Amanda Ashley (5 page)

Ramsey stared at the woman on the bed in horror. Kelly. Her name was Kelly, but he could not bear to call her that. Acknowledging her by name only made what he had done seem more monstrous somehow. Her skin was as white as the sheet upon which she lay. And she was still, so still. What had he done? He had kept her here for three days, trapped between life and death.

He backed away from the bed. He hadn’t meant to kill her. Never that! He was not a murderer.

Aren’t you?
The voice of his conscience whispered down the tortured corridors of his mind.
What of all the lives you have taken in the past?

“But they were monsters. Vampires who preyed on the innocent . . .”

Sardonic, silent laughter mocked him
.
And now you have become one of them. You are what you hunted, Edward Ramsey, what you and your family have hated and destroyed for centuries. . . .

“No!” Anguish sliced through him, and he screamed the word in denial, even though he knew it was true. He was a vampire. He had become what he had hated, what he had spent his lifetime destroying.

Vampire. Vampire. Vampire!

He pressed his hands to his temples in a vain attempt to block the word and the horror it entailed, but it seemed to echo off the walls, the ceiling, even the floor.

Vampire . . . vampire . . . vampire . . .

Killer of innocents.

Drinker of blood.

Unholy.

Unclean.

Monster.

“No, no.” He sank to his knees and closed his eyes to shut out the image of the woman on the bed: her body limp, lifeless, the single drop of blood that lay like a scarlet teardrop on the pale skin of her neck—but her image was burned into his brain.

She had wanted to die. . . .

But even that thought offered no absolution. The Ramsey of old would have offered her comfort and solace. His family had provided protection for the innocents of the world. Yet he had feasted on her blood, drawn on her life force, until he had taken too much, taken it all. The self-satisfied restraint he had prided himself on had been nothing but an illusion.

He had only been kidding himself, thinking he could do this, live like this. The thought that he had taken her blood, and found an almost sensual pleasure in it, burned through him like acid.

He had killed her. He was a vampire. There was nothing to do but accept it, just as there was only one way to ensure that such a thing would never happen again. Not for the first time, he thought of walking out into the sunlight and ending his existence. Did he have the nerve to end his own life? After what he had just done, how could he not?

Lost in his own misery, he failed to realize he was no longer alone.

“She is not dead,” a low, throaty voice said. “Soon, but not yet.”

Ramsey jumped to his feet and spun around, his nostrils filling with the scent of jasmine. His gaze pierced the darkness, focusing on the woman standing in the doorway. Wrapped in a long black cloak, a shadow within shadows, she was tall and slender, with silver-blond hair. And she was a vampire. A very old vampire. Her power slid over his skin, raising the hair on his arms.

“Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

A faint smile tugged at her lips. “You might say I am your grandmother.”

Ramsey frowned, surprised that he was no longer afraid. “Grandmother?” He laughed softly. “What big teeth you have.”

“The better to eat you with, my dear,” she replied, and her laughter joined his. “I am Khira.”

“Khira!” The vampire who had brought Grigori across.

“The very same. May I come in?”

He hesitated, then shook his head as the habits of a lifetime of vampire hunting took over. “I’ll come out.”

She laughed softly and stepped aside so he could join her outside. “What will you do with her?” she asked, gesturing at the woman lying on the bed.

“What do you mean?” He couldn’t bring himself to look at the woman lying so cold and still.

“You seemed grieved when you thought she was dead. Will you bring her across?”

“No! I don’t make vampires. I destroy them.”

“So you did. As did your forebears, as well. A long line of nuisances, your ancestors.” She laughed softly. “Trust Grigori to be the first one to bring a Ramsey across! What delicious irony. Tell me, my handsome new vampire, why do your thoughts reek of self-destruction?”

He looked at her, mute, disconcerted by the ease with which she read his mind.

“You are strong for such a young one. You have restrained yourself with your little mortal—amazing control for one so young. But you must not drink from your prize every night if you wish her to live,” Khira went on. “And you must feed her well. Thick soup. Red meat to strengthen her blood.”

