"If you wish."
She smiled, radiant with happiness. For as long as she could remember, she had longed to go to the ballet, to see
Swan Lake, Giselle, The Sleeping Beauty, Don Quixote
. She had studied the lives of many of the great ballerinas, like Marie Taglioni, Fanny Elssler, Carlotta Grisi, Francesca Cerrito, and Marie Salle.
And now her dream was about to come true. Then she glanced down at her dress, and her happiness dissipated like dew beneath the sun.
"I can't go. I don't have anything suitable to wear."
"You will," he said cryptically, and before she could ask questions, he was gone.
"Gabriel!" Shoulders sagging, she stared into the darkness, wondering if he was gone for the night.
An hour later, he was back. "For you," he said, and with a flourish, he reached inside his cloak and withdrew a gown of ice-blue satin.
Sara glanced at the dress, at Gabriel, and back at the dress, unable to believe her eyes. "For me?"
"You don't like it?"
Not like it? It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She looked up at him, too dazed to speak.
"Can you… shall I…" He swore softly. "Will you let me help you change?"
She felt her cheeks flame as she nodded. Deftly, he helped her out of her dress and into the gown, lacing her up with such casual nonchalance that it eased her embarrassment. The satin was smooth and cool against her skin, a sharp contrast to the heat of his touch.
There were slippers and gloves to match. He pulled them from beneath his cloak, making her wonder if he was conjuring them from thin air.
She felt like the princess in a fairy tale. "How do I look?"
"See for yourself," he said, and lifting the mirror from the wall, he held it in front of her.
She did look like a princess, she thought. The gown was a study in simple elegance, the bodice fitted, the full skirt sweeping the floor. Fine white lace edged the scalloped neckline.
"It's the most exquisite thing I've ever seen," she said, mesmerized by the miracle the gown had wrought in her appearance. Her eyes seemed bluer; her cheeks were flushed with excitement. "Where did you get it?"
"Does it matter?" he asked as he replaced the mirror, careful to keep to one side so that she wouldn't notice that his form cast no reflection in the glass.
Sara shook her head.
"Ready?"
"Ready."
Effortlessly, he lifted her into his arms and carried her out onto the veranda.
"You can't carry me all the way to the opera house," she remarked as he started across the yard.
"No need." He gestured to the surrey waiting outside the gate. "We'll ride."
It was like a dream, a wonderful dream, the ride through the streets, the feel of the breeze in her hair, the warmth of his shoulder next to her own, the brush of his thigh against hers when he shifted on the leather seat.
The ballet had already started when they arrived. As if he did it every day, he lifted her from the seat and carried her into the theater, nodding at the doorman, climbing the stairs with ease, carrying her into a private box.
Gently, he placed her in one of the red velvet chairs, then sat down in the other one.
She couldn't believe she was there. Her gaze swept the theater, from the frescoes painted on the ceiling to the heavy drapes that framed the stage. Leaning forward, she stared at the people seated below—elegant women gowned in lustrous silks and satins, handsome men attired in black evening clothes. And she was a part of them. She lifted her chin, feeling as if she belonged, as if she were, indeed, a princess.
And then, very slowly, she faced the stage.
A sigh of wonder, of awe, escaped her lips as she saw the ballerina for the first time. The dancer moved like a feather on the wind, light, airy, graceful. Each movement was perfection, perfectly timed, flawlessly executed.
Mesmerized by the sinuous blending of music and dance, Sara forgot everything but the woman who seemed to float effortlessly across the stage, her tiny feet encased in white ballet slippers.
They were doing
Giselle
, created by Carlotta Grisi in Paris in 1841. The story was one of Sara's favorites. She watched, entranced, as the peasant girl, Giselle, fell in love with the handsome Albrecht, a nobleman disguised as a peasant boy. She wept softly when Hilarion, who also loved Giselle, told her the truth about Albrecht. Upon learning that her beloved was betrothed to another, Giselle died of a broken heart.
"So sad," Sara murmured as the curtain came down on the first act. "So sad, but so beautiful."
"Yes," Gabriel said, his hooded gaze locked on Sara's face, his voice husky. "So beautiful."
