Black Swan

by Linda Nightingale

  “There is. I am. And this vampire is bloody tired of pretending I’m not, hiding my desire for you. Ah, the nights I've resisted the fever. Now I shall kiss you as I’ve longed to do.”

  Strong hands locked on her arms. Her eyes snapped open. His eyes flamed hellish red. She opened her mouth to scream but his gaze seared into her, every thought shriveling. Fear thudded in her veins but she was powerless to move or look away. She watched his mouth coming slowly to rest on hers.

  “You needn't fear.” His tongue took a delicious wet journey down the jugular, his breath sending lusty shivers through her. “I've fed already tonight. A taste will satisfy the ungodly craving I've battled—I want your blood.”

  His mouth closed on her neck. A little sting as the needle sharp incisors pierced her skin, the vein.

  Moaning, he sucked, the sensation making the sensual tension within her hotter and hotter. Her nipples hardened beneath her blouse. A drum beat between her legs, echoing throughout her entire body. She wrapped her fingers around his pulsing erection, sliding her hand up and down the thick length of his smooth cock. Tristan’s arms tightened around her, guiding her to lie back on the sofa. His mouth left her flesh wanting, and she felt the trickle of blood on her neck. He appeared above her. Braced on the columns of his arms he bent over her, one thigh between her legs. His cool satin tongue licked the trail of blood from her throat and the curve of her collarbone. Once again, his mouth fastened to the vein, sucking harder. The silken thread of her life’s blood unraveled into him, the union more intimate than sex. Her hands strayed to the long hair curled at his neck. She leaned into him, eager to be absorbed to the core. Holly’s eyes grew heavy, and her body moved to the rhythm of the soft moans breathed against her neck as Tristan suckled. Lost in the ecstasy of the vampire kiss, the steady brush of thigh against her sex enticed her to shamelessly ride him.

  Bliss.

  A soft sigh.

  In silence, her world exploded into shards of white light.

  She came… And fainted.

  ***

  Holly sat bolt upright in bed. The scream that woke her—her scream—echoed in her bedroom. She kicked free of the sheets tangled around her ankles. When her heart rate slowed, she ran a hand through her hair, yawning. “What the hell did I dream?”

  Rain beat against the windows. Her bedroom oozed dead-of-night silence, chilled with cold. Shivering, she tucked the covers up to her chin and closed her eyes. An image of a pale, motionless woman with bite wounds on her neck flickered across Holly's eyelids. She jumped to her feet, spilling the goose down comforter to the floor, but a wave of dizziness washed her flat on the bed again. The dull thud of her heart echoed in her veins, and her head throbbed to the rhythm. Her limbs felt heavy, knees weak. She ran a dry tongue over parched lips. The headache was the worst she'd ever had.

  “Feel like hell. What did I drink last night?” She massaged her temples. “And what the hell did I dream? It came back for a moment. Oh well.” It seemed the sharp pain in her head had erased the memory before it took hold. “Thank the powers that be I don't have a shoot today. I'll grab Tylenol, a glass of water, and go back to sleep.”

  She staggered to the bathroom, rinsed her mouth and rubbed her eyes, but still the face in the mirror blurred. “I look like death on a saltine.”

  Grimacing, she swallowed the painkiller, wandered downstairs for water but decided on coffee. As she scooped an organic blend into the coffeemaker, memory struck her. The scoop bounced to the floor, spilling coffee on the black-and-white tile.

  “Oh God, Tristan and I argued last night.” She had to talk to him.

  Why had she accused him of cheating on her? Dread raised every hair on her body.

  Leaving the spill, Holly strode to the living room, drew aside the curtains as dawn crept over the horizon. Damn and double damn. Tristan had made it clear never to phone during the day, that he wouldn't answer. Once she'd tried. His voice mail greeting was terse. “Unavailable. Incommunicado. Don't bother to leave a message. Ring after sundown.”

  She didn't care. She had to speak to him, apologize. The sense that something was horribly wrong resonated in her with each ring of the phone. Seven rings.

  No answer.

  Tears clogged her throat. Gripping the phone, she paced to the kitchen, returned to the living room, totally unconscious of where she was. Hand trembling, she hit redial. Ten rings. Voice mail should have answered.

