And time passed, and the world changed.
He went to France. It was there, in a dark cafe, that he met others of his kind. For the first time, he noted the very real differences between vampires and mortals. Not only were the undead capable of moving with great speed, but they all seemed to move with a sensuous grace foreign to mere mortals. A vampire’s senses were sharper, keener, attuned to the slightest change in the atmosphere. They had a keen awareness of others of their kind. Navarre knew immediately when one of his kind was near. It manifested itself in a sudden tensing of his muscles, a subtle tingling along his spine.
It was there that he learned that vampires had existed as long as humankind. The world of the Undead was a world filled with mystery and suspicion, a closed world where secrecy was essential to survival, where the slightest whisper of the word “vampire” could incite mortals to rise up in fear.
No vampire ever trusted another of his kind. The Undead could be found in every city and clime throughout the world, each one jealously guarding his hunting ground. Elders often destroyed their younger counterparts. There was a vague sense of brotherhood, but no sense of loyalty except, perhaps, between a master and his fledgling.
He learned that he could initiate a mortal and that, once initiated, that mortal would serve him for as long as the mortal lived. If he wished, the mortal would hunt for him, kill for him, dispose of the remains. He learned that he had the power to pass the Dark Gift to others. With age, came an increase in physical strength and mental abilities.
He thought of Shaylyn, who had lived for thousands of years. Were there others even older than she? What powers did they possess?
It was in Paris that he saw his first revenant—a brute neither human nor vampire, neither alive nor dead. It was little more than a walking corpse, its putrid flesh rotting from its skeleton. It was by far the most frightening, most foul-smelling creature Navarre had ever seen.
He heard of bizarre rituals that were believed to insure that a body would stay dead. In the Balkans and Greece, stakes were hammered into the chest of corpses to pin the body to the grave; nails were inserted in the hands and feet and hair, symbolically attaching the corpse to the earth to ensure eternal rest. In some parts of Eastern Europe, peasants would not speak the word owl for fear the nocturnal bird might be a transformed vampire hunting the night for blood.
He spent but a short time in France. The presence of the other vampires made him uncomfortable. He was an interloper, an outsider, and he found himself constantly looking over his shoulder, fearing that they might try to destroy him. He left France without a word of farewell.
There followed long years of loneliness and darkness, a sense of being lost. He had been close to only a few people in his life; all those he had known had died long ago.
Filled with bitterness, he wandered the world, watching the changes take place.
Rulers fought their way to power, and then were destroyed.
Boundaries changed. Gods changed.
People changed, while he remained the same.
There were endless wars.
There was poverty and hunger.
Plagues and floods and earthquakes decimated cities and countries.
But sprinkled amid the ruin and destruction, were scattered beacons of light.
He read the works of Shakespeare and Poe, Dickens and Browning, Dumas and Disraeli.
Great composers influenced the masses with their music: Brahms, Haydn, Beethoven, Handel, Paginini.
Great artists made their mark upon the world: Degas, Whistler, Monet, Cezanne, Renoir, Picasso, Raphael. Rodin and Michelangelo sculpted masterful works. Charles Garnier designed the Paris Opera and the casino at Monte Carlo.
And Navarre was there to see and hear it all. He was at Covent Garden to see Handel’s Alcina. He was in Vienna when Mozart’s first opera was performed. He saw the first paved sidewalk laid in Westminster. He walked the corridors of the Louvre when it was new, rode one of the first velocipedes down the streets of Paris.
He sat in the sacred silences of the great cathedrals, absorbing the scent of incense and candles. It was here that he was most aware of the vast gulf that stretched between himself and the rest of humanity. It was here, amid the silent statues of the saints, that he felt the weight of eternity, the bitterness of damnation.
He indulged himself in the world of opera, went to the ballet in France and England and Italy. He toured the Paris Opera House, knelt in Notre Dame, admired the ceiling in the Sistine Chapel.
In the dark of night, he wandered through the museums and art galleries of the world, his keen eyesight making it possible to view the ancient wonders, the works of art.
He saw the invention of miraculous machines. Gas lights replaced candles; electric lights replaced the softer, more romantic gas lights; automobiles replaced the horse and buggy, washing machines replaced scrub boards.
Silent movies became the rage, only to be replaced by movies with sound and brilliant color. Minstrels were replaced by radios. The printed page replaced handwritten manuscripts and scrolls, making it possible for the written word to be available to everyone and not just the rich. He had always loved to read, and now he devoured books and plays and the dissertations of great men, but the deep, inner loneliness never left him.
And always the question, why me? Why had the Dark Gift been bequeathed to one such as he? He had no great wisdom to pass on to the world, no God-given gift of music or poetry or art. Better that the gift of eternal life had been bestowed on one such as Mozart or Aristotle or a hundred other more deserving men than he.
And when the questions became too many, when the loneliness grew overwhelming, he went to ground, sleeping deep in the bowels of the earth. But even in sleep, he was not completely unaware of the changes going on around him.
Voices seeped into his mind, their faint whispers telling him of the latest invention, the latest war, the latest plague. He was aware of new fads, new countries, new kings and new presidents.
