Just worrying about the possibility of turning into a creature like Vasile made her head ache. Better to think of something else. She looked at Santiago. “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“When were you born? What was your life like before you became a vampire?”
Leaning back on the sofa, he slipped his arm around her shoulders. “I was born in the time of the conquistadors in what is now New Mexico. My mother was Apache. My father was a conquistador who deserted his post. He was found wandering in Apache land, half out of his mind from exhaustion and lack of water. The People took him in and nursed him back to health. He died in a hunting accident a few years after I was born. My mother soon followed. My grandfather raised me to be a warrior.”
“Joaquin Santiago is a funny name for an Apache warrior.”
“My Apache name is Nepotonje.”
“Ne-pot-on-je? What does it mean?”
“Bear Watcher.”
“So, how did you go from being a warrior to a vampire?”
“I had left the village in search of buffalo. The third night, as I sat by my fire, a woman came to me, she asked if she could warm herself. I had never seen anything like her before. She had silver hair that reached past her waist and dark eyes that sometimes looked red in the light of the fire. She was not Apache, yet she spoke my language as if she had been born to it. I offered her food and drink but she refused.
“She said very little but suddenly I was aware that she was sitting close beside me, and then she placed her hand on my thigh. In spite of the heat of the fire, her skin was cool, yet her touch burned like fire itself.
“I started to ask her if she was ill, but she placed her hand over my mouth, silencing me, and then she kissed me. I remember very little after that. When I could think again, she told me she had given me the gift of eternal life. I would have to drink blood to survive, and because the gods would be jealous of my immortality, I would only be allowed to live by night.
“I wanted to question her but I was suddenly wracked with pain. She stood over me, watching dispassionately while I writhed in agony in the dirt at her feet. There was nothing to be afraid of, she said, it was just the death of my old body and the birth of my new one.
“When the worst of the pain had passed, she knelt beside me, her lips cool as she kissed my cheek. ‘Find a place to hide from the sun,’ she whispered. ‘Or your new life will be over before it begins.’ And then she disappeared.”
“She left you out there, alone?”
“Yes.”
“Just like that? Where did she go?”
“I have no idea. I never saw her again. I never knew her name or where she came from.”
“It must have been awful for you.”
He nodded. “The next few weeks were filled with confusion and self-loathing. I craved blood the way an addict craves cocaine. Because I was afraid that I would prey upon my own people, I left the Apache and preyed on our enemies.
“I had been roaming the land like a wild animal for about a year when I attacked a man who turned out to be a man of learning.” Naveen had been a short, slender man with long brown hair and the face of a saint. He had been an old man, even then.
“He begged me to spare his life,” Santiago said after a moment. “He promised that he would do whatever I asked. I kept him as a slave for several years, feeding off him at my leisure. In return, I made sure that he had the best food and drink I could steal. At my request, he taught me to speak English and French and Latin. He taught me of the world, and how to read and write. When he had taught me everything he knew, I let him go. I spent the next seventy-five years traveling the world.”
And what a world it had been! Especially for a man who had been raised with the Indians. He had visited every continent, every country, marveling at what mankind had accomplished—the art, the literature, the inventions of the time. So much to see, so much to learn. He had spent years reading every book he could get his hands on. He had toured palaces and cathedrals old and new and wandered through museums and zoos, awed as much by the works of the masters as he was by the strange animals that he saw. If he had to enter such places by night and by stealth, then so be it. Silent as a ghost, he had walked the dark halls of the world’s art galleries and museums, admiring the works of Picasso and Chagall, Goya and da Vinci, Michelangelo and Cézanne, Raphael and van Gogh.
Santiago expelled a deep breath. “Eventually, I grew weary of wandering and I settled in the hill country of Romania. It was there that I met Marishka.”
“Ah, a woman, at last,” Regan murmured. “I should have known there would be a woman sooner or later.”
He made a soft sound of assent, remembering the beauty of Marishka’s smile, the warmth of her flashing brown eyes. “She was a wild Gypsy woman with the body of a temptress and the soul of a saint.”
“You loved her, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And she loved you?”
“Yes.”
“Did she know what you were?”
He nodded.
“And she didn’t care?”
“She never knew until it was too late.”
“You made her a vampire against her will?”
He nodded again, his expression shuttered, leaving her to wonder if he had regretted bestowing the Dark Trick upon her. As much as she wanted to ask, she didn’t have the nerve to probe into something that was still painful even after such a long time.
“Where does Vasile come into all this?”
“Marishka and I settled in a little village outside of Transylvania. Vasile found us there six months later. He killed Marishka while she slept. It wasn’t until Vasile came to your apartment that I learned he had been in love with her. He had killed her for leaving him.”
“I’m so sorry,” she murmured, though the words seemed inadequate.
Santiago nodded. Vasile was here, in the city. It had been Santiago’s intent to hunt the werewolf down and kill him for destroying Marishka, but now that would have to wait. Revenge would not restore Marishka’s life. It was Regan he must think of now. It was her life that was in danger, and only he could save her. Choosing between revenge and saving Regan’s life was no choice at all. Regan had to come first. Avenging Marishka’s death would have to wait.
