She’d given part of the remaining money to her sister’s kids, and she’d invited them to lunch at a fast-food joint where she used to take them when they were little, so she could deliver the money personally and have a chance to say goodbye. She told them that she was leaving the country and didn’t know when she would return. They’d accused her of abandonment until they’d seen the numbers on the cashier’s checks she handed them. Then their whining had gone silent and the questions had begun.
But by then she’d already been on her way out the door.
The rest of the money had gone for supplies, that she stowed on the gift she had bought for herself. This sailboat. She’d named her boat the Spanish Angel, after the otherworldly being who’d come to her on that night when all had seemed lost.
And now she was doing what she had always dreamed of doing. She was sailing down the East Coast, embracing the ocean she had loved since birth. She was riding the waves, and soaking up the sun, and relishing the wind. She was communing with dolphins, and whales, and sharks, and seals, with seagulls and osprey and birds and fish she had yet to identify. She was meditating, and pondering the meaning of life and the universe and spirituality. She was living. For the first time in her life, now that she was dying, she was truly living.
She’d saved enough money to keep herself in food and fresh water and other essentials for the three months Mary told her she might have left, with a little extra left over in case she lived longer. Honestly, though, she didn’t think that was going to happen. She was sleeping more and more. And soon, she thought, it might not be safe to remain at sea, with no one at the helm in case she never woke up.
Then again, what did she have to lose, really?
As she stood there with the wind in her hair, she smiled and felt content right to her soul. She was happy, she realized. She didn’t have a worry in the world. She had no bills to pay, no jobs to rush to, no phones to answer, no computer to crash, no email to answer, no people depending on her and expecting things of her. All she had to do was sail, and live, and breathe. Eat and sleep. Read and sing. Pray and meditate. Ride the waves, and dream of crossing to the other side, into her guardian angel’s open arms. She wondered if it was sinful to feel the way she felt for him. Because her love for him, while pure and powerful, didn’t feel at all platonic. But she supposed if there was anything wrong with that, he wouldn’t have kissed her the way he had.
If she died tonight, she thought, she would die happy. And she would be even happier when she emerged on the other side. She could feel the antigen tugging her to sleep yet again. She’d managed to stay awake for six straight hours today. That was pretty good, for her.
She went below, to the little cabin, and fell asleep in a state of bliss.
She’d been sleeping pretty hard, as she tended to do these days, when she realized the wind was howling and water was rolling over her face. It was too dark to see, and she was completely disoriented; nothing in the room was where it belonged, and she couldn’t tell which way was up or which was down. And yet, she felt no panic. The water was warm. And if she drowned, so be it. Suddenly there was a crash, and her beautiful boat seemed to explode in a thousand directions, flying away from her like the expanding universe itself and leaving her in the open water, which was roiling, throwing her up and sucking her back down again. Lightning flashed over and over, and she gasped for air, blinking through saltwater to see brief strobing images. Jutting rocks. Broken boards. Foaming froth. Pouring rain. Heaving waters.
The instinctive urge to survive overwhelmed her even as her practical mind told her to just relax into the embrace of the sea. She was dying, anyway. What did it matter? But at that moment, in that instant, all she wanted was to keep her head above water, to keep sucking air into her lungs, and to struggle ever nearer to the rocks that had demolished her boat.
In desperation, she cried out, spewing water with her words. “Help me! Help me, someone!”
Diego was safely inside his cottage, the window shades up and shutters thrown wide, so that he could watch the rain, enjoy the electric light show that nature was putting on tonight. He loved storms. The pure, raw power of them. Right now, the wind was blowing the palms so that their fronds were nearly upright, and the vibration of the airwaves whisking around their variegated trunks made a hum that was not unlike the primal tone of a didgeridoo. The wind, that hum, the thunder, the crashing waves—together they created a symphony, and he listened in pure raw pleasure.
And then, a heartbeat later, his entire body quivered in awareness. Danger. Fear. Panic. What the hell was—
Help me! Help me, someone!
