She had been alone the night he came to her, a tall, dark man with piercing gray eyes. A man who was not a man at all. She had known that the moment her eyes met his, known that, whoever he was, he possessed an otherworldly power far beyond her own.
Frightened of that which she did not understand, she had sent him away, and he had left without protest, only to return again the next night, and the next. Each night he brought her a gift: a bouquet of wildflowers, a cat carved of jade, a ruby necklace, a seashell.
Gradually, her curiosity overcame her fears and she invited him into her home, only to listen with growing disbelief to the tale he told her. She had heard of vampires, of course, but never believed such creatures existed. And then he told her another tale, of a man who loved a woman so much that he followed her through time. He told her stories of past lives and as he related each one, she knew deep in her soul that he spoke the truth.
And she loved him again. He begged her to join him, to accept the Dark Gift so that they might be together forever, never more to be parted. At first, the thought was repugnant, but as time passed, she began to relent
.
“
On All Hallows Eve,” she said, “on that night, I will become as you are.”
With a glad cry, he swept her into his arms. “At last, my best beloved one,” he had shouted exultantly. “At last you will be mine!”
But it was not to be. Unbeknownst to her, people from the town had been spying on her. They had seen Dominic, for that was his name, coming to her in the dark hours of the night. Foolish, superstitious folk, they believed him to be the devil, believed that she was in league with him. Just after midday on All Hallows Eve, they came for her, to accuse her. In spite of her protests, in spite of those who spoke in her behalf, saying that her magic had only been used for good, they had declared her guilty of witchcraft and sentenced her to hang as the sun went down.
And once again she had died in his arms. She had not died instantly when they slapped the horse out from under her. She was still fighting for breath when he came for her. She heard his wild cry of rage and disbelief, the terrified screams and shouts of the townsfolk as he sent them scattering like sheep from a wolf
.
But he was too late. Too late. Gazing up into his tormented gray eyes, she whispered his name with her last breath....
Tracy woke with a cry. Once again, his face had been the last thing she had seen. Was she fated to die in his arms in this life, as well?
And that was the first thing she said to him when he appeared at sundown.
“Will I die in your arms again?”
“I believe you are fated to do so,” he replied, his voice calm and unruffled, as if she asked him such odd questions every night. “Until . . .”
“Until what?” It was a foolish question. She already knew the answer.
His gaze moved over her face, lingering on her lips. “Until you accept your destiny.”
The touch of his gaze was like a physical caress, reminding her of the kiss they had shared the night before.
Rising, she took a step toward him only to find that he was moving toward her as well. There was no need for words, neither question nor answer. He wrapped his arms around her. She rose on her tiptoes and their lips fused, drawn together like a honeybee to a flower, like a moth to the brightest flame.
He deepened the kiss, and she felt his longing, his hunger, his need, not just for the relief of his physical desire but to ease his hunger. It was a huge and painful thing, one he had learned to control but could never conquer, a thirst he could satisfy but never fully quench.
She moaned softly, aching for his need, hating herself because she could not give him that which he most desired.
His eyes were blazing with vampire fire when he broke the kiss and drew back. “Do not blame yourself, my best beloved one,” he said, his voice husky, and then, as he had the night before, he vanished from her sight.
Tears stung her eyes, though she wasn’t sure if she wept for his pain, or for her own.
The next day, Tracy set about making the house her own. She needed something to do, something to keep her mind from paths she was not ready to travel. On this day, painting was not the answer.
She opened all the windows in the house, then rearranged the furniture in the living room and the dining room, no easy task considering how heavy the pieces were. Her bedroom came next. The physical exertion felt good, freeing somehow.
She paused just after noon for a quick lunch, then went upstairs. She set up the studio to her liking, laying out her paints and brushes, moving the easel here and there until she found just the right place in front of one of the windows. She picked up one of the brushes, and then laid it down again. Perhaps she would paint later, but for now, she wanted to be outside, to smell the earth and the flowers, to see the blue sky.
It was pleasant, walking through the gardens. After a time, she strolled toward the wall, drawn there in spite of herself. She spent several minutes staring at the gnarled old tree that grew nearest the wall. She was certain she could climb the tree without much trouble, but the wall . . . was it really electrified? Or was that merely a threat to keep her from trying to leave?
But Dominic St. John didn’t seem like the kind of man who would make empty threats and in the end, she decided not to take the risk. And what would be the point? He would only find her again.
Returning to the gardens, she picked a huge bouquet of roses and carried them into the house. She arranged the flowers in a large jar—there were no vases to be found—and placed the jar on the mantel.