“What about other vampires?” Regan asked.
“What about them?”
“I don’t know. I mean, don’t you have any vampire friends here in the city?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I do not trust any of them.”
“Why not? I mean, you’re like them.”
“It is not normal for vampires to gather together. Werewolves run in packs. Vampires are by nature solitary creatures.”
“Really? I didn’t know that.” She looked thoughtful a moment. “What about women? You must have known a lot of them in your long life.”
“Yes,” he replied, looking past her, “but I have loved only one.”
She looked at him, her eyes wide with surprise, or perhaps disbelief—it was hard to tell. He wondered what she would say if he told her he was very much afraid he was falling in love with her, and that he feared his growing fondness for her would only bring about her death. No doubt the best thing he could do for Regan Delaney would be to leave her, and yet that was something he could not do. If he left her now, alone and defenseless…no, it was out of the question. He could not leave Regan at the werewolf’s mercy; he could not let her face the next full moon alone.
“What of you?” he said, stroking her cheek with the tip of one finger. “Tell me of you.”
She shrugged. “There’s nothing to tell. I was born in Chicago, the youngest of three children. My parents still live there. My younger brother, Josh, is a test pilot. My older brother, Kevin, is married.”
“And you are not.”
“No. I guess I’m still looking for Mr. Right.”
“Why were you at the scene of the murder
in the park?”
“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” she said with forced aplomb. “I used to be a vampire hunter, before your kind became an endangered species and put me out of a job.”
Santiago looked at her, one brow raised. She had surprised him that time, Regan thought, and wondered, somewhat apprehensively, what his reaction would be. It was entirely possible that she had just made the biggest mistake of her life. Vampires and vampires hunters were like oil and water. They just didn’t mix.
“I do not believe you,” he said at last.
“Well, it’s true!”
He shook his head. “Why would you pursue such a distasteful career?”
She took a deep breath. His hand, resting on her shoulder, seemed suddenly heavy. “A vampire killed my best friend, Amy.”
“Ah.” He understood the need for revenge all too well.
“We were seniors in high school when she met Dante. Of course, we didn’t know he was a vampire. He just seemed like a nice guy. Amy fell for him really hard. The summer we graduated, she spent practically every minute of every night with him. And then one night she didn’t come home. The police found her body two days later.”
“I am sorry for your loss.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“But the pain is still there. How does one become a hunter? I always thought it was like a rite of passage, passed on from father to son.”
“I took classes from a school in Los Angeles.” Rigorous classes, she recalled. At the time, she had thought she had learned everything there was to know about vampires—how to detect them, how to render them helpless, how to destroy them. Only after meeting Santiago did she realize she still had a lot to learn. “I passed the test and received my credential as a hunter. A year later, I was hired as an investigator for the police department.”
“A test?” he asked, his eyes glinting with wry amusement. “What kind of test?”
“Nothing like what you’re thinking,” she replied tartly. But close. Students had practiced staking and beheading on dummies that were all too lifelike. Three students had fainted the first time they had to take a head. She prided herself on the fact that she hadn’t been one of them.
Santiago looked at her through heavy-lidded eyes, the weight of his gaze like a physical caress as it moved over her face, touching on her lips before moving down to her throat, sliding downward to linger on her breasts before returning to her lips.
“Ah, Regan,” he said, his voice low and enticing, “you have no idea what I’m thinking.”
To the contrary, she knew exactly what he was thinking. It was there, in the sudden heat of his eyes, in the lazy sensuality of his voice, in the way his arm tightened around her shoulders.
He laughed softly as her breathing became erratic. “Perhaps I was wrong.” He leaned toward her, his intentions clear. “Perhaps you do know.”
She stared at him, confused by the conflicting emotions that plagued her. He was a vampire, Nosferatu, Undead. She shouldn’t want his kiss or his caress. Why didn’t he disgust her the way others of his kind did? Why didn’t she find his very existence repulsive? She had met other vampires. They had all been handsome and charming, and yet their very nature had repelled her. She didn’t know why Santiago should be any different, but he was. He enchanted her with a look, mesmerized her with a smile, and enraptured her with a kiss. Why was he the exception to the rule?
All her questions and confusion were wiped away when his mouth closed over hers. His tongue seared her lower lip and she opened for him, hungry for the taste of him. Her tongue met his, tentative and uncertain, but only for a moment. Desire unfurled deep within the very innermost part of her, unleashing a shiver of pleasure as he kissed her again, and yet again, each kiss deeper and more intimate than the last. His hand moved up and down her back, massaged her nape, tangled in her hair. His thigh pressed intimately against her own.
There was a roaring in her ears. Images flitted through her mind. Images of the two of them locked in a torrid embrace. Images that were so real, she felt herself blushing.
He drew back, his eyes hot. “Isn’t that what you were thinking about?” he asked, his voice husky with desire.
She nodded, her cheeks burning under his probing gaze. She only hoped he didn’t know that she had been thinking of something far more intimate than kisses. She took a deep breath. It was time to end this now, before things got entirely out of hand.
