Authors: Amanda Ashley
But all was quiet within the tent.
Deathly quiet.
Marisa scrambled to her feet, wincing as she did so. Looking down, she saw blood dripping from a shallow laceration just above her right ankle.
Pulling a handkerchief from her purse, she mopped up the blood; then, with a grimace, she tossed the hanky in a trash can and hurried out of the tent.
Blood. Warm and sweet and fresh. The scent of it filled the air, teasing his nostrils, tantalizing his senses, awakening a thirst that had lain dormant for a hundred years.
Blood.
The woman's blood.
His hand tingled as he remembered the touch of her hand, her fingers warm and soft, the throb of her pulse beckoning him.
He fought through layers of blackness, a century of darkness, all his senses honed on the irresistible scent of the woman's blood.
He flexed his hands, his shoulders, licked his lips as the Hunger roared to life.
With an effort, he opened his eyes. A cry of outrage rumbled deep in his throat when he saw the crosses. Three of them, all silver.
With the return of awareness came pain
the pain of the silver chains that bound him, the raging Hunger that had not been fed for a hundred years.
Ignoring the pain and the Hunger, he reached deep inside himself, calling
on the strength of a thousand years
Marisa came awake with the sound of her own screams ringing in her ears. Breathing heavily, she switched on the bedside lamp and glanced around, relieved to find herself safe at home, in her own bed.
Her hand went to her neck, her fingers anxiously probing the skin beneath her left ear. There didn't seem to be any bite marks. There was no blood.
"A dream," she murmured, "it was only a dream."
But it had seemed so real. The creature bending over the bed, his gray eyes glowing an unholy red in the darkness, his hands like claws as they clamped over her shoulders to hold her in place, his long reddish brown hair brushing against her cheek as he leaned over her, his fangs poised at her throat.
So real, she thought, so real.
Leaving the light on, she drew the covers up to her chin, afraid to close her eyes, afraid to go back to sleep for fear the nightmare would find her again.
Marisa returned to the carnival the following Monday evening after work, hoping that by seeing the vampire again, by assuring herself that it was still there, she would somehow be freed of the nightmares that had been plaguing her dreams for the past three nights. Why she thought seeing the creature again would put an end to her bad dreams instead of causing more remained unclear as she parked her car on a side street and ran through the light drizzle that had started falling at sundown.
She paused when she reached the lot, surprised to see that the food booths were gone. Several of the rides had been dismantled; in the distance, she could see three men taking down the Ferris wheel. Another man was trying to load a skittish horse into a trailer. No one paid her any attention.
The ticket-taker's booth was empty. A black-and-white sign was propped in front of the window. It read:
CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE
For a moment, she stared at the sign; then, glancing around to make sure no one was watching, she ducked into the big tent. It was empty. She could hear her heart pounding in her ears as she approached the smaller tent.
Taking a deep breath, she stepped inside.
This tent was empty, too. The dais stood in the center of the floor, but the ebony coffin was nowhere to be seen.
"May I help you?"
The sound of a woman's voice startled her. Whirling around, Marisa recognized the girl she had seen on Friday. The girl had been wearing a short red skirt, ballerina slippers, an off-the-shoulder blouse, and long, dangling red earrings then. Today, she looked as though she had just returned from a funeral. The severe black dress made her look older than her years. She wore a black scarf over her hair. A filigreed silver crucifix hung from a thick silver chain around her neck. Wide silver bracelets adorned both wrists.
"I came to see the vampire."
The girl frowned at her a moment. Her eyes were red, as if she had been crying.
"Ah, yes," she said, "you were here on All Hallow's Eve, weren't you?"
"Yes." Marisa glanced at the center of the tent where the coffin had been. "Where is it?"
The girl looked around the tent, her fingers worrying the crucifix.
Was she imagining it, Marisa wondered, or did the girl's movements seem furtive, fearful?
"Is something wrong?" Marisa asked.
"What? Oh, no. I regret the… the count is no longer available for viewing."
"No longer available? Why not?"
