by Margaret Carter, Crystal Green, Erica Orloff, Patricia Rosemor
“I know. But the resemblance is so close, it’s eerie.”
“They say we all have a doppelganger.”
“You think?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder.”
Flynn slathered a piece of rye bread with mustard. “Can I make a copy of this picture?”
“That is a copy. I took it down to the photo shop two blocks over. They scanned it or something on their computer and made me a print. It’s yours.”
“Thanks, Gus.” Flynn put the photo down by his plate. The two men ate, talking about old cases and memories. But Flynn’s eyes kept zeroing in on the face of the woman in the picture. The woman who had run Germany’s Night Flight Club. It wasn’t just the uncanny likeness to Tessa.
She was wearing a vintage dress exactly like the one he’d seen Tessa wear the first time he met her. Once again, the mystery of Tessa Van Doren had Flynn completely intrigued.
Chapter 12
The first thing Tessa did when she awakened the next night was try to call Lily. No answer. The answering machine didn’t even pick up. Tessa let the phone ring thirty times, willing Lily to be there. But of course Tessa knew she wasn’t.
Tessa hung up the phone when the ringing sound just made her more upset, jangling her nerves. She climbed out of her bed and went to kneel in front of Buddha. She prayed for her friend’s safe return, but she knew that the longer she was missing, the less likely her disappearance was to have a happy ending. She had known Lily almost as long as she had lived. The idea that someone was perhaps holding her old friend against her will—or worse—consumed Tessa’s heart. She finished praying and then rose and went out to her living room and then to the tall window that overlooked the city.
She thought back…back to where it all began. More than a hundred years ago.
“Madame.” The tall, dark-haired gentleman standing in front of her raised her hand to his mouth. When he kissed her hand, he allowed his lips to linger just a moment too long, then turned her hand palm up and kissed her hand again, this time more intimately.
Tessa glanced around at the crowded party, wondering if anyone saw the man’s impertinent move. But no one glanced in their direction. Even if someone had, the look in his eyes said that he didn’t care. She had never met anyone so bold before.
“Sir.” She nodded her head coolly, holding his gaze, noticing his eyes were black.
“Madame…you look flushed.”
“It’s a bit stuffy in here.”
“Would you care to take some fresh air on the balcony, or would you prefer I fetch you a glass of punch?”
“Punch will be fine.”
“Walk with me, then.”
He linked his arm through hers, and she felt the muscles of his biceps through his shirt. He confidently led her past the dancers and into the parlor, which was empty of revelers.
“Sit down,” he commanded. “I’ll be back.”
He returned with a cup of punch. “You must drink. You look pale.”
Tessa sipped the sweet lemony drink. “Thank you,” she said haughtily. She couldn’t help but feel he was undressing her with his eyes.
“You are the widow, are you not? Mrs. Van Doren, am I not correct?”
Tessa nodded. “Yes, I lost my husband—” she inhaled “—thirteen months ago.” She had not spoken of her husband in months, since the melancholy overtook her, and she wasn’t sure why she felt compelled to tell this stranger the story, but she found the words tumbling from her lips. “A young girl, the child from the next estate over, had fallen through the ice on a small pond near our home. John saved her life, but at the price of his own. He caught a terrible cold…terrible. We could hear a rattling in his chest. Then he started running a high temperature, high fevers night after night. Delirium. He was lost within five days. My name was the last word he uttered.”
The man in front of her pursed his lips. “Such a shame. I am so sorry to hear this.”
“My John was never in the finest health…. Always rather sensitive. I suppose that was the poet in him.”
“Were you in love with him?”
Tessa felt a blushing of her cheeks—something that happened when she was embarrassed or angry, or, as tonight, both. “That seems a very rude question, Sir Constantine.” She knew this stranger’s name. He had arrived on the London social scene in late summer. The entire party had whispered of him. He was mysterious and supposedly very, very wealthy. More than a few women were pushing their unmarried young daughters at him. He was never impolite to them, but when she observed him from afar, she sensed his bemusement.
