Prince of Twilight (10 page)

“I've come back to you, Vlad,” Elisabeta whispered. She twisted in the bed like a contented cat, hugging the pillow, clutching the sheet. “And this time, it will be forever.”

“Is she dead, then? Have you managed to evict her from the body without my help after all?”

Beta thrust out her lower lip, sitting up in the bed. “Why do you care? I'm the one you love. I'm the one you're meant to be with. Your wife, Vlad. I'm your wife.”

“You don't have to remind me of that. I've been trying to find you again since you died, Elisabeta.”

“But I didn't die,” she told him. “Not completely. Your magicians and your sorcerers wouldn't let me die. They imprisoned my essence in some in-between state—they bound it to the ring. I couldn't have moved on even had I wanted to. But I didn't want to, Vlad. I didn't want to leave you. And I haven't.”

She blinked those huge, dark eyes up at him, and he saw them fill with tears. “Vlad, why aren't you happy? Isn't this what you wanted?”

“It's all I've wanted,” he told her. He put on his
clothes, but she was still weeping, and he didn't have it in him to turn a cold shoulder to her. Even as unused as he was to showing affection, he couldn't remain cold. Not to her, not to his Elisabeta. He sank onto the bed and pulled her into his arms, holding her gently. “I've never stopped loving you, Beta. Nor stopped wishing you could return. But I have to know—is she dead?”

She stared at him, and he knew, before she even spoke, that she would lie. So he pressed his lips to hers to stop her from speaking at all, and as she melted in his arms and opened to his kiss, he entered her mind as easily as a warm knife through butter, and he read what was there.

But there were no specific thoughts, no answers. Just a sense of vehemence, hatred and fury that shocked him, and he drew away from her kiss as if burned by it. He also felt Tempest still there, alive, but trapped. Like a captive inside her own body.

“My love?” Elisabeta whispered. “Can't you stay with me? Just for a short while longer?”

“No, Beta. I must go. And so must you. Tempest's friends will be coming for her soon. They'll know what you've done unless you…recede. Go back to sleep inside her, and wait until the time is right.”

Her lips went tight. “I won't. It's too hard to get
control. If I release it, I might never get it back again.”

“You will,” he promised. “I'll help you. Don't you trust me?” He cupped her cheek. “Please, Beta. Let her come back to herself. Just for now.”

She held his gaze, and for a moment he saw anger glittering in the depths of her eyes. But then she blinked it away, averted her face and nodded once. “All right. I'll do as you ask. For now.”

She lay down in the bed, pulled the covers over herself, and closed her eyes. In a few moments her breath came slowly and evenly.

Vlad touched her face, her hair. “Tempest?”

She didn't reply, just kept on sleeping. He tried probing her mind but found it blocked to him. She'd taken refuge, put up the blocks she'd somehow learned to build—most likely by years of working with and for his kind—to keep him out.

Elisabeta. She wasn't the woman he remembered. But whatever she'd become, he knew he bore the blame. Imprisoned, trapped for hundreds of years—how could she not lose herself to fury and anger and…perhaps even madness?

“I'm sorry, Beta. I'm sorry for what I did to you. I promise I'll make it up to you, no matter what I have to do.”

Pressing a kiss to her forehead, he rose from the bed and went to the windows and leapt to the ground, but never landed. Instead, he changed forms and flew as a nightbird over the walls of the Athena mansion.

H
e wanted another woman.

Elisabeta's borrowed heart felt as if it were slowly turning to a chunk of cold ice. Her prince, her husband, who had promised her eternal life, still wanted her, yes. But he wanted his precious Tempest, as well.

Well, she'd fooled him. She'd pretended to obey his wishes, to withdraw and allow Tempest to return to control. In truth, she'd only feigned sleep until he left the room.

But no more.

The woman whose body she possessed, Tempest, who called herself Stormy—the enemy—writhed within, struggled to regain control. Elisabeta felt her own grip weakening and knew she had to work fast. She had to do what was necessary and do it quickly. And she wasn't certain she trusted Vlad to do it for her. She had to do this on her own.

“You're not coming back,” she told the one she'd displaced. “Not this time.”

 

Stormy dreamed. And more pieces of her past returned. Once again she was in Romania, in Vlad's castle.

Vlad carried an oil lamp from the great room, and led her toward the wide and cold stone staircase. The bannister was wood, solid and coated in dust. Not ornately carved, but beautiful in a rough and rustic way. He didn't take her hand as he led the way. She walked beside him, and when a piece of one of the stone stairs fell away beneath his foot and he had to grip the rail to keep from falling, she clasped his upper arm instinctively.

He looked at her, the lantern glow flickering between them, his eyes intense, as if he, too, felt the power that seemed to surge between them with any physical contact whatsoever. It surged even in something as innocuous as her hand on his biceps.

She had to lower her gaze from the burning intensity in his eyes. She shifted it to the lamp instead. “Maybe I should carry that, given that your kind are nearly as combustible as the lamp oil.”