He felt the summons more than heard it, but then realized he’d heard it, as well, just barely. Not only that, but he knew its source, knew it immediately, as her energy rushed into his awareness, filling him. The woman he’d seen two months before, near the lighthouse, the one who’d been weeping. The woman he’d kissed.
One of the Chosen, and one with whom he’d felt an instant and powerful bond.
That made her very dangerous to him.
And yet, he was unable to deny the gut-level drive to help her. He had no choice. Nor would he have done otherwise even if he could have. He pulled on a slicker, a black one, caped. He pulled a cap down over his ears. It would only be soaked through in a few minutes, but he wore it, anyway, then dashed out of his haven and into the heart of the storm.
He could move faster than any living thing. Fast enough so that he would not be detectable to human eyes, nor, he suspected, to most of the wildlife here—though he wasn’t entirely sure about that. Still, he pushed himself to preternatural speeds through the storm, until he stood on the windward shore, and there he paused, listening—not just with his ears but with all his senses—and staring intently out at the violent sea.
“Where are you?” he asked aloud, but he sent the words out to her, too, using the power of his mind, knowing that might be the only way she, a mere mortal, would be able to hear him.
Rocks. Water. Can’t…see….
He felt a wave smash into her face, felt it as if it were happening to him. It silenced her mind and pushed her downward, and he felt her consciousness fading.
No time for the boat. He shed the slicker and hat, and ran into the water, sensing her near the treacherous rocks that rose from the sea a few hundred yards from shore. He dove, arrowing through the waves toward her. Angling deeper, to escape the surface effect of the storm—which would have slowed him, though only slightly—he sped onward, his senses attuned to the essence of her. Flawlessly they guided him, and in only seconds he was wrapping his arms around her body and shooting upward.
They broke the surface, and he held her so her back was against his chest, one hand pulling her forehead back and up. “Breathe!” he commanded, with his mind and will as well as his voice.
She gulped in air and gasped, gurgled and choked. Water spewed from her lips.
“Again,” he told her. “Breathe.”
And again she inhaled. Her eyes were closed tight, her body still. No fight left in her. He turned them toward shore, struggling now. He couldn’t just speed through the waves without forcing more water into her lungs. And it was difficult to make headway while keeping her head from submerging once more.
Lifting his own head, he called out, no longer speaking like a man. His voice was a high-pitched chitter instead. And within moments a dorsal fin appeared, pale amid the black water.
“Thank you, my friend,” Diego said softly, gripping the slick fin with one hand, holding on to his charge with the other. The dolphin swam rapidly toward shore, chirping happily, the ever-cheerful demeanor unaffected by the storm.
Diego couldn’t say the same for his own—although his darkening mood wasn’t due to the storm itself, but to what it had carried to his beach. His haven.
A woman. One of the Chosen. And not just any one, but this one. This woman he’d met during what he’d taken as a chance encounter two months ago. He’d gone into s
eclusion forty-five years ago because of a woman just like her. He’d taken refuge far from the reach of human or vampire. And yet, she had come.
Hell, was history doomed to repeat itself—even here?
“Far enough, Layla,” he said, releasing the dolphin and giving the animal a pat on the side even as it turned and swam away. His feet sank into the sandy sea-bottom, and he shifted the woman around to face him, carrying her as he strode up out of the waves, onto the beach and then along the winding and well-worn path through the forest to his cottage. His sanctuary. A place where only one other being had ever set foot, at least within his five-century-plus lifespan.
Allowing someone else to visit the island had proven disastrous. He had sworn that no one ever would breech his sanctuary again. And yet, here she was. And there was not one thing he could do about it.
Chapter 4
Anna struggled to open her eyes, but they seemed to resist her efforts. It was no surprise. She had a lot more trouble waking up, and a lot more trouble staying awake, lately. She seemed to be becoming almost nocturnal. The sun’s energy was just too much for her slowly weakening body, she supposed. Hadn’t Mary told her that would happen? The essence of nighttime was so much softer, easier to take. Even on the boat, she’d…
The boat…
Her sailboat!
