Amanda Ashley (28 page)

Marisa knelt beside Grigori. “Are you all right?”

He started to slip his arm around her waist, then jerked his hand away. Marisa frowned at him and then, realizing the problem, she removed the silver she was wearing and tossed it aside. With a wry grin, Grigori slipped one arm around her waist and hugged her tight. She could feel him trembling as the last of Khira’s power floated away like smoke in the wind.

“How’s your hand?”

He lifted it and showed it to her. There was an ugly red welt where his skin had touched her bracelet. She pressed a kiss to his palm. “I’m sorry.”

“Well,” Duncan said, his voice filled with exuberance as he took in the destruction all around them. “We did it!”

Grigori stood up, drawing Marisa with him. “We didn’t do a damn thing,” he said, his gaze resting on Khira’s body. “Three vampyres and a first-class hunter, and it was a mortal woman who brought Khira down.”

Grigori looked at Marisa, his eyes shining with love. “My woman.”

With Khira’s death, all the furious energy and pounding fear bled out of the corpse-strewn room.

Marisa stared at the hilt of the dagger, protruding like a silver crucifix from Khira’s back. She had thought she might faint when she felt the dagger pierce the vampire’s flesh. Then she thought she might be violently ill. Her pulse raced; there was a pressure in her temples.

“Is she really dead?”

“Oh, yeah,” Duncan said, grinning. “She’s definitely dead.”

Marisa shook her head, unable to believe she had done such a thing. A wave of relief, sickening in its intensity, swept over her, followed by disbelief. She had never, ever imagined herself capable of killing.

Grigori’s arms enfolded her gently. A distant part of her mind noted that his usually powerful muscles were trembling weakly. His battle with Khira and the revenants had cost him dearly. She leaned into him, shaking all over.

“It had to be done,
cara,”
he murmured, reading her thoughts. “You saved my life. You saved us all.”

On the couch, Ramsey huddled protectively over Kelly as she fed from his wrist. Remarkably, her broken arm had already mended; the horrible wounds on her slender body had stopped bleeding and were starting to close. But she was pale and weak. Ramsey’s eyes were closed and his jaw set. Marisa realized that Kelly, in her need, could drain him.

She looked over at Duncan, who met her gaze and grinned.

“You did it,” he said. “By damn, you did it!”

“We all did it,” Marisa murmured. “And now I need you to do something.”

“Sure, kid. I’ll dispose of all this carrion; trust me.” His gesture included the twisted bodies.

“Not that,” Marisa said.

“Just tell me what you want,” Duncan said. “And consider it done.”

“Ramsey needs to feed.”

Duncan stared at her. “What?”

“He needs blood to replace what he’s giving Kelly. He’s not strong enough to hunt.”

“You want me to . . .” Duncan looked at Ramsey, then back at Marisa. “This is carrying friendship a little too far, don’t you think?”

“No,” Marisa said.

“Why can’t you do it?” Duncan glanced at Grigori. “You’re used to it.”

She felt Grigori stir, and put a restraining arm on his trembling shoulder. “Yes,” she agreed calmly, “I am. But Grigori needs to feed, too. You have no idea what it cost him to hold Khira at bay until I could . . . could . . .”

“Okay, okay, you convinced me,” Duncan grumbled. But he picked up a vial of holy water as he moved toward the couch.

Ramsey opened his eyes to watch him come. His eyes darkened with alarm. Grigori tensed.

“Relax,” the vampire hunter said. “A little insurance, that’s all. Friend or no friend, you aren’t turning me into a damned bloodsucker.” He sat down on the sofa, his expression wary. “But you owe me big-time for this, Ed, and don’t you forget it.”

Marisa tugged on Grigori’s arm. “Let’s go upstairs.”

He followed her up the stairs and into their bedroom without argument and closed and locked the door behind them.

Marisa looked at him, one brow raised.

“Duncan’s still a vampyre hunter,” he explained quietly. “Ramsey may be willing to put his life in Duncan’s hands, but I’m not.”

“You don’t think Duncan would try to . . .”

“I don’t know, but I’m not willing to risk it.” He caressed her cheek, his dark eyes smoldering. “I need you,
cara,”
he murmured.

“I know, love.” She sat down on the bed, her head tilted to the side to give him access to her neck. “Take what you need.”

He knelt in front of her and took her hands in his. “Not just your blood now,
cara mia,
but all of you. Your heart, your soul. Your indomitable spirit.” His gaze burned into hers. “Your love.”

“You already have them, Grigori. You know that.”

“And will you join your life with mine?” he asked, his voice thick with need and longing. “Forever?”

She knew what he was asking. She thought briefly of all she would be giving up, then looked deep into his eyes and thought of all she would be gaining. They had faced life, and violent death, together. From this night forward—no, from the night she had first met him—she had known that her life was forever, irrevocably destined to be entwined with his.

“Yes, Grigori, it’s time.”

“You are sure,
cara?”

“I’m sure,” she replied, and meant it with every fiber of her being. “I love you.”

“As I love you.” His hands clutched her shoulders and he rose over her, his dark eyes glowing. “Do not be afraid. I will not hurt you.”

