branches; now the birds were silent and the leaves rattled like dry bones in the evening breeze.

Tracy shook her head. Her imagination was really working overtime tonight!

Taking a deep breath, she took the big, old-fashioned brass key from her pocket and slid it into the lock. The door opened with a screech like that of a woman in pain.

How could she have forgotten that awful sound? And why did it sound so ominous?

“First on the list,” she muttered, closing the door behind her. “A little WD-40.”

Stepping into the entryway, she was overcome by a vague sense of unease. The realtor had warned her that the two previous occupants had moved out because they believed the house was haunted. Tracy had dismissed the notion out of hand. She didn’t believe in ghosts but if they existed, this was certainly the kind of house they would be comfortable in.

Searching for the light switch just inside the door, she flicked it on, but the room remained dark. No light penetrated the heavy draperies that covered the windows in the living room.

Tracy sighed in exasperation. The electric company had promised her that the power would be turned on before she arrived.

The thought of walking into that dark, empty house filled her with apprehension. Though she was reluctant to admit it, she had been afraid of the dark ever since she was a little girl.

But, not to worry, she thought with a grin, because there was an oil lamp on the long, low table to the left of the front door. The realtor had warned her that the power was prone to go out during storms and that it might be a good idea to keep a few of the old lamps close at hand, as well as a supply of matches. Being a former Girl Scout, she had come prepared.

Checking to see if the lamp had fuel, she pulled a book of matches out of her pocket, lifted the chimney, struck a match, and touched the flame to the wick.

The welcome flare of light put her fears to flight.

After adjusting the wick, she replaced the chimney and blew out the match; then, lamp in hand, she moved out of the entryway and into the parlor, her tennis shoes making hardly any noise on the hardwood floor.

The parlor had high ceilings. An enormous stone fireplace with a black marble mantel took up one whole wall. It was the biggest fireplace she had ever seen, easily large enough to hold a horse. And its rider.

Her footsteps echoed off the walls as she walked across the floor to the windows and drew back the heavy draperies, exposing tall, leaded windows. Her mood brightened considerably as the late-afternoon light filtered into the room. The trim around the windows and the doors was also made of oak. The walls, freshly painted, were off-white.

Feeling suddenly lighthearted, she blew out the lamp and put it on the mantel, then went out to the car to get the groceries she had purchased in the quaint little village at the foot of the hill.

The kitchen was large, with windows on three sides. There was a round oak table, cupboards galore, plus a relic of a gas stove and a small refrigerator, both of which she planned to replace in the near future.

After she put the groceries away, she explored the rest of the first floor. She opened the curtains as she wandered from room to room, mentally remodeling each one as she looked around. In addition to the parlor and the kitchen, there was a large library paneled in dark oak and a small room she guessed had been a sewing room at one time.

A winding staircase led to the second floor. She fell in love all over again with the first room at the top of the stairs. It was the master bedroom. Large and square and papered in an old-fashioned dark blue stripe, it featured a corner fireplace and a walk-in closet. One of the windows overlooked the backyard, the other overlooked the ocean. A small sitting room papered in the same dark blue stripe adjoined the bedroom. The bathroom had been recently remodeled. It was powder blue with white trim and contained a new sink and an oval tub.

There were two smaller bedrooms further down the hall, a linen closet, a good-sized bathroom with a pedestal sink and a claw-footed bathtub, and, at the far end of the corridor, a rectangular room with large windows set in three of the walls. One window had an eastern exposure. She nodded as she glanced outside, pleased that this room also offered a view of the ocean. This would be her studio.

Going back downstairs, she began to unload the boxes and suitcases from her car.

By nightfall, she had managed to carry the rest of her things into the house. Her clothes hung in the closet, her underwear and hose were in the dresser, her toiletries were in the bathroom, and she was ready for a hot bath. Holding her breath, she turned on the light switch in the bathroom and murmured, “Hallelujah!” as the light came on over the sink. Silently blessing the electric company for coming through, she turned on the faucet and added some lavender-scented bubble bath to the water.

While the tub filled, she lit a pair of vanilla-scented candles, pulled a bath towel from one of the boxes, grabbed a paperback from her handbag, and returned to the bathroom. The air was warm now, fragrant with the mingled scents of vanilla and lavender.

Undressing, she turned off the tap, then settled into the tub, book in hand. Scented candles, a froth of warm bubbles, a good book. What could be better?

 

 

There was someone in the upper house. Dominic St. John felt the presence of another immediately upon waking. Rising, he took a deep breath, his senses reaching out, testing the night air much the way a nocturnal animal might sniff the wind for danger.

He smiled faintly. He was in no danger from the woman upstairs. He could hear the water draining from the tub, smell the fresh, clean scent of her as she moved into her bedroom and slipped something silky over her head. A nightgown, perhaps?

