After Sundown, Page 3

  It had been the scent of her blood that had roused Kristov from his long sleep. He had gone on a rampage, killing over a dozen people before Edward and Grigori joined forces and destroyed him. In the hunt for Kristov, they had discovered that Grigori's first wife, Antoinette, whom he'd thought dead for two hundred years, had not been dead at all. Transformed by Kristov, she had existed for two centuries as a revenant, a creature with no mind or will of her own. In the end, it had been Edward who had freed her soul and laid her body to rest. Even now, it was all so hard to accept. So many things she would never have believed had played out before her eyes.

  She shook off the grim thoughts of the past as she watched Grigori pace the floor. "Something's troubling you," she remarked. "What is it? What's wrong?"

  He turned to face her. "He's very powerful. More powerful than I would have expected."

  "Edward is? Really?"

  Grigori grunted softly. "He has Kristov's blood in his veins. And mine. And Khira's," he added, thinking of the beautiful vampyre who had brought him across over two hundred years ago.

  "How can he be so powerful so soon?"

  "He has good blood," Grigori said with a wry grin. "When a very old vampyre brings a mortal across, he bequeaths a part of his strength." And Kristov had been a very old vampyre—indeed, the oldest vampyre Grigori had ever met. Kristov's blood, combined with Khira's and his own, made for a very powerful combination.

  "Is that a problem?" Marisa asked. "His being powerful?"

  "It could be. He is powerful, but he is a young vampyre who does not yet fully understand what has happened to him, what powers he possesses. He lacks wisdom and experience. It could be a dangerous combination."

  "I'm not sure I understand."

  "The Dark Gift affects people differently. Some get drunk with the power. Some go insane. Some look for ways to help mankind. And some turn into monsters, like Kristov."

  "A monster? Edward?" She smiled. In spite of what Edward had done for a living, she couldn't imagine him as a monster. There had been an old-world courtliness about him, a gentleness. An innate goodness.

  "It cannot be easy for him to accept that he has become what he once destroyed."

  "No, I guess not. I wonder what he'll do now. For a living, I mean." She looked at Grigori and laughed. A living. That was funny. "You know what I mean."

  "He is an intelligent man. I am sure he can find a suitable career." A faint smile tugged at Grigori's lips. "He will have plenty of time to find one." He sat down beside her on the sofa and drew her into his arms. "Enough talk about Ramsey."

  Marisa snuggled against him, loving the feel of his arms around her. She felt safe in his embrace, loved, cherished. All her doubts and fears faded away. In time, she would accept the Dark Gift from him, and they would truly be one. Soon, but not yet.

  "Cara…"

  She gazed up at him, felt her skin tingle as his preternatural power moved over her skin like a dark warm wind. They had been married only a short time, and the fire that had ever smoldered between them quickly sparked to life. It was exhilarating to be in his arms. He was a creature such as she had never known before—a man who had lived for centuries, who had incredible strength, who possessed powers she did not fully understand. He could mesmerize her with a look, destroy her with a touch, charm her with a smile. He had the strength of ten men, yet he was ever gentle with her.

  Her eyelids fluttered down as he dropped kisses as light as rain upon her brow, her cheeks, her eyelids. His tongue was like a flame against her throat, a silent entreaty. She moaned softly, tilting her head to one side, inviting him to take what he needed.

  "Cara…"

  There was no pain, just an oddly sensual feeling of euphoria as his fangs grazed her throat. And she surrendered to him completely, lost in the wonder and the magic that was Grigori.

  Chapter 3

  Ramsey felt stronger, more confident, when he woke the next night. He showered, then dressed in a brown pullover sweater and beige slacks. He grimaced when he looked in the mirror. It was time to change his image. No more beige and brown for him. He had been dull and boring long enough.

  Shoving his billfold into his back pocket, he left his room, deciding, on a whim, to head for the mall. He was surprised to find himself there, among the bright lights and the throng of late shoppers, almost as soon as the thought crossed his mind. For a moment, he was overcome by a wave of dizziness, intoxicated by the scent of so much blood, the dull roar of so many heartbeats. The lights hurt his eyes; the noise pounded at his eardrums. He closed his eyes, focusing his will, and found that he could mute the noise, control the dizziness, and concentrate on his purpose here. Once again, Chiavari had been right.

  He went into an exclusive men's shop and indulged himself beyond anything he would have imagined before he had received the Dark Gift. He purchased a complete new wardrobe. Shirts, slacks, sweaters, socks, underwear. Nothing brown or tan. Nothing beige. He was heartily sick of brown, sick of tweeds, sick of dressing like some stuffy sixty-year-old college professor. He bought several pairs of shoes and, on a whim, a pair of snakeskin cowboy boots.

  One night next week he would start looking for a new place to live. Perhaps he would buy a new car, something sleek and sporty. He had never owned a house, never owned a new car. He had spent his whole adult life in hotels and motels. Well, all that was about to change. He had a rather tidy sum saved up. Vampire hunting had been a lucrative career. Ramseys had been hunting vampires for hundreds of years. The first Ramsey had turned vampire hunter to avenge the death of his wife. His knowledge and wisdom had been handed down from father to son for generations, as had the instinct to hunt, which, over time, had become second nature. In the old days, hunters had been paid in corn and wheat more often than gold or silver. But not anymore. The Ramsey family had money behind them now, thanks to a vengeful millionaire who had lost his only daughter to one of the undead.

