Amanda Ashley (3 page)

Marisa stood at the window, staring out into the dark, waiting. It made her nervous, thinking of Edward and Grigori together. They had never liked each other, though they were indebted to each other. A life for a life. She tapped her fingers on the windowpane. What were they doing out there?

She did not like to think of the answer that quickly came to mind.

They were hunting. Hunting for human prey.

She could picture it so clearly: the old vampire teaching the young one how to find and stalk his prey, how to drink the warm living blood that was necessary to ensure his immortality. The ancient and horrifying rituals of the Dark Gift. Would the gravity of this transfer of knowledge—of power—overcome the antipathy Grigori and Edward held for each other? Or would the uneasy truce between the two them continue?

She pressed her forehead against the window as a new thought pushed its way into her mind. She had promised Grigori she would accept the Dark Gift so that they could be together forever. Grigori was in no hurry to bring her across, willing to let her have as much time as she needed to bid farewell to life as she knew it, but one day Grigori would bring her across. Then it would be her turn as pupil, stalking the unwary.

She shuddered at the thought. Did she truly want to be a vampire? And yet, wanting to be with Grigori forever, what other choice did she have? For a vampire, “forever” was not a hollow promise made in the throes of infatuation. She knew he would never force her, would not try to sway her decision. But if she didn’t accept the Dark Gift, she would have to watch herself grow old while he stayed forever young. Would he stay by her side while she aged? Or would he find another, still-young woman in one of his midnight prowls? Some woman who would not hesitate to accept the Gift? She couldn’t imagine—didn’t want to imagine—such a betrayal.

She sighed as yet another thought crossed her mind. Sooner or later they would have to leave this place, this house. If things stayed as they were between them, they would have to move before people noticed that she aged while Grigori did not. And if she accepted the Dark Gift, they would still have to move on within a few years, but at least no one would look at her and think she was his mother, or worse, his grandmother!

What was it really like to be a vampire? Never to see the sun? To live only at night? To drink warm blood from the veins of a helpless victim? Did she love Grigori enough to embrace the Dark Gift?

She thrust the thought aside. She was still young. She had plenty of time to decide before anyone began mistaking her for Grigori’s mother.

She went to the door and opened it when she heard his car pull into the drive. And then he was striding toward her, tall and dark, graceful as a cat.

“How did Edward seem to you?” she asked. “Is he going to be all right?”

Grigori shook his head. “I don’t know.”

He followed her into the living room. Marisa had done wonders with the old house. What had once been little more than a drafty old mansion had become a home, filled with soft colors and antique oak and a warmth that came from the woman herself.

Marisa sat down on the sofa. She expected Grigori to join her, but he began to pace in front of the fireplace, and she knew something was bothering him. She never tired of looking at him, of watching him. His thick black hair fell to his shoulders; his brows were straight above ebony eyes. His skin was pale, though not sickly looking. He was tall, with the firm, trim build of an athlete.

Tall, dark, and handsome, she thought. It described her husband perfectly.
Husband.
How she loved the word and all that it meant. He was the most wonderful man she had ever met. The thought made her smile. He would have said he wasn’t a man at all.

She had first met him at a carnival on Halloween night. She had gone to the Roskovitch Carnival because they claimed to have the body of
“Count Alexi Kristov, the oldest vampire in existence
.
”
She had not believed in such things, of course, had never believed in ghosts and goblins or the like. Even now, she wasn’t sure what had drawn her to the carnival that night. Surely she had never dreamed that she would see not one but two vampires that evening.

She had met Edward because of Grigori. Both men had been hunting Alexi Kristov—Grigori during the night, Edward during the day. Looking back, it all seemed like a nightmare come true.

She had gone to the carnival, curious to see the vampire. It was a sight she would never forget: the casket on a dais in the center of the floor; the “vampire” clad in a shiny black suit, his skin as white as the satin that lined the casket. His hair had been long and limp, the color a dull reddish-brown. He had looked dead. Or rather, not alive. A wax figure of a man laid out in the casket to fool the gullible. So certain had she been that it was a hoax, that when she found herself alone with the figure, she had climbed the dais and touched its hand. It hadn’t been made of wax, but flesh. The skin had been cool. Smooth and dry, it had reminded her of old parchment. She had gasped when the skin grew warm beneath her hand, shrieked when the fingers moved. She had stumbled away from the casket, fallen down the stairs, and scraped her leg.

It had been the scent of her blood that had roused Kristov from his long sleep. He had gone on a rampage, killing over a dozen people before Edward and Grigori joined forces and destroyed him. In the hunt for Kristov, they had discovered that Grigori’s first wife, Antoinette, whom he’d thought dead for two hundred years, had not been dead at all. Transformed by Kristov, she had existed for two centuries as a revenant, a creature with no mind or will of her own. In the end, it had been Edward who had freed her soul and laid her body to rest. Even now, it was all so hard to accept. So many things she would never have believed had played out before her eyes.

