In the Dark

Dedication

For Chelsea, who untiringly debated vampire theory with me into the wee, small hours of the night. Who allowed me to read the whole book aloud to her—scene by scene by scene. And who never complained, no matter how many revisions I made.

Thanks as always to John and Dillon for being the endless sources of inspiration that you are; and for always being there even when I'm not “all there”.

To Katie Bryan, Jodi Lynn Copeland and TL Schaefer—still the best critique partners in the world. Thanks for once again talking me off the ledge and out of killing off all my characters. You know I want to!

And special thanks to Linda Bass, Sherry Cammer, Jill Fox, Terese C. Hansen, Susan Muller, Colleen Poor and Michelle Sandusky for so graciously coming to the aid of a frazzled author and for reading so much of this book in first draft form. I hope the end result does not disappoint!

 

 

“Memory is the one paradise out of which we cannot be driven.”

Sacha Guitry

 

“In the dark, it's just you and I;

Not a sound, there's not one sigh,

Just the beat of my poor heart in the dark.”

Lil Green ~ In the Dark

Prologue

San Francisco, California

Saturday, November 1st, 1969

When you live forever you're bound to make a few mistakes. It goes with the territory, especially if you're still partly human. To err is human—isn't that how the saying goes? It doesn't matter how old or how careful or how intelligent you are. Every now and again there's going to be something you fail to take into account. It's inevitable. There's really very little in this world more prone to miscalculation than the human heart…or even the
mostly
human heart.

It wasn't that Conrad Quintano thought himself immune to such failings, but after almost twelve hundred years he
had
grown a bit complacent. How many missteps could there be left for him to take? He thought he'd seen it all—everything new and old under the sun—life, death, comedy, tragedy, the rise and fall of civilizations; all the glory and depredation of which humankind is capable. But he hadn't ever seen anything like Suzanne Marie Fischer. Lovely. Desperate. Dying.

Suzanne, or Desert Rose as she was calling herself at the time, had been living on the streets of San Francisco when he met her. A petite, free-spirited, dark-eyed waif, she was only one of countless teenage runaways drawn to the city by Scott McKenzie's lyrics in the waning days of the 1960s.

She certainly wasn't the first pretty face to ever cross Conrad's path and even he knew she wasn't likely to be the last. All the same, he fell for her the way old men have always fallen for young girls—hard. He was blinded by his feelings for her, by his lust, his love, his passion, his need. Call it what you will. He was rendered thoughtless, selfish, reckless, ruthless. And so he came to make what was, quite possibly, the biggest mistake of his very long life.

“My babies?” Suzanne gasped the last time he saw her, her agony finally beginning to make itself apparent, determination blazing suddenly in her dark eyes. “They're… Are they…?”

“They're fine,” Conrad responded automatically, gazing at her helplessly; the woman he'd loved. The woman he'd killed. He had no idea how it was she could still talk, or even breathe. Certainly her heart was no longer beating. If it was he'd have heard it. “A boy and a girl. They're both…fine.”

“No.” Her head rocked back and forth. “
Not
fine. They're your kind, aren't they? They're like you?”

“They're Vampire, yes.” He'd known them for what they were the moment he'd laid eyes on them—even though the idea ran counter to everything he'd previously believed to be possible. Newly born vampire twins. That was something even a millennia's worth of experience hadn't prepared him for.

Vampires were made, not born. He knew that to be an indisputable fact. And, yet…

“I could tell. I could feel them growing inside me and…and I knew.”

But Conrad couldn't face thinking about what she'd known, what she'd felt, all she must have gone through these past months in order to carry her babies to term. “Who did this to you?” he demanded instead, gesturing at the bandages that covered her savaged throat, focusing his rage on a matter he could do something about—exacting his revenge on her attacker. “Who hurt you like this? Tell me.”

Suzanne shook her head. Perhaps she didn't know the answer. Perhaps she no longer cared. “Take them,” she murmured, her gaze holding tenaciously to his, her voice even fainter than before. “Safer with you.”

“What?”

“S-s-save them. For me?”

Them? It took a moment for her meaning to become clear to him. She was asking him to care for her children, the babies who should not have been born, whose very existence spelled disaster, both for them and for anyone foolish enough to try and shield them.

Conrad roused himself from his own feelings—from his grief, his confusion, his pain, his loss—long enough to consider hers. He met her gaze and nodded. “I will,
mignonne
. I promise. I'll protect them with my very life. Forever.”

Suzanne seemed satisfied, but then the fire went out in her eyes, leaving only the pain. “Hurts,” she whimpered weakly. “Kill…me. P-p-please…”

Conrad stared back at her sadly. Even if he could have brought himself to honor this final request, it would have been too late. As her eyes closed and she slipped away from him for what would be the very last time, he stroked her hair and answered softly, “I already have, little one.”

Chapter One

Present Day

“Can you believe we're finally here?” Marc asked as the limousine pulled to a stop in front of the expansive Victorian mansion. He was out of the car and across the sidewalk in a flash. Given that he didn't wait for her response, his sister assumed the question was rhetorical. “Jules, come see this place,” he called as he stared through the fence. “It's huge!”

Julie Fischer took her time joining her twin on the sidewalk. They'd been waiting years for this moment to arrive. She wasn't going to rush now and spoil it. Happily breathing in the moist, fog-laden air of San Francisco, she glanced around curiously. They'd seen very little of the city on the drive in. The car that had been sent to pick them up from the train station in Emeryville, on the other side of the Oakland Bay Bridge, had been equipped with windows specially darkened to protect their sensitive eyes from exposure to the setting sun. But night had finally fallen—blessedly dark, blissfully cool.