More than beautiful, he thought. Her cheeks were rosy with delight, her eyes were shining, her lips slightly parted. He could hear the excited beat of her heart, hear the blood humming through her veins, feel his own heart beating in cadence with hers.
Hands curled into tight fists, he shoved them into the pockets of his trousers, trying not to stare at the pulse throbbing in the hollow of her throat, trying to forget that she carried his blood in her veins. Trying not to think of what it would be like to savor the sweetness of her lifeblood.
With a supreme effort of will, he forced such thoughts away and concentrated on the music, on the look of delight on Sara's face.
Sara leaned forward as the curtain went up on Act Two, fascinated as Giselle was transformed into a Wili, a spirit who haunted the woods at night, enticing men to dance until they expired of exhaustion. Tears stung her eyes as Hilarion was killed by the Wilis and Myrtha, Queen of the Wilis, forced Giselle to attempt to destroy Albrecht in the same way. But Albrecht was spared, first by taking shelter under the cross on Giselle's grave, and then by dancing with Giselle until dawn, when Giselle returned to her grave.
When it was over, Sara sat back in her chair, a soft sigh escaping her lips. "Thank you, Gabriel," she said, her voice tinged with awe.
"You're welcome,
cara
."
"Wasn't she wonderful? I don't think Grisi could have done it better. Do you think Albrecht was really in love with Giselle? How could a nobleman make a whole village believe he was a peasant?"
Gabriel shrugged. "People believe what they want to believe," he said, and sat back in the seat, content to listen as Sara spoke enthusiastically of the costumes, the music, and always the ballerina.
When the theater was empty, he lifted her into his arms and carried her down the stairs and out to the surrey. Removing a robe from under the seat, he placed it over her lap, picked up the reins, and clucked to the horses.
It was a clear night, cool, with a slight breeze. A full moon hung low in the sky.
As they rode through the moon-dappled darkness, Sara was again aware of the man beside her. Inside the theater, she had been caught up in the magic of the music and the dancing, but here, in the quiet of a late summer night, alone with Gabriel, the ballet seemed far distant.
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, studying his profile, noting the way the moonlight turned his hair to silver. He was a handsome man, dark and mysterious. And lonely.
The thought struck her with the force of a blow, and she realized that loneliness surrounded him, that it was his aloneness that called out to her above all else.
Too soon, they reached the orphanage and he was carrying her into her room.
Gently, he placed her in her chair and suddenly the magic was gone. She was Sara again.
"The dress," she said, blinking back her tears. "I can't keep it."
He nodded his understanding. There was no way for her to explain to the nuns how she came to have such an expensive gown.
Keeping his face impassive, he carried her to the bed, quickly divested her of the elegant blue dress, and helped her into her night rail. Kneeling at her feet as if he played ladies' maid every day, he removed the satin slippers, drew the gloves from her hands.
"I had a wonderful time," Sara murmured. "Thank you."
"Until tomorrow night, then," he said. Taking her hand in his, he lifted it to his lips and kissed her palm. "Sleep well,
cara
."
She blinked back a tear, and he was gone.
He walked the streets for hours after he left the orphanage, his thoughts filled with Sara, her fragile beauty, her sweet innocence, her unwavering trust. She had accepted him into her life without question, and the knowledge cut him to the quick. He did not like deceiving her, did not like hiding the dark secret of what he was, nor did he like to think about how badly she would be hurt when his nighttime visits ceased, as they surely must.
He had loved her from the moment he first saw her, but always from a distance, worshiping her as the moon might worship the sun, basking in her heat, her light, but wisely staying away lest he be burned.
And now, foolishly, he had strayed too close. He had soothed her tears, held her in his arms, and now he was paying the price. He was burning, like a moth drawn to a flame. Burning with need. With desire.
With an unholy lust, not for her body, but for the very essence of her life.
It sickened him that he should want her that way, that he could even consider such a despicable thing. And yet he could think of little else. Ah, to hold her in his arms, to feel his body become one with hers as he drank of her sweetness…
For a moment, he closed his eyes and let himself imagine it, and then he swore, a long, vile oath filled with pain and longing.
