He lifted his glass, drained the last few drops of wine, and rose to his feet. "Shall we go?"
With a curt nod, she stood up and walked swiftly toward the door, acutely aware that he was close behind her even though his footsteps made hardly a sound. Sometimes she had the feeling that he walked on air.
Outside, Gabriel took her arm, but instead of turning south, toward her apartment, he turned north, toward a small park. He could feel Sara's anger in her rigid posture, in the tension of her arm beneath his grasp. In all honesty, he couldn't blame her for being angry, and yet, even if he wanted to explain why they couldn't live together, what could he say?
Sorry, cara,
I'm a vampire. In the three hundred and fifty years of my dark existence, I've trusted no one to know where I take my rest during the day. And you would not want to see me then, my body hard and unmoving, with the stillness of a sleep that is like death. You don't want to see me when I rise, when the hunger is upon me, when my eyes look like death and no mortal is safe in my presence
…
They turned down a narrow path. Few people frequented this place after the sun went down, but Gabriel had no fear of the dark, or of mortal man.
The park was beautiful in the moonlight. A faint breeze whispered through the leaves, singing songs to the night. Drifting shadows played hide-and-seek with the light of the moon.
He sensed the man's presence as they drew near the small pond located at the far reaches of the park.
"Your purse,
monsieur
," the man said. Moonlight glinted off the blade of the knife in his hand.
"I'm afraid my purse is empty," Gabriel said coolly.
The man's gaze moved over Gabriel in a long, assessing glance, noting the high quality of his clothing, his expensive leather boots, the fine wool of his cloak.
"I think not," the brigand said with a sneer. He made a threatening gesture with his knife. "Give it over, now."
"No."
The thief lunged forward, but before he could strike, Gabriel's hand closed over the man's forearm in a viselike grip.
Sara gasped at the look of horror that flickered in the man's eyes as Gabriel's hand inexorably tightened around his wrist and the knife fell from nerveless fingers.
She felt a rush of nausea at the sound of the bones being slowly, deliberately crushed. The blood drained from the man's face; a shrill scream of agony bubbled in his throat as tears welled in his eyes.
"Mercy, my lord," the man begged. "Please…"
"Gabriel, let him go!"
Gabriel's back was toward her, and she saw him stiffen at the sound of her voice, as if he had suddenly remembered she was there, watching.
Taking a step forward, Sara placed her hand on his shoulder. "Please, Gabriel, please let him go."
Abruptly, Gabriel released his hold on the brigand's arm and the man fell to his knees, his ruined arm cradled against his chest.
"Don't come here again," Gabriel said, and taking Sara by the hand, he led her back toward the street.
"I've got to stop," she said weakly, "Please, I'm…"
"Sara, what is it?"
"I'm going to be sick."
Gabriel wrapped his arm around her waist, supporting her as she retched.
When the spasm passed, he wiped her mouth with his handkerchief, then swept her into his arms and carried her home. And all the while he was berating himself for behaving so savagely in her presence. Why hadn't he simply given the man his purse? Certainly he could afford the loss of a few francs.
When they reached Sara's apartment, Gabriel put her to bed, fetched a glass of water to rinse her mouth, and then fixed her a cup of hot tea heavily laced with brandy.
"Better?" he asked when she set the empty cup aside a few moments later.
Sara nodded, then glanced away. She could still hear the awful sound of the man's bones breaking as Gabriel crushed his wrist. The memory of it sickened her even as she marveled at Gabriel's superhuman strength.
Superhuman. She remembered Maurice's words:
There's something not right with that man
, he had said.
Can't you sense the evil that surrounds him
?
Sara looked up into Gabriel's face, gazing deep into his eyes, but it wasn't evil she saw reflected in the smoky gray depths, only love and concern.
"What is it,
cara
?" he asked. "What troubles you?"
"That man… you broke his wrist as if it were made of kindling."
"I was angry."
Sara shook his head. "It was more than that."
"What are you trying to say?"
"I don't know. I… it was awful."