She closed her eyes, her heart pounding, not with fear but anticipation, as he drew her into his embrace. She felt a brief, sharp prick, followed by a rush of pleasure as she gave her heart and soul into his keeping.

Ramsey woke with the setting sun. Kelly slept beside him, a welcome warmth against his back. Turning over, he drew her into his arms, feeling totally at peace for the first time since the night he had awakened to find himself a newly made vampire.

A week had passed since the slaughter at Chiavari’s house. Kelly had quickly recovered from the horrible wounds Khira had inflicted on her. True to his word, Duncan had disposed of the bodies, then declared he was taking a much-needed vacation.

Ramsey blew out a sigh. It was still hard to believe that Khira was no longer a threat—that a being so vital, so powerful, one who had lived for hundreds of years, had been brought down by a mere mortal. And a woman, at that.

But Marisa was mortal no longer. He had known the moment Chiavari brought her across, though he couldn’t say exactly how he knew. The words “a disturbance in the Force” had him grinning into the darkness, but that was what it had been like. He had felt the change in her, the shift of preternatural power.

The night after Khira’s death, Chiavari and Marisa had left the city. “On an extended holiday,” Chiavari had said. Ramsey couldn’t help wondering if he would ever see them again, bemused by the thought that he would miss them. Both of them.

Kelly stirred in his arms. “You’re very quiet,” she remarked, dropping a kiss on his forearm. “What are you thinking about?”

“Something that’s been in the back of my mind for a couple of weeks.”

“Oh?” She turned over onto her side to face him. “What?”

“We need to be prepared in case some other vampire decides to go on a rampage. For all her wicked ways, Khira never left any trace of her kills. Another vampire might not be so neat. If the word gets out that vampires really exist . . .”

She nodded. There would be panic in the streets, hysteria. In days gone by, the very word “vampire” had been enough to start a panic. And while she didn’t think that would happen in this day and age, her mother had always told her, “Better safe than sorry.”

“So,” he went on, “I thought maybe I’d set up a school to train vampire hunters. There aren’t many of us left, you know.”

“Us?” Kelly asked, looking amused.

Ramsey grinned. “Once a hunter, always a hunter.”

“Well, it sounds dangerous to me,” Kelly said. “What if they decide to hunt
us?”

He gave her a wounded look. “They won’t know about us. We’ll put Duncan in charge.”

“What makes you think he’d be interested?”

Ramsey brushed a kiss across her cheek. “We won’t know until we ask.”

“What makes you think you can trust him?”

“I’ve taken his blood,” Ramsey said, his expression sober. “It will be impossible for him to betray me without my knowledge.” He kissed the tip of her nose, his hand sliding up and down her rib cage. “What would you think about buying the LaSalle mansion?”

“Why?”

“Knowing Khira, I’m pretty sure it’s as impregnable as a vampire could make it.”

She smiled up at him. “Suits me. I always wanted a mansion of my own.”

He kissed her again, slowly, seductively, amazed anew that she loved him, that she needed him. Wanted him. Her eyes glowed with the heat of her desire, and he swept her into his arms, silently thanking Grigori for the Dark Gift that had given him forever in the arms of the woman he loved.

 

Marisa stood on the balcony of their villa, reveling in the quiet beauty of the warm summer night that surrounded her. The scent of earth and trees and a profusion of flowers filled her nostrils.

Grigori had promised her the world, and he had kept that promise. And it was an incredibly beautiful place when seen through her vampyre eyes. Sights and sounds, colors and textures: all were clearer, brighter, more intense—as intense, it often seemed, as her love for Grigori.

She closed her eyes. Grigori. He was everything to her, life and breath, heart and soul. He had brought her across so tenderly, hovered over her as the change took place, his deep voice soothing her, assuring her that there was nothing to fear, holding her safe in his arms as her old life slipped away and she had been reborn a new vampyre in his arms. He had been so afraid that she would regret her decision once it was done, that she would hate her new life and hate him for giving her the Dark Gift.

He had assured her that she would not have to hunt, that he would hunt for them both and nourish her with his own blood, and for the first six months of her new life, that was what they had done. Though she’d had no doubts that she wanted to join Grigori in his life, the thought of what she must do to survive had filled her with trepidation. But it had not repelled her. She was not overcome with a lust for blood, perhaps because Grigori’s nourished her so completely, perhaps because she had accepted the change willingly. Whatever the reason, it was but a small part of the whole.

Soon after their move to Italy, she had called her parents and apologized for not going to see them before she left the country, explaining that Grigori had been offered a job in Italy that was too good to pass up, and that it had been imperative that they leave immediately.

She and Grigori had kept in touch with Kelly and Edward and Duncan, their lives forever bound together by that one terrible night when they had destroyed Khira. She had been taken aback when she learned of their plans to open a school to train vampire hunters, but Grigori had laughed. “It sounds just like something Ramsey would do,” he had declared. Duncan was in charge of the school, which was funded by Edward and Kelly. They took on only two candidates a year, putting them through rigorous tests of courage, warning them that they were to hunt only those vampires who took human life indiscriminately, warning them that, should they break faith with the school, they themselves would be hunted.