  Bright spots danced in her peripheral vision. Feeling faint, she clung to the door. When her vision cleared, she realized that there was a tall shrouded figure in the darkest corner of her living room. She dropped the phone clattering, shattering. Ignoring the mess, one step at the time, she crossed into shadow, lifted a trembling hand and tugged the green-and-white Ralph Lauren comforter off a bronze of a man and woman entwined―the lovers, Holly and Tristan.

  “God no!” Holly dashed for the door, bumping into a table, a brass candlestick crashing and rolling across the old wooden floor.

  She bolted into the hall and tripped over the Monday morning news. A weird shiver passed through her, giving her goose bumps. She bent to pick up the paper.

  On the front page a color photo and headline, Real Vampires, announced a new exhibit of rare artifacts at the museum. The curator held a nasty looking knife to the camera, but it was the woman’s face that stopped Holly's heart. She knew her―maybe from a film, a model on a shoot, a face on the street—a face on a flyer on a circular table inlaid with mother of pearl.

  And the face she'd glimpsed before Tristan leapt from bed, his mouth blood-smeared.

  Pain seared a trail through Holly's brain. She inhaled a gasp, pressing her fingertips into her eyes. She had to get upstairs. She couldn't remember what she'd said, couldn't remember any damn thing, but she knew the argument had been a vicious screaming match—on her part—and he'd been silent.

  “Oh my God, I told him I never wanted to see him again.”

  Two at the time, she took the stairs. On the door to Tristan’s apartment, an orange plastic sign announced:

  FOR RENT

  TELEPHONE 733-9112

  Heart for rent.

  “Next time I want a nice normal guy, not an artist but a housepainter or something.” Trailing her hand along the ornate rail, Holly descended, one step at the time, the stairs she'd climbed in a panic a few moments ago.

  “Tristan I'll never―I repeat―never think of you again.”

  ***

  Halfway across the country, a black-haired man stared out the window of an eastbound 747. In the darkness, he saw a pretty face framed by straight blonde hair. For a moment, he relived what he’d thought to be love. Regret and guilt darkened azure eyes. In fact, when he'd told Holly he loved her, it had been true. Love had many shades, shapes, and facets.

  Monogamy for my kind is impossible.

  A lesson hard learned. The battle against his nature—against self—was lost, and he was weary of the war that had raged inside for far too long. A vampire's very nature is to kill.

  “May I get you a drink?” The flight attendant, a delectable redhead, gazed at him with mahogany eyes.

  If you only knew.

  He smiled and shook his head. “No thank you.”

  Tristan had taken a dangerous risk by refusing to erase their last night together from Holly's memory. The steadfast disbelief in his kind, fostered by The Vampyre, more or less insured that if Holly Pritchard recalled the dead woman and the blood, she'd dismiss it as a bad dream. Before he had eased her to sleep and carried her to her apartment, he'd placed a powerful mind block on any recollection of what she'd seen in his bedroom and the intimacy of their only Kiss. If visions surfaced, her head would hurt and the memory would disappear with the pain.

  To explain his sudden exit, Tristan had implanted a suggestion that they'd argued and she'd stormed out of his place, shouting that she never wanted to see him again.

  He studied his translucent nails. Damn. He hadn't intended to hurt Holly. He
hurt but there was no remedy for it. He'd planned to break up with her before she caught him taking a victim. For several weeks, his demons had been beckoning him home.

  Tristan rested his forehead against the window, his thoughts shifting to the woman who understood his needs and accepted what he was. The woman he truly loved. The woman he'd fled for fear of falling in love.

  “Carol,” he whispered, willing her to hear.

  Tristan McLachlan was going home to his Black Swan.

  ***

  If there was one thing Carol had learned about dating vampires, it was never be surprised. She and her friend Lisa were at this lavish party to shop the stunning array available for the evening. Tonight, Carol needed a lover to provide the thrills and chills only a vampire could. A girl could get spoiled to the best.

  After Carol's devastating divorce, Lisa had introduced her to the elite circle called Black Swans, mortals willing to trade blood for pleasure and an occasional taste of the immortal elixir that allowed fleeting glimpses of the glories of vampirism. Of course, great sex was usually part of the blood bargain. Vampire guys could make good the claim,”I’m always up for it.” Other perks included hobnobbing with the rich and famous. A lot of vampires fell into that category.