She shook off the grim thoughts of the past as she watched Grigori pace the floor. “Something’s troubling you,” she remarked. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

He turned to face her. “He’s very powerful. More powerful than I would have expected.”

“Edward is? Really?”

Grigori grunted softly. “He has Kristov’s blood in his veins. And mine. And Khira’s,” he added, thinking of the beautiful vampyre who had brought him across over two hundred years ago.

“How can he be so powerful so soon?”

“He has good blood,” Grigori said with a wry grin. “When a very old vampyre brings a mortal across, he bequeaths a part of his strength.” And Kristov had been a very old vampyre—indeed, the oldest vampyre Grigori had ever met. Kristov’s blood, combined with Khira’s and his own, made for a very powerful combination.

“Is that a problem?” Marisa asked. “His being powerful?”

“It could be. He is powerful, but he is a young vampyre who does not yet fully understand what has happened to him, what powers he possesses. He lacks wisdom and experience. It could be a dangerous combination.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“The Dark Gift affects people differently. Some get drunk with the power. Some go insane. Some look for ways to help mankind. And some turn into monsters, like Kristov.”

“A monster? Edward?” She smiled. In spite of what Edward had done for a living, she couldn’t imagine him as a monster. There had been an old-world courtliness about him, a gentleness. An innate goodness.

“It cannot be easy for him to accept that he has become what he once destroyed.”

“No, I guess not. I wonder what he’ll do now. For a living, I mean.” She looked at Grigori and laughed. A living. That was funny. “You know what I mean.”

“He is an intelligent man. I am sure he can find a suitable career.” A faint smile tugged at Grigori’s lips. “He will have plenty of time to find one.” He sat down beside her on the sofa and drew her into his arms. “Enough talk about Ramsey.”

Marisa snuggled against him, loving the feel of his arms around her. She felt safe in his embrace, loved, cherished. All her doubts and fears faded away. In time, she would accept the Dark Gift from him, and they would truly be one. Soon, but not yet.

She gazed up at him, felt her skin tingle as his preternatural power moved over her skin like a dark warm wind. They had been married only a short time, and the fire that had ever smoldered between them quickly sparked to life. It was exhilarating to be in his arms. He was a creature such as she had never known before—a man who had lived for centuries, who had incredible strength, who possessed powers she did not fully understand. He could mesmerize her with a look, destroy her with a touch, charm her with a smile. He had the strength of ten men, yet he was ever gentle with her.

Her eyelids fluttered down as he dropped kisses as light as rain upon her brow, her cheeks, her eyelids. His tongue was like a flame against her throat, a silent entreaty. She moaned softly, tilting her head to one side, inviting him to take what he needed.

There was no pain, just an oddly sensual feeling of euphoria as his fangs grazed her throat. And she surrendered to him completely, lost in the wonder and the magic that was Grigori.

Ramsey felt stronger, more confident, when he woke the next night. He showered, then dressed in a brown pullover sweater and beige slacks. He grimaced when he looked in the mirror. It was time to change his image. No more beige and brown for him. He had been dull and boring long enough.

Shoving his billfold into his back pocket, he left his room, deciding, on a whim, to head for the mall. He was surprised to find himself there, among the bright lights and the throng of late shoppers, almost as soon as the thought crossed his mind. For a moment, he was overcome by a wave of dizziness, intoxicated by the scent of so much blood, the dull roar of so many heartbeats. The lights hurt his eyes; the noise pounded at his eardrums. He closed his eyes, focusing his will, and found that he could mute the noise, control the dizziness, and concentrate on his purpose here. Once again, Chiavari had been right.

He went into an exclusive men’s shop and indulged himself beyond anything he would have imagined before he had received the Dark Gift. He purchased a complete new wardrobe. Shirts, slacks, sweaters, socks, underwear. Nothing brown or tan. Nothing beige. He was heartily sick of brown, sick of tweeds, sick of dressing like some stuffy sixty-year-old college professor. He bought several pairs of shoes and, on a whim, a pair of snakeskin cowboy boots.

One night next week he would start looking for a new place to live. Perhaps he would buy a new car, something sleek and sporty. He had never owned a house, never owned a new car. He had spent his whole adult life in hotels and motels. Well, all that was about to change. He had a rather tidy sum saved up. Vampire hunting had been a lucrative career. Ramseys had been hunting vampires for hundreds of years. The first Ramsey had turned vampire hunter to avenge the death of his wife. His knowledge and wisdom had been handed down from father to son for generations, as had the instinct to hunt, which, over time, had become second nature. In the old days, hunters had been paid in corn and wheat more often than gold or silver. But not anymore. The Ramsey family had money behind them now, thanks to a vengeful millionaire who had lost his only daughter to one of the undead.