Cocooned in the bosom of the earth, he slept through the wars and the plagues, emerging during times of peace to discover, firsthand, the changes that had come to pass while he rested.
“Time,” Thoreau had said, “is but the stream I go fishing in.”
For Navarre, no truer words had ever been spoken.
PART II
Chapter One
Moreno Bay
The Present
Adrianna let out a sigh of exasperation as she stared at the sign on the front door.
CLIFF HOUSE ANTIQUES
V. Navarre, Proprietor
the neatly lettered sign read.
OPEN DAILY
Six p.m. to Nine p.m.
Peculiar hours, she thought as she gazed at the huge old house, which sat alone near the edge of a windswept cliff overlooking the sea. The building was said to be at least a hundred years old, and looked it. The paint, which had once been dark green, had faded long ago. White shutters covered the windows. The grass was in need of cutting; a profusion of brightly colored wildflowers bloomed in scattered patches along the circular driveway.
A wide veranda ran the length of the front of the house; there was a narrow, iron-railed balcony on the second floor. All the windows appeared to be curtained and closed up tight.
Adrianna heaved a sigh as she turned back toward the street. For weeks, she had been searching for an antique oak armoire. She had mentioned her lack of success to one of her customers the day before and the woman had remarked that she’d seen just such a piece on display at the antique store out on Old Piney Branch Road.
Adrianna glanced over her shoulder, reading the shop’s operating hours again before she opened the car door and slipped behind the wheel.
“I’ll be back,” she muttered, turning the key in the ignition, “though I’ve never heard of any antique store that kept such ridiculous hours, or was located in such a desolate place.”
She stared at the house again, thinking it looked like a monstrous
beast poised to dive off the cliff. Then, with a sigh, she put the car in gear and headed back to town, annoyed that she had wasted the morning driving out here, only to return home empty-handed.
* * * * *
Navarre stood at the second-story window, watching the woman as she slid behind the wheel of a light green Honda Accord. He could have gone downstairs and let her in, but he made it a habit to avoid visitors during the afternoon.
With the passage of time, his need to sleep during the day, to avoid the sun, had altered somewhat, and while he was still forced to sleep through the hours of the afternoon, when the sun was high in the sky, he was able to move about during the early hours of the morning.
Occasionally, he even ventured outside, though it was necessary to wear dark glasses to protect his eyes, and a heavy coat or jacket to avoid exposing his sensitive skin to the sun.
Ah, but the wonder of being able to watch a sunrise after almost two thousand years! He didn’t know what had wrought the miraculous change that allowed him to endure the sun’s light. Perhaps it was merely the passage of so many years, perhaps it was some internal change, but whatever it was, he didn’t care. The joy of being able to feel the sun’s warmth on his skin, even through layers of cloth, to inhale the fragrance of a bright spring morning, was still new and exciting, and still filled him with awe.
Sometimes, when the sun was high in the sky, he yearned to shed all his clothes and run naked along the beach, to throw back his head and feel the sunlight on his face, but he knew to do so would be instantly fatal. He was not completely immune to the sun’s rays, and only able to endure it for short periods of time.
But the fact that it was necessary to be cautious when he went outdoors was not worth lamenting. The fact that he could be active during the day was a blessing he had never expected to obtain.
He had learned long ago to live within the boundaries imposed by his peculiar lifestyle. Here, in this quiet place, he had found contentment for the first time in centuries. He spent his days in lonely isolation, sleeping away the hours of the afternoon, walking the cliffs in the light of the moon. And during the evening, from six to nine, he opened the door to his house and took on the guise of an antique dealer.
In centuries of travel, he had accumulated a wealth of antiques. He would stay here for another ten or twenty years, until people began to talk about the fact that he never seemed to age, and then he would move on and find another house located in a remote place. Perhaps he’d be an antique dealer again. Perhaps not.
He felt the heaviness descend on him as the sun climbed toward its zenith. Turning away from the window, he ascended the narrow stairway that led to the attic. It was a large room with a sloped ceiling and an oak floor. A small, oval window was set high in the far wall. He had boarded it up long ago.
Stepping into the room, he bolted the door and sat down on the edge of the big brass bed located in the far corner of the room. No damp cellars for him, he mused as he removed his shoes and socks, shrugged out of his shirt and pants. No morbidly confining silk-lined casket. He much preferred a firm mattress and clean sheets that smelled of soap and sunshine…
Naked, he slid under the covers. With a sigh, he closed his eyes and felt the lethargy of his death-like sleep steal over him. Just once, he thought, just once he would like to know what it was like to fall asleep in the arms of a woman.
* * * * *
The sound of someone pounding on the front door roused him from a dreamless sleep.
Rising, Navarre pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweater and made his way downstairs. A glance out the window told him it was a few minutes after six.
He raked a hand through his hair before opening the door.
The woman stood on the porch. He had not seen her face that morning; now, in a single sweeping glance, he saw that her eyes were a vibrant shade of blue, her nose was small and straight, her mouth full and sensuous. She wore her dark blonde hair in a loose roll at the nape of her neck.