The girl hesitated before answering, and Marisa had the distinct impression that she was choosing her words with great care. "The body is being… restored."
"I see," Marisa said. "Do you know when he… when it will be finished?"
The girl's hand tightened over the cross. "I'm sorry, but I couldn't say."
"Is Silvano here?"
The girl looked at Marisa sharply; then, expelling a deep, shuddering sigh, she shook her head.
"It looks like you're packing up."
"Yes, I'm afraid unexpected business has called us away. I'm sorry you made the trip out here for nothing. Good evening to you."
"Yes, good night."
Marisa watched the girl leave, then walked to the center of the tent and stared at the empty platform. The girl had said the body was being "restored." What, exactly, did that mean? How did one go about "restoring" a body that wasn't quite dead?
She felt a sudden coldness at the base of her neck, an eerie sensation that she was no longer alone. She glanced at the doorway, thinking the girl had returned, but there was no one there.
"You came to see the vampyre?"
Marisa whirled around, her heart leaping into her throat. "Good Lord, you startled me!" She stared at the stranger, wondering how he had gotten into the tent. She had been facing the doorway. Surely she would have seen him come in. He was not a man who would pass unnoticed.
His long black hair was wet from the rain. His brows were thick and straight. He was tall and broad shouldered, with the trim build of an athlete, yet his skin was pale, as if he didn't spend much time in the sun. He wore a bulky gray sweater; tight black jeans hugged his long legs. There was mud on his boots.
"Forgive me," he said. "I didn't mean to frighten you."
His voice was low and deep, and it slid over her skin like warm satin.
"That's all right."
He glanced at the place where the coffin had been and she saw a muscle twitch in his jaw. And then, like a wolf sniffing the air, he lifted his head, his nostrils flaring.
Marisa shivered as his eyes met hers, deep black eyes that seemed to probe the very depths of her heart and soul. The devil would have eyes like that. The thought came out of nowhere.
"Did you come to see it, too?" she asked. "The vampire, I mean?"
"Yes."
She took a step backward, uncomfortable standing so close to him without knowing why. "They told me it's being restored, whatever that means."
A smile so faint she wasn't sure it even qualified as a smile touched his lips. Full, sensuous lips. "Is that what they said?"
Marisa nodded, enchanted by his voice. Never had she heard anything like it: low, mellifluous. An angel's voice.
Grigori studied the woman for a moment, noting that she was quite lovely. Her shoulder-length hair was dark brown with a slight curl; her eyes were bright and green, like fine-quality emeralds. Her lips were finely sculpted, warm and generous.
Inviting. A pink sweater and faded black Levi's revealed a petite figure with softly rounded curves in all the right places.
"And do you believe in vampyres?" he asked.
"Of course not. He was probably just some old guy they hired for a few days." Yes, she thought, that was it.
"Yet you came back. I wonder why."
"I'm not sure." She met his gaze, a challenge in her eyes. "You don't look much like a man who believes in vampires and things that go bump in the night, either, but you're here."
He lifted one black brow. "Indeed? You would be surprised by what I believe in."
"No doubt," Marisa retorted. "Well…" She settled her handbag on her shoulder. "Good night."
He stared after her a moment, watching the gentle sway of her hips as she exited the tent. Then, remembering his reason for being there, he crossed the floor and delved through the trash can until he found a wadded-up handkerchief. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, a quiver of longing running through him as he inhaled the scent of blood.
His eyelids flew open as he recognized the scent. It was the woman's blood that stained the cloth.
Shoving the handkerchief into his back pocket, he hurried after her.
Standing in the rain, he watched her climb behind the wheel of a late-model Honda Prelude. And then, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, oblivious to the lightning that split the clouds, he followed her home.
Marisa took a long, hot shower, sprinkled herself liberally with dusting powder, then pulled on a pair of stretch jeans, a sweatshirt, and a pair of thick socks and curled up on the sofa. She nipped through the TV channels for a minute, then switched off the set. Reaching for a book, she tried to read, but after she found herself reading the same page for the fourth time, she tossed the book aside.