Her eyes flew open wide, and she sucked in a breath so sharply that it hurt her chest. Her arms flew out, hitting something that clattered to the floor, and she pushed herself upward all at once. And then, slowly, her wide-open eyes showed her that she was not in the ocean, fighting to keep her head above water, being battered by the waves and the storm. No. She was warm, and she was dry. The surface beneath her was soft, and the room around her, one of utter beauty and…peace.
Odd, that she would think that, but that was what it felt like to her. Peace.
The walls were red-brown wood, full of swirls and knots. There was a small cobblestone fireplace on one of them, with a rounded opening, and a glass screen in front. There were flames dancing and heat flowing. Huge windows lined the room, but they were all closed off now, by dark shutters from the outside. There were a few pieces of furniture, all apparently made of raw wood-slabs and coated in thick gleaming layers of shellac. Someone had attached legs to them to create tables, backs to create chairs, added cushions to some for relaxation. The one she rested on was a sort of fainting couch, she thought. She was lying on a brown plush pad, and matching pillows were tucked between her body and the wooden back, which was, she thought as she tugged one of the pillows aside, gorgeous. Hand carved to resemble the graceful body and long swooping neck of a swan.
Sitting up slowly, she looked down to see that her hands were clutching a cream-colored blanket made of the same sort of fabric one would use to make a baby’s first teddy bear. So soft. And then she noticed the shirt she wore—it wasn’t her own. It was a man’s tank-style undershirt. White, ribbed. Her arms were bare. She lifted the blanket and saw she had on a pair of men’s boxer shorts.
She tried to remember how she’d come to be here, who had rescued her from the storm-tossed sea that had devoured her beautiful sailboat. Her Spanish Angel? But for the life of her, she couldn’t recall anything more than waking in the water, struggling to keep her head above the surface, choking on the brine, and finally losing her battle. Peace had surrounded her as she had gone sinking down. And peace was what she had awakened to just now.
Was this heaven? Did they dress you in men’s underclothes in heaven? Did they heat heaven with a crackling wood-fire?
Maybe. If heaven was, as she had come to suspect through all her hours of pondering and meditation, what one expected it to be, then maybe this was her heaven. A private, cozy cottage, where she was warm and safe and dry. She’d always wanted a cabin of wood, with a cobblestone fireplace. If this were really heaven, her cottage would be situated on a beach.
Beside her luxurious bed were a pitcher of water and a wooden bowl filled with tropical fruit. There were figs and nectarines and berries. She didn’t particularly like figs. Would there be figs if this were heaven?
She stared at the bowl and imagined a juicy steak appearing there. Just to test it out. But nothing happened. Where was she?
As her senses expanded, seeking more information, she heard no sounds of traffic outside, no horns or motors or sirens. She didn’t even hear an occasional passing car.
She eased the blanket off and sat up straighter, then swung her legs around and lowered her bare feet to the floor. She started to stand, but a wave of dizziness put her right back down. Her head swam, and her body began to complain at her for daring to move at all. Pain pulsed, soft, then more loudly, from her back, from her legs, from her shoulders and one hip. The dizziness became an insistent throb, and she lowered her head into her hands, closing her eyes and moaning softly.
Not heaven, she thought. Not even close. I’m definitely still in my body.
“You shouldn’t be trying to get up yet.”
It was a voice. A familiar voice. Deep and resonant and male, with the accent she’d heard so many nights in her sleep. Her angel?
His hands closed on her shoulders, and he spoke again with concern. “Are you all right?”
She lifted her head slowly, expecting…she didn’t know what. A radiant being in white robes with a halo floating above his head?
It wasn’t quite that. But he was radiant. And so blessedly, blissfully familiar. His skin was light, for a man who was clearly of Latin descent. Oh, the usual coppery tones were there, but it was almost as if it were backlit somehow. And his beloved eyes… Deep brown eyes like chocolate left too long in the summer sun, and lashes so thick she was almost jealous. Her own only looked that way with the help of mascara and eyeliner. He came by them naturally, just like the heavy brows and the full lips.