  Brian Francis Throckmorten had been so grateful when Harold Ramsey had staked the vampire who killed his daughter, that he had set up a fund to ensure that the Ramsey family and its heirs would always have the means to hunt and destroy the undead. Only there would be no heirs now, Ramsey thought bitterly. He was the last of his line. In fifteen or twenty years, should he survive that long, he would have to pretend to be his own son in order to continue drawing on the trust. He grunted softly. Perhaps he could donate funds to some obscure university with the stipulation that they use the money to research diseases of the blood in hopes of finding a way to reverse the effects of the Dark Gift. Or maybe he could open a training school for vampire hunters…

  Returning to his room, he rummaged through his purchases, deciding on a pair of black jeans and a bulky white sweater. He paused in front of the mirror, a faint smile playing over his face. He had never been a handsome man. Had anyone asked, he would have described himself as ordinary. Now, transformed by the blood of the three vampires that burned in his veins, he looked younger, more virile. Not handsome, he mused—even the blood of a vampire couldn't work miracles.

  But… powerful. Dangerous.

  A vampire.

  Vampire… He shook his head ruefully. "I am a vampire."

  Even as he said it, he didn't quite believe it, not deep down. But his blood sang in his veins at the declaration, stirring him to action.

  He ran a hand over his hair, worn short ever since he had been a boy learning the lore of his vampire-hunting ancestors, absorbing the seriousness of his family calling. But that was over now. Past history. He had become what he had hunted.

  Perhaps he would let his hair grow long.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, he pulled on his new cowboy boots and left the hotel.

  Some of his newfound confidence waned as he entered a small neighborhood bar. Country music blared from a loudspeaker. Half a dozen couples were line dancing.

  He went to the bar and ordered a drink, which he held but didn't taste. He was studying the crowd when a slender young woman with w
avy brown hair and large green eyes sidled up to him.

  Hands on hips, she looked him up and down. "You don't look like a cowboy," she remarked with a come-hither smile.

  She was a pretty thing. She wore a tight-fitting cowboy shirt, fringed blue-jean shorts, and a pair of white boots.

  "Perhaps because I am not," he replied with a faint smile.

  "I don't remember seeing you here before."

  "I have never been in here before." He swore under his breath. She was coming on to him, something no woman had ever done before, and he had no idea how to respond. While other boys had been dating, he had been out with his grandfather, learning how to track and slay vampires. Not exactly suitable training for the dating game.

  She placed her hand on his chest, her fingers making slow circular motions. "Would you like to dance?"

  "I fear I must refuse."

  "That's too bad. It would be a good way for us to get to know each other better."

  "I'm afraid I never learned how."

  She slid her arm through his, tilted her head to one side, ran the tip of her tongue over her lower lip. "That's okay, honey. I know a quiet place down the street where I can teach you."

  He felt a surge of excitement as he placed his untouched drink on the bar and took her hand in his.

  She chatted about some country singer he'd never heard of as they walked down the street. When they reached an alley, Ramsey pulled her inside and pushed her up against the wall.

  She looked startled, then laughed nervously. "What are you doing?"

  He didn't know what to say, felt all his doubts rise up to mock him. You are a vampire. Play the part. He gazed deep into her eyes. Summoning his power, he bent her will to his, felt her body relax at his suggestion. Her eyelids fluttered down, her head lolled to one side, exposing the smooth expanse of her neck.

  He took a deep breath. "Any man who can track a vampyre to its lair and cut off its head shouldn't have any trouble finding something to drink." Chiavari's words echoed in the back of his mind as he bent over the woman's neck.

  Revulsion warred with his hunger. The hunger won, rising up within him, hot and hungry and overpowering. He drank quickly, sickened by what he was doing, filled with bitter self-loathing because even though the act disgusted him, he found pleasure in it. Power flowed through him, thrummed through his veins, expanded his mind.

  Not too much! He was proud of himself as he drew back. He had taken only a little.

  I can do this. He repeated the words aloud. "I can do this." He didn't have to kill. He didn't have to be a monster like Alexi Kristov. The woman caught in his dark embrace would never miss the small amount of blood he had taken.

  Pleased with his self-restraint, he put his arm around her shoulders and led her out of the alley. Releasing his hold on her mind, he took her by the hand and started walking.

  She blinked at him several times, like someone who had just been roused from a deep sleep.

  "Is this the place you were talking about?" Ramsey asked.

  "What?" She looked up at the blinking neon light that identified the place as The Sea Nymph Motel. "Yes. Yes, it is."

  "Is something wrong?"

  "No. No, I guess not." Her flirtatious manner was gone. She looked suddenly shy, nervous in his presence, unsure of herself. She glanced up at the neon sign again, her face wan in the artificial light Her brow furrowed. "Do you mind if we do this another night? I feel sort of… strange."

  "I'm sorry to hear that. Can I see you home?"