Humming softly, she went into the kitchen to fix dinner. She had never liked cooking so her meals tended to be quick and simple, running more to sandwiches and salads than anything else. Tonight it was a ham and cheese sandwich on wheat bread, a green apple cut into quarters, some cottage cheese, and a frosty glass of iced tea.
She felt a growing sense of anticipation as she sat at the table, watching the shadows outside the window grow long. He would be waking soon, rising from wherever it was that he slept away the hours of daylight. Did he ever miss the sun? Was he ever sorry he had accepted the Dark Gift from Kitana? What was it like, to live for hundreds and hundreds of years, never to be sick, never to grow old? Was it a blessing beyond measure, or a curse without end? Why wouldn’t he tell her where he slept? He hadn’t kept it a secret from her at home.
Rising, she quickly washed and dried her few dishes and then went outside. The setting sun set the sky aflame as it went down in a blaze of fiery reds and ochre and orange.
She sensed his presence behind her and when she turned, he was standing there.
For stretched seconds, they stared at each other, and then Dominic held out his hand. Without hesitation, Tracy put her hand in his. As if by prearrangement, they turned and walked along the path that led through the gardens.
“How was your day?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Fine. I spent most of it rearranging the furniture. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not. My house, like my life, is yours.”
She wasn’t ready to hear that just yet and because she couldn’t think of anything else to say, she asked, “How was your day?”
He looked down at her, one brow arched in wry amusement. “Quiet.”
Tracy grinned. “It must be lonely, sleeping alone all the time.”
“You could change that.”
She stared at him. “You aren’t suggesting that I . . .” She swallowed hard. “That I sleep beside you during the day?” The thought of lying next to his cold, unmoving body sent a chill down her spine.
“Of course not. But if you would accept the Dark Gift, we could sleep away our days together.”
He stopped walking and drew her into his arms. “Do you know how often I have yearned to succumb to the darkness with you beside me? How often I have wished to wake with you in my arms?” His hand stroked her cheek. “How oft I have wished that your face would be the last thing I see at daybreak and the first at the moon’s rising.”
“Dominic . . .”
He pressed one finger to her lips, silencing her. “Be mine, my best beloved one. Let us be together in life and death, as we were meant to be.”
“But I don’t want to be a vampire, Dominic.”
“I know.” He blew out a sigh that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul. “I know.” He had tried to persuade her to join him countless times. Always, she refused, choosing mortal death over sharing his life with him.
Taking her by the hand, he started walking again. “You might enjoy being a vampire,” he remarked. “You would see colors and textures as never before. You could paint for hours and never grow weary. Music becomes more than mere sound, sight more than mere vision. You would see the world as never before, experience life as never before. There are so many things I long to show you, to share with you.”
He stopped suddenly, his gaze moving over her, lingering at the pulse throbbing slow and steady in the hollow of her throat. “Tracy . . .”
She stared up at him, at the hunger glowing in his eyes. Fear made her heart beat harder, faster.
His hand tightened on hers. He took a step toward her, his gaze fastened on her throat.
“Dominic.”
He looked up, his eyes burning into hers. “Tracy, in all the times I have known you, I have never tasted you. Let me now,” he pleaded softly. “Just one taste.”
“I’m afraid.”
“One small taste, my best beloved one. There is nothing to fear.”
“Will it . . . will it hurt?”
“No, I swear it.”
She stared up at him, torn by doubt and yet wanting to ease the awful pain she saw in his eyes. How could she refuse him again? How could she not? She put her worst fear into words. “Will it make me what you are?”
“No.”
“And you’ll only take a little, you promise?”
“I promise.”
She lifted a hand to her throat, touched the pulse beating there. To her amazement, she found that her curiosity was stronger than her fear.
“All right, but remember, only a little,” she murmured, and wondered if he was as surprised by her answer as she was.
“
Querida!
” He pulled her into his arms and kissed her tenderly.
She pressed herself against him, everything else forgotten in the wonder of his kiss, the pleasure of his touch as his hands moved over her body.
He rained feather-light kisses over her cheeks and brow, kissed the tip of her nose before he claimed her lips once more.
Drowning in waves of pure delight, it took her a moment to realize that he was dropping kisses along her neck, just below her ear. She knew a moment of sharp, primal fear when she felt the touch of his teeth at her throat but it was quickly swallowed up in what came after. As he had promised, there was no pain, only a deep sensual pleasure unlike anything she had ever known.
A soft moan escaped her lips.