She drew her cloak more closely about her. It was a gesture with no real meaning. She did not feel the cold. “It will be interesting, I think, to see which of your natures prevails,” she mused. “The conscience-stricken mortal, or the strong young vampyre.”

And in the blink of an eye, she was gone.

Grigori leaped to his feet in a fluid motion and stood staring toward the window, his heart pounding.

“What is it?” Marisa asked. They had been sitting on the sofa, watching the late movie. “What’s wrong?”

“She’s here.”

“She?”

“Khira.”

“Here?” Marisa glanced around the living room. “She’s here? Where?”

“In the city.” Rising from the sofa, Grigori went to the window. Sweeping the curtains aside, he gazed out into the darkness.

Darkness shrouded the street below, broken only by the faint yellow glow of a streetlamp. Khira’s power rode the wings of the night like the wind before a storm, sending shivers of awareness down his spine.

He unleashed his own power, let it flow through the sleeping city. Ramsey had fed and fed well, and now he paced the dark streets, sated but restless.

And Khira drew ever nearer. She was a mile away. A block away.

“Grigori?”

“It’s all right,
cara.”

He heard the intake of Marisa’s breath, the rustle of her silk nightgown whispering against her skin as she clicked off the television, her near-silent footfalls as she moved up behind him.

She slipped her arms around his waist. “What do you think she wants?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps I should go down and ask her.”

Marisa peered around Grigori and looked out the window. At first she saw nothing but a faint shimmer in the darkness, a sparkle that reminded her of Tinkerbell’s pixy dust, and then, to her amazement, the shimmer coalesced, transforming into a tall, slender woman clad in a long white gown and ankle-length black cloak. A wealth of silver-blond hair flowed over her shoulders.

“Stay here,” Grigori said. He pulled on his boots, then took Marisa in his arms. “Remember, she cannot come inside unless you invite her.”

“Don’t go.”

“I don’t think she means me any harm.”

Marisa looked up at her husband. Her handsome, virile husband. Wherever they went, women turned to stare at him, their eyes hot. “That’s not what I’m afraid of.”

Grigori laughed softly, then brushed a kiss across her lips. “Stay here.”

Before she could argue, he was gone.

 

 

“I am here, Grigori.”

He turned slowly, and she was there, tall and slender, graceful as a willow, her luxuriant silver-blond hair shimmering like a halo in the lamplight’s soft yellow glow.

For a moment, they stared at each other in silent appraisal. She was as beautiful as he remembered. The silk of her gown clung to her figure like a long-lost lover, outlining every delectable curve. Her skin was pale and flawless.

“You are as lovely as ever,” Grigori remarked.

“And you . . .” She trailed the tip of her finger down the side of his cheek. “You are still the most handsome of men.”

He said nothing, only continued to look at her, wondering what had brought her here.

“Do you still write poetry, my handsome one?”

He frowned. “Poetry?”

“Have you forgotten? ‘Sweetest night, mistress mine . . . ’ ”

He laughed softly. “That was my one and only attempt, clumsy at best.”

“But so full of passion,” she murmured, her eyes luminous. “Full of your growing power.”

“Be that as it may, I am no poet.”

“Perhaps it is just as well. You are far too attractive to women already without having poetry in your arsenal.” She looked at him, her blue eyes glittering. “Grigori . . .” Her voice was a soft, sultry purr.

“What do you want? Why have you come here?”

“Have you forgiven me yet,
mi amour?”

Without his willing it, the night they had parted rose up in his mind, as stark and vivid as if it had happened only yesterday. With an effort, he fought down his revulsion. He had been very young then. He had learned much in the centuries that had passed.

“It is not my place to forgive you,” he said quietly. “We are what we are.”

She looked up at him, her smile as radiant as the sun. She took a half-step toward him, her arms outstretched.

“Why have you come here, Khira?” His words, cold and abrupt, stopped her.

“Why?” she repeated. She lowered her arms, let her shoulders droop as she took on a look of wounded innocence. “Is there some reason why I should not come to see you?”

Grigori shrugged. “It’s been over two hundred years,” he replied wryly. “Why this sudden urge to see me now?” He took a deep breath, and the answer to her visit filled his nostrils. “How is Ramsey?”

