Mesmerized by the wonder of it, he stood there, feeling a heat he had not felt for over three hundred years, seeing the clear golden light of the sun, inhaling the scent of dew-kissed grass and damp earth.
He ignored the pain for as long as he could, and then a shriek rose in his throat as a molten shaft of sunlight found him, burning the skin on his face and hands, penetrating his clothing like the fires of hell. The smell of charred flesh stung his nostrils as his skin began to smolder.
With a harsh cry of agony, he bolted through the doorway and ran down the cellar stairs. Crawling into the long wooden box that served as his resting place, he closed his eyes, cursing the cowardice that had overcome his determination to put an end to his existence.
Writhing with pain, he willingly gave himself over to the sleep of the undead, embracing the darkness that enveloped his soul, surrendering to the blessed oblivion that blocked all thoughts of Sara from his mind, and blotted out all his useless dreams of a mortal life even as it swallowed the agony that enflamed him.
Sara woke with a cry on her lips, shaking with pain and fear as flames engulfed her.
Sitting up, she stared wildly around the room. Dawn was lighting the sky, and she took a deep, steadying breath. It had only been a dream, after all.
She fell back against the pillows and closed her eyes. Only a dream, but it had been so real. Her first thought upon waking was that she had been reliving the fire at the orphanage, but now she realized it hadn't been the orphanage at all, nor had the pain she felt been her own.
Gabriel… His name rose up in her mind, and with it came an image of scorched flesh.
Gabriel. He had been much on her mind these past ten days. On her mind, and in her dreams. Once, sitting in the cafe near the opera house, she had imagined she'd seen him standing in the shadows.
"Gabriel." His name whispered past her lips, soft as a sigh, fervent as a prayer, as she drifted back to sleep.
And deep in the cellar of a distant cottage, a creature of the damned heard her voice, and wept bloodred tears.
He woke with the coming of darkness. Woke to pain and a ravenous hunger that would not be denied. The touch of the sun had left him weak, and he knew he had to feed, and soon. It was the only way to ease the pain burning through him, the only way to rejuvenate his seared flesh.
He climbed carefully out of the box. Each movement brought torment; colorful curses hissed in six languages filled the air as he removed his singed clothing and changed into a pair of loose-fitting breeches and a shirt made of fine lawn.
Feeling every one of his 379 years, he climbed slowly, painfully, up the cellar stairs to stand in the doorway, his head hanging.
The hunger burned inside him, a relentless flame that would not be quenched.
He donned a greatcoat, turned up the thick fur collar, and left the cottage. In his weakened state, it took him more than an hour to reach the city. And all the while the ravenous wolf of his hunger clawed his insides until he was nearly mad with it, and with the throbbing pain of his seared flesh.
He turned down an alley reeking with filth, and waited…
The production was
Sleeping Beauty
, and Sara was dancing the role of Aurora.
He sank back in his chair, his gaze fixed on Sara as she danced with the four princes, holding an exciting and delicate balance on one foot as she was passed from one suitor to the next.
He watched with rapt attention during her solo, awed by her steps, which were light and quick, expressing her youth and joy, her hopes for the future. His throat convulsed as she pricked her finger on the spindle. It was only make-believe, but the thought of her blood, red and vital, made his mouth water as she collapsed into enchanted sleep.
He sat back, lost in his own thoughts, as the prince saw a vision of Aurora, but his full attention was aroused once more when the prince awakened Aurora with love's first kiss…
If only real life ended as happily as fairy tales, he mused ruefully. If only love's first kiss would restore him to the life he had lost…
Hardly aware of what he was doing, he left the theater, his thoughts turned back 379 years. He had been born in a small village outside Vallelunga, Italy. His mother, who had given birth to ten children, had been old before her time. His father, too, had been worn out with the burden of providing for such a large family.
Gabriel, who had been Giovanni Ognibene back then, had been the eldest son. He had hated the poverty in which they lived, hated the crowded house, the long hours in the fields, the constant struggle for survival. He had yearned for a different life, a better life, and the opportunity had come on a cool spring morning.
