by Kit Tunstall
She groaned as his words sent her head reeling. Frissons of desire swept through her, making her knees weak. She leaned against him as much as she dared. “Please stop. I don’t want to remember.”
Nicholas’s hand rose to caress her breast through the silk of the pajama top, finding her nipple erect. “Yes, you do.” He brushed his lips against hers. “You want to tear into me as you did that man.” He pressed his cock against her stomach, offering proof of his arousal. “You want me inside you while you’re drinking from me.”
She collapsed as her legs trembled too fiercely to stand. Only his strong arms and body kept her upright against the door. “Yes,” she whispered, parting her lips when his breath caressed her cheek. She closed her eyes, waiting for him to touch her.
He pulled away, but continued to support her. “You’ll have to wait, Emily.”
Her eyes snapped open. “What—”
He chuckled, and not a trace of his previous anger or angst remained in his expression. “We’re having company this evening.” He pushed a strand of hair behind her ear and kissed her gently on the lips before raising his head. “Otherwise…”
She blinked with confusion. “But, I thought you wanted me.” Her cheeks reddened with a flush, and she dropped her eyes. He took her hand and pressed it against his cock. Her eyes widened when he pulsed beneath her palm.
“I do,” he said in a throaty whisper, before standing straight again. He sounded regretful when he said, “But satisfaction will have to wait until we have more time.”
She nodded, suddenly anxious to have him out of the room so she could collect her thoughts. With him so near, she couldn’t think about anything except how close the bed was, and how she ached for him to complete her. “O-o-okay.”
He stepped away. “You have an hour until he arrives.”
She nodded and moved aside so he could leave. She noticed he had no trouble turning the knob. He glanced back briefly, and she forced a shaky smile. As soon as he closed the door behind him, she ran to the balcony, shoving aside the curtains. While she was gone, they had put in new doors, but she could get through them again.
She reached for the handle, but her hand hovered a half-inch from the door, unable to move forward to grasp the knob. She took a step back and raised her bare foot to kick at the door. She came no closer than she had with her hand. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t force herself to move forward and touch the door.
How would she ever escape if she couldn’t get past Nicholas’s mind control?
She turned around and walked back into the bedroom, collapsing midpoint as an unwelcome thought swept through her mind. Did she want to leave him? Tears flooded her eyes, but she couldn’t weep. All she could do was rock back and forth, as she searched for the answers. When the questions—and their subsequent answers—became too much to face, she shied away from them and rose to her feet to walk into the bathroom, hoping a shower would sluice away her confusion, at least temporarily.
* * * * *
Later, wearing a plain black dress she found in the closet, Emily found the doorknob turned easily. She walked down the hall, drawn to the sound of voices in the living room. As she entered the room, her eyes fell on Tremont, and she flinched. She swayed unsteadily as he eyed her, unable to see his current form as memories of the past welled up in her mind. She didn’t clearly remember all of the horrors he had inflicted upon her, but could feel flames lapping at her as a phantom child squirmed in her womb. A general sense of terror overwhelmed her, and she took a step back. When he lifted his hand, she whimpered and turned to flee.
“Emily.” Nicholas’s voice was soothing, and it served to stop her panicked flight in mid-step. He walked forward and touched her arm, massaging her stiff neck. “Come meet Michael.”
Under his gentle touch, her racing heart slowed and the tension in her body eased. The fear faded away, and she nodded. She kept her eyes averted from Tremont as she turned back to meet Nicholas’s friend.
Her first thought was that he looked nothing like a vampire should look. He was short and balding, with a paunchy belly inadequately hidden by his cassock. The white collar fit tightly against his fleshy neck. His skin was pale, except for a pink flush in his cheeks, indicating he had dined recently. His blue eyes were warm, and his smile was friendly.
Emily curtailed the ridiculous impulse to curtsy. Instead, she inclined her head and murmured, “Father.”
He stepped forward, extending his hand. When she took it, he enfolded hers in both of his. “Michael, please.” He eyed her from head to toe. “And you are Emily.”
She nodded, discomfited by his intense appraisal. She breathed a small sigh of relief when his eyes lit with approval, though she didn’t know why. She could sense this man was important to Nicholas and hoped his emotions were simply transferring to her. She didn’t want to crave his friend’s approval.
Nicholas turned to Tremont. “We’ll go through now. Begin serving.”
Emily was surprised when Michael took her arm and looped it through his. She stood three or four inches taller than the rotund priest and had to bite back a grin as she imagined the picture they presented. She cast a glance over her shoulder and saw Nicholas watching them with a small smile.
He escorted her into the dining room and seated her before taking a seat. Nicholas sat down without speaking, but his eyes remained on them.
Michael sipped from the wineglass in front of him before turning his gaze back to Emily. “You’re unhappy,” he said abruptly. “Troubled, angry and confused.”
She shot a glance at Nicholas before meeting the priest’s eyes. She cleared her throat. “Nicholas said you’re a priest at St. Peter’s.”
He nodded. “Yes, but don’t change the subject.” Michael’s unsettling gaze turned to Nicholas. “Leave us.”