He lifted his brows but didn't object as she took the lamp from his hand. She held it by its slender neck, between the wide glass base and the sphere that held the
oil. Its chimney was tall and narrow, sooty near the top. It was warm to the touch, unlike the man who'd been carrying it.

They resumed climbing the stairs and moved along a high-ceilinged corridor past arching doors that each seemed to be cut from a single slab of wood. Black iron hinges and knobs gave the place a gothic feel that was fitting, she thought. Pausing at one of the doors, he pushed it open wide and let her precede him with the light.

Its golden warmth spilled onto a huge canopy bed with sheer white curtains surrounding it. It was stacked high with pillows and covered by a thick comforter. And the room was remarkably dust free. She moved closer to the bed, noting the tall windows in the far wall, the thick red draperies held back with fringed golden ties. Bending, she ran a hand over the comforter and caught the freshly washed scent coming from the bedding.

“It's clean,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at him.

He stood near the doorway. “I phoned ahead. Asked the caretakers to come in and make up a room for you. I hope it's comfortable.”

“It's fine.” It was more than fine. It was darkly beautiful, like something out of a gothic fairy tale. She turned and held up the lamp to look around, noticing the ornate, ancient-looking furnishings, a rocking chair, writing desk and chest of drawers and wardrobe. There was
a fireplace here, too, and she set the lamp on the mantle, and glanced into the hearth to see wood and kindling laid ready for the touch of a match.

He came closer then, removed the screen and took a long wooden match from a tin holder on the mantle. With a flick of his thumbnail on the matchhead, it flared to life, and he bent to light the kindling.

“You do mess around with fire a lot, for a vampire.”

He shrugged. “I'm careful.”

She nodded toward the windows. “What about those? Are the drapes thick enough to…?” She let her words die as he turned to look at her, the question in his eyes.

“I hadn't planned to rest here with you, Tempest. Though if you would prefer me to, I—”

“No. No, that's not what I meant.” She averted her eyes, shaking her head in denial, though it had been exactly what she had meant. She'd just assumed…. “Actually, I'll be grateful for the privacy. I have a lot of thinking to do. I just—I'm not used to sleeping by day, and the sun streaming in might keep me awake.”

“I see.” She was afraid he did. All too well.

He moved to the windows, untied the golden cords and tugged the draperies together, blocking out the graying sky beyond. “Better?”

“Much. But I could have done that.” She dared to look at his face again and was surprised to see that his
eyelids had become heavy, kept drifting closed. “Go on, go to bed. I can handle things from here.”

He nodded but seemed hesitant to leave, even then.

“I'm not going to run away, Vlad. We made a deal. I always keep my word.”

“That's good to know. Good rest, then, Tempest.”

“You too. See you at sundown.”

He nodded and left her alone in the room.

As the fire licked to life, the room grew brighter. Bright enough to let her explore it more thoroughly. There was a dressing table, and its surface was far from bare. There were a gorgeous silver hairbrush, comb and hand mirror lying on the top, and she wondered if they'd been there before or if he'd had them brought in for her. She wondered if they'd been Elisabeta's, then thought they would surely be tarnished with age if they had. Curious, she opened some of the drawers and found that they were not empty, either. A selection of undergarments—bras and panties, nightgowns and camisoles, and a few pairs of socks—filled them. Frowning, she moved to the wardrobe and opened its doors, wondering if she would find fancy dresses and gowns.

She didn't. Its hangers were filled with jeans and blouses, and a warm coat. Two pairs of shoes sat on a shelf—hiking shoes and running shoes. She picked up a shoe and looked at the number on the bottom. It was
her size. The chest of drawers held sweaters and T-shirts. He'd definitely had these things brought in for her. And he knew her sizes, and her style.

Another door revealed a bathroom that was surprisingly modern, at least in comparison to the rest of the castle. Indoor plumbing must have been a more recent addition. The tub was old, claw footed and deep. The sink was a pedestal model, the toilet a huge one that must have been manufactured in the fifties. All the fixtures were brass and shining. Towels and washcloths, all clean smelling, were stacked on a shelf. And a small stand with a mirror behind it and a stool in front held bottles and jars—familiar ones.

Hair care products, moisturizer, soaps and razors, and a supply of makeup. All her brands. All her colors.

My God, how did he know so much about her?

Stormy wasn't sure whether to be touched that he'd gone to so much trouble, taken so much care, to provide for her comfort, or creeped out by the fact that he seemed to have dug into her life—or maybe her mind—so deeply without her knowledge.

Maybe she was a little of both.

She would have loved a shower, but that wasn't an option. No showerhead. Sighing, she put the stopper into the tub and started a bath running. Then she went back into the bedroom to choose a nightgown. The one she
pulled out was long and white and flowing. Perfect attire for the heroine in a gothic novel, stranded in a strange castle in a foreign land with a vampire for a host. Why not?