At the sound, Dominic lifted his head. He stared down at her, his brow furrowed.
“Are you all right?”
“Oh, yes,” she murmured. “Better than all right.”
His gaze moved over her face, his expression worried.
She tried to smile reassuringly, but it required too much effort. She was suddenly tired, so tired....
“Tracy!”
He scooped her up into his arms and carried her into the house. Placing her on the sofa, he went into the kitchen and filled a glass with orange juice, which he insisted she drink.
It revived her immediately and she blinked up at him, confused. “What happened?”
His eyes filled with remorse. “Forgive me, my best beloved one, I am afraid one taste was not enough.”
Her eyes widened. “Will I become a vampire now?”
He grinned indulgently as he gathered her into his arms. “Did you learn nothing from all those books you read? One does not become a vampire by giving blood, only by drinking from one who is already vampire.”
“So, I’d have to . . .”
“Yes, you would have to drink my blood. An exchange, as it were. I would take your blood, a great deal of it, and then give it back to you.”
She shuddered. “It sounds . . . gruesome. Don’t you ever miss eating real food?”
He grunted softly. “After so many years, I hardly remember what it was like, except . . .” He kissed her again, his tongue sliding over her lips. “Except when I kiss you. You had ham and cheese and tomatoes for dinner.” He closed his eyes. “And bread. And tea sweetened with honey.” He opened his eyes again, his gaze moving to her lips. “The flavors linger ever so sweetly on your tongue.”
His knuckles caressed her cheek, lightly stroking up and down, up and down. It made her feel like purring.
She was lost in his nearness, drowning in the depths of his eyes.
“Sleep now,” he said. “The rest will do you good.”
She wanted to tell him she wasn’t that tired, but her eyelids were heavy, so heavy. Sleep wrapped her in a warm blanket of darkness.
Dominic’s voice was the last thing she heard before she surrendered to the darkness.
“I love you,” he said, his voice soft and low, yet brimming with emotion. “I have loved you for centuries. Can you not love me just a little?”
Chapter 13
After tucking Tracy into bed, Dominic wandered through the house. Though Tracy had only been under his roof for a short time, her influence was everywhere—her shoes were on the floor beside the sofa, there was a jar of roses on the mantel. The very air in the house was filled with her scent, along with the odor of food, both cooked and raw.
The bathroom held bottles of peach-scented shampoo and conditioner, lipstick and perfume, and myriad other feminine articles, all with their own unique scents.
He went into her studio, curious to see what she had been working on. To his surprise, he found she had painted his portrait again, not as a vampire this time, but as a mortal man. He moved closer, studying the lines of his face. He looked as he had the last time he had seen himself in a mirror. Kitana had not told him that vampires cast no reflection. Even after all these centuries, he could remember his shock the first time he had looked into a mirror, expecting to see his face looking back at him, and seen only the room behind him. It had made him feel as though he no longer existed.
Kitana had laughed at his chagrin. “Didn’t you know?” she replied with a laugh. “Vampires have no souls—therefore, they have no reflection.”
“No soul?” The thought had astounded him. Though he had never been a deeply religious man, he was a believer nevertheless. How could a body move and have life when it was nothing but an empty shell? How could he live without a soul?
“But you are not alive,” Kitana had said airily. “You are Nosferatu. Not dead and not alive.”
“Not dead and not alive?” He had scoffed at her. Of course he was alive! More alive than he had ever been before. His sight was keener, his touch more refined, colors were brighter, textures deeper and richer. His hearing was nothing short of phenomenal. A tear slipping down a cheek, a raindrop sliding down a leaf, the movement of a spider over a web, the delicate flutter of a moth’s wings, he could hear them all. He was never sick, never tired, never cold. How could she say he was not alive?
And it had been a good life, when Tracy was there to share it with him. It was only when they were separated, when he was on the earth and she was not, that he felt dead. Dead inside and out. His existence had no meaning without her. In the beginning, he had tried to find fulfillment in the arms of other women, but their beauty paled beside hers. Physical gratification alone was not enough. He needed Tracy, needed her love. It mattered not what body she inhabited, the color of her eyes or her hair, whether she was tall or short, dark or fair, whether she was bound or free. Without her, he was nothing but a dry, empty husk, a shell of a man with no reason to live and nothing to live for.
He left the house and wandered aimlessly through the gardens. For centuries, the moon had been his sun, the night his day. With his preternatural eyesight, he saw everything distinctly—each individual leaf on each tree and flower and shrub, the small creatures of the night scurrying through the dew-damp grass, the thorns on the rose bushes, each crack in the wall that surrounded the house. He heard the distant hooting of an owl, the sighing of the wind through the trees, the ripple of the water in the stream beyond the wall. He had so many wondrous abilities, yet they meant nothing without Tracy.
