Midnight Embrace (9 page)

"Are you ill, my lord?" she asked tremulously.

"Yes." He ground the word out between clenched teeth.

She turned toward the sound of his voice. "Is there anything I can do?"

Would she willingly offer him what he craved, what he so desperately needed? In four hundred years, no one had done so. Dared he hope? Dared he ask? Pain twisted inside him like a hellish flame that threatened to burn away what was left of his self-control, urging him to take her, to drink and drink until the pain was gone.

"My lord?"

"I need…"

"My lord… Alesandro, are you in distress?"

The fingers of his right hand curled over her shoulder. "Yes."

"Let me help you."

"Analisa…" He took a deep breath, his left hand curling into a tight fist as he fought to control the beast that raged within him. "Analisa, go! Now!"

"Only tell me what to do, my lord, and…"

She gasped, the words dying in a throat gone dry. He turned his head away, but it was too late. In the blackness that surrounded them, she had glimpsed the hunger that burned like twin flames in his eyes. He could hear her heart hammering in her breast as she backed away from him, only to be brought up short by his hand, still clutching her shoulder.

"Don't," she whispered. "No. Oh, no… please… don't…"

But it was too late to let her go. The pain of his wounds, his excruciating need for nourishment, her nearness, even her fear, beckoned to him, refusing to be denied.

With a low growl, he drew her up against him. Her body was hot against the chill of his own. His hand brushed her hair away from her neck, his tongue skimmed over the smooth skin beneath her ear, tasting rain, and then his fangs pierced her flesh and he drank… Ah, the sweetness, the purity. He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of her life's force flow through him, strengthening him, easing his pain. And mingled with the relief was disgust for what he was, for what he was doing.

Her thoughts drifted into his mind, borne to him on a flood of hot, sweet crimson. Sheer terror thrummed through her every vein, fear of what she had seen, fear of what he was doing. The fear of the unknown. Of death.

Ah, Analisa, there are worse things than death…

The demon within him fought for control, urging him to take it all, to savor every drop, to drink as he had not done since he was a newly made vampire. To drink until he was sated and nothing remained of his prey but a dry empty shell. And it was tempting. Far too tempting.

As his pain eased, he became aware of two things simultaneously: Her heartbeat was slow and faint, and her skin had grown cold. Alarmed by what he had almost done, he lifted his head. His tongue slid over the marks left by his fangs, and then, with a savage cry that was almost a howl, he thrust her away from him. A thought opened the cottage's outer door.

"Leave me," he said, his voice harsh.

She staggered toward the doorway, stepped out into the rain, stumbled and fell to her hands and knees in the mud. Head hanging, she didn't move, hardly seemed to be breathing.

With a curse, he was at her side. Sweeping her into his arms, he hurried back inside. Closed the door. And carried her down into the bowels of his lair.

The shivers that wracked her body had nothing to do with being wet and cold and everything to do with the stark terror that embraced her. If she lived to be a hundred, if she lived past this day, she would never forget the eerie, inhuman glow blazing in his eyes, never forget the sharp prick of his teeth at her throat. Never forget the almost sensual pleasure that had followed, pleasure that had been frightening in its intensity.

She had faced death in the hospital, but it had not been as terrifying as the look in this creature's eyes.

He carried her effortlessly across the room, his feet making no sound on the stone floor as he carried her down a long, winding flight of stairs. She was lost in a dark world, terrified beyond words. Her breath came out in short, shallow gasps. She tried to pray, but the words were trapped in her throat, caught in the web of her fear.

It took her a moment to realize he had stopped moving.

"A light." The words whispered past dry lips. "Can we not have a light? Please."

The words had barely been spoken when several candles sprang to life, filling the room with a soft amber glow. Afraid to look at him, she glanced at her surroundings. The floor was of smooth, dark earth, the walls were of pale gray stone. A large bed covered with a dark quilt stood in the center of the room. There was a single high-backed chair, a small square table made of rough-hewn mahogany. There were no windows, but then, they were far below the ground. Like being buried alive in a tomb made of stone, she thought, and shivered.

He carried her to the bed and placed her on it.

She immediately rolled to the far side and stood up, putting the bed between them. Only then did she risk a look at him. His eyes were no longer a hellish red. Had she imagined it?

"Who are you?" she asked tremulously. "
What
are you? What is this place?"

He bowed from the waist. "It is as I told you. I am Alesandro de Avallone, and this is my home. As for what I am, have you not guessed, my sweet Analisa? No?" He took a deep breath. "I am a vampire."

He watched her eyes widen as the words registered, saw the color drain from her face…

He caught her before she hit the ground.

She swam to consciousness through thick layers of cotton, fighting it all the way, not wanting to face what would be waiting for her when she awoke.

She kept her eyes closed as full consciousness returned, waiting, listening. She was lying on something soft. The bed? Where was he?

"I am here, Analisa." His voice broke the stillness, as deep and dark as death itself. "And I know you are awake."

She opened her eyes, afraid of what she would see. He was standing beside the bed, gazing down at her.

No monster now, but the man she knew. Or thought she knew.

She shook her head. "It can't be true."

"You know it is."

She shook her head again, not wanting to believe, yet knowing, in the deepest part of her, that it was true. Perhaps she had always known. "Are you…" She swallowed hard. "Are you going to kill me?"

"No, Analisa."