"I'm sorry you had to see it." Bending, he brushed her cheek with his knuckles. "Go to sleep, Sara."
"Gabriel…"
"No questions, tonight,
cara
. You need to rest."
"But…"
His gaze caught and held hers. "You're tired, Sara Jayne," he said, his voice low and hypnotic. "Go to sleep. We'll talk tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," she repeated drowsily, and then her eyelids fluttered down and she was asleep.
He sat beside her as long as he dared, and then he left the house.
Maurice waited in the shadows across from Sara's house, listening as a distant clock chimed the hour. Five A.M.
Shivering in the chill air, he shifted his weight in the saddle, wishing he had thought to wear gloves.
He had just decided to call off his vigil when the door to Sara's apartment opened and a dark shape descended the stairs and blended into the night.
"You won't get away from me this time," Maurice vowed.
And filled with a sense of purpose and determination, he touched his heels to the horse's flanks.
Lost in thought, his steps uncharacteristically slow and heavy, Gabriel made his way toward the abandoned cottage. Sara wanted him to move in with her, and she wouldn't accept his excuses forever. For the first time, he considered telling her the truth. Perhaps, if she loved him enough, she would be able to accept him for who and what he was. Perhaps she'd keep his secret, be content to share her life with a man who was not a man at all.
He made a low sound of disgust deep in his throat. And perhaps she'd offer to ease his thirst, as well, or even join him in his hellish existence.
And perhaps dogs would sing and pigs would fly.
Revulsion for what he was rose up within him, as hot and bitter as bile. Even if she wished it, he would never condemn her to the kind of existence he led. She was a creature of light and beauty. To condemn her to a world of endless darkness would be cruelty of the worst kind.
He should leave her, he thought bleakly. Walk out of her life and never return. But, selfish bastard that he was, he knew that was something he could not do. He had lived in solitude for most of the last two hundred years, rarely mingling with humanity, but with Sara he had dared to take a small step into the mortal world. He had sat beside her while she dined in her favorite cafe. He had ventured into the Paris Opera and watched her dance.
He had dared to make love to her—and for those brief moments, the darkness that enveloped him had been swallowed up in her light. Miraculously, his desire for her flesh had tempered his lust for blood. Holding her in his arms, loving her, had given him a reprieve from the ugliness of his existence. For that alone, she had earned his love and his everlasting gratitude.
Sara…
Her goodness permeated him. He had the oddest feeling that if he could find the courage to tell her what he was, to confess his innumerable sins against humanity, her love would shrive the guilt from his soul.
He could not leave her, he thought as he entered the cottage and closed and locked the door. If it meant his life, he could not leave her. Not so long as she would have him.
His feet made no sound as he descended the narrow stone stairway that led down to the cellar. There were stout locks on both sides of the thick oak door. By night, the lock on the outside of the cellar door kept his resting place secure; by day, the lock on the inside ensured that no one would come upon him while he slept.
Entering the cellar, he closed the door behind him and turned the key in the lock.
Silently, he crossed the dirt-packed floor, removed his cloak, and climbed into the long, sturdy pine box that served as his resting place.
Closing his eyes, he let his imagination take flight. Sara, clothed as the Princess Aurora, pirouetted within the corridors of his mind, and he was the prince. But in his ballet, it wasn't the prince who awakened the princess from sleep with a kiss, but the princess who willingly gave the prince a single drop of her precious blood and saved him from a life of eternal darkness…
Leaving the horse tethered out of sight in a copse of trees, Maurice moved stealthily toward the cottage, his footsteps muffled by the damp earth.
So, he thought with satisfaction, this was where the devil lived.
His heart was pounding like a wild thing when he reached the south side of the cottage. Hardly daring to breathe, he peered into the window. The room was empty. Frowning, he made his way around the cottage, pausing to peer into each window.
As near as he could tell in the darkness, all the rooms were empty.
Puzzled, he made his way toward a clump of brush and hunkered down on his heels. A short time later, dawn brightened the sky and he crept toward the cottage again. The faint light afforded by the rising sun confirmed his earlier suspicions: the rooms were all empty. So, where was Gabriel? Had he gone back to town? Or was there perhaps a room below?