“Well?” Marc inquired impatiently as he turned to take their bags from the driver. “What do you think?”

Julie cast an appraising eye over the edifice before them, or as much of it as she could see through the wrought-iron bars and the engulfing vegetation. Conrad's house. Home.
At last!
They'd been hearing about this place their entire lives, but this was the first time since they were babies they were actually seeing it. She sighed, vaguely disappointed when no memory surfaced. “I guess I thought it would be more…I dunno, gothic, or something.”

“You and your damned clichés.” Marc shot her a disgusted look. “So, what're you saying? Red, black and overgrown isn't broody enough for you now? You were hoping for a moldy old castle, maybe?”

Julie sighed. “No. You know that's not what I'm saying either.” Okay, so she had to admit, the landscaping was a tad on the
uber
-mature side. What might once have been a conventional lawn was now no more than a patchy green blanket of moss spread between the tangled roots of a mixed stand of evergreens—redwood, hemlock, laurel—that combined to create a lot more shade than most people would find tolerable. The bulk of the house had been painted a deep, striking shade of red, a color commonly known as oxblood, but Julie had read enough about historical design trends to suspect that the trim and the gables, everything Marc was calling black, was actually a Van Dyke brown. A not uncommon color combination for structures of this period, not that it mattered. Marc's point, such as it was, was valid. This house was home to vampires. It looked the part. It just wasn't what she'd been expecting.

Before she could reply further, they were interrupted by a large, slightly menacing figure who emerged from the gatehouse, clipboard in hand, to inquire, “Can I help you folks?”

Julie's hormones perked up as she looked the man over—all six and a half heavily muscled feet of him. Late twenties. Caucasian. Reasonably healthy. He had close-cropped dark hair and suspicious blue eyes she was fairly certain would prove a dead match, color-wise, for his nicely snug jeans.
Yum
. “We're here to see Conrad,” she said, nodding at the Quintano family crest embroidered on his black polo shirt—the same design that had been worked into the iron of the gate. She tested the air around him. Hunger burned in her veins. Definitely human. Recently fed upon. Still semi-enthralled.
I could have him.
Her fangs pulsed at the thought and it was all she could do to keep from licking her lips.
I could have him right now.

“Certainly, Miss. If you'll give me your names I'll check and see if you're on the list.”

She drifted closer, throwing all the power of her will at his mind—just for the fun of it. “You don't need our names,” she murmured in her most compelling voice.

For a moment, it seemed to work. He drew back slightly, blinking in surprise. His eyes heated as he looked her up and down. She smiled as she sensed his determination start to waver. Then he shook his head and frowned at her sternly. “Yes, Miss, I'm afraid I do.”

“Marc and Julie Fischer,” her brother supplied, stepping in before Julie could make another attempt. He grabbed hold of her arm, just above the elbow, whispering, “Down, girl,” in her ear as he forced her to back away from the man.

“Thank you, sir.” The gatekeeper glanced at his clipboard, then punched a code into the gate's control panel. “Go right ahead.”

“Spoilsport,” Julie grumbled as she took back her arm.

They headed up the brick walkway to the house. Marc smiled mockingly at her. “You don't need our names,” he said, adding in his best Darth Vader voice, “Oh, the force is strong in this one—not!”

Julie elbowed her brother in the ribs. “Shut up, Marc.” Really, though, she supposed she deserved his teasing this time around. She should have known better than to try and countermand orders the gatekeeper had probably received from Conrad himself. When had that ever worked before?

The Victorian's double front doors were standing open. As the twins climbed the white marble stairs to the porch, they could hear music coming from inside the house; drums and horns and hot, Latin guitars.

“Sounds like someone's throwing a party,” Marc observed as they stepped inside the dark, paneled entrance.

“You think maybe it's for us?” Julie suggested hopefully. “You know, like a surprise homecoming party or something? I mean, we still don't know why we're here so…it could be anything, right?” It had been a shock to be so suddenly summoned here, with no explanation offered, after years of being told that either the time or the circumstances weren't right.

Marc shook his head. “Little noisy for a surprise, don't you think?” He put their bags on the floor next to the ornate brass coat tree and glanced distractedly around the empty foyer. “I dunno. Something doesn't feel right.”

They hesitated for a moment longer but no one appeared to greet them. Curious, they followed the sounds—the laughter, the music, the chatter of voices—toward the rear of the house.

The closer they drew to the noise, the stronger the smells became. Wine and incense, arousal and sweat and most potent of all, layered beneath the rest, the sweet, rich, coppery scent of fresh blood. Julie's mouth was watering by the time they reached their destination.

“Holy shit,” her brother muttered, stopping dead in his tracks. Julie found herself nodding in agreement. The center of the large, dimly lit room had been cleared of furniture to serve as a dance floor. Most of those dancing were barely clothed and phenomenally well-toned and all of them, male and female, vampire and human alike, wore expressions of almost orgasmic bliss.

“And then some.” Julie's gaze traversed the room's perimeter, which seemed to have been lined with a succession of chaises and sofas and piles of pillows, all occupied by small groups feeding from one another. “Wow.”

Suddenly, a loud commotion arose from the low dais at the far end of the room. “
Ay, ay, ay,
” a familiar voice called out in greeting. “
Mis queridos—
you're here!” Make that
almost
familiar. Julie stared in consternation as a tall, sculpted figure rose from the chaise upon which he'd been reclining and hurried forward to greet them. The voice was Damian's, all right, but the tone—high-pitched and excited—was entirely more Chihuahua-like than she'd been expecting.