In the Dark

by PG Forte

  For Conrad himself, it was a point of pride that his household be known always for its gracious hospitality. Outside vampires were never exactly encouraged to crash one of his weekly soirees, but it was an open secret that they were rarely, if ever, turned away. He ruled his nest with a hard fist, but never a tight one. And while he had never gone so far as to suggest to anyone that mi casa es su casa, he did insist that guests within his domain be treated with courtesy and accorded all the rights and privileges of the house. So long as they behaved themselves and abided by his rules.

  Transgressors were dealt with swiftly and severely. There were rarely problems and when there were, they were never repeated.

  Of course, this applied only to his vampire brethren. Human guests were, in general, given far less leeway. Their actions were monitored, their movements curtailed and those who came too often or stayed too long were gently dissuaded from returning.

  It had long been Conrad’s habit to circulate at his parties, a word here, a touch there, the occasional guest encouraged to stay behind after the others had been dismissed, and then invited back to his rooms for the night. But only for a night—two or three at most. It had been over one hundred years since Conrad had had a permanent partner in his life. He was not looking for a replacement.

  It was in this way, and at one of these parties, that he first met Desert Rose in the fall of 1968. The weather that autumn had been unseasonably warm and dry. Later, Conrad would claim that it was this that was to blame for his behavior, that it was the weather that had made him so edgy, so careless, so much hungrier than usual.

  Since it was the Saturday before Halloween, almost everyone at the party had come in costume. It always amused Conrad to see the unrealistic, romantic yearnings so many people harbored for bygone days. He knew, better than most, that the past hadn’t seemed all that romantic at the time. Cowboys, pirates, sultans, knights—they were rarely the dashing figures modern imagination made them. Witches, and those even suspected of being witches, had been burned in ages past. Gypsies were once spat upon and reviled. And medieval kings and queens, for all their supposed nobility, were frequently petty and vengeful and, in his opinion, generally deserving of far worse fates than those they’d actually received.

  From his vantage point, having already lived through the better part of a dozen of them, Conrad considered this present century to be a vast improvement on many that had come before. Its more relaxed social mores and unparalleled ease of travel had made his life immeasurably easier. As for the current mode of dress, he had nothing but appreciation for it. The ever more revealing fashions were certainly hard to beat for visual stimulation.

  Take that, for instance, he thought, catching sight of a rippling wave of coffee colored hair cascading over a nearly naked female back. Raven tresses had long been a favorite of his, especially in combination with a pair of wine dark eyes. Ah, yes, just like those. The unknown beauty turned suddenly in his direction, dark eyes flashing in amusement. For one heart-stopping second their gazes collided. Her lips curved upward in a warm, sunny smile that brought an answering smile to his lips. And then she was turning away again, coaxed back into conversation by the handsome, red-haired vampire who was Conrad’s current majordomo, leaving Conrad’s smile to fade wistfully away.

  That should have been the end of it. Nine times out of ten, it would have been. But not this time. Though Conrad was generally loath to spoil any of his children’s fun, especially one of his favorites, this was different. The girl had turned her back on him and such impertinence could not be allowed to go unchallenged.

  “And what are you supposed to be dressed up as, my dear?” he inquired after closing in on the girl. He spoke the words softly, almost in her ear, delighting in the sudden flush that warmed her cheeks, the rapid patter of her heartbeat, the faint scent of patchouli that clung to her skin.

  Dark eyes glanced up at him in surprise. “Why, I’m an Indian Princess, of course. What did you think?”

  Conrad’s brow furrowed as he looked her over, taking in the details of her ensemble—details he’d largely missed, due to the hair and the eyes and everything else that had heretofore captured his attention. His eyes tracked the beaded headband that circled her brow, the peacock feathers strung on wire that she wore in place of earrings. The bulk of her hair flowed unfettered down her back—all but for two narrow strands, one on either side of her face, which were plaited and tipped with more feathers. He looked closer. Parakeet feathers, he decided after a moment’s perusal, or possibly conure.

