Authors: Lori Perry
The sun filtered through the bamboo shade, warming her cheek. Last night's dream wasn't violent the way they usually were and she held the image of the pendant hanging from his thick fingers in her mind. It was beautiful, with intricate silver lace embracing a blood red jewel that sparkled in the candlelight; she wanted to feel the heavy necklace against her chest and felt as though that's where it belonged. Touching her fingertips to her breastbone, she could almost remember the feeling of it lying there; the coolness against her skin.
Rolling over, Danielle squinted against the sun's rays and realized with regret that she hadn't learned the stranger's name. She reached for her stash of lemon drops on the nightstand and popped one in her mouth; she had to start the day with one rolling over her tongue. She smirked at the already half-emptied pack and was thankful it wasn't cigarettes she was addicted to.
Relaxing against her pillows she closed her eyes to see his face again; in her dream he was Michael and as beautiful as she imagined the angel would be, though much sexier she was sure. She ran over his stats in her mind as if she were looking at his file. Black hair, emerald green eyes, full lips, well over six and a half feet tall with a nice muscular build. Of course, the file wouldn't embellish on the glint of gold in his eyes or the pout of his perfect mouth.
For the first time since the dreams started she didn't want it to end; didn’t want to wake up to reality and stop staring into his eyes or lose the closeness of his body. She wanted to be the sexy, strong woman in her dreams; the one that used wit and her body to get attention, his attention.
The dreams had started as nightmares, with blood and violence that she was thrust into the center of; in fact, in the dreams she sought the violence. It was her calling, like that was the only thing that could make her happy; if you could call it happiness. She felt a kinship to the huntress in her dreams; it seemed her entire life revolved around hunting evil. The dreams must have been some manifestation of how Danielle felt about herself.
Groaning against her responsibilities, Danielle sat up in bed and grabbed Mr. Danube's file, immersing herself into his world would be the only way to gain the upper hand. She flipped through the facts of the case and found inconsistencies, like Mr. Danube's lack of a criminal record. Normally the scumbags she went after had a rap sheet a mile long, but not him. The only thing he had against him was a stalking charge filed by the parents of a girl who really didn't seem to mind being stalked. Friends of the girl who had been interviewed were excited to be a part of Danielle's investigation; spilling information on the many times the girl snuck out with the guy, and how he was the topic of most of their conversations.
With a case like this one Danielle usually did her homework on all the people involved, which led her to the young girl who had gone missing. With the Intel from everyone, except the parents, the missing girl had been more than willing to disappear with Orlando. The choice she made to get into this business was easy for Danielle. She loved uncovering mystery, craved the intrigue; though lately she was so tired, tired of jumping from town to town and country to country, living a life on the road. She didn't like the idea of a boring nine to five position in a boring company working for some boring boss, but she desperately wanted a break from reality, and normal fit the bill just right.
When she was confident she had memorized the important facts of the case, she busied herself getting ready for the game. Danielle held up her cuffs and chuckled, imagining the giant from the file confined by the little strips of metal. She hid her handcuffs in her bag, and then strapped mace to her thigh, and for a moment the vampire hunter in her dream flashed in her mind; the dagger glinting in the candle light as she twirled it expertly in her palm. Lifting her skirt, she pictured the masterful weapon strapped there instead of mace. How hard would it be to learn that skill? When immersed in a fight, she could quickly get caught up in the chaos and decided a sharp blade wouldn't be the best choice.
Peering at herself in the mirror, she pinched her cheeks and bit her lips to add some color. Though she wouldn't admit this to anyone, she hoped to spot her moonlight stranger; just in case she bumped into him, she wanted to look her best then instantly felt foolish for the secret hope.
Michael slammed his body to the ground, scrambling on his stomach to a nearby wagon that had been over-turned. He watched as a band of highwaymen rampaged through the blackness of his village. Their strength was unimaginable as they tore apart carts and yanked doors from their dwellings, destroying the life he knew. How they were able to shred wood with their bare hands he did not know, and they terrified him. His parents had died a score of years back leaving Michael alone to take care of their town; until this night, he had exceeded his father's expectations. But now these monsters lay waste to everything he'd worked for.
Michael rolled through the dirt toward the woods behind him, planning his escape. There would be no hope of defending himself alone. Most of the villagers had been away at the fair, selling their crafts and vegetables which eased Michael a bit. The others that had stayed behind had been attacked; dragged into the woods easily, as if they weighed nothing.
The boot that crushed down on his wrist was bloodied and heavy, grinding earth into his skin.
"Where do you think you're going?" A well-dressed man towered over him.
"Why do you do this?" Michael craned his neck to stare up at what he assumed was their leader. Stunned at the chaos that surrounded him, time seemed to freeze as Michael took in the nobleman's visage. He could see beneath the blood and grit, his boots were buckled with silver showing the wealth he must possess. The rest of his clothes were finery only gentry could afford.
"It pleases me." The smile was casual with a sly glint to his eyes; Michael could see the enjoyment there. Courage was not something he had needed, living in this secluded area of woods; life was easy and comfortable, the way he worked for it to be. The bones in his wrist began to crunch under the weight of his attacker, and he bellowed as the boot twisted.
"Please." He grabbed the man's leg with his free hand, quickly twisting his body, knocking the monster off balance. Michael's wrist dislocated and his vision blurred from the pain.
"You're quite strong." His attacker said, righting himself. Michael clutched his wrist as the shards of pain splintered up his arm. "I think I shall use you." He crouched next to Michael. "It seems luck has found you this night, boy. You may call me Deacon, take my hand and all will be well." Deacon extended his hand and waited.
