She wandered aimlessly through the house, then went back into the parlor and sat down on the sofa again, the blanket wrapped around her, her mind in turmoil as she tried to accept the fact that she had lived before, that she had willingly given up all hope of motherhood, of a normal life, to be with a vampire.
He stood on the balcony, his hands braced on the wrought-iron rail, watching the dark clouds tumble across the sky. It was going to rain. He could smell the moisture in the air, hear the distant sound of thunder as the storm drew closer.
It was a night that suited his mood perfectly—dark and restless.
He had lost her and found her and lost her again.
He cursed viciously for not forcing the Dark Gift upon her. She might have despised him for it, but she would have been his. Forever his. He wouldn't have to watch her grow old and die a second time…
Three weeks had passed since he had gone to her house. Ten days since he had last fed. Without her, he'd lost the will to go on, but the hunger burned bright within him, sharp as a Spanish dagger, as constant as the sun. He could feel his body weakening, feel his mind growing dim. But it didn't matter. Nothing mattered. And tomorrow it would all be over.
He wondered dispassionately how long it would take for him to die, if his body would burst into flame at the first fiery touch of the midday sun, or if he would writhe in agony like a worm on a hot rock. And what of his soul, if he still had one? Would it find rest at last? Or would it burn forever in the inferno of an endless and unforgiving hell?
But even the thought of spending eternity in the bowels of perdition didn't frighten him now because he was already on fire, his insides burning as the hunger raged relentlessly through his body, tearing at his insides with talons of flame.
A last meal, he thought dully. Weren't the condemned entitled to a last meal?
"Gabriel?"
He whirled around, startled by the sound of her voice.
"I knocked," Sarah said, and then, seeing his face, she took a step backward, one hand pressed to the back of his chair to steady herself. She didn't have to ask what was wrong. She knew. She had seen him like this once before, in the cellar of an abandoned cottage.
"Go away." He spoke the words through tightly clenched teeth.
Sarah nodded, intending to do just that, but her feet refused to obey and she stood rooted to the spot, unable to tear her gaze from his face. He wore a black sweater that emphasized the pallor of his skin. His eyes burned with a familiar red glow. His nostrils flared, like those of a wolf on the scent of blood…
"Go… away… now."
"It seems as if you're always trying to get rid of me."
He stared at her, trying to understand what she was saying, but the scent of her blood was overpowering, making it difficult to think of anything but the hunger roaring through him, growing stronger with each passing minute.
"You were lucky the last time," he said, his voice dry and brittle. "I cannot promise you will be so lucky now." He took a deep breath, willing his hands to stop shaking. "Why did you come here?"
"We need to talk."
"Talk?" He shook his head. "About what?"
"About us, about what we're going to do."
"There is no us. Go away, Sarah."
"I can't. I've spent every minute of the last three weeks remembering another life in another time, remembering the night we made love here, in this house. I love you, Gabriel."
He closed his eyes. Her words washed over him, cleansing the bitterness from his heart. Sweet words, he mused, the most welcome words in the world.
With an effort, he turned away from her. "Sarah, please… go away."
"You need blood." She had a sudden sense of déjà vu as she spoke the words, the same words she'd said a hundred years ago.
He would have laughed if he hadn't been in such agony. Once before he had tried to send her away, and she had stubbornly refused to go. And now it was happening again. Was this to be the pattern of his life from now on, to find her and lose her again and again, to ease his fiendish hunger with a few drops of her precious blood, to watch her grow old and die in his arms?
A harsh cry rose in his throat. He would not do it again. Could not do it again.
"Go home, Sarah. Forget all of this."
He flinched as her arms slid around his waist. It was a sign of his weakness that he hadn't heard her come up behind him. Had she been an enemy, he would likely be dead now, a wooden stake through his heart. An hour ago, a moment ago, he would have welcomed death, but now Sarah was here, and life was again worth living.
"We've been through all this before, Gabriel," she said, pressing her cheek against his back. "Take what you need."