  Her halter top and matching micro-mini skirt were made of brown suede and heavily fringed, as were her knee-high boots. The outfit left her neck, shoulders, arms, midriff, most of her back and practically all of both her thighs deliciously, accessibly bare. He’d been to India many times, in the past, yet he’d never seen anything there quite like this.

  “An Indian princess?” he repeated, wondering if the loud music blaring from his stereo system could be to blame for his confusion. Perhaps he’d misheard?

  “She means like Pocahontas,” Armand explained helpfully.

  Conrad gazed at him doubtfully. “Vraiment?” he inquired, feeling only slightly less confused. At least the feathers were explained…in a way.

  Armand’s hazel eyes glinted as they met his. “Ah, mais oui. Certainement.” His tone, one of barely suppressed amusement, left Conrad with little doubt that the French Canadian shared his opinion of the authenticity of the lady’s costume.

  “Far out. You guys speak French?” Dark eyes sparkled even brighter. “That’s way cool. It’s like…like the Addams Family, or something. You know, how Gomez was always saying, ‘Morticia, that’s French!’”

  “Indeed,” Conrad murmured, taking hold of her hand and lifting it to his lips. “Enchanté, Mademoiselle.”

  Her gasp of pleased surprise was echoed by Armand’s far more dismayed one. Conrad shot the other vampire an apologetic look. “Désolé, mon cher. Êtes tu bien?”

  As he’d expected, Armand shrugged in reluctant assent, relinquishing his claim on the girl. “Oui, d’accord. C’est la vie, eh?” Flashing a parting smile, he blended back into the crowd, no doubt in search of other conquests. The girl’s eyes filled with something close to disappointment.

  “Something wrong, chérie?” Conrad inquired softly.

  A slight shrug. A vague wave of the hand. And eyes that continued to look entirely too dejected as they followed Armand’s retreat. Yes, definitely disappointed, he thought, as the girl murmured, “Well, no…I just…well, I thought…w-we were talking and…”

  “And might you not talk to me, now, instead? Or would you rather we go in search of Armand?”

  Lifting her chin proudly, the girl met Conrad’s eyes. Her smile held just a touch of malice as she inquired, “Armand who?”

  Conrad returned her smile. “Ah, so young, so cruel. He’d be devastated, mignonne, to think he could be so easily forgotten.”

  But Armand’s devastation—now Conrad’s delight—merely shrugged. “So who are you? And how come you aren’t wearing a costume?”

  Conrad’s eyebrows rose as he considered his appearance. His silk, embroidered shirt was reminiscent of a style once favored by Ukrainian princes. The cut of his pants differed very little from the breeches considered the height of fashion, a century or so later, in Britain and France. “What makes you think I’m not in costume? I suspect far too many of those who say ‘clothes make the man’ are entirely missing the point. All clothes are good for, after all, is to disguise who we really are.”

  The girl stared at him in unabashed admiration, as thought he’d just said something amazingly profound. “Far out. So, what you’re saying is, if we really want to be free then…then, then it’s like that musical, everyone’s been talking about. Hair. We should be proud of our nakedness. We should stop hiding inside our clothes and just…let it all hang out, huh? I dig it.”

  Conrad smiled. It wasn’t really what he’d been saying at all, but
if it pleased her to think so, she could. “But, as for the question of letting things hang out,” he murmured, unable to resist teasing. “A lot would depend on the it in question, would it not?”

  He watched as yet another blush colored her cheeks. He couldn’t even remember now how it had felt to be so young. Or so innocent, so idealistic, so easily impressed. Or so very easily embarrassed. But one thing that never did get old was the thrill it gave him to be looked at in the way she was looking at him tonight—as though the sun rose and set on his every word. It had been a long time since he’d been looked at like that. A very long time. Leaning close, he whispered in her ear, speaking French once again to please her. “Je m’appelle Conrad. Tu t'appelles comment?”