Adrianna couldn’t help staring at the man standing in the doorway. She had expected an older man, someone in his late sixties, perhaps, but the man standing before her was in the prime of life. Handsome, virile, and so tall she had to tilt her head back to see his face.
And what a face! His eyes were a clear gray beneath straight black brows. His mouth was wide, his nose sharp as a blade, his jaw square and firm. He wore a black sweater that emphasized his pale complexion. A pair of faded blue jeans hugged his long, muscular legs. His feet were bare. He had hair any woman would die for; thick and black, it fell past his shoulders.
“Mr. Navarre?”
“Yes.”
“I…” She swallowed, flustered by his intense gaze. She had the fleeting impression that if she looked into those fathomless gray eyes too long, she would lose her very soul. “May I… That is, are you open?”
He nodded. Taking a step backward, he motioned for her to enter. She noted his hands were large, the fingers long, the nails short and square.
Adrianna hesitated a moment before she stepped inside, wondering if she was making a mistake. The house, which had appeared old and romantic in the bright light of early morning, now seemed fraught with menace when viewed in the shifting shadows of twilight.
Or perhaps it was the man who intimidated her, with his sober mien and cool gray gaze. Such a deserted stretch of land suddenly seemed an unlikely location for an antique store. Was it merely a front for something more sinister? Had she stumbled on a Mafia hideout? A meth lab?
“Everything on the first two floors is for sale,” Navarre said. “Feel free to wander around. I’ll be in the kitchen if you have any questions.”
Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked away.
Adrianna stared after him until he was out of sight, the sound of his voice echoing in her mind. Never had she heard such a voice, so soft, so deep, so compelling. And his eyes… She shuddered. Was it her imagination, or was there something otherworldly about those eyes?
One thing was certain, there was something decidedly mysterious about Mr. V. Navarre and she stood there for a moment, trying to decide what it was. Shaking off her fanciful thoughts, she turned to close the door behind her, and then decided it was best left open.
It was a beautiful old place, obviously well cared for. The woodwork and floors were of dark oak. The walls were covered with Victorian-looking wallpaper. Heavy, dark-red draperies hung at the windows.
But it was the furniture that held her attention. There were a few pieces she was certain dated back to the thirteenth century. She ran her hands lovingly over a fragile Queen Anne sofa, admired the graceful lines of a Sheraton table, stared in awe at an ancient Greek urn.
Wandering from room to room, she saw chamber pots and bed warmers, laces and cloths, fireplace screens and grandfather clocks, porcelain dolls dressed in long gowns, roll-top desks, flat irons, old pictures and wall hangings, dishes and glassware, silverware and cooking utensils made of silver and gold, brass and pewter. A suit of armor stood in one corner.
She glimpsed hand-lettered signs from stores long gone, posters advertising operas and ballets, circuses and lynchings.
One room contained pot-bellied stoves for heating, and wood-burning stoves for cooking, ice boxes and vegetable bins. Another held a long mahogany bar reminiscent of the kind seen in old Westerns. There were shelves of all sizes filled with knick-knacks and bric-a-brac. Other shelves held canister sets and cookies jars, sugar bowls, cream pitchers, and salt and pepper shakers. A large wooden box held a variety of mismatched silverware.
She was unaware of the passing of time as she strolled from room to room, her fingers caressing the back of a velvet-covered settee, plinking out a tune on an old player piano, gently stroking the head of a china doll.
She fell in love with a Queen Anne chair that dated back to the 1730’s, admired an Empire cane-backed daybed that she knew had been made in China in the 1840’s. Another room held a Federal square-backed sofa that dated back e
ven further than that.
She thought it odd that all the mirrors were covered.
The rooms upstairs held bedroom furniture. Here, too, the mirrors on the highboys and chests were covered with cloths.
She examined a number of armoires, some of oak, some of dark red mahogany, but none caught her fancy.
She paused to study a Chippendale canopy bed, then moved on to a nineteenth-century sleigh bed. But it was a turn-of-the-century canopy bed that made her heart skip a beat. Made of mahogany and pine, she was certain it was well over a hundred years old.
“Find anything you like?”
His voice went through her like the rumble of distant thunder, and she whirled around, startled to find him standing in the doorway behind her.
“Everything.” She made a sweeping gesture with her hand. “I’ve never seen such a treasure trove.”
“I’ve been collecting for a very long time,” he replied with a shrug.
“Really?” She frowned. He didn’t look to be much older than she was, but then, looks could be deceiving.
“Are you looking for anything in particular?”
“Well, I was hoping to find an armoire, but…” She smiled self-consciously. “I really like this bed.”
“It’s a fine old piece,” he replied. And, indeed it was. Long ago, it had been the bed he slept in. “The mattress is new, of course.”
“Of course,” she repeated, mesmerized by his gaze, by the sound of his voice, the sheer masculinity of the man.
“Care to try it out?”
“What?”
“The bed. Would you like to try it out?”
A strange warmth unfurled in the pit of her stomach as she thought of lying down on the bed while he was in the room. Slowly, she shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
She was a pretty woman, Navarre thought. She wore a blue silk dress that complemented the color of her hair and skin. The soft material subtly emphasized the curve of her hips and the swell of her breasts.
Moonlight Page 8