Michael had heard rumors there were beings not of this world; beings with unnatural strength who fed on the flesh and blood of others, but truly he didn't believe. Others in the group noticed Deacon reaching for Michael and came to investigate, forcing a snarl from Deacon's throat. They were circling, growing ever closer. Their lips were curled back showing dripping yellowed fangs; Michael scrambled back, shoving his body against the wagon, shaking with fear.
What choice did he truly have? Be torn apart by these rabid looking humans, or take the hand of their leader?
"I'll do as you wish." He whispered; eyes darting between each member of the group then back to Deacon. Reaching out with his good hand, Michael locked his grip with Deacon then closed his eyes, waiting for the end.
Deacon barked an order to the rest in a language foreign to Michael, and they reluctantly scattered into the woods.
Without word, Deacon lifted Michael's wrist to his lips and sunk sharp fangs deep into his flesh; his skin burned as his blood drained from his body.
Michael blinked, picturing the scene from another angle. He lay crumpled at the feet of a man who drank his blood. As his body grew cold, he looked into the eyes of the monster and felt a calmness wash through him; letting his eyes slide shut, he believed it to be the last moment of his life.
"Open your mouth." The warm, thick fluid dripped over his lips and chin, then the tang of blood hit his tongue making him sputter. "Shhh. Drink." Deacon whispered near his ear, blowing warm breath across his temple.
Michael was forced to swallow; his stomach turned as he pictured the blood draining down his throat.
"You are reborn."
Michael lay restless in his darkened room; his wrist throbbed with the remembered pain from the savage break it had endured the night of his turning. Though his wound healed almost instantly, the memory was fresh. He had lost contact with his sire over a century ago, learning Deacon was exiled after purposely turning children, breaking a law their kind upheld to the death. He was using them to trap humans, raising the numbers in his army. There had been a time Michael wished he had chosen a different path; to be executed that night, but then he would never have found Ana.
She was out there somewhere and he was trapped by the sun on this little island. Michael sat at the table beneath his window, contemplating the soft glow through the curtains. He stood, moving to brush them aside while carefully avoiding the sunlight. There was too much to be done; with powers unmatched by man, he was frustrated that something like sunlight could imprison him. He stretched his arms above his head, if he were human he'd drop to the floor for a round of push-ups; he no longer had the need for physical activity to maintain his strength though. Since the moment of his rebirth into the world, it never faded; in fact he only grew stronger.
He walked to the bathroom and leaned his hands on either side of the sink, staring at his image in the mirror. Where was she? Without her he felt restless, incomplete. Orlando claimed to know where she was, yet disappeared near the full moon. Michael didn't think there was a connection to the group that had forced Ana's death in each incarnation, but he couldn't rule it out. They seemed to stop at nothing to get to him, and all immortals knew, nothing would get in between his kind and their true mate.
Returning to the bed, he unfolded the note again and ran his fingers over the ink scratched across the paper and closed his eyes. Images flashed before him; images of a petite blonde packing frantically in a small bedroom, a desk cluttered with college mathematics textbooks, folders, and other school memorabilia. He tried to home in on their conversation but the skill of seeing where any object had been didn't include sound; that was something he had just recently started to learn. Their voices warbled as he strained to hear but nothing made sense.
Crumpling the paper in his fist, Michael lurched from the bed and threw the missive against the wall, growling in frustration. He needed Ana; needed to find her before one of them did, and turn her before she could die again. Losing her was too hard, watching her die killed him a little each time. She hated immortals, hunted and killed them; so making her understand that they belonged together; that they were made for each other overwhelmed his soul, but it was his only purpose.
If Orlando truly knew where she was, he needed to find him, now. Michael hated waiting for anything he wanted; dusk was hours away, leaving him with nothing more to do than pace circles in his room. He needed the woman on the beach to work with him; having someone able to move around during the day would be an advantage. He pictured her face as it was before she fled him, she had been struck with fear; her heart's fast cadence thrummed through his head. He would have to gain her trust and make her believe he was there to help, thus gaining access to those files and someone with a common goal during daylight. That might be harder than anticipated if what she feared was him.
As she turned the doorknob, the phone in her little bungalow rang making her jump in the shattered silence. No one knew she was here which made her a little curious. She walked to the phone and hesitated.
"Hello?" she breathed into the receiver, half hoping it was
him
.
"Hello." A cheerful deep voice chimed on the other end. "This is Michael; we met on the beach last night. I hope you don’t mind, I called the agency and had them transfer me to your room."
Danielle felt her knees turn to mush as she listened to his voice. It was as seductive as she remembered, and flashes of their dream embrace played in front of her eyes.
"Michael?" She asked with a shaky voice, and then slid to the floor, clutching the phone with both hands. The same name he had in her dream. Was this some kind of joke? Could she have seen him
and
heard his name at the airport, but have no recollection of the encounter?
"Yes, that's me. Am I disturbing you?" The room spun. The next call she'd be making was to the looney bin. "I never caught your name last night. I feel terribly rude for not introducing myself."
Clearing her throat she searched for words to respond but found none. How could this be happening? How could her dream be walking and talking on the line?
"Are you all right?" Michael sounded concerned at her pregnant pause.
"Yes, I'm fine. Your name is really Michael?" Finally finding her voice, she replied. Pinching her eyes shut, she listened to him breathe.
"Since birth." He chuckled "What should I call you?"
"Danielle." Still reeling from this development she tried to stay calm. "Have we met before last night? Were you in the Sydney airport by chance?" She needed to find some explanation for the hysterical episode she was having.