He frowned. “But—”
“Please.”
With a sigh, Nicholas got up from the table and left the dining room. Seconds later, his voice carried from the kitchen when he told Tremont to put a hold on dinner and bring him a glass of wine in the living room.
When he had gone, Michael shook his head. “He’s hurting because of you.”
“I didn’t ask for this,” she began defensively.
He nodded. “Of course not. He’s headstrong. I spent the last fifty years trying to convince him to take a different approach if he found you again.” He took another sip of the wine. “He loves you too much to listen to reason.”
She bit back a thousand protests or blasé remarks. Instinctively, she responded to the kindness and concern she saw in his eyes. “What do I do, Fath—Michael? He frightens me.”
“Yet you love him.”
She shook her head vigorously. “No! I don’t even know him. I don’t love him.”
He sighed again. “You’re equally stubborn. You’ll have to find the answers for yourself. Nothing I can say will convince you, as I told Nicholas.”
She frowned. “He asked you to speak to me?”
“Yes, for all the good it has done.” The priest took another sip of his wine and lowered the empty glass to the table. “Shall we eat now? I’m starving.”
At his mention of eating, her mind’s eye conjured an image of the seemingly benevolent priest tearing into the throat of a person and lapping away fresh blood as he drained the life from his victim. “How can you do it?” she burst out.
“Do what?” He regarded her calmly.
“Murder people. You’re a priest. Don’t you think it’s wrong?”
He nodded. “Of course I do. I don’t kill for blood.”
She found herself hanging on his words. “Then how do you live?”
“I purchase blood from donors or, if I must, I take a small quantity from whomever happens to be convenient.”
She felt a flutter of hope. “I don’t have to kill anyone?”
He shrugged. “No, but it’s difficult to fight the instincts.” Michael’s eyes dropped, and he looked troubled. “It took many
years for me to control the impulses.” He crossed himself. “I have much to atone for.”
The hope flickered and faded. If a man of the cloth, driven by his beliefs and his devotion to God, couldn’t overcome the dark compulsions for years, what chance did she have of controlling them? Especially when dark joy filled her at the prospect of killing again.
He cleared his throat, and the twinkle in his eyes returned. “I suppose we should eat. Tremont has worked diligently to prepare my favorite dish.”
She shivered and, not being Catholic, resisted the urge to cross herself at the mention of Tremont’s name.
Michael gave her a small smile. “Don’t be afraid of him anymore. Whatever evilness that was in him is gone now.” A sad expression swept across his face. “Nicholas’s rage twisted him into something else centuries ago. He is pitiable now and not to be feared.”
She nodded, but couldn’t find it inside herself to accept the priest’s words on faith. He had not been the one burned alive by Tremont.
Chapter Ten
Did she love him? Emily found herself studying Nicholas with disturbing intensity throughout the meal, and even after Michael had returned to his parish. When the priest first said the words, she had been shocked. An automatic denial came to her lips. As she mulled over the idea, she became less sure. Her uncertainty frightened her almost as much as the original statement had.
She shifted positions on the sofa slightly to better observe him where he stood looking out the window. He had his back turned to her, and she studied his form at her leisure. He had bound his hair tonight, and he wore a simple red sweater and faded blue jeans. She propped her chin on her hand. The way the light reflected off his dark hair caught her attention, and she focused on the varying shades of dark-brown and black. Her fingers itched to run through his hair.
Emily realized she was arousing herself and cleared her throat. He turned around immediately, and she was sure he had caught her staring. She fought down the flush struggling to stain her cheeks and forced a smile. “Michael’s nice.”
He nodded and walked over to the sofa. He stood behind it, rather than sitting down.
His position forced Emily to look up at him, and she craned her neck. “How did you meet?”
He hesitated a long moment before answering. “I recognized him.”
She frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“We met about sixty years ago. I recognized his soul.” Nicholas’s mouth twisted. “He’s my father.”
She blinked. “What? But he’s a priest.”
He brushed his hand against her cheek, where the marks he left earlier had faded long ago. “He used to be my father. Aside from you, he’s the first person I met from the past.”
“Does he know?”
Nicholas nodded. “Yes. I thought he would think me insane when I told him, but he had recognized me too, on a subconscious level. It took little time to convince him.”
She touched his hand, disconcerted by how pleasant it was to have him stroking her skin. “You made him a vampire so you wouldn’t lose him again?”
Nicholas stiffened. “He was a priest. Of course I didn’t change him.” His tone was icy, and his hand dropped away. “Though it was my fault he was attacked.” His eyes revealed his anguish. “If I hadn’t introduced myself—”
She touched his arm, and he relaxed. “What happened?”
“Koss,” he spat through clenched teeth. “To hurt me, he changed a priest to a vampire. He had no idea Michael was a reincarnation of my father.”
Her brow furrowed. “Why does this Koss want to hurt you?”
Nicholas’s eyes lost focus, and his voice softened to a whisper. “It’s not important.”
“But—”
He looked down at her, and his expression was clear again. “I had thought to take you out tonight, after Michael left.” His mouth curved into a seductive smile, displaying a hint of his fangs. He rubbed his thumb across her lips. “Unless you would rather stay in?”