Too restless to sit still, she went into the kitchen to fix something to eat and then, on a whim, decided to go out instead.
She pulled on a pair of boots, and then, grabbing her purse and an umbrella, she left the house. The rain was no more than a fine mist now, though the clouds still hung dark and ominous in the sky. She contemplated taking her car, but decided a walk in the fresh air would do her good.
Angelo's was her favorite restaurant, a cozy little Italian place with red-checked tablecloths, candles in old Chianti bottles, and a relaxed atmosphere. It was located a couple of blocks away, and Marisa went there often. The owners were friendly and the spaghetti couldn't be beat.
Standing under the restaurant's awning, Marisa shook the rain from her umbrella, then went inside and took a seat at a booth in the back. She smiled at the waiter who handed her a menu.
She was trying to decide whether to have rigatoni or ravioli when she realized she was being watched.
Lowering the menu, Marisa glanced around the restaurant, felt her heart catch in her throat as she saw the dark-haired man from the carnival walking toward her.
He smiled as he reached her table. "Hello again."
"What are you doing here?"
"Seeking company on a stormy night, perhaps. I see you are alone. Would you mind if I joined you?"
Of course she'd mind. She didn't know a thing about the guy, not even his name.
The prudent thing would be to tell him to get lost. She knew that. Still, for no reason she could think of, she found herself inviting him to sit down.
Graceful as a leaf falling from a tree, he slid into the seat across from her.
"Do you come here often?" Marisa asked.
"No, this is my first time." He smiled at her. It was a totally disarming smile, revealing teeth white enough for a toothpaste commercial. "Fortuitous, don't you think?"
At a loss for words, Marisa nodded. She was glad when Tommy came to take her order.
"Hey, sweet cheeks," the waiter said with a wink, "how's it going?"
Marisa shook her head. Tommy was a hopeless flirt. He was studying accounting in college, and worked at the restaurant four nights a week. He was under the delusion that he was irresistible.
"So," Tommy purred, "what'll it be?"
"Rigatoni, I think."
"Excellent choice. Rigatoni and a glass of Chianti."
Marisa grinned. "You know me too well."
"Not as well as I'd like," Tommy replied, waggling his eyebrows at her. "And what can I get for you, sir?"
"A glass of red wine. Very dry."
"Coming right up," Tommy said.
Marisa spread her napkin over her lap. "You're not eating?"
"I dined earlier. I only stopped in for a drink."
"Oh."
"You must come here often," he remarked.
"Yeah, usually once or twice a week. Cooking isn't my favorite thing, and the food here is good, and inexpensive."
She looked up and smiled as Tommy brought their wine.
The stranger picked up his glass. "A toast?"
"What shall we drink to?"
"New friends?" he suggested.
Marisa picked up her glass. "New friends."
He watched her over the rim of his glass as she swallowed.
"I'm afraid I don't know your name, new friend."
"Forgive me. I am Grigori." He extended his hand.
"Marisa Richards."
He took her hand in his. His grip was gentle, yet firm, his skin cool.
"It is my pleasure, Marisa Richards."
His words slid over her, richer than dark chocolate, more intoxicating than the wine in her glass.
"So, Grigori, what do you do for a living?"
"Magic, mostly. And you?"
"Magic!" She cocked her head to one side, and then nodded. Yes, she could easily imagine him standing on a stage clad all in black, a silk cape billowing around him. "You're a magician?"
He shrugged. "Among other things."
"Are you performing here in town?"
"Not at the moment."
"Oh, that's too bad. I don't suppose you'd show me one of your secrets?"
"I'm afraid not."
"I didn't think you would. There's some sort of magician's oath or something, isn't there?"
"Yes," Grigori said, smiling faintly. "A very ancient oath not to reveal our secrets. You did not tell me what it is you do," he reminded her.
"I'm a legal secretary at Salazar and Salazar. The elder Mr. Salazar is my boss. A tyrant if ever there was one." She smiled. "Maybe you could make him disappear."