The Dracove (The Prophecy series)

by N. L. Gervasio

  He shook his head, made a few nasty comments under his breath, and pushed his way through the snickering crowd. She looked up at Cianán, who watched Rob walk away.

  Cianán turned to her. A warm smile returned to his lips. “Pleasurable lad.”

  She laughed. “Yeah, a real nice guy. I’m sorry about that.”

  “S’all right. I think ye handled it well. You’ve a great strength within you.”

  “Thank you. Would you like to go someplace quieter?”

  “After you.” He motioned for her to lead the way.

  She took his hand and they pushed through the crowd to the patio. “This is much better. Now I’ll actually be able to hear you.”

  His eyes sparkled in the moonlight cascading across his face.

  Cianán leaned a shoulder against a column and hooked his left thumb into his pants pocket. “Does that lad ‘ave a habit o’ botherin’ ye?”

  “Not really, not anymore. He thinks he’s God’s gift to women, and he doesn’t even know how to treat them. It’s really kind of sad.”

  He shrugged. “There’re men in the world who treat women as possessions rather than partners. Unfortunately, they ne’er learn. They see women as weak when women are stronger. Women ‘ave a much higher pain tol’rance, an’ ‘ave the ability to create life. That feat alone is as close to God as anyone could wish to get.”

  Cianán memorized every detail of her face, though it wasn’t needed. She looked so much like the woman he’d lost five hundred years past. This was the first time he’d been so close to Kylie. He first saw her in his mind’s eye—visions that came long before her parents’ death—but he could never see her face until she was older. Fate wouldn’t allow him to see everything. Understandably so; he would have taken her from her parents when she was a baby.

  His prey was thirty-two now, and the time to use her drew near. However, he was uncertain she bore the mark. He knew she was of Pádraig’s bloodline; her similarity to the other woman was too much to ignore. But not all of the women in the line bore the mark.

  Once again, the Fates would let him know when to proceed. He’d waited this long, what were a few more days?

  Kylie had such a natural beauty, and the hint of vanilla he smelled on her was such a soothing scent—

  “That was an extraordinary statement,” she said at last.

  “I thank you; nevertheless it’s true when ye think about it. I’ve the utmost admiration for women, for they ‘ave abilities I could never hope to achieve, no matter how hard I try.”

  She smirked. “You wish to give birth?”

  He chuckled. “Well, no, I don’ think I’d survive the agony. I ‘ave, however, experienced the creation of life, but to actually have a life grow inside ye, to develop within, must be exhilarating. It’s a power no man shall e’er ‘ave.”

  “I’ve never met a man who thinks like you do.”

  “An’ you’ll not meet one again.” He grinned. “So, Miss O’Rourke, what do ye do?”

  “I’m an artist.” She lowered her head again. Her coyness piqued his curiosity. “I have a gallery in Scottsdale.”

  “Canvas?”

  She nodded and looked up at him once more.

  “Acrylics or oils?”

  “Several mediums, actually.”

  He could see talking about her passion reduced the shyness. “I love the arts. I’d like to see your work sometime.”

  Her emerald eyes brightened. “Certainly. I’m usually there every day.”

  He nodded. “Ye must be very good to ‘ave your own gallery.”

  She smiled at him. “I hope so; otherwise I’ve been wasting my time.”

  “It’s what ye were destined to do, I’m certain. Do ye believe in destiny, Kylie?”

  “Yes,” she said with a nod.

  “So do I.”

  He took her hand again and kissed the back of it. She bowed her head and cleared her throat before looking at him again.

  “Where are you from? You have a strong accent.”

  He smiled. “The land of Éire.”

  “Oh . . . Isn’t it called Ireland now?”

  He tilted his head, and touched her cheek. “An’ she certainly does ‘ave a bit o’ wit about ‘er,” he said. “Aye, that’s what most people call it.”

  “But you don’t.”

  “No, I prefer ‘The Land of Éire’. Means the same; however, I believe it sounds more mystical, such is the land.”

  “My family is from there as well.”