  A breathless little gasp seemed to catch in her throat. Her cheeks grew even more flushed. Wondering eyes searched his face. “I-I don’t know what that means.”

  “I merely said, my name is Conrad. Then I asked what your name was.”

  “Conrad,” she repeated thoughtfully. “I like that.”

  “Thank you. I’ve always been fond of it myself.” It was a good name; one that, despite the relative rudeness of his birth, he happened to share in common with several of the Holy Roman Emperors. He waited a beat, expecting an answer to his question, but it quickly became clear that her thoughts were elsewhere. Was she thinking of other names she’d liked in the past…or other suitors? Was her mind still captivated with thoughts of Armand, or had Conrad successfully eclipsed his protégé, as it was only fitting he should? “Am I never to learn your name, little one?”

  “Oh.” She gazed up at him, grinning sheepishly. “Sorry. I-I forgot. You weren’t around when I mentioned it before, were you? I’m Desert Rose.”

  Conrad stared at her, nonplussed. It was almost enough to make him wish Armand was still here to help translate. Surely this time he must have misheard? “I’m sorry…Rose, did you say? That’s a lovely name. A lovely name, for a very lovely girl.” If the truth be told, he’d probably have said the same no matter what name she’d given.

  She shook her head. “No. I mean, thanks, but, it’s not just Rose by itself like that. That would be boring. It’s Desert Rose.”

  “Ah. I stand corrected.” More accurately, he stood confounded, thinking of the unattractive gypsum crystals that went by the same name. Purportedly created by lightning striking sun-baked desert sand, they were reputed to contain the essence of solidified fire. As such, they had once been in vogue as protection amulets to ward off vampires—not that they did, of course. “What were your parents thinking, chérie, to name their daughter after something so very…desolate?”

  “My parents? What have they got to do with—oh, I get it.” Confusion gave way to comprehension. “No, they didn’t call me that. I chose it myself. And it’s not desolate. Haven’t you ever seen the desert at sunrise? When the air is soft and still and you can see for miles? It’s my favorite place in the world.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” he answered dryly. “The desert is too much sun and sand for my tastes.” Sun, sand, fire, deserts—they were all things no vampire liked to think too much about.

  She looked at him curiously. “The beach is like that too, you know—all sun and sand, I mean. Don’t you go there either?”

  “Never if I can help it,” he replied, barely repressing a shudder. Sun, sand and salt air—even better. A vampire’s life-force was centered in the bloodstream. His very existence depended on maintaining the balance of fluids within his body. The dehydrating effects of even one of these elements could play havoc with his senses. In combination they were debilitating and potentially life threatening. The beach—he was thirsty just thinking about it.

  Luckily, that was easily rectified. “Now, you must come for a walk in the garden with me,” he told her, tucking her arm into his and moving in the direction of the open French doors. “I’m sure we can find some of the more prosaic of your namesakes in bloom there, and I’ve always found roses to be especially lovely when viewed by moonlight.”

  “Isn’t this place fantastic?” Suzanne sighed as they strolled in the shadows of towering redwoods, breathing in all the cool, night scents. The fog was settling in, and between that and the trees, it should have been too dark to see. It wasn’t. Flickering torches, set along the winding paths that cut through the property took care of that. Given the costume she was wearing and the autumn breeze, she should have been shivering with cold. She wasn’t. The man walking beside her, with his electric voice and simmering smile, took care of that. “I don’t believe any of the rumors about it being haunted though, do you? I think it’s more like…well, like being in a fairy tale, or something.”

  The sound of Conrad’s soft laughter made her cringe. He smiled indulgently. “A very dark fairy tale, perhaps, yes? Populated with monsters and demons and things too terrible to mention.”

  Suzanne bit her lip. Fairy tales. What must he think of her, hearing her talk about such silly things? He was older—how much older, she couldn’t say, but definitely over thirty—and more worldly and cultured and altogether more fascinating than anyone she’d ever met before. And here she was, when she should be trying to act as sophisticated as possible, saying things only a baby would think to say. “I just meant…well, it’s just such a…such a gas to be here, don’t you think so too? I wonder who owns it.”