Her eyes widened. "You're not going to make me… what you are?"

"No."

She lifted a hand to her neck. "You…" A shudder of revulsion ran through her. "You drank my blood."

"Yes. I am sorry."

"Sorry?" She felt a bubble of hysterical laughter rise in her throat. "Sorry!"

"You should not have come here. What were you doing wandering around out in the rain?"

"I told you. I went for a walk." She sat up, her cheeks flushed with anger. "I didn't know it was going to rain!"

Surprised by her outburst, he felt himself grinning.

"Well, it's true!" she said, annoyed by his reaction.

"Ah, Analisa," he murmured. "You are so young. So very young."

She wanted to deny it, but couldn't summon the words. She felt young. Vulnerable. And afraid. So afraid. "What…" Her mouth was suddenly dry. "What are you going to do with me?"

He ran a hand through his hair, then shook his head. "I wish I knew."

"Please let me go. I won't tell anyone what you are. I won't tell anyone about this place, or what happened here today. I swear it." Who would she tell? she thought frantically. Who would believe her?

"Young," he murmured again. "So very young. There are many who would believe you." He looked past her, his thoughts turned inward. "Many who are searching for me, even now."

"People are looking for you?" She started to ask why, and then realized there was no need. If he was really a vampire, there were undoubtedly many people hunting for him. To destroy him. She remembered the night in the library, his words echoing in her mind.

There have always been tales of vampires, Analisa. Every civilization has its own legends and myths. The
ekimmu of
Sumeria, the
chiang-shih
of China, the
vrykolakas
of Greece
.

She had been so certain then that stories about vampires were only fables, tales told to frighten children. "But I thought… you said you were a doctor."

"I am."

"Who would go to a doctor who was a vampire?" she asked skeptically.

"Those who have been bitten. Those who are dying, without hope."

She lifted a hand to her throat. "You bit me in the hospital, didn't you?"

He nodded.

"And I got better. Dr. Martinson was amazed by my sudden recovery." She looked thoughtful, and then she frowned. "Why would your biting me make me better?"

He lifted one dark brow. "Why, indeed?" he said, and waited for her to make the obvious connection.

Her fingers plucked at the quilt that covered her and then stilled. "You gave me your blood," she said, her voice a whisper of disbelief. "You did, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"And it saved my life? You saved my life. Why? You didn't even know me then."

"I heard your voice calling for help the night I came to you."

"But I wasn't calling for you. And even if I had been, how could you have heard me? And why would you help a stranger who could not pay for your… your treatment?"

"But you did."

She touched her throat again. "You took my blood, in payment?"

"A life for a life, sweet Analisa."

The thought of his drinking her blood, of taking his in return, made her stomach clench.

"Would you rather be dead?" he asked quietly.

"Of course not. Why did you invite me to come here?"

He drew in a deep breath. "Because you had nowhere else to go."

"I don't believe you."

"It is the truth." Part of the truth, at any rate, he thought.

"You wanted my blood, didn't you?" she said, her voice filled with accusation. "A ready supply."

He did not deny it. How could he?

Her eyes widened with horror. "You gave me your blood. Am I… will I become"—she couldn't say the word—"what you are?"

He shook his head. "No. I did not give you enough to bring you across."

"Am I your prisoner, then?"

"Have you been treated like a prisoner?"

"No. You've been very kind. Very generous."

"A small price, for what you have given me."

She looked up at him. He stood there, unmoving, his gaze fixed on her face. He looked as he had when she first saw him, tall and dark and lean, shrouded in shades of mystery. Had his eyes truly burned with that hellish fire, or had it been her imagination?

She lifted her hand to her throat. "How often do you have to… ?" She paused. Did he call it eating or drinking? The whole idea suddenly seemed ludicrous, so why did she feel like crying?

"Do you really want to know?

She shook her head. "You said I'm not a prisoner?"

"Yes."

"Then I'm free to go?"

"Is that what you wish? To leave this place?" The words
to leave me
hung unspoken in the air between them.

"I… I don't know." She stared at him a moment, then frowned. "How have you managed to keep your secret from Mrs. Thornfield?"

"She knows."

"She knows!" Analisa exclaimed. "I don't believe it." Her eyes widened. "Is she a vampire, too? But, no, she couldn't be, could she?"

"No, my dear."

"Does everyone know what you are except me?"

"No. Only Mrs. Thornfield."

"And you trust her?"

He nodded. "With my life. The rest of the staff knows nothing." He stared at her, his gaze fierce. "And you will not tell them."

"No, I won't. Were you ill before? You looked strange, and sounded… odd."

He blew out a breath that seemed to come from the very depths of his soul, and then he sat down on the edge of the bed.

"I am a vampire, Analisa. Much of what people say of my kind is untrue. What is true is that I must have blood to survive. I cannot bear the light of the sun, and I am vulnerable during the hours of daylight. I am constantly at war with what I am, constantly struggling to survive. We are predators, hunters. Killers."

She clasped her hands to still their trembling. "Why are you telling me this?"

"I do not know. I have never told anyone else, save Mrs. Thornfield."

"How long have you been a… a vampire?"

"Just over four hundred years."

She stared at him. "Four hundred years!" She shook her head, unable to comprehend such a thing. "You must have had many wives in that time. And children."

"I have never married."

"Never? Why not?"