  “Aye, I can see it in you.”

  “I didn’t think one could tell just by looking.”

  “Aside from your red hair and fair skin, possibly not.” A touch of sarcasm lingered in his deep voice. “But you’d be surprised at what one can see when they look into the eyes.”

  “I don’t think I’d be at all surprised,” she said.

  “No? I s’pose not.” He leaned forward. “Besides, your name gives it away, Miss O’Rourke.”

  She laughed. “Good point.”

  A gentle breeze wisped its fingers through her hair . . . and then silence. The world fell away. No music . . . no chatter from the people on the patio around them . . . only the cessations of sound. He stared into her deep green eyes, unnatural with their flecks of true gold. She was Éire, a part of the land herself. He stared into her glistening eyes while they talked through the night.

  He shifted his gaze to his watch. It was after midnight and he had to contact Conor soon. His few hours of playtime vanished in a snap, as it always did. Even his time with Siobhán seemed very short in comparison to his immortal existence.

  “I hate to do this just after meeting ye. This has been wonderful so far, but I must go.”

  “Why, is your coach going to turn into a pumpkin?”

  He laughed. “If that were true, it would’ve done so by now an’ I’d be standing before ye in rags for clothes.” He tapped his watch and smiled. “May I call on you, Miss O’Rourke?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dinner tomorrow, if you’re not otherwise engaged?”

  “I’m not.” She handed him her business card.

  “I’ll call ye tomorrow then. Good eve, Kylie.”

  Cianán leaned forward. She thought he was going to kiss her lips, but he moved and kissed her cheek. Then he was gone and she stood alone. She walked swiftly through the club to find Ana again, and tell her all about Cianán.

  “I knew he was interested,” Ana said. “He wouldn’t take his eyes off you.”

  “Well, I’m supposed to have dinner with him tomorrow night,” she replied. “I hope he isn’t boring. He doesn’t seem to be.”

  “He didn’t look like the boring type.”

  “True, he seems to be very old fash—“ She gasped. “Oh shit, there’s Rob again. I’ll be back.” She slipped out of sight into the crowd.

  Several minutes later, she walked through the club on her way back to Ana. Her eyes locked with another man’s for only a second. But during that second, time slowed to a mere hum, leaving the two of them to share the experience of what seemed eternal. It pulled her into a world not known to her. A whirlwind of events took place in an instant, showing her past, present, and future before dissipating in a cloud.

  Then the man she’d locked eyes with was gone, and she was left dizzy and oblivious as to what happened.

  Grant, on the other hand, was completely aware of what’d just transpired. That mere second of a glance was like nothing he’d ever encountered in his lifetime, which had been a very long one. It was a beautiful experience, until someone bumped into him and he was knocked out of her line of sight. The idiot even tried to say Grant ran into him. Drunken fool. He walked away from the man, not willing to get into the confrontation in front of so many people. The man taunted him for a bit, but grew tired of it soon after. Grant continued his walk around the dance floor, ignoring him and looking for her.

  He spent the rest of his time watching her from afar, seeing if he could once again lear
n more about her . . . until he noticed a certain someone leaving.

  Grant strolled through the parking lot, intrigued by the woman he’d been following for the past few days. He’d seen the whole thing—the ex-boyfriend scene. Heard it, really . . . in his mind. It was somewhat difficult to see her with so many people around. That, and he didn’t want to be seen by Cianán, his Master. They hadn’t spoken in over two hundred years, and they certainly didn’t part on good terms. No one was allowed to leave the coven without the Master’s approval.

  He thought about Kylie and the way they’d met earlier in the day. The corners of his mouth turned up into a faint smile. He enjoyed playing the ‘dark stranger’ game, but something was different about it this time, and he wondered if it had to do with the way he’d felt earlier when he met her. There was an overwhelming familiarity about her that had nothing to do with her resemblance to his love. And what happened inside the club between them was a new experience for him, something that’d never happened with Siobhán.

  His thoughts switched to the ex-boyfriend. The bastard pushed him at the very moment his eyes locked with Kylie’s, interrupting the whole scenario.