“Rude? You call me rude? I think not. It’s a simple question. Did you love your husband? Or are you one of the many unfortunate women who find themselves sold off like chattel by their families?”
“That’s none of your business!” Tessa placed her punch glass on a small table and rose.
“Please…” Sir Marco Constantine placed his two hands gently on her shoulders. “Sit down,” he soothed. “I mean no harm. Let me just say that I am—how shall I put this?—enlightened.”
Tessa’s heart beat wildly. Something about him made her want to dash out the door of the parlor and out of this house entirely. It was as if she heard a whisper, John’s voice, which she sometimes heard in the night. Now that voice was saying, “Run, Tessa.” And yet, something in Sir Constantine’s carriage, an arrogance, a strength, made her stay. “Enlightened in what way?”
“In the way I feel women should be treated. In the way I saw you on the outskirts of the dance floor last week at the Duke and Duchess’s party, your eyes so clearly expressing boredom. Why is that? Perhaps as a woman you long to escape the proper ways of society. Perhaps you long for freedom in much the way my horse despises having the bit in his mouth.”
“You liken me to an old nag, then?” She lifted her head. He had power and strength, but so did she. Her beauty was legendary in London.
“No. I liken you to a wild horse that yearns in its very soul to be free.”
“Please. I have freedom. I am hardly a slave…or a servant.”
“But surely your father married you off to your husband to increase familial alliances.”
“My father, sir, allowed me to marry for love. My husband was a poet and a gentleman farmer. We—I—reside at Willow Pond.”
“Yes. I had heard as much. Was he not your best friend since childhood?”
“Yes. And what of it?”
He leaned in very close to her, his breath hot on her neck. “I would have thought a beauty like you needed real passion. Have you ever had real passion, Mrs. Van Doren?”
Tessa had never been spoken to in such a way. She tried to push past the dark-haired stranger, suddenly finding the upturn of his mouth cruel and cold.
“Don’t leave on my account,” he said, his eyes dancing with laughter. “Sit. I will leave.” And with that, the gentleman retreated from the parlor and rejoined the party.
Tessa’s hands shook, and she frantically wiped at the spot on her hand where his lips had caressed her palm. She discreetly found her aunt Lydia and told her she felt light-headed and would be returning home. Then she called for her carriage and had her driver return her to Willow Pond, where she quickly retired.
But lying alone in her four-poster bed, beneath the quilt her grandmother had made her as a wedding present, sleep eluded her. She felt physically ill, and every time she shut her eyes, she saw Marco Constantine. Her head throbbed. She had never had such a visceral, physical reaction to anyone. She even had one fitful dream in which they were making love. Tessa awoke, breathless and in tears. John had been her best friend. And yes, she had been curious about deep passion, but she had known her husband since she was a little girl and hadn’t ever imagined being with anyone other than him. Their lovemaking had always been tender, and though she sometimes longed for something more, her home at Willow Pond and being able to be close to her parents, both gone now, had seemed like an acceptable compromise. Why this dream? Wh
y when that very man had so infuriated and humiliated her?
Passion. She knew her appearance, like that of a high-strung thoroughbred, invited speculation. She, the aristocratic beauty, with the quiet and studious John Van Doren, had seemed a mismatch. He had hair the color of wheat, and pale blue eyes, and he was soft-spoken. But, in truth, though very different, they walked in the fields in perfect companionship.
So why did Marco Constantine invite such dreams? Tessa dissolved into nervous tears, feeling unfaithful for the very thoughts that kept her awake. In the darkness of her bedroom, she wept for John, for herself, and for this strange longing inside of her.