Taking another deep breath, she said, “How soon can we go look for the shaman in the Hills?”
His look said he understood her tactics all too well. “We will go to your house tomorrow night so you can pack whatever you need. We will leave the night after that.”
“But how…I mean, it’s a long way to the Black Hills. What will you do during the day?”
“Sleep, I should imagine.”
“But…Are we going to fly?”
“No, drive.” He could cover short distances at remarkable speeds, but South Dakota was beyond even his ability. Planes made him claustrophobic. AirTrains and AutoBuses were overcrowded and offered no protection from the sun. Behind the wheel of his own car, he was in control. “There will be motels along the way.” He looked at her, his expression sober. “I am trusting that you will watch over me while I rest.”
“Watch over you? You don’t mean you want me to watch you…sleep?”
“No. Only to stay inside and make sure no one disturbs my resting place.”
She didn’t like the idea. A blind man could have seen that. But she didn’t argue, and he hadn’t expected her to. She had a great deal at stake.
They left at dusk two nights later. Regan felt a rush of excitement as Santiago handed her into his car, a sleek black convertible Speedster equipped with every possible luxury one could imagine, and then some.
She sank back in the remarkably soft leather seat as he pulled away from the curb. They were going to look for a shaman who reportedly had a cure for lycanthropy. If they didn’t find him, or if they found him and he had no cure, what then? She had asked Santiago to take her life if she turned fanged and furry, but she didn’t want to die. She tried to imagine herself as a werewolf, her life revolving around the phases of the moon. She couldn’t conceive of such a thing, couldn’t picture herself as a wolf, couldn’t imagine what it would be like to hunt for prey or to rend human flesh. Who would have thought that her whole life could turn upside down in such a short time? It seemed too bizarre to be real. If only she would wake up and find it had all been a bad dream.
She looked over at Santiago as he pulled onto the highway. “Do you like being a vampire?”
He glanced at her, one brow raised. “Are you thinking of embracing the Dark Trick?”
“No, of course not! I was just wondering…”
“What it is like to be different from the rest of the world? To prey on mankind?”
“Yes.” It sounded much worse when it was put into words.
“I have been a vampire far longer than I was a mortal man,” he said. “I scarcely remember my other life.”
“If you could choose, would you rather be a vampire or a werewolf?”
“A vampire, to be sure.”
Glancing out the window, Regan considered the similarities and differences between the two. Werewolves were ruled by the pull of the moon; vampires were repelled by the sun. Both killed indiscriminately. Both had remarkable powers of regeneration and healing. Both were, for all intents and purposes, immortal. But werewolves were living creatures. Vampires were not.
She looked at Santiago again. “Doesn’t it bother you, that you’re…you know? Dead.”
“Do I look dead?” he asked, a note of amusement in his voice.
“No, but…”
“Do I act dead?”
“No, but…”
“Did you think I was dead when I kissed you?”
She swallowed hard at the memory, which was all too vivid in her mind. “No.” She didn’t care for the direction their conversa
tion was going at all. “So, how will we find this shaman?”
“He is said to live in a cave at the top of the Black Hills.”
“A cave?”
Santiago shrugged. “Some say he is a werewolf himself, and that he lives in the cave as a penance for the lives he has taken.”
“But if he has as cure…why wouldn’t he use it?”
“Perhaps he likes being a werewolf.”
“No,” she said vehemently. “I’m sorry, I can’t believe that. I can’t believe anyone would want to be a werewolf, or a…”
“Or a vampire?”
“Or a vampire.”
“And if you had to choose between the two, Regan Delaney, which would you be?” he asked quietly.
“Have you killed a lot of people?”
“Define a lot.”
“One is a lot,” she said, her voice sharp.
“Then I have definitely killed a lot.”
“How many?”
“I have not kept a record.” The only kills he remembered were the first ones, when the hunger had been excruciating, the pain overpowering, and the hunt exhilarating.
“Ten?” she prodded. “Twenty? Fifty? A hundred?”
Telling himself to be patient, Santiago took a deep breath. He couldn’t blame her, he supposed, for being worried and afraid, or for trying to find out all she could about him. He was, after all, a stranger, and a vampire.
“As I said, I haven’t kept a record, but I would guess the number to be rather high. I have regrets, of course,” he remarked. “Do I wish those I killed were alive? Yes. Would I wish to be dead in their place? No.” He stilled her next question with an upraised hand. “Not all the people I have killed have been prey. Some were killed in self-defense. And some…” He met her gaze. “Some were vampire hunters.”
Her face paled a little at that admission. “What about Vasile? Do you know how many…?”
“I have no idea.”
She fell silent, her thoughts turned inward as she watched the moonlit countryside rush by. After a time, Santiago turned on the radio. Regan closed her eyes, lulled to sleep by the car’s movement and the music.
Santiago felt himself relax. Not that he minded answering her questions. He couldn’t blame her for being curious, couldn’t fault her for wondering about his past or how many people he had killed. She had known him less than a month and her life was, after all, in his hands.
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