Hands clenched, he turned down a dark street, his self-anger turning to loathing, and the loathing to rage. He felt the need to kill, to strike out, to make someone else suffer as he was suffering.
Pity the poor mortal who next crossed his path, he thought, and gave himself over to the hunger pounding through him.
She woke covered with perspiration, Gabriel's name on her lips. Shivering, she drew the covers up to her chin.
It had only been a dream. Only a dream.
She spoke the words aloud, finding comfort in the sound of her own voice. A distant bell chimed the hour. Four o'clock.
Gradually, her breathing returned to normal. Only a dream, she said again, but it had been so real. She had felt the cold breath of the night, smelled the rank odor of fear rising from the body of the faceless man cowering in the shadows. She had sensed a deep anger, a wild, uncontrollable evil personified by a being in a flowing black cloak. Even now, she could feel his anguish, his loneliness, the alienation that cut him off from the rest of humanity.
It had all been so clear in the dream, but now it made no sense. No sense at all.
With a slight shake of her head, she snuggled deeper under the covers and closed her eyes.
It was just a dream, nothing more.
Sunk in the depths of despair, Gabriel prowled the deserted abbey. What had happened to his self-control? Not for centuries had he taken enough blood to kill, only enough to ease the pain of the hunger, to ease his unholy thirst.
A low groan rose in his throat. Sara had happened. He wanted her and couldn't have her. Somehow, his desire and his frustration had gotten tangled up with his lust for blood.
It couldn't happen again. It had taken him centuries to learn to control the hunger, to give himself the illusion that he was more man than monster.
Had he been able, he would have prayed for forgiveness, but he had forfeited the right to divine intervention long ago.
"Where will we go tonight?"
Gabriel stared at her. She'd been waiting for him again, clothed in her new dress, her eyes bright with anticipation. Her goodness drew him, soothed him, calmed his dark side even as her beauty, her innocence, teased his desire.
He stared at the pulse throbbing in her throat.
"Go?"
Sara nodded.
With an effort, he lifted his gaze to her face. "Where would you like to go?"
"I don't suppose you have a horse?"
"A horse?"
"I've always wanted to ride."
He bowed from the waist. "Whatever you wish, milady," he said. "I'll not be gone long."
It was like having found a magic wand, Sara mused as she waited for him to return. She had only to voice her desire, and he produced it.
Twenty minutes later, she was seated before him on a prancing black stallion. It was a beautiful animal, tall and muscular, with a flowing mane and tail.
She leaned forward to stroke the stallion's neck. His coat felt like velvet beneath her hand. "What's his name?"
"Necromancer," Gabriel replied, pride and affection evident in his tone.
"Necromancer? What does it mean?"
"One who communicates with the spirits of the dead."
Sara glanced at him over her shoulder. "That seems an odd name for a horse."
"Odd, perhaps," Gabriel replied cryptically, "but fitting."
"Fitting? In what way?"
"Do you want to ride, Sara, or spend the night asking foolish questions?"
She pouted prettily for a moment, and then grinned at him. "Ride!"
A word from Gabriel, and they were cantering through the dark night, heading into the countryside.
"Faster," Sara urged.
"You're not afraid?"
"Not with you."
"You should be afraid, Sara Jayne," he muttered under his breath, "especially with me."
He squeezed the stallion's flanks with his knees and the horse shot forward, his powerful hooves skimming across the ground.
Sara shrieked with delight as they raced through the darkness. This was power, she thought, the surging body of the horse, the man's strong arm wrapped securely around her waist. The wind whipped through her hair, stinging her cheeks and making her eyes water, but she only threw back her head and laughed.
"Faster!" she cried, reveling in the sense of freedom that surged within her.
Hedges and trees and sleeping farmhouses passed by in a blur. Once, they jumped a four-foot hedge, and she felt as if she were flying. Sounds and scents blended together: the chirping of crickets, the bark of a dog, the smell of damp earth and lathered horseflesh, and overall the touch of Gabriel's breath upon her cheek, the steadying strength of his arm around her waist.