She assumed that by dashing away from the party, she had discouraged Sir Marco Constantine from trying to pursue her. After all, he was always pursued by the loveliest of London society’s high-born ladies. But she was not free of Marco Constantine. In fact, he spent the next month or so ingratiating himself to her aunt Lydia and uncle Henry, her sole surviving relatives, and he had an uncanny way of appearing at every social event she attended. Whenever she saw him, she felt her breath leave her, and although she would try to avoid him, she felt a pleasure when he sought her out, which he always did over the other young ladies. Soon, all of London knew it was the widow Van Doren he seemed to desire. Tessa had never felt such daggers of jealousy in the stares of other women whenever she made an entrance during a party.
One night after a party, very late, he offered to see her home in his own carriage when her horse suddenly went lame, his back hind leg unable to support its weight.
“All right then.” She smiled to hide her nervousness and climbed into his carriage. On the ride back to Willow Pond, he pulled her to him and kissed her as John never had. It was as if he devoured her, passionately pressing his chest against hers. She was dizzy, frightened, and thrilled all at once. The kiss held a promise of what their lovemaking would be like. And she knew it would bear no resemblance to the sweet nights spent with John.
Marco walked her to her door, and saw her safely into the confines of Willow Pond. She could barely walk after the kisses they shared. And foolishly, when he returned two nights later and proposed, she accepted.
Their wedding night was indeed all their kisses had promised. Tessa felt her passion in waves that left her literally weak and aching for more. His mouth found both her nipples and then traced a path down her belly. He was not afraid to touch every part of her, to tease her to heights she had never experienced before. No, her John had never loved her this way. Marco took her over and over and over again, not tiring. But shortly before dawn, he retreated, telling her he had business to attend to at his own country home and promising to return to Willow Pond that night.
“I love you, Tessa,” he said, kissing her.
“I love you, too.”
“You are my one true love.”
All day she slept, and he kept his word, returning after sundown, when they resumed their lovemaking. He liked to lie on top of the blankets, watching her shiver, her nipples hard, her flesh pale in the orange glow of the fireplace in her bedroom. Just when she thought she could bear the cold no longer, her nipples almost painful, her fingers icy, he would cover her body with his own, warming her, feeling her goose bumps turn to heat as he entered her. She liked hearing his breath in her ear, hearing his passion for her.
“You were the one I was searching for,” he whispered.
“You always say that, my love.”
“It’s because it’s the truth I speak. You are my one true mate. We each have one. You are mine. I knew it. I knew behind those dark green eyes was a tigress. Don’t you feel it, Tessa. Don’t you?”
She stared at Marco. He was a stranger to her in many ways. The wedding had been a small candlelit affair, at the chapel on Uncle Henry’s property, and only her aunt and uncle and Marco’s servant girl, Lily, and his houseman, Charles, had attended. And yet, she chided herself, could he really be a stranger when they made love in this way?
As weeks passed, Tessa found herself addicted to his touch. She would sleep all day, waiting with agonizing anticipation for the moment she would see him, naked, standing before her, his body as perfect as the statue of David she had seen in Florence with John on their honeymoon. They rarely left the house.
And yet, something nagged at her. Whereas with John she had romped through the fields of Willow Pond until both their cheeks were a rosy red, she never saw her new love in daylight. He explained it away as his business keeping him far afield during the day, but she didn’t believe him. Occasionally, too, she was frightened by him. He had secrets, she was sure of it, but fear kept her from prying. She loved him, and part of her didn’t want to know the truth. Fear and the passion bound her to him. He never tired of her, nor she of him. Still, when she looked in the mirror, she was sometimes surprised by her appearance. Circles had settled beneath her eyes. She couldn’t sleep most days now as her fears took root, and she felt restless and strange. But she couldn’t let go of her obsession for him.
Finally, one night, near dawn, he made her a strange offer.
“Do you trust me, Tessa?”
“Of course I do, my beloved.” She traced the muscle of his biceps with her fingertip. Then she stroked down his belly to his thigh and up to the small black line of hair from his navel down to where he was hard, as always, for her.
“Do you believe that we are each meant for one person, forever? Even beyond this world?”
“Now I do,” she whispered.