A wave of his hand and half a dozen candles sprang to life, casting flickering yellow shadows on the gray stone walls. No one living knew that there was another house beneath the one above, a rather cozy place if one didn’t mind cold stone floors and walls without windows.

Rising, he laid out a change of clothes, all the while following the woman’s movements.

He wondered who she was and what had prompted her to buy a house that had been empty for more than five years. Many people had come to look at the place in the last decade. A few had attempted to live there, but he had not wanted their company and it had been an easy thing to drive them away. Dark thoughts planted in their minds, objects that moved or disappeared completely, the whisper of a cool wind down the back of a neck when the air was warm and the night was calm. He grinned faintly. It was all so easy.

Donning a clean black silk shirt, a pair of black trousers, and a pair of soft black leather boots, he followed the narrow passageway that led to the back of the fireplace in the parlor. There were many such walkways in the old house. A wave of his hand and the hidden passageway opened.

Dissolving into a fine gray mist, he drifted through the parlor and down the hallway to the kitchen. The smell of roasting meat made his stomach clench even as the scent of animal blood stirred a hunger deep within him.

The woman stood at the stove with her back toward him. She stirred something with a long, wooden spoon, then lifted it to her lips for a taste.

“Hmm, not too bad, if I do say so myself,” she murmured. Laying the spoon aside, she sprinkled salt and pepper into the pot.

The woman glanced over her shoulder as he floated into the kitchen. Had she sensed his presence? Such a thing seemed unlikely. Few humans had the ability to detect his nearness when he was in an incorporeal form.

She was not classically beautiful, but she was a remarkably pretty woman, with delicate features and fine, unblemished skin. Her honey-colored hair fell in a thick braid past her waist. Her eyes were brown with tiny gold flecks, fringed by long, dark lashes. Her slender figure was clad in something long and silky and pink. Not a nightgown, as he had thought, but some sort of lounge-around-the-house dress.

Dominic grinned as he drifted out of the room. He had not wanted anyone to occupy the house in the past, but this one could stay. There was something about her . . . something he would pursue at a later date, when his hellish hunger had been appeased. Perhaps one day he would even introduce himself to her, but not now. Now he needed to feed and as handy as it might have been to use the woman, he didn’t want to scare her away just yet. It might be amusing, even entertaining, to have company for a while.

Taking on his own shape once again, he made his way to the city located some thirty miles past the quaint village where most of the local people did their business. He never hunted in the village. Not only was it too close to his lair, but the inhabitants all knew each other. If one of them went missing, everyone would know about it in a matter of hours. He had ever been discreet in his choice of hunting grounds.

Walking down one of the crowded cobblestone streets, surrounded by warm, mortal flesh and beating hearts, he again felt the hunger rise up within him, growing stronger, more demanding. It was a need that could not be denied, a thirst that could be quelled but never quenched. The beast that dwelled within him had an insatiable appetite, one that could not for long be ignored.

His footsteps quickened as his hunger mounted, and then he saw his prey. She was a few yards ahead, a young woman with short brown hair. He watched the subtle sway of her hips, lifted his head and sniffed the air, sorting her distinct scent from all the others that surrounded him.

She looked up at him in alarm as he glided up beside her. Her eyes were gray and clear. He gazed into them, his mind speaking to hers, assuring her that he meant her no harm, and when he was certain she would offer no resistance, he slipped his arm around her waist and led her away from the crowds into a dark alley.

Lost in the shadows, he took her into his arms. For a moment, he simply held her, absorbing her warmth, listening to the whisper of the red tide running through her veins. His fangs lengthened in response to the sound of it, the warm, sweet coppery scent of it.

With a low growl, he bent her back over his arm and lowered his head.

 

 

Dominic could hear the woman moving about in the house above when he returned to his lair. Her presence unsettled him in a way he didn’t understand and he paced the floor restlessly, all his senses focused on the woman. He had fed earlier and fed well. Why, then, did this woman’s blood call to him so strongly? Even now, the beast within was urging him to go to her, to bend her to his will, to sample the sweet elixir running through her veins. No other woman had ever tempted him so save for one.

He glanced upward, his gaze tracking her footsteps. He had to meet her and soon, had to hear the sound of his name on her lips, taste the nectar of life that thrummed through her veins in a warm, rich river of crimson.

He ran a hand through his hair. How best to accomplish such a meeting? He did not want to appear out of nowhere and frighten her. A chance meeting, then. Perhaps she would take a walk along the beach some evening after sundown, when the air was cool. Yes, that would afford the perfect opportunity.

Smiling at the prospect, he picked up a book of Shakespeare’s plays and settled down to pass a quiet evening at home.

 

 

The perfect opportunity presented itself two evenings later, shortly after sunset. Dominic was returning from the city, walking along the shore, when he saw the woman who had haunted his every waking moment jogging toward him.