She stirred restlessly, her thoughts turning toward her husband. And a moment later, she felt his presence in the house, felt her heart beat faster as he moved through the house toward her. And then he was there, his arms sliding around her waist to draw her back against him.

“Il mio amore.”
She sighed. “It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?”

“Not so beautiful as you,
il mia migliore cara.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder, content to be held in his arms. They had left the States shortly after Khira had been destroyed. Marisa had been reluctant to leave at first. Her family was there, after all. But Grigori said it was for the best, that it wasn’t wise to remain where they were. She knew it made him uneasy, having Duncan know where they lived, just as she knew that, in spite of all they had been through, Grigori didn’t trust Ramsey completely. She had bowed to her husband’s wishes without question. His instincts for survival were, after all, much stronger than her own.

But none of that mattered now, not when Grigori was turning her in his arms, gazing down at her through fathomless black eyes, eyes filled with love and desire; not when he was kissing her, wiping everything from her mind but her ever-growing love and need for this man who filled her every waking moment after sundown.

Please turn the page for a special preview of
A WHISPER OF ETERNITY by Amanda Ashley,
now available from Zebra Books.

Nightingale House perched on the edge of a rocky cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The first time Tracy Patterson saw the house she thought it was the most beautiful place she had ever seen. Sunlight glinted on the tall leaded windows. Birds sang in the trees. A covered veranda wrapped around three sides of the house and she had imagined herself sitting there on balmy nights admiring the view of the ocean. The inside of the house had been freshly painted, the oak floors and banisters gleamed with wax.

As much as she’d 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 wiping out most of her savings, including the money her grandfather had left her.

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 in the morning looked 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 some huge prehistoric bird about to take flight or perhaps some cobweb-infested castle that the infamous Count Dracula might have lived in. She grimaced as 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 question why there were two chimneys but only one fireplace.

Now, climbing the creaky porch steps, she wondered whatever had possessed her to buy the place. Had she seen it at this time of night instead of early morning, she would certainly have looked elsewhere! Tall trees grew close to both sides of the house, their leaves rattling like dry bones in the evening breeze. Tracy shook her head. Her imagination was really working overtime!

Taking a deep breath, she slid the big brass key into the lock. The door opened with a screech like that of a woman in pain.

How could she have forgotten that awful sound?

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

Stepping into the entryway, she was overcome by a sense of unease.

The realtor who had sold her the place 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 located just inside the door, she flicked it on, but the room remained dark. No light penetrated the thick draperies that covered the windows in the living room.

Tracy sighed in exasperation. The electric company had promised the power would be 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.

She grinned to herself. Being a former Girl Scout, she had come prepared. Spying an oil lamp on a long, low table, she searched her pockets for a match. 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.

Checking to see if the lamp had fuel, she 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 at all 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 doors were 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 situated at the foot of the hill.

The kitchen was large, with windows on three sides. There was a round oak table, cupboards galore, a relic of a gas stove, and a small refrigerator.

After she put the groceries away, she explored the rest of the first floor, opening the curtains and drapes as she went. Wandering from room to room, she mentally remodeled 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 with the first room at the top of the stairs all over again. It was the master bedroom. Large and square and papered in an old-fashioned dark blue stripe, it featured a 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 farther down the hall, a linen closet, a good-sized bathroom with a pedestal sink and a claw-foot bathtub, and, at the far end of the corridor, a large 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 from her car.

By nightfall, she had managed to carry the rest of the boxes into the house. Her clothes hung in the closet, her toiletries were in the bathroom, and she was ready for a hot bath. Holding her breath, she turned on the light switch in that room, then 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 scent 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 bathtub, 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 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 house 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 cold 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 wooden spoon, then lifted it for a taste.

“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. 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 lay quiet. 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 located too close to his lair, but the inhabitants all knew each other. If one of them went missing, everyone would know 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 felt his hunger rise up within him. 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 around 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.

 

 

He could hear the new owner of Nightingale House moving about in the rooms above when he returned to his lair. Her presence unsettled him, and he paced the cold stone floor, all his senses focused on the woman. He had fed and fed well. Why, then, did this woman’s blood call to him? He had a sudden urge to meet her, to hear the sound of his name on her lips, to taste the nectar of life that thrummed through her veins in a warm rich river of crimson.

How best to accomplish 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 be 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 arrived two evenings later, shortly after sundown. Dominic was returning from the city, walking along the shore, when he saw the woman jogging toward him.

He spent a moment admiring her long shapely legs, the smooth golden tan of her skin, the way her ponytail swished back and forth. Her cheeks were flushed, her blood warm from the run, the smell of it stronger than the faint scent of the woman’s perspiration, the ocean, or the salty air.

When she was only a few yards away, she slowed to a walk. He sensed her trepidation at finding herself alone on a deserted stretch of beach at night with a strange man. As far as she knew, he didn’t belong here. This part of the beach was private, reserved for the few homes spread out on the cliff above.

As he drew nearer, she stopped walking. He could hear the fierce pounding of her heart as she tried to decide whether or not she was in danger.

“Good evening.” He offered her a benign smile. “Lovely night for a stroll.”