He kissed her one more time, then, taking a deep breath, he gained his feet.
"It's late," he said. "You should get some sleep."
She sat up, not quite meeting his eyes. "You are angry with me."
"No." He offered her his hand, felt a rush of heat flow up his arm when she placed her hand in his and let him draw her to her feet.
Still holding her hand, he walked her up the stairs to his bedroom. He kissed her again because he had no power to resist. She didn't move when he broke the kiss, only stood there, looking slightly confused. Grunting softly, he gave her a little push into the room, then closed the door behind her.
It was after midnight.
Time to dine.
* * *
CHAPTER 7
Roshan wandered the dark streets, listening to the muted sounds of the night—the hum of a white moth's wings, the whisper of a fat gray spider crawling up the side of a crumbling red brick wall, the distant barking of a dog.
He could have transported himself to his destination. He could have taken the Ferrari, but he enjoyed walking alone, late at night, while the rest of the city was asleep.
Moving on, he saw an old wino passed out in an alley; farther down the street, a young couple sat in a parked car, locked in each other's arms, the windows fogged up.
A patrol car slowed, keeping pace with him. The passenger officer gave him the once-over, then turned his head and spoke to his partner, and the car picked up speed again, disappearing around a corner.
Roshan grunted softly. He was used to being stopped and questioned by the police. They tended to be suspicious of anyone walking the streets late at night. These two officers knew him; they had stopped him a little over a year ago, questioned him, checked his ID. When asked about his peculiar hours, Roshan had told them he had insomnia. They had warned him to be careful and let him go