"And what if I can't stop this time,
cara
? What if I take too much? What if I take it all?" He took a deep breath and let it out in a long, shuddering sigh. "If you decide to stay with me now, I won't watch you die, not this time. Are you prepared to live the life of a vampire?"
"I don't know. It seems like such a horrible way to live."
"Horrible?" He stared down at her hands, locked around his waist. It hadn't been a horrible existence, but it had been lonely. He remembered how it had been when first he'd been made, watching people he knew grow old and die, watching the world change, until there was nothing left of the life he had known, the world he had known. Until there was no one alive who remembered who he had been.
But then he had met Sara Jayne, and she had made it all worthwhile.
And now she was here.
Again.
Offering to ease his hunger.
Again.
"Gabriel, maybe there's a cure for what you are. I mean, surely, in this day and age, there must be something we can do."
"A cure?" He frowned. Over the centuries, he had heard whispers of such a thing from other vampires, but he had never believed it or pursued it. There had been too much to see, to learn. In spite of the loneliness, he had enjoyed his existence, and the supernatural powers that came with it.
A cure? Perhaps, but he couldn't think of it now, couldn't think of anything but the need to get Sarah out of the house before it was too late, before the ravening hunger that lived inside him became overpowering.
"We can talk about it tomorrow," he said. "But now you must go home." A shudder racked his body. Her blood. The smell of it was driving him dangerously near the edge of resistance. He could feel his fangs lengthening in response to the smell. It would be so easy to take her, to make her his for all time. "Sarah… please. Go home."
Reluctantly, Sarah moved away from him. For the first time, she realized it was raining. Lightning cut through the black clouds; thunder rumbled across the darkened skies. How appropriate, she thought. In horror movies, there was always a storm when the heroine's life was in danger.
She looked at Gabriel. He was still standing with his back toward her, his hands clenched at his sides. "Will you still be here tomorrow?"
"What do you mean?"
"You aren't thinking of doing something stupid, are you?"
"Stupid? No."
"You're lying."
He turned around to face her. "Am I?"
"You want to die, don't you? That's why you haven't fed."
She was very perceptive, he thought. But then, she always had been.
"I don't want you to die, and I don't want you to suffer." Sweeping her hair away from her neck, she tilted her head to the side. "Take what you need, Gabriel."
He took a step toward her, his hands clenched at his sides. His eyes were afire with an unearthly radiance, his lips slightly parted so that she could see his fangs. They looked sharp and very white.
"Run, Sarah," he whispered hoarsely. "Run, before it's too late."
"No." She fought down her burgeoning fear. He had never hurt her before. He wouldn't hurt her now.
And then he was there, towering over her, his dark eyes aglow as he grasped her shoulders in a grip like iron and pressed his mouth to her throat.
Her heart was beating wildly, louder than the thunder that rolled across the sky. Every nerve ending, every cell, seemed alive, tingling with fear and anticipation. She felt a sharp stinging sensation, and then a curious lassitude crept over her.
He was drinking her blood. She wondered why the knowledge of what he was doing didn't sicken her, and then the ability to think seemed to slip away and she was conscious of nothing but pleasure. It pooled in the pit of her stomach, flowed through her blood like warm sweet wine. She wrapped her arms around his waist, clinging to him as the only solid thing in a world suddenly spinning out of control. She could hear her heart beating a quick tattoo in her ears.
His hair lay like black silk against her cheek. She longed to touch it, but she lacked the strength to lift her arm. Her fingers clutched his sweater, and it was as if she could feel each individual thread. Colors danced before her eyes: vivid shades of red and violet and blue.
Her head fell back, and she was drifting, floating on a crimson sea, every fiber of her being awash with sensual pleasure.
She was desolate when he took his mouth away.
"Sarah?"
She blinked up at him. His face swam before her eyes, and she blinked again, wondering why she felt so strange.
"Sarah? Sarah!"
"Hmmm?" She stared up at him, though it was an effort to keep her eyes open, to focus. His skin was no longer pale. His cheeks were flushed; the blood-lust was gone from his eyes. A distant part of her mind told her that her blood had done that for him.