Brian Francis Throckmorten had been so grateful when Harold Ramsey had staked the vampire who killed his daughter, that he had set up a fund to ensure that the Ramsey family and its heirs would always have the means to hunt and destroy the undead. Only there would be no heirs now, Ramsey thought bitterly. He was the last of his line. In fifteen or twenty years, should he survive that long, he would have to pretend to be his own son in order to continue drawing on the trust. He grunted softly. Perhaps he could donate funds to some obscure university with the stipulation that they use the money to research diseases of the blood in hopes of finding a way to reverse the effects of the Dark Gift. Or maybe he could open a training school for vampire hunters....

Returning to his room, he rummaged through his purchases, deciding on a pair of black jeans and a bulky white sweater. He paused in front of the mirror, a faint smile playing over his face. He had never been a handsome man. Had anyone asked, he would have described himself as ordinary. Now, transformed by the blood of the three vampires that burned in his veins, he looked younger, more virile. Not handsome, he mused—even the blood of a vampire couldn’t work miracles.

But . . . powerful. Dangerous.

A vampire.

Vampire . . . He shook his head ruefully. “I am a vampire.”

Even as he said it, he didn’t quite believe it, not deep down. But his blood sang in his veins at the declaration, stirring him to action.

He ran a hand over his hair, worn short ever since he had been a boy learning the lore of his vampire-hunting ancestors, absorbing the seriousness of his family calling. But that was over now. Past history. He had become what he had hunted.

Perhaps he would let his hair grow long.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he pulled on his new cowboy boots and left the hotel.

Some of his newfound confidence waned as he entered a small neighborhood bar. Country music blared from a loudspeaker. Half a dozen couples were line dancing.

He went to the bar and ordered a drink, which he held but didn’t taste. He was studying the crowd when a slender young woman with wavy brown hair and large green eyes sidled up to him.

Hands on hips, she looked him up and down. “You don’t look like a cowboy,” she remarked with a come-hither smile.

She was a pretty thing. She wore a tight-fitting cowboy shirt, fringed blue-jean shorts, and a pair of white boots.

“Perhaps because I am not,” he replied with a faint smile.

“I don’t remember seeing you here before.”

“I have never been in here before.” He swore under his breath. She was coming on to him, something no woman had ever done before, and he had no idea how to respond. While other boys had been dating, he had been out with his grandfather, learning how to track and slay vampires. Not exactly suitable training for the dating game.

She placed her hand on his chest, her fingers making slow circular motions. “Would you like to dance?”

“I fear I must refuse.”

“That’s too bad. It would be a good way for us to get to know each other better.”

“I’m afraid I never learned how.”

She slid her arm through his, tilted her head to one side, ran the tip of her tongue over her lower lip. “That’s okay, honey. I know a quiet place down the street where I can teach you.”

He felt a surge of excitement as he placed his untouched drink on the bar and took her hand in his.

She chatted about some country singer he’d never heard of as they walked down the street. When they reached an alley, Ramsey pulled her inside and pushed her up against the wall.

She looked startled, then laughed nervously. “What are you doing?”

He didn’t know what to say, felt all his doubts rise up to mock him.
You are a vampire. Play the part.
He gazed deep into her eyes. Summoning his power, he bent her will to his, felt her body relax at his suggestion. Her eyelids fluttered down, her head lolled to one side, exposing the smooth expanse of her neck.

He took a deep breath.
“Any man who can track a vampyre to its lair and cut off its head shouldn’t have any trouble finding something to drink.”
Chiavari’s words echoed in the back of his mind as he bent over the woman’s neck.

Revulsion warred with his hunger. The hunger won, rising up within him, hot and hungry and overpowering. He drank quickly, sickened by what he was doing, filled with bitter self-loathing because even though the act disgusted him, he found pleasure in it. Power flowed through him, thrummed through his veins, expanded his mind.

Not too much!
He was proud of himself as he drew back. He had taken only a little.

I can do this
. He repeated the words aloud. “I can do this.” He didn’t have to kill. He didn’t have to be a monster like Alexi Kristov. The woman caught in his dark embrace would never miss the small amount of blood he had taken.

Pleased with his self-restraint, he put his arm around her shoulders and led her out of the alley. Releasing his hold on her mind, he took her by the hand and started walking.

She blinked at him several times, like someone who had just been roused from a deep sleep.

“Is this the place you were talking about?” Ramsey asked.

“What?” She looked up at the blinking neon light that identified the place as
The Sea Nymph Motel.
“Yes. Yes, it is.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No. No, I guess not.” Her flirtatious manner was gone. She looked suddenly shy, nervous in his presence, unsure of herself. She glanced up at the neon sign again, her face wan in the artificial light. Her brow furrowed. “Do you mind if we do this another night? I feel sort of . . . strange.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Can I see you home?”

“What? Oh, no, I’ll be fine. Good night.” She stared at him a moment, then turned and hurried back down the street.

Whistling softly, he headed for home.

“Move over, Dracula,” he muttered wryly. “Look out, Lestat. Ramsey is here.”