  He slanted a curious look her way. “Don’t you know? Who brought you here, anyway?”

  “No one, really. I was with some friends the other day and I guess they’d overheard some other people talking about it. They said they throw parties like this almost every weekend and that it was a real happening scene. So I thought I’d come and see for myself.”

  “A happening scene. I see.” They walked a few more steps before Conrad asked, almost hesitantly, “So…is that…is that a good thing then?”

  “Conrad! Of course it is!” Laughter bubbled up before she even considered that, perhaps, he was making fun of her, but the look in his eyes told her he wasn’t. “Look around you,” she said, slipping her arm free of his so she could twirl in place, her arms spread wide. “It’s all so…dreamy.” However older and worldly he might be, there were still things he didn’t know. She liked that. She liked the rush of power she got from the thought there were things she could teach him, things she could show him and tell him about—new things, things he might never even think of on his own. The realization left her so jubilant she didn’t even protest when he took hold of her hand and pulled her into his arms.

  His kiss was nothing like she’d expected. It was earthy and dark, with just a hint of buried sweetness and a taste that was almost familiar. Tempting, yet somehow forbidden, just like the baker’s chocolate she’d once watched her foster mother use to make a cake.

  The tantalizing scent as it melted in the top of the double boiler had made Suzanne salivate. No matter how much she’d begged for a piece, she wasn’t allowed so much as a crumb. So, that night, she’d crept down to the kitchen and stolen a square. It, too, was nothing like she’d expected. Bitter, intense, but exciting, all the same. Like her first sip of coffee. Or her first taste of love.

  The press of Conrad’s mouth on hers was hypnotic. She couldn’t break the spell his kiss laid on her even if she’d wanted to. No more than she could keep from moaning in protest when he pulled away. His hand slid across her bare back, took hold of her hair and tugged. She let her head fall back as his open mouth ghosted, warm and wet, over her neck, as though he was searching for just the right spot. Her heart seemed to stop. The night grew still. Even the breeze seemed to settle as she waited, breathless for…something.

  It never came.

  Instead, Conrad’s mouth reversed course, traveling back up her neck to her ear where he whispered, “So much sweetness. It would be a shame to rush what should be savored. You’ll spend the night with me.”

  That stopped her—almost. Stifling a gasp, she pushed out of his arms. His eyes blazed red-gold in the light reflecting
from the torches and his expression was one of faint surprise, as though her actions startled him, as though he hadn’t been expecting her to show even this much resistance.

  Why shouldn’t she resist? He was The Unknown personified—so much older, worldly, cultured…different. So very unexpected.

  On the other hand, why would she resist? Wasn’t it for exactly this reason she’d left the no-name town she’d grown up in, vowing to put her past, with all its unhappiness, behind her? Isn’t this why she’d come to the city—why she’d come here tonight, to this very house—to experience life, to taste freedom, to embrace the unknown?

  “All right. I’ll stay.” Smiling, she melted back into his embrace and lifted her face for his kiss. It was even headier this time around, darker somehow. Definitely intoxicating. It made her head spin and her eyes grow heavy. When her knees gave way he lifted her into his arms, holding her lightly, as though she weighed nothing at all.

  “Just so you know,” he murmured, his voice laced with amusement, as he carried her back toward the house, “I wasn’t offering you a choice.”

  A choice of what, she wondered, lazily. But, nestled safely in his arms, she didn’t care to pursue it.

  She did know one moment of anxiety, however, when he stopped in the hallway to speak to Armand. There was something in the way the other man looked at her. The predatory gleam in his eyes, the subtle flaring of his nostrils, sent shivers running down her spine and had her closing her eyes again, more tightly than before. Had her pressing her face into the silk of Conrad’s shirt, curling instinctively closer to him. Like the rabbits she’d once watched in the fields back home, hunkering down on the ground when a hawk passed overhead.