  At first, the thought of loving the Undead had repulsed Carol—until her friend gave her a crash course on The Vampyre Effect—the mutation of the human genome by a rare blood-born pathogen that changed a mortal meat-and-potatoes man to an immortal bloodsucker. The Vampyre, as a separate species, inherited dynamic sexual energy, could move faster than the human eye could see, read thoughts and mesmerize. In short, the perfect predator.

  Then Carol had sampled the heady delights the night world offered, and the rest was history. A philandering husband had already taught her that fidelity wasn't only a lost art but a shameful waste of time. In the beginning, she was uncomfortable kissing another man while last night’s lover looked on, but it hadn’t taken her long to learn to appreciate variety.

  As Lisa said, “Why limit yourself to caviar when there were so many delectable choices on the menu?” Actually, Carol liked being a bit free and frivolous with her affections.

  Most of the Swan Songs they’d attended were in London. Tonight, they’d driven south to a fabulous country estate of manicured lawns and gardens that once belonged to a famous actor.

  A uniformed valet parked Lisa's car. A servant in frock coat and hose motioned them toward the manor's broad stairs. As Carol's foot landed on the first step, she heard the whisper of her name.

  She froze, cocking her head to listen. “Lisa, I could have sworn I heard Tristan call my name.”

  Her friend laughed. “It's not Tristan but the Devil calling you home to Hell, Hussy.”

  “Pot calling the kettle black.” Carol shrugged. “I'll never forget his voice,” and under her breath, “or him.”

  Lisa elbowed her. “How do we spell gone?”

  They joined the highly select party animals in formal attire, the men gorgeous in tuxedoes and the women a rainbow of expensive gowns. Some floated; some walked up the wide stone staircase. There were more immortals than mortals, more men than women. Carol liked the odds. The low-cut emerald beaded gown and her waist-length dark hair drew admiring glances from both sexes. Chamber Music drifted into the misty night. Edward Elgar's Cello Concerto in E Minor that Tristan had performed with the London Symphony Orchestra.

  She'd been in the audience, and they'd been in love. Her heart cramped. Sadness caught Carol mid-smile.

  At just such a party, she’d met Tristan. Black Irish, black-haired, blue-eyed, he looked like a young Pierce Brosnan. Gifted with a devilish sense of humor, he had an artist's passion and zeal. They’d been an item—and true blue—for nearly a year before vampire wanderlust set in. Six months ago, he’d run away to America. If he’d asked her to go with him, she’d be listening to a rainy night in Seattle instead of England.

  Carol had a gold medal in loving and losing.

  BT—before Tristan—she’d never gotten the one she wanted. BT she'd never truly been in love. At least, he’d been a gorgeous improvement on her previous track record. Everyone dealt with heartbreak in a different way. Carol had tried to outrun it but a six-week parade of good-looking immortal lovers hadn’t filled the emptiness he’d left in her heart. Damn and double damn, she’d promised not to think of him tonight! She was here to have fun and perhaps other f-words.

  Blonde Lisa, in blue sequins, leaned near to whisper, “Heads up, Carol.”

  Carol looked up, halted, gripping the rail. She’d never seen the godlike creature standing regally at the top of the stairs, one long, elegant hand resting on the head of a stone lion. He radiated power—and arrogance. Straight, thick hair, black and soft as the country night, washed over his shoulders. He was so intense, so handsome that the people greeting him faded to ghosts. Lisa captured her hand to pull her along. When they mounted the step beside him, black eyes captured Carol's and, in one fluttering heartbeat, the stranger had taken the measure of her soul. He didn’t smile or hold her gaze long enough to mesmerize, yet Carol felt wobbly on her feet—and enthralled. For a moment, she actually forgot Tristan.

  Guests spilled from the ballroom into the marble-paved Great Hall. Lisa snagged Paul, a pretty dandy from the West End scene, by his tuxedoed arm. "Who is Mr. Tall, Dark, Handsome, and Arrogant?”