He tried the windows and door. All were securely locked. Strange, he thought, that a house long abandoned would be locked from the inside. Stranger still that Gabriel, who possessed a great deal of wealth, chose to live in an abandoned cottage on the outskirts of town.
Feeling his courage expand with the dawn, Maurice found a good-sized rock and then, taking a deep breath, he broke one of the windows with it. He listened for a long moment, waiting to see if the noise had been overheard, and when nothing happened, he climbed over the low sill.
He paused inside the room, his heart pounding so loudly it would have been impossible to hear anything else, and then, summoning his nerve, he walked from room to room. A heavy layer of dust covered the floor; lacy cobwebs adorned the corners of the ceilings. A rat had made a nest in the kitchen hearth.
A wave of unease overtook him as he came to a flight of steps that led down, to the wine cellar, he supposed.
A fine sheen of perspiration coated his brow and dampened his hands as he took the steps one by one until he reached the door at the foot of the stairs.
He wiped his palm on his trouser leg, placed his hand on the latch. Instantly, he was overcome with a deep, primeval fear that went beyond terror
as
an image of blood-red eyes shining within a cavernous skull rose within his mind. And with that death's-head image came an overwhelming sense of doom.
It was more than he could endure. With a hoarse cry, he bolted up the steps. The cold sweat of fear momentarily blinded him, and then he was running through the small cottage, diving through the broken window, impervious to the blood that oozed from his hand when he gashed it on a shard of broken glass.
As if pursued by all the hounds of hell, he vaulted into the saddle and raced away from the cottage and the terrifying evil that dwelled within.
The scent of blood, hot and fresh and rank with fear, drifted down the stairs that led to the cellar, rousing Gabriel from the lethargy that imprisoned him.
He sat up, his senses suddenly alert. Lifting his head, he sniffed the air, much as a wolf might sniff the wind, and he caught it again, the tantalizing odor of freshly spilled blood.
Someone had been inside the cottage.
Head cocked to one side, he closed his eyes and listened. And waited.
But the danger was past. Whoever had invaded his sanctuary had fled, leaving nothing behind but a few drops of blood and the lingering smell of fear.
He would have to find a new resting place, he mused as he slowly surrendered once more to the darkness of his deathlike sleep. Either that, or destroy the mortal who had dared violate his lair.
A faint smile twisted his lips. For Sara's sake, he would spare Maurice's life. For now.
"What is it, Maurice?" Sara asked. "You look as if you've seen a ghost."
"Sara Jayne…" He stumbled into her apartment, the fear that had choked him at the cottage still strong.
"What have you done to your hand?" she asked.
Maurice glanced at his hand. The neckerchief he had wrapped around the cut was soaked with blood.
"It's nothing," he muttered, too agitated by what had happened in the cottage to be concerned about his injury. "Saints above, Sara Jayne, he's a monster!"
Exasperated, she closed the door, then drew her dressing gown more tightly around her. "Haven't you given up that absurd notion yet? Is that why you got me out of bed at this hour of the morning? To tell me that Gabriel is a monster?"
"It's true. Come with me and see for yourself."
"And just what did you see?"
"Nothing."
"Maurice, you're not making sense."
"I didn't
see
anything except a locked door. It's what I felt, Sara Jayne. Never in all my life have I felt such evil. You've got to believe me. He's unholy."
"Sit down," Sara said. "I'll get you a glass of brandy. And then I'll bandage your hand."
With a weary nod, Maurice sank down on the sofa and closed his eyes. He couldn't forget the horror that had surrounded him in the cottage, the terrible sense of evil, of danger. Of death.
"Here," Sara said, handing him a glass of brandy. "Drink this. It will help ease the pain."
While he sipped the brandy, she washed the blood from his hand, covered the shallow cut with salve, and bandaged it with a strip of clean cloth.
"I'm going to get dressed now," she said, "and then we'll go have a look at that cottage."
"Maybe that's not such a good idea."
"I want to see it for myself."