She swallowed, desperate to ignore her body’s yearnings and restore order to her besotted brain. “It might be…nice to go out.”
He laughed, and didn’t look at all put out. “I thought you might say that.”
She looked down at the simple black dress. “Is this okay?”
He nodded. “It’s perfect.”
“Where are we going?” she asked as she stood up.
“A club.”
Emily shook her head. “I can’t. I’m not old enough…” She trailed off when the realization hit her that she would never reach her twenty-first birthday. She would be twenty forever. She bit down on her tongue to avoid mentioning it, not wanting Nicholas upset with her again when he seemed to be in an ambiguous mood.
He waved a hand. “It won’t matter. This is a special club, and not likely to garner the attention of authorities.” He took her hand. “You’re with me. You’ll get in.”
She nodded and followed him to the door of the apartment, stopping only to grab a jacket. Nicholas didn’t bother with one. Once she had slipped it on, he took her hand again and led her into the hallway. She stared at him from the corner of her eye in the elevator, trying to decide what mood he was in. He seemed brooding, she decided. Perhaps even melancholy.
When they left the apartment building, he hailed a taxi.
“What about your car?” she asked as she slid in first and smiled at the driver. He was surly-looking, with greasy black hair and yellowed teeth that she saw when he grimaced at her.
“Parking is a problem at the club.” Nicholas settled in the seat and directed the driver to their location before he scooted closer and put his arm around her shoulder.
Emily started to protest as he kissed the pulse point at her throat, but gasped instead when his tongue flicked across the sensitive area. She tensed, waiting for him to bite her—eager for him to bite her.
“Your blood is tainted,” he whispered in her ear, and his breath caressed her lobe. “We’ll feed tonight before we go home.”
She nodded, as her throat was too thick to speak. She wanted to tell him nothing would happen when they arrived back at the apartment. She should apologize for giving him the wrong idea or leading him on, make it clear she wouldn’t make love with him, but when her eyes locked with his, she forgot all about her good intentions and moved forward to press her lips against his.
Nicholas gathered her in his arms, pulling her tightly against him. She could feel his heartbeat echoing hers like a shadow. Her fingers moved to the hem of his sweater and slid underneath the soft cotton. Emily raked her fingers across his stomach and heard him hiss softly.
“The cab,” he said in a hoarse voice. “It’s stopped.”
She looked up and realized they had parked on the side of the street. The driver was eyeing them impatiently. She pulled away from Nicholas, who fished money from his pocket before sliding out. She followed him and paused to eye the pedestrians milling around the streets. They were an eclectic bunch of professionals and casuals. Amid the sea of leather were glimpses of Gucci, Armani and Saville Rowe. A young girl with purple hair and a shredded denim jacket clutched a silver Prada bag.
“Come on.” Nicholas took her arm and pulled her forward. They walked half a block and paused before a black door with a red symbol.
Emily looked up and saw a neon light flashing the name of the bar: Transfusions.
“Stay by my side,” Nicholas said as he draped his arm over her shoulder and steered her to the door. “You reek of nouveau, and there’s always some vampire out to prove themselves.”
She shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
He opened the door, and mellow jazz music flowed onto the street. He paused before entering. “Some consider it fashionable to make a vampire kill. A first human kill doesn’t count for anything with these kids.”
Emily’s eyes widened. “You mean they kill each other?”
“Stupid fools,” he muttered. “You’ll be an easy mark if you get separa
ted from me.”
She nodded and pressed herself against his side as they entered the dimly lit bar. The moment she stepped inside, she felt different. It was like the sensation of pressure dropping right before a storm. Tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood up, crackling with static electricity. The room hummed with power.
The bar itself was decorated in black and red. Black walls, a black floor, red stools, and red upholstered benches, all full. A black bar stood in the middle of the room. Most intriguing of all was a line of people sitting on high-backed barstools against one wall. There must have been ten or twelve of them sitting so close together they couldn’t possibly have room to move. Four burly men stood in pairs at each end of the men and women.
Nicholas saw where she was gazing. “Donors.”
She frowned. “Donors?” Hadn’t Michael mentioned something about them?
“They take money for their blood.” He took her hand and led her across the makeshift dance floor, finessing them through several straining and gyrating couples that seemed unaware of the rhythm of the jazz music flowing from the jukebox. “Normally, I wouldn’t touch any of them, but I don’t want to spend time hunting tonight.”
She tensed as they moved closer. “I…you’re—”
“We’ll have a snack,” he said with a feral grin.
She shook her head, though she was reluctantly fascinated as she saw another vampire approaching the group of humans. He was young, surely not more than fourteen, but he passed two bills to one of the bouncers as if they were pennies. After paying, he walked up and down the line of donors, eyeing them critically. He finally settled on an older looking teenager with a shaved head and zombie-like expression. She was pliant when he pulled her from the chair and into his arms.
“He’s so young,” she whispered to Nicholas. “How could anyone turn a child?”
Nicholas eyed the young vampire who was feeding, then shook his head. “He’s pure, Emily.”