He rolled on top of her and kissed her. “You are mine. And I need you to trust me. We are to be together forever. And not even God can pull us apart.”
“Why would God do such a thing?”
“Because He sits on His throne and He gives, and then He takes away. He took your John. I know you cared for him. Shh, my love.” He put his fingertips to her mouth as she started to speak. “I am not jealous. I know he was your best friend, just as I also know that what we have comes along maybe once in a century. Once in two centuries. It is a love for the ages. It defies the gods. Do you want to be with me forever?”
She nodded.
“Then believe,” he whispered.
And then he bit her.
Tessa screamed. She felt a sickening rush, as if she were hurtling down a pitch-black tunnel. She fought against him with all her might, beating at his arms and back, feeling her heart beating harder and harder. And then…nothingness.
She wasn’t sure how long she was in a world of shadows and darkness. She only knew that when she next awoke, every nerve was alive, and Marco was there, ready to make love to her, ready to bring her further into that dark world. She clung to him, frightened, certain it was all some sort of bad dream. He then explained, talking softly as one might to a child, what she was now. What they were. Then he made love to her again.
If she had thought before that their lovemaking was intense, nothing prepared her for the explosion within her body now. Every cell inside her was on fire, and she knew anything in her previous life paled compared to this. The bond between them was so strong, and now she was tied to him in darkness forever. Yet she was repelled by what she was, still not quite believing the nightmare she found herself in.
She was wracked by guilt and disgust. She still heard John’s whispers. Sometimes, hiding from the sunlight, she would come upon one of his books in the library, and she would touch the pages and will John to come back to her, to rescue her from what she had become.
The whispers of John became stronger and more urgent. The first time she killed a man in London, a drunken man in a dark alley, with Marco encouraging her, she felt shame…and then heard her beloved John’s voice. He was luring her to the light, just as surely as she knew by her new form, her new life in darkness with Marco, she was to be separated from John forever. Even if she died—as she would if the sunlight touched her, Marco said—she would not go to heaven with John. She would be a lost soul. Forever.
She missed Willow Pond, ached for it with something
akin to homesickness. She and Marco spent more and more time in London proper, in the city, the better to blend with the shadows. Some nights, she would find herself crying, longing for Willow Pond, craving the feel of the sun on her face, John’s hand in her own, picking daisies, climbing in the old willows, laughing.
She wasn’t sure of the precise moment when she decided to leave Marco. She knew she was addicted—not just to feeding on blood, but to him. And she felt pity for Lily, the servant girl so faithful to her master. Turned, just as she was.
When Marco had to go to Paris on business, to settle the estate of his great-uncle who had left him a large inheritance, by the third night without him, she felt panicked. But it was in the dark of that night that she heard John’s sweet voice. He told her to leave. To return to Willow Pond, and from there to leave England.
She told Lily what she was doing. “And if you are smart, dear girl, you will leave also. Make a life for yourself, such as we can have life.” She shook the girl by the shoulders as she packed hurriedly.
“Take me with you, then,” Lily begged her. “Don’t leave me with him. Have pity on me and take me with you.”
“Fine. We will stick together, then.”
She and Lily fled the following nightfall and headed on horseback to Willow Pond. From there, she wrote a letter to her aunt Lydia and uncle Henry telling them she was going overseas on holiday, and not to worry for her. Then she took her jewelry and anything of value she could pack in her trunks and left Willow Pond with only the vaguest of plans. She and Lily traveled by night to Italy, to an isolated villa in the countryside that she rented. There, they lived behind shuttered windows, and anxiously paced the floor, unsure of where to go next.
Surviving was difficult. They couldn’t go to the market in daylight. They couldn’t travel in daylight. Tessa hired a gardener who also ran errands for them during the day. Feeding was difficult, too. They needed the isolation of the country place to protect them from Marco—and yet that meant they had to ride long and hard when they had to feed, always making sure they returned to the house by dawn.