  Paul spoke with the aristocracy’s natural lisp. “Lucien St. Albans, Chief Councilor of Les Elus, lovingly called the Dark Prince. He’s probably here to make sure no one breaks the rules.”

  As they navigated the glittering crowd, Paul explained that Les Elus governed the Vampyre. “The Prime Directive, of course, is never to endanger the life of a Black Swan.” He batted his big baby blues and said, with a fanged smile, that it was always open season on hearts.

  “Paul, introduce me to your friends.” The black magic voice stopped the trio.

  The young vampire spun on his heel. “Lucien.” A blush lent color to his pale cheeks. “Yes, of course, my pleasure.” He indicated Lisa with a wave of his hand then introduced Carol, who couldn’t take her eyes off the mysterious black-haired sphinx. “Carol Langston.”

  Carol Langston dissolved in Lucien’s gaze. “Lucien St. Albans,” she said. “What a lyrical name. I love just saying it.”

  Brilliant Carol.

  She licked her lips, tasting the name. What had come over her?

  Much to her chagrin, she’d never been brazen. Too many times, in fact, almost always, another woman waltzed away with the man she’d fantasized about all evening. Then again, she’d never seen anyone like Lucien St. Albans. Standing a few feet away from him, she felt the electricity the man exuded—and the sensuality. The demon that had possessed her was lust. Lucien was a hunger that already gnawed at her libido and her imagination. She gave her long tresses a wanton toss and smiled up at power incarnate.

  Lucien dropped the Glamour of a normal man. His sexy smile showed sharp incisors. A light refraction turned his oblong, catlike pupils red. “Will you join me at dinner then call my name for the remainder of the night?”

  Carol felt a blush crawl up her neck. She wasn’t accustomed to such directness. Before you got down to serious business, there was always the mating dance—no different than mortals flirting then shagging. When she shot Lisa a glance, her friend winked. Yes, she liked a man who laid his cards on the table. She itched to run her fingers through his long black hair and…

  A soft laugh from the object of her affliction snapped her out of an erotic dream. Raven brows flickered. In an elegant, old-world gesture, he offered her his arm. Smiling at each other, they swept into the opulent dining room for a sit-down meal served by more liveried servants.

  “Who are our hosts?” Carol sipped a wonderful Chardonnay.

  With a cut-glass goblet of viscous red wine, Lucien indicated a couple seated at the far end of the table. “Tom and Jade Martin from America. California, I believe. Mortals, of course.”

&
nbsp; Carol was too awed to take offense at the condescension in his voice. Smiling, she lifted her glass when the Californians toasted them.

  As the Dark Prince’s companion, Carol found herself the object of lively scrutiny and, no doubt, envy. While their mortal friends dined, the vampires drank blood let from the veins of other Black Swans and bottled like fine wines. Bottles bearing a gold seal were intoxicants. Those Swans had been pleasantly merry when they made their blood donation. A pretty maid gazed longingly at Lucien as she filled his glass from a gold-sealed bottle. When he tapped his glass to hers, Carol noticed the ruby ring the same shade as the blood he drank. She was no historian but the ring looked like an ancient artifact and somehow as dangerous as its owner.

  Though he appeared—was—quite haughty and serious, the Dark Prince proved a witty and charming dinner companion. He never laughed aloud but smiled often—an enchanting smile of perfect white teeth and dusky mauve lips. A couple of times he surprised Carol by taking her hand in a warm grasp and slowly, sensuously tracing her fingers, sending shivers capering over her. From what Lisa could discover and relay to her in the powder room, Lucien rarely attended Swan Songs and never indulged in the offerings.

  Carol Langston fell in Black Swan love, very akin to that other four-letter word.

  Lucien leaned his elbows on the table, looking at Lisa, who sat next to Carol. “I’ve a friend I’d like for you to meet. He should be here later this evening.”

  “Marvelous.” Lisa ruffled a hand through her hair, leaning toward Carol’s magnetic new friend. “What’s he like?”

  From two seats away, Lucien had turned on his power, whether consciously or naturally, and totally bedazzled Lisa. Carol understood her friend's bemused expression. She'd been zapped by the electricity every vampire radiated. The Dark Prince generated a higher voltage.

  “He’s a fine lad.” Lucien winked at Carol. “Has a great personality.”