  "What? Oh, no, I'll be fine. Good night." She stared at him a moment, then turned and hurried back down the street.

  Whistling softly, he headed for home.

  "Move over, Dracula," he muttered wryly. "Look out, Lestat. Ramsey is here."

  Chapter 4

  She stood on the far edge of the pier, staring down into the still, black water below. It looked cold, cold enough to numb her pain. Jump, she thought. All she had to do was jump and it would be all over. What did she have to live for, anyway? She had no family, no lover or any prospect of one, no friends to speak of. No job, no money. No reason to go on.

  How long would it take to drown? Not long, she thought, since she couldn't swim. Would it hurt? At this time of year, the water would be cold—one sudden, gasping shock and she would probably be unconscious. As a child, she had been afraid of the dark, terrified of dying. She had slept with a light on until the summer her grandmother came to stay with them. Grandma Hansen had told her stories of heaven, of the blue-eyed, golden-haired Angel of Death who came to earth to escort the spirits of the dead into the next world.

  As she grew older, she had stopped believing in angels. There were no such things as heavenly escorts.

  There was no heaven, and surely life was hell enough for anyone. She found it strangely comforting now to believe that there was nothing after this miserable existence, to believe that she could plunge to her death and find peace in the endless black void of eternity. No more pain, no more tears, no more heartaches. She had achieved success once, and blown it big time. She wouldn't fail at this. One last success—and oblivion.

  Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and let herself go. Just let herself go. And then she was falling, falling, the wind rushing against her ears, her arms involuntarily outstretched. It was, she thought, almost like flying…

  Ramsey stood on the pier near the stairs, gazing down into the ocean, his expression thoughtful. The moon was reflected on the face of the dark water, a brilliant yellow that rippled and shimmered. He cast no reflection at all. But that was to be expected. He was one of the undead he had hunted all his adult life. Yet he could still see himself in a mirror. He pondered that for awhile, thinking how odd it was that a looking glass reflected his image but water didn't, and then shrugged. Still, casting no reflection in the moonlit water was unsettling, as if he no longer existed. A fitting irony, he thought, that he should spend eternity as the very creature he had spent his life destroying.

  He grinned ruefully. In point of fact, he didn't exist anymore—at least not as anything the world would recognize. Perhaps the natural world—free-flowing water, the glowing moon—mocked his peculiar existence now. It was all like a bad dream, a nightmare from which he would never awake.

  But did one feel that throbbing hunger in the middle of a nightmare? he wondered with grim humor, thinking it was just the sort of sardonic musing he had come to expect from Chiavari. He shook his head at the irony. More than just his wardrobe had changed in the past month.

  But he wasn't thinking just then of his new Porsche, or of the new house he had acquired, all in this relatively short time. He had thought it would be difficult to convince the real estate people to come to their office at night to close the sale, but he hadn't reckoned with his new powers of persuasion.

  His mood lifted, and he grinned into the darkness. His new house, located near the end of a quiet street in an old neighborhood, looked like something out of Dark Shadows. It was two stories high, with an attic and a basement. The windows were high and arched. There was even a turret on the southeast corner. It was, he thought, the perfect abode for a vampire.

  The sense of power, of invincibility, flowed strongly through him, overcoming his lingering repugnance. With each succeeding night, each feeding, his qualms seemed to grow weaker. And his power to grow. Perhaps one day he would be as powerful as Chiavari.

  A sudden movement on the far end of the pier interrupted his reverie.

  With his preternatural senses, he had been all too aware of the young woman lingering there, easy prey on a cold dark night.

  Now she was climbing over the rail, plunging toward the water, arms outstretched. Caught in a wash of silver moonlight, she looked like a raven-haired angel plummeting to earth.

  She hit with a loud splash, disappeared for a moment, then bobbed to the surface like a cork, her hair spreading across the rippling water like silken seaweed. The tide was coming in, and it swept her toward the shore, her cloth
ing dragging her under. He left the pier and went around to the steps that led to the sand. Hurrying now, his gaze swept the dark water. At first, he saw nothing, and then he saw her, her body tumbling in the tide that was carrying her toward the shore.

  Wading into the water, he grabbed her by the shoulder. She was unconscious, no doubt from the impact of hitting the frigid water. There were dark smudges under her eyes. Her face was pale, her lips tinged with blue. She was far too thin. Kneeling, he laid her on the sand, took off his coat and wrapped it around her, then gathered her into his arms once again.

  He stared down at her. He had not yet fed. The Siren call of her blood whispered to the hunger within him. He suppressed the urge, pleased by his power to do so. She was unconscious, weak, her life force feeble. To feed now, while she was unconscious, was somehow repugnant. More important, it would put her life at risk. Thus far, he had left all his victims with their lives. This frail waif would be no exception. He gazed at the planes of her face, bared and vulnerable in the moonlight, felt the damp swing of her heavy hair against his arm as he gained his feet. Looking at her filled him with a kind of aching tenderness. He would take her home, revive her, strengthen her. And then he would feed, at his leisure.

  She woke slowly, reluctantly, surprised to find she was still alive. Where was she? It was too much of an effort to raise her head.