Tracy. She tasted sweet, so very sweet, like the finest nectar. He had thought one taste might be enough, but now that he had tasted her once, he was eager to do it again. And again. To drink of her sweetness until he was sated, until the taste of her, the very essence of her, filled all the empty places within.
His hands clenched at his sides. It would be so easy to take her, to take her and bring her across. He could cloud her mind, bend her will to his, make her yield to him that which he had so long desired, and yet that was something he would never do. She must come to him willingly, without doubts, without hesitation. He had seen what happened to those who’d had the Dark Gift forced upon them. Some went mad and had to be destroyed. Some became little more than killing machines, slaking their unholy appetite in an endless river of blood, heedless of the misery and suffering they caused. Some refused to accept the gift and destroyed themselves by walking into the sunlight. It was not an easy life, to be a vampire. It took a great deal of courage and strength to live a life against nature. Only those who freely embraced the Dark Gift were able to endure it for more than a century or two.
He wondered if Tracy had any idea of how difficult it was for him to be with her, to kiss and caress her, but never make love to her as he so longed to do. Love and desire were closely intertwined with the hunger that was ever within him, making it both pleasure and pain to hold her in his arms. And always, in the back of his mind, was the memory of other lives, past lives, when she had loved him, when she had made love to him and let him make love to her in return.
He glanced up at the house, his gaze moving instinctively to the window of the room where she lay sleeping. If he touched her mind with his, would he find that she was dreaming of him?
He took a deep breath, blew it out in a long sigh. In this life more than any other, he at least had hope. In this life, she was neither slave nor queen nor wed to another. She was her own woman, free and independent, able to do whatever she wished.
In this life, she could be his.
Tracy woke feeling wonderful. She stretched languidly, then padded downstairs to put the coffee on. Standing at the window, staring out at the yard, she lifted a hand to her neck. She had let Dominic drink her blood. Last night, it had seemed so right. Now, in the cool light of day, she couldn’t believe she had actually let him do such a thing.
What had she been thinking?
She shook her head. Obviously, she
hadn’t
been thinking, or she never would have agreed to it. But she had been moved by the soulful look in Dominic’s eyes, touched by the gentle pleading in his voice.
He had promised it wouldn’t hurt, and it hadn’t. He had also promised he would take only a taste and she knew, on some deep, primal level, that he had taken more than just a taste. And yet, to tell the truth, his vampire kiss had given her such pleasure, she had not wanted him to stop.
Tracy Ann Warner, vampire blood bank.
She turned away from the window and poured herself a cup of coffee. No matter how pleasurable it had been, it couldn’t happen again.
After a quick breakfast of toast and cereal, she went upstairs for a shower, then spent the rest of the morning painting another seascape for Mr. Petersen, deciding that if he didn’t like her work, she could always sell it to someone else. There was a small art gallery in Sea Cliff that accepted paintings on consignment.
A little after noon, she went downstairs to fix a sandwich for lunch. She added a slice of watermelon, a handful of chips, and a can of root beer and carried her plate outside.
It was quite pleasant, sitting there with the sun shining down on her. A gentle breeze kept the heat at bay. She stared at the house, wondering how old it was and who had lived there before Dominic bought it. She hadn’t thought of it before but now it occurred to her that he must be a wealthy man, which made her wonder why he hadn’t bought Nightingale House. It seemed strange that he would live in a house he didn’t own, and own a house he didn’t live in.
Strange. She laughed at that. With Dominic St. John, everything was strange.
He came to her just before sundown. She was sitting in the living room working a crossword puzzle when he entered the room. Her heart skipped a beat when she looked up and saw him standing there, clad in brown leather boots, buff colored trousers, and a loose-fitting white shirt. He reminded her of a hero out of a Regency novel.
“This came for you.” Crossing the floor, he handed her an envelope. It was addressed to her in care of a Maine post office box.
“Thank you.” She opened the envelope and withdrew a sheet of paper. It was a letter from Mr. Petersen.
“Good news?” Dominic asked.
“Yes.” She glanced down at the letter again. “Mr. Petersen says he’s pleased with my work. He wants a dozen seascapes to be delivered within sixty days.” She looked up at Dominic. “I don’t have that many canvases.”
“I will take care of it.”
“Thank you.”
“I brought you something else, as well,” he said.