  The smile that so rarely graced his lips these days faded.

  Where is that little speck? I’m hungry.

  He looked around the lot and saw him stumbling to his car . . . alone.

  The idiot’s thoughts tumbled through Grant’s mind. She’ll probably take him home and fuck him . . . slut.

  Grant’s anger flared; his protectiveness of a woman he hardly knew took over.

  I’ll show her, the idiot thought. She’ll need to be taught a lesson or two tonight. He jingled his keys in front of him, trying to find the right one. The thought of teaching her that lesson excited him.

  The brutal intentions brought Grant’s anger to a level he rarely reached.

  A rock skittered across the asphalt, kicked by Grant’s boot.

  “Who’s there?” Rob spun around, but the parking lot was dark. He looked at his keys again. Grant slipped along the shadows. “Mother fuck, which one is it?” He squinted and held the keys up to the moonlight. Another noise sounded from the bushes. He stepped closer to see if he could see what or who it was.

  “Jesus!” A cat jumped out of the bushes and darted onto the asphalt past him. He jumped back and dropped his keys.

  “Stupid fuckin’ cat.” He tried to kick it. The cat stopped, turned to him, and hissed. Its phosphorescent green eyes glared at him, fully understanding his actions. He stared back at it for a moment, then stomped his foot.

  “Get outta here!”

  The cat hissed again and ran away.

  Rob looked down to pick up his keys, but didn’t see them.

  “Where in the hell—” He bent over to search for them.

  “You really shouldn’t drink and drive,” Grant said.

  Rob jumped up, spun around off balance, and damn near fell over.

  Grant stood before him, dangling keys from his fingertips.

  “Gimme those.” Rob swung to snatch the keys from Grant’s hand.

  Grant pulled them away quickly.

  Rob stumbled to the side, and then tried to regain his composure. He brushed his hands down the front of his shirt to straighten it.

  “You’re a little drunk, my friend.” Grant smiled at Rob.

  “Yer not my friend, dickhead. Gimme my keys before I haf to kick yer ass.” He grabbed at them again, but went stumbling into his car.

  “Do you honestly think you could do so?”

  “Get fucked.”

  Grant shook his head. “You should work on that attitude of yours; it isn’t very amiable. You weren’t very pleasant to that beautiful young woman inside. I believe her name was Kylie.”

  Rob once again told him what he could go do with himself. He stood straight and faced him.

  “No thanks.” Grant stepped to the side—closer to Rob and his car—and grinned at him. “I think someone needs to teach you how to treat a lady.”

  “She ain’t no princess, cowboy. She’s a goddamn whore. She ain’t no lady, neither . . . and what business is it of yers?”

  “Normally none, I s’pose, but I’m making it mine tonight, since you were so rude to me earlier. Generally, I wouldn’t do this, but it’s a cursed romantic habit I have. I don’t suppose you’d understand, Heathen.”

  “What’d you call me?”

  “Precisely what I thought.” Grant stepped forward and leaned against Rob’s car.

  “She fuck you or somethin’? Wouldn’t surprise me.”

  Grant shook his head, but not in answer. “So, down to business; I guess you won’t need these anymore.” He dropped the keys and moved his hand so fast, Rob barely saw him grasp them again.

  Rob’s thoughts tumbled through this mind again.

  “Oh, and I wouldn’t worry, it’s not as sporting to attack a man when his back is turned. I wish like nothing more than to see your face.” He pocketed the keys.

  Grant’s vision altered, and he saw the lightning reflected in Rob’s eyes when he grabbed him and pulled him forward. Grant smiled, revealing his fangs. Rob’s thoughts scattered, screaming RUN! His body trembled beneath Grant’s grip.

  “What are y—”

  “I’m your nightmare, Robert,” Grant replied.

  “Wha . . . how’d you know my name?”

  Grant smiled. “I am that which lives in your mind, your greatest fear” —he pulled him closer, Rob’s feet leaving the ground— “that which resides in the darkest abyss of your soul.”