Gabriel swore under his breath, cursing the insatiable hunger, the weakness, that had driven him to take that which he had no right to take. One day he would take too much and it would kill her.
He cursed under his breath as he swept her into his arms and carried her into the kitchen. Filling a glass with water, he held it to her lips, insisting she drink it all. And then he carried her up the stairs and put her to bed.
"Stay with me," she begged. "Stay until the sun comes up."
"I will."
"Am I your slave now?"
"No."
"I wouldn't mind, you know, being your slave."
"I would. Go to sleep, Sarah."
"You'll be here tomorrow night? You won't destroy yourself? Promise me."
"I promise."
"We'll find a cure," she murmured as her eyelids fluttered down. "I know we will. And if we can't… if we can't…"
He listened to the soft sound of her breathing as sleep claimed her.
"And if we can't," he said, finishing her thought in his own way, "then we'll meet death together, for I won't be parted from you in life again."
The house was deadly quiet. Alone in the pink bedroom, the covers drawn up to her chin, Sarah stared out the window at the darkness, wondering what had awakened her, wondering where Gabriel was. The last thing she remembered was Gabriel bending over her, promising that he wouldn't destroy himself.
She let out a sigh. She had spent the last three weeks remembering another life, trying to convince herself it wasn't true, that she hadn't lived before. But she'd known, in the depths of her heart and soul, that everything Gabriel had told her was true. She had lived before, loved him before. And she loved him now.
With that irrefutable thought in mind, she had rented her house, furniture and all, to a young family. Then she had packed her bags and come here. Hard to believe that had been only hours ago. It seemed as though centuries had passed since she entered this house. Since she had come home. To Gabriel. What should have seemed totally bizarre felt completely right.
She had lived before. Gabriel had been her husband, and now she was back where she belonged.
She was almost asleep again when she sensed his presence in the room, and then he was sliding under the covers, taking her in his arms.
"It will be dawn soon," he whispered. "Let me hold you until then."
"We'll be together always, won't we?"
"Always."
She made a soft sound of acquiescence as she snuggled against him. Home, she thought, home at last.
She felt his lips move in her hair, heard his voice whispering her name, speaking to her in a language she didn't comprehend, and yet she understood every word.
Warm and safe, drifting on a gentle tide of love, her last thought before sleep claimed her was that she loved him, that even if they were parted again, she would find him in another life.
When next she woke, it was morning and she was alone, but she knew that he was there, somewhere in the house. Filled with a sense of well-being, she jumped out of bed. After taking a lengthy shower and brushing her hair, she pulled on a bulky white sweater and a pair of jeans, slipped on tennis shoes, then went downstairs. She ate a quick breakfast of tea and toast, then left the house, bound for the library.
She was amazed at the number of books on vampire lore—
Vampire: The Complete Guide to the World of the Undead
by Mascetti;
The Vampire Encyclopedia
by Bunson;
The Vampire in Legend, Fact and Art
by Copper;
The Terror That Comes in the Night
by Hufford;
In Search of Dracula
by McNally—the list went on and on, with books detailing how to recognize a vampire, how to destroy a vampire, how to protect oneself from a vampire, but nowhere did she find any indication that a vampire had ever been successfully transformed back into a human.
According to one book, vampires always wore black tuxedos with long tails, and a black silk cloak, which some believed was woven by the vampire himself after his transformation.
Sarah frowned. Gabriel did, indeed, wear black, she thought, but not a tuxedo, and she'd never seen him in a cape… but that wasn't true, she amended. In France, he'd always worn a long black cloak, only it had been made of wool, not silk.
She studied old newspaper articles, fascinated by a 1980s headline: VAMPIRE KILLINGS SWEEP THE U.S. The article reported that experts believed vampires were responsible for as many as 6,000 deaths a year, and that police were investigating dozens of eerie murders in which the bodies of the victims had been drained of blood—a double murder in New York City where there wasn't enough blood left in the bodies for the medical examiner to take a blood sample; six people in California had been murdered by a man who later admitted to drinking their blood.