“Oh? What?”
He left the room, only to return a moment later carrying a huge cardboard box and two smaller ones.
Tracy read the lettering on the cartons. One held a 36-inch television set; the others contained a stand and a combination DVD/VCR player, yet he carried the boxes effortlessly, as though they weighed no more than a pound or two.
Dominic set the boxes down and began opening them. He lifted the TV set out of the carton and put it on the floor. “Where do you want it?”
“Over there, I guess,” she said, pointing at the wall across from the sofa. “We can move that table.”
They spent the next few minutes assembling the stand and rearranging the furniture. Dominic plugged the set in and after a little trial and error, had the VCR hooked up.
“What made you buy a TV?” Tracy asked.
“You cannot paint or read all day, every day,” he replied with a shrug. “I did not want you to get bored.”
“Thank you.”
“Is there anything else you want?”
“Cable would be nice. Oh, and a stereo.”
“I will see what I can do.”
“Too bad we don’t have any of my DVDs,” she remarked.
He smiled a sly smile, then left the room. Moments later he returned with a cardboard box.
“What’s that?”
“Your movies,” he said, dropping the box on the sofa beside her.
“You never fail to amaze me,” she said, grinning.
They spent a pleasant evening watching a DVD of
The Mummy.
Dominic admitted he hadn’t watched many movies. Books were more to his liking, but he seemed to get a kick out of watching this one. Tracy had seen it several times before but she never tired of watching Oded Fehr. Or Brendan Fraser, for that matter.
About halfway through the movie, Tracy went into the kitchen and came back with a bowl of popcorn and a can of root beer.
Sitting down, she looked at him and shrugged. “I’m hungry.”
His gaze met hers and then he glanced at her throat, his eyes darkening. “So am I.”
Tracy stared at him, her mouth suddenly dry. “Dominic . . .”
He didn’t say anything, only looked at her, his whole body still, waiting for her decision.
She saw the need in his eyes and while the thought of letting him drink from her was instinctively abhorrent, on some deeper level, she wanted to take him in her arms and ease his pain.
When he stood up, she reached for his hand. “Where are you going?”
“Out.”
“Didn’t you . . . do that earlier?”
He nodded.
“Then why . . . ?”
“Your nearness arouses me in more ways than one,” he said bluntly. “Good night.”
And just like that, he was gone.
Tracy blew out a sigh of exasperation. Why should she feel so guilty because she didn’t want to let him drink from her? But feeling guilty wasn’t the worst of it. Stronger than her guilt was the unexpected surge of jealousy that burned through her at the thought that he might be going out to ease his physical desire with someone else.
“Oh, girl,” she muttered, “you’re losing it.”
She slipped
The Mummy Returns
into the DVD player, put on a fresh pot of coffee to keep her awake, but Dominic didn’t come back. She couldn’t help wondering where he had gone. Was he prowling the streets here, in Maine, or had he taken off for some distant land?
She stayed awake until she couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer; then, filled with resentment and jealousy, she went to bed.
Her dreams were frightening that night, filled with shadowed images chasing her down unfamiliar paths. She heard distant cries for help, never certain if they were her own or someone else’s as she ran through a maze of dark streets. Leering eyes watched her; maniacal laughter filled the air and echoed off the sides of buildings. She felt the hell-hot breath of her pursuer on the back of her neck. Her breathing was labored as she ran across a wobbly wooden bridge, praying she would find refuge on the other side. She screamed when it collapsed beneath her, dropping her into a river that ran red with blood.
She woke with the sound of her own screams ringing in her ears. Sitting up, she switched on the light.
Trembling, she wrapped her arms around her waist.
In the distance, she heard the melancholy howl of a wolf. The sound, filled with the loneliness of eternity, tugged at her heart and brought tears to her eyes.
“Dominic,” she whispered. “Where are you?”
Outside, a large gray wolf ceased its restless pacing as the sound of Tracy’s voice drifted through the window. He heard the fear and the loneliness in her soft lament, sensed her confusion. She was caught up in a world she did not understand, had questions only he could answer. He knew she was torn between loving him and wishing they had never met. Her life had been peaceful until he found her. He could not fault her for wishing to return to that time, but he could not let her go, not when he had just found her again. But perhaps he could ease her pain, comfort her until the sun chased the moon from the sky.
He was about to change shape and go to her when a new scent was borne to him on the wings of the night.
Lifting his head, the wolf sniffed the air, hackles rising as the scent of danger filled his nostrils.
After all these centuries, Kitana had found him.