Khira laughed softly. “He is an interesting choice for the Dark Gift. Trust you,
mi amour,
to do something so vastly unconventional, even for one of us!” The sound of her laugher was like fairy bells in the night. “I cannot imagine he was willing. Not the last of the Ramseys!”

“He was not willing, but like all creatures, he wanted to live.”

“I find myself liking him.”

Grigori lifted one brow but said nothing.

“I think perhaps I shall seduce him.” She ran her hand along his shoulder, down his arm, to curve over his biceps. “Young vampyres make such wonderful lovers. Insatiable in their new strength, so eager to explore every facet of their new world. Remember,
mi amour?”

He remembered all too well. And so did she. He could read it in her eyes. She had been an ardent lover, tireless, inventive . . . He shoved the memory away, aware of her power moving over him, compelling him to remember the long, tempestuous nights he had spent in her arms. With an effort, he pushed her from his mind and closed the door on memories now best left forgotten.

Khira laughed again. It sounded remarkably like a schoolgirl giggle, something he found quite incongruous coming from a woman who was close to a thousand years old.

“Did you come here to discuss your love life with me?” he asked in a fine attempt at his old bravado with her.

“No.” The warmth in her eyes cooled. “I came to meet the woman you married.”

Something that might have been fear slithered down Grigori’s spine.

“Don’t you want to introduce me to her?” Khira purred. She raked her nails over his cheek, exerting just enough pressure to break the skin. The scent of his blood filled the air. Slowly, as though daring him to object, she leaned up against him and ran her tongue over the faint line of blood. “She does know what you are, doesn’t she?”

Grigori took a step back, resisting the urge to wipe his cheek. “Of course.”

Khira took his arm and smiled up at him. “Well, then, shall we go in?”

There was no way to refuse.

 

 

Marisa whirled around as the front door opened and the woman she had seen on the street entered the room, followed by Grigori. This close, the vampire was breathtakingly beautiful. Her skin glowed with a pale opalescence; her eyes were the bluest blue Marisa had ever seen. Her figure was perfect.

“I am Khira,” the woman said, extending her hand.

“Marisa.”

Khira’s hand was soft, her skin warm to the touch. Warm as only a well-fed vampire could be warm.

“She is lovely, Grigori,” Khira said. Her gaze ran over Marisa, coolly assessing. “Really lovely.”

“I think so.” Grigori moved to Marisa’s side and draped his arm around her shoulders. It was a warning, a blatant gesture of possession and protection.

Khira smiled in amusement. “I have not come to harm her, Grigori.” She glanced around the room, like a queen visiting peasants. “The decor suits her.”

“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t talk about me like I’m not here,” Marisa said.

“I am sorry,” Khira said. “I did not mean to offend you, Marisa. May I call you Marisa?”

“Of course.” Marisa looked at Grigori. “Why don’t we sit down?”

Grigori nodded. “Khira, please make yourself at home.”

Marisa watched the other woman glide across the room. Like Grigori, Khira moved with fluid grace, almost as if she were floating above the floor. She sat on the love seat beside the fireplace, the hem of her cloak spreading in graceful folds at her feet.

Marisa sat down on the sofa, and Grigori sat beside her.

Silence hung heavy in the room.

“So,” Khira said, her gaze moving from Grigori to Marisa and back again, “tell me everything. How you met. How long you have been married.”

“Is that why you came here?” Grigori asked.

Khira shrugged. It was an elegant gesture. “I came for many reasons. To see the fledgling you made. To see if you had changed after so many years.” She smiled faintly. “To see America. I have heard so much of this country over the years. I am thinking of staying awhile. But now I want to hear all about you. About both of you.”

Grigori glanced at Marisa. She was watching him, her eyes filled with love and trust. Did she have any idea of the power of the woman sitting across from them? Now that Kristov had been destroyed, Khira was, as far as he knew, the oldest, most powerful vampire in existence.

Grigori told Khira, succinctly, of Kristov and Ramsey and all that had transpired between them.

Khira sat listening quietly, her body still as only a vampyre can be still, her gaze intent upon Grigori’s face.