“It’s you,” she whispered, and she almost choked on the tears that welled up in her throat. “I really am dead, then. Why does it still hurt?”
His eyes seemed to well up, or maybe she was just thinking that because her own were wet. “No, pretty one. You are not dead.”
Was his voice as beautiful as it seemed? Or was she experiencing some sort of ecstatic state induced by nearly drowning? “If I’m not dead, then…how can you be here with me?” she asked softly.
He frowned, then lifted a hand to indicate the room around them. “This is my home. Where else would I be?”
“Then…you’re not an angel?”
His smile was quick, but restrained, too. A flash of perfect white teeth only partly revealed. “No, pequita, I am no angel.”
“But I know you. I do. I know you. We’ve met before. At the lighthouse, before I…” Her head ached harder, and she frowned, pressing her hand to her forehead.
“You’ve been through a terrible trauma. Your mind is playing tricks on you, no doubt.”
“No, I do know you. I’ve dreamed of you. All my life, really. When you came to me that night—”
“Your mind is playing tricks on you.”
“No. You knew my name that night. You called me Anna. And I know yours. It’s Diego.”
That seemed to bring him up short. He went still, and his gaze darted away from hers, turning inward, but only very briefly. “I’ve been speaking to you while you slept, Anna. I’ve told you my name several times. But this is the first time I’ve heard yours.”
“Why are you lying to me?” she asked softly.
He met her eyes again, holding her gaze steadily as if to show her how sincere he was being. How truthful. “You’ve been through a terrible ordeal. That’s just confusing you now. And it doesn’t matter, anyway, does it? The past rarely does, you know. You are here with me now, safe and sound, and I can get you back to your people just as quickly as you wish. So there’s not a thing in the world for you to worry about.”
She nodded very gently, even while thinking that she had no “people” to go back to, and now no boat and no money.
“You should lie back dow
n. Your poor body is bruised and battered from end to end. You need rest, so you can heal.”
She thought so, too, but didn’t obey. Not yet. “How badly am I hurt?”
“Nothing is broken, pequita, and I don’t detect any internal injuries. I think it would be harder on you to make the journey to the mainland in your current state than it would be to just remain for a few days and let your body heal.”
“The mainland?” She frowned and lifted her head again. “Where are we?”
“We’re on my island. I call her Serenity, because that is what she has given me.”
“Your island?”
“Yes.”
“And…you live here with…?”
“With the animals. With the birds. With the ocean waves and the palms and the coconuts. And…with peace.”
“There’s no one else?”
“No. No one else.” He shrugged. “Until now. But I promise you, you are safe with me. I will not harm you. And I’ll take you back as soon as—”
“Can I see it? I need to see it—please.”
“The island?”
“Yes. Please, Diego, I need to see it.”
He hesitated, staring at her as if trying to see more than what she was saying, and she experienced the oddest sensation, as if he were probing her very soul. And then he seemed to make a decision. He bent closer, sliding his arms underneath her body and lifting her up.
“Wait! You don’t have to carry me.”
“You’re in no condition to walk on your own. And it’s not the first time, after all.” She barely had time to glimpse the other rooms in his home as he swept through them toward a large wooden door that seemed to be made from one single board and was completely covered with the images of animals and symbols, like she would have expected to see on some Native totem pole.
He nodded at the handle, which was a wrought-iron ring. “If you would,” he said.
She grasped it and pulled. And the door swung open, revealing…paradise. Stone paths wound in a dozen directions amid exotic flowering plants, the likes of which she had never seen. Orchids, maybe. Birds-of-paradise, perhaps. And others, huge blossoms and tall grasses, all emitting the most beautiful fragrances she’d ever smelled. There was a fire circle in the center of it all, made of stacked rocks, with a bare, sandy patch of ground surrounding it and a chair entirely carved from a tree trunk close beside. Beyond the flowers and paths and fire circle, palm trees stood tall and graceful, along with other trees she couldn’t have named. And beyond those she saw a very large roof. “What’s that?”
Vacation With a Vampire...and Other Immortals Page 3