He had agreed to gentle a headstrong young stallion for one of their neighbors and he had been hard at work when a portly, gray-haired man stopped to watch him. The man had been impressed with the way Gabriel handled the horse, so impressed he had offered Gabriel a job working in his stables. For Gabriel, it was the opportunity of a lifetime. Salvatore Musso was a wealthy man who owned a large villa in Vallelunga.
Gabriel had readily accepted the position. He had bade his parents a cheerful good-bye, promising to send money home and to visit often.
He had worked hard during the next six months, earning Musso's respect, making friends with the man's son, Giuseppe.
He had been sixteen when he received word that his parents were ill. He had left for home immediately, but it had been too late. A mysterious fever had swept through the village, and he had watched his family die, one by one. First his mother, then his sisters, his brothers, and finally his father.
Only then, when all those he loved were dead, had he realized how much he had loved them. Deep inside, he had felt as if their deaths had been his fault.
At the urging of the village priest, Giuseppe's parents had taken Gabriel
into their home. At first, mourning the loss of his family, he had kept to himself, but as time passed, he discovered a whole new world, a world of wealth and aristocracy, a world where people never went to bed hungry, where servants did the work, where everyone dressed in fine clothes.
It was a world he had never seen before, a world he wanted for his own.
Giuseppe's parents had been most generous. They had fed him and clothed him, but fine clothes could not disguise Giovanni's lack of social grace. Still, he had tried hard and learned quickly, and he'd had one thing in his favor: he was young and handsome and the women adored him. They were willing to make allowances for his cloddish manners, willing to teach him the dances of the day, to instruct him in etiquette and proper decorum. He had quickly learned the polite phrases, the art of dancing and fencing, the proper way to sit a horse, to greet royalty. But always, in the back of his mind, had been the knowledge that he was only pretending.
He had been nine and twenty when he accompanied Giuseppe to Venice. It had been a time of laughter, of parties that seemed never-ending. It was there he had met Antonina Insenna. She had beguiled him from the start, and he had quickly fallen prey to her dark beauty. She had been a woman of untold wealth and power. To others she had appeared coolly self-assured, aloof, but for Giovanni she had smiled, and when she smiled, he was lost.
Nina had been everything he had thought he wanted in a woman: beautiful, desirable, mysterious. The fact that she was older than he only added to her mystique, as did her refusal to see him during the day, and though they had spent every evening together, she had refused to let him stay the night. And because he had thought himself in love, because she had been a woman of the world, full of fire and mystery, he had seen only what he wanted to see.
And then, on an afternoon in later summer, he had met Rosalia Baglio, a young woman of quiet, incomparable beauty. He had been smitten with her from the first, and she with him. He knew then that what he had felt for Antonina was not love, but lust.
He began to avoid Nina's company, preferring to spend all his time with Rosalia. They had met openly and in secret, pledging their love and devotion, even though he had feared she could never be his. Rosalia came from a wealthy family, while he had no money of his own, no lands, no title.
It had been inevitable that Antonina should discover that he had left her for another woman. Her wrath had been terrible to see. She had threatened to tell Rosalia of their affair, threatened to kill him, to kill Rosalia in front of his very eyes, but in the end she had done none of those things.
"You will regret this, Gianni," she had told him on what he had thought would be their last night together. "The time will come when you will beg me for that which only I can give, and the price will be dear."
He had not believed her. And then, after a wild night of carousing and drinking with Giuseppe and a few friends, he had taken sick with a fever. Giuseppe's parents had summoned the physicians. They had bled him to exorcise the bad humors from his body. They had forced vile concoctions down his throat, but to no avail. Two days later, the doctors went away, shaking their heads, and he had known he was going to die.
He had been trying to accept the fact that his life was over before it had begun when Antonina appeared in his room as if by magic.