The bath relaxed her; the nightgown felt heavenly against her skin. She hadn't expected to be able to sleep at all, but when she crawled into the bed, she knew she would. The mattress was covered in a downy featherbed, and her body sank into it as if she were sinking into a cloud. So comforting and warm, with the down-filled comforter snuggling her and the pillows cradling her head. She thought it would put the most hopeless insomniac to sleep. She sank into slumber as soon as she'd pulled the covers around her shoulders.

She slept for a long time. Deep, uninterrupted, blissful, restful sleep.

Until the dream came.

In the dream, she wasn't herself. She was someone else. Elisabeta. Oh, it was Stormy's body, her face, but the other woman's eyes lived in it. She was standing on the edge of a cliff, getting ready to jump.

Stormy felt as if she were inside the body of the other woman but not in control. It was as if she was just along for the ride. But she knew everything Elisabeta knew, felt everything she felt, as she stood on that precipice, high above a thundering waterfall. The night
sky above her was dotted with stars, and behind her, grasses and wildflowers spread out as far as she could see. But her gaze was drawn to the woman again. Somehow she could see her, even though she felt trapped inside her.

Elisabeta wore a simple dress that reached to her feet. There were grief and loneliness, a great yawning emptiness, inside her, filled only with pain beyond human endurance. It hurt so much. Stormy felt it. She ached with it.

I've lost everyone. Everyone I ever loved. I have nothing left.

The Plague, Stormy thought slowly. Elisabeta's family had been taken by the Plague. Her mother. Her father. Her brothers. Her baby sister.

“Alanya.” Stormy whispered the baby's name as it floated into her awareness. “She was only two.” Her throat went tight, and she felt tears burning in her eyes. Tears…for Elisabeta.

There was something else wrong with the woman. Woman? No, she wasn't even that. She was barely more than a girl. Her mind was awash with overwhelming emotions, and her body—her body was weak and sick. She'd been growing weaker for a long time now, and she knew, deep down, that whatever was wrong with her would get no better. She saw no need to go on
living, suffering from a mysterious malady that would surely kill her anyway, now that her family was gone.

She's one of The Chosen, Stormy realized. One of those mortals with the Belladonna Antigen—the only ones who can become vampires. They always weaken and die young, but God, not that young.

The Undead sense that kind. They watch over them, protect them. Where was her protector now? Stormy wondered.

She heard a shout, glimpsed a man on the opposite cliff. But it was too late for him to stop her.

“I'm finished,” the tormented girl whispered. She opened her arms and rocked forward, just let go. Her body fell, and Stormy fell with it. The pounding foam and rocks below jetted toward her at dizzying speeds, and her stomach felt as if it had stayed behind on the ledge.

And then something was shooting toward her, a person, arrowing through the sky. His body hit hers, driving the breath from her lungs, and then he turned, putting himself beneath her. When they hit, she swore she felt his bones crack before the water swallowed them both. She heard his grunt of pain. He'd broken her fall. He'd kept her from dying. And then water embraced them, and for a moment everything was icy cold and pitch-black.

But then there was a shout.

“He's mine!” the tormented, grief-stricken young thing shouted, and in an instant it was as if Stormy was staring straight into Elisabeta's eyes. The woman spoke without moving her lips.
He's mine, and I have nothing else. You will not keep me from him.
She closed her small hands on Stormy's throat and squeezed.

When Stormy had woken that dark night so long ago, she'd found herself clawing at the hands on her throat and choking, struggling to breathe. But there were no hands there. She had gagged and struggled as the dream clung to her, then sat up and finally sucked in a desperate breath. The sensation of being strangled faded as if it had never been.

But she soon realized that she wasn't in the big, soft bed anymore. She wasn't even in the castle.

She was sitting up in a grassy field that stretched out forever and was bordered by distant forest. The wind was wafting over her, gentle, not harsh, but cold, and it carried a peculiar dampness that wet her skin. There was a roar in her ears, one that sent a chill to her bones. Slowly, she got to her feet and turned in a half circle, and then she went still and sucked in a breath.

Because there was nothing, just empty space at her
feet. Across the yawning, rocky chasm, a waterfall thundered and plummeted into the river below, and a huge cloud of wet mist rose up to engulf her.

“Oh, God. Oh, Jesus.” She took a step backward, away from the edge, hugging herself and dragging in breath after breath of precious air. Her body was shaking. Her throat felt bruised, her lungs tight. God, it was so real! Elisabeta had been choking her. And somehow she'd made her way out here, to the very place she'd seen in her dreams.

Lifting her head, she shot a panicked glance at the night around her. But there was no one. She was alone.

Not alone,
she thought.
Not exactly. The enemy is inside me.

Pressing her hands to her head, she waited for her breathing to steady and her heart to stop racing. Gradually she recovered, and the dizziness—no doubt from being strangled half to death—faded.

Could she have died? Was it possible for an invasive presence to kill her from within her own body? It felt as if it was.