“And so,” Khira mused in a voice that was softly condemning, “you had your revenge on Alexi at last.”

Grigori nodded. There was an unwritten law that vampyre did not kill vampyre. He had broken that law when he killed Alexi.

“I would do it again,” he said, his gaze meeting Khira’s.

She laughed softly. “I do not fault you for what you have done. How could I? Did I not bestow the Dark Gift upon you for that very purpose?” She stood up and walked slowly around the room, her slender hands moving gracefully across the back of a chair, over the satin finish of an antique oak table. “You may have to destroy Ramsey, as well.”

Grigori frowned at her. “What do you mean?”

“He is uneasy in his mind about what he is. He cannot control the hunger, yet he despises himself for what he has become. He wishes for death, yet he craves blood, and the life it gives him. Do not underestimate him,
mi amour
. He is powerful. More powerful than he should be, for one so young. Unless he learns to accept what he is, he may become a liability to our small community.”

Grigori shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“He is a hunter by nature,” Khira remarked. “He spent his mortal life hunting those he considered evil. Now he has become what he hunted.”

Grigori nodded. “He must work it out for himself.”

“I hope so. If he does not . . . well, he is a Ramsey, after all. You must have known the risks inherent in bringing a hunter across.”

Grigori frowned, troubled by the thinly veiled threat he heard in Khira’s voice. “He will find a way to live with what he has become, in time, as we all must do.”

Marisa looked up at Grigori. “How did you learn to accept being a vampire?”

“There was nothing to accept.” Grigori glanced at Khira, who was standing in front of the fireplace. A wave of her hand, and a blaze sprang to life. He looked back at Marisa. “I wanted it.”

“He is one of the lucky ones,” Khira remarked. “Many seek the Dark Gift, thinking only of cheating death. They do not realize that death comes to a vampire with each new dawn for as long as he survives.”

Marisa shivered at the image Khira’s words evoked. There was a time when she had been certain she wanted to share all of Grigori’s life, but now she wasn’t so sure. Had she really thought it through? Was she prepared for all the drastic changes it would make in her life? It would mean no more vacations with her family, no more lazy summer days at the beach, no long walks except at night. Was she ready to give up the pleasures of food and drink, of dark chocolate mousse and root-beer floats, for a warm liquid diet?

She looked up as she felt Grigori’s arm wrap around her shoulders. He knew what she was thinking. She read the knowledge in his eyes.

“What about you?” Marisa said, speaking to Khira. “Did you want to be a vampire?”

“No.” Khira sat down on the love seat again. “I fell in love when I was very young. I did not know what he was. Like all young girls who fall in love for the first time, I told him I loved him, could not live without him. And one night he showed me what he was, and then, against my will, he brought me across.” Hatred flared in the depths of her eyes. “I killed him for it.”

Marisa pressed against Grigori as Khira’s hatred flooded the room. It crawled across her skin like a living thing and then slowly receded.

“Later, I was sorry for what I had done,” Khira went on. “Being a vampyre was not as horrible a fate as I had imagined. And even though the little death that came with each dawn frightened me for a long while, I grew used to it in time.” A faint smile played over her lips. “And now, so many years later, the little death has little power over me. I wish now that I had not killed him.”

“If it was your choice, would you accept the Dark Gift again?” Marisa asked.

“Perhaps. I have done much. Seen much. Loved much. And yet . . .” She lifted one pale hand and let it fall. “I have lost much. It is a hard thing, to watch those you love wither and die, and I have seen it many times through the centuries. And children . . . never to have a child.”

Khira shook her head, as if to dispel unpleasant memories. “And now I must go and find a place to pass the day.”

“You are welcome to stay here,” Grigori said. “We have plenty of empty rooms.”

“I appreciate your offer,
mi amour,
but I must decline.” Khira rose effortlessly to her feet and floated across the floor. She smiled faintly as she took Marisa’s hand in hers. “It was a pleasure to meet you, my dear. Perhaps I shall see you again.”

Marisa nodded. “Yes, perhaps,” she replied. But she was thinking of what Khira had said.
Never to have a child.
She felt a deep, piercing stab of regret. In marrying Grigori, she had forfeited her right to bear children.