"I can help you, Giovanni," she had promised in her soft, silky voice. "Only say you will be mine for one night, and all will be well. I will restore your health, Gianni, and give you riches beyond your wildest dreams."
"Too late," he had moaned, the fear of dying rising up within him. "Too late."
"Not too late,
cara mio
," she had said. "Only give me your promise."
And because he had been in excruciating pain, because he had been terrified of dying, because he had wanted so very badly to marry Rosalia, he had agreed to do whatever Antonina wished.
As soon as he had given Antonina his vow, a change had come over her. All softness seemed to vanish from her face, and her eyes had glowed with a fierce and terrible light.
She had sat down beside him on the bed and drawn him into her embrace and kissed him. Her lips had been as cold as the grave, and when he tried to pull away, her arms had tightened around him and she had laughed softly, a dry sound, like old bones rattling.
Fear had shot through him and he had struggled harder to escape her, but in vain. His strength was as nothing compared to hers.
With ease, she had held him down, her body covering his as she kissed his eyelids, his cheek, his mouth, her lips gradually burning a path to the side of his neck.
He had gasped when he felt her teeth prick the skin, the sensation one of mingled pain and sensual pleasure. And then he had felt himself drowning, suffocating in darkness and fear. Her skin had grown warmer as his own grew cold, and he had known he was on the brink of death. His heartbeat had slowed, his breathing had grown shallow and labored, and he had been swallowed up in darkness, smothered in terror unlike anything he had ever known or imagined.
He had looked at her blankly, not comprehending, as she bit her own wrist and pressed it to his mouth.
As if from far away, he had heard her voice. "Drink, Giovanni."
He had been too weak to resist when she pressed her bleeding wrist to his mouth. "Drink, Giovanni," she had urged. Again.
He had obeyed because he lacked the will to do otherwise. And like a river at flood tide, life had flowed back into him, filling him. He had closed his eyes, moaning with pleasure as he drank and drank and drank.
When she took her wrist from his mouth, he had opened his eyes, intending to ask for more. But then he had seen Antonina hovering over him, her lips stained with blood, and he had known it was his blood.
He had stared at her in horror. "What have you done?"
She had smiled at him, and he had seen her teeth, the canines long and sharp.
"I have fulfilled my promise," she said. "I have restored your health, and given you wealth and power. You are now immortal, Giovanni Ognibene, and with immortality comes power, and the ability to gather the wealth of the world."
Rising, she had pulled a white silk handkerchief from her pocket and delicately wiped the blood, his blood, from her lips. He had shuddered with revulsion when she used that same handkerchief to wipe her blood from his mouth.
She had remained at his side while his body sloughed off the last of his humanity. His senses, now sharper than before, were bewildering, frightening. Colors had been brighter, the candlelight had hurt his eyes, the slightest sound had bruised his ears.
She had told him, in a voice devoid of emotion, that he must have blood to live, that food would sicken him, but he had refused to believe her.
With amusement, she had left the room, returning a short time later with a handful of succulent grapes. To prove her wrong, he had eaten them all. A moment later, pain had knifed through him and he had dropped to his knees, his stomach retching violently.
"It's almost dawn," she had said, her gaze darting to the window and back. "You can sleep with me today. Tomorrow night, you will fulfill your promise, and then you must find a place to rest. You must line your bed with the earth of your homeland, should you ever decide to leave Italy."
He had stared at her, uncomprehending.
"You are a creature of the night now," Antonina had explained. "You cannot die. Exposure to the sun will kill you. Holy water will burn your flesh. You cannot procreate, but you will live forever." She paused, her hand on a small wooden chest. "I promised you wealth, Giovanni, and here it is. Use it wisely."
Two nights later, frightened and confused, he had gone to Rosalia and told her everything. Looking back, he wondered why he had been so thoroughly unprepared for the stark expression of revulsion that rose in her eyes, for the terror that had sent her stumbling away from him. He could still hear her screams as she fell down the winding staircase to land with a sickening thud on the floor below. He had known even before he reached her side that she was dead. He had left Italy the next night.