  Grant wrapped a hand around his prey’s throat and paralyzed his victim. His prey’s mind raced around, jumping from past to future to present like a pinball machine. Grant lifted them both up into the air.

  The ground faded from beneath their feet. Rob was frightened. Grant felt it coursing through his veins. He was more scared than he’d ever been in his entire life. Grant heard the prayers begin as he bit into his prey’s neck.

  Oh, God it hurts. Please God, help me—

  “God . . . please,” he whispered.

  Grant felt the weakness take him . . . his breath fading . . . his lifeblood draining away until his eyes went blank. Then, nothing. The man who was Robert Gordon faded away.

  Rob’s lifeless body fell fifty feet, landing on his car with a thundering crash. Grant dropped the keys on Rob’s chest.

  “Your God won’t save you now.” He cracked his neck to the side and back, and wondered what she ever saw in this poor excuse for a man. He hovered over the lot and wiped the blood from his chin. His body shuddered. The blood raced through him, triggering the death rush.

  “Shit.”

  His breath jumped from short gasps to long hisses. He curled into a ball. Pain struck him, much like being born once again or the first awakening into vampyrism.

  Grant fell, plummeting toward the earth headfirst. He pulled himself together, flattening out and spreading his arms and legs, stopping just inches above the ground. He let out a sigh of relief. He floated above the lot again. That was entirely too close a call. The bloodsong died down to a quiet hum, his hunger subsiding. He closed his eyes a brief moment. Generally, the bloodsong was a beautiful symphony, until it overpowered him. Then it became nothing but a cacophony of loud noises. He knew the only way to quiet it down again was to feed until he was satisfied, until the fretta di morte came to him.

  And the fretta di morte only came with a death.

  A girl screamed in the parking lot below when she saw his prey sprawled across the top of the car. He quickly flapped his wings and flew away to wait for Kylie. He wanted to be sure she’d get home safely.

  Kylie jumped off the sofa. She’d been going through some of the items she’d found in the trunk—maybe one of them would explain her birthmark—and completely lost track of time. She had an appointment at her gallery, so she ran into the bedroom, grabbed something to wear, threw her hair up in a clip, and ran back out half-dressed.

  “Why didn’t you
tell me it was so late, Tobak?” She pulled a denim skirt up over her hips. She leaned over and kissed Tobak on the head, grabbed her things and ran out the door at half past eleven.

  “I never should’ve gone out last night.” She jumped into her car, throwing an old journal she’d found in the trunk on the passenger seat. “It just completely screws up my sense of time the next day.”

  She’d grabbed the journal because it had the symbol on it, and the name embossed on the cover—Siobhán Brigit O’Ruairc—sounded familiar, aside from the obvious that she and the woman were related. O’Ruairc was the original spelling of her last name. She’d seen it before on something belonging to her father.

  Kylie ran up to her studio and unlocked the door, instantly remembering the day before. I know I locked this door yesterday. She walked inside and put her things down on the front desk. The journal was buried beneath her purse and the newspaper. Looking at the clock, she still had plenty of time before her twelve-thirty appointment, Mr. MacNessa—whoever he was—showed up. He’d called her the day before, after she found the strange, yet intriguing man in her gallery. His voice sounded familiar, but she wasn’t sure where she’d heard it before. He’d said he’d heard about her from a friend and wanted to come in and see some of her work. Of course, she made the appointment right away. Word of mouth can be very good for business, especially in the art world.

  She walked to the back of the studio—avoiding the painting from the day before—to the mirror, and took the clip out of her hair. She ran her fingers through her long hair, still wet from the shower earlier. There was a touch of red paint on the mirror and she tried to ignore the reminder of when she threw the paintbrush.

  “Hell, I even look like I have a hangover.” She examined her eyes more closely. Not much red, so that was a good thing, but still—

  “On the contrary,” a deep, yet gentle voice said from behind her. “Your beauty surpasses all others.”

  She knocked a glass jar into the sink, shattering it into a dozen little pieces, and she looked around at the man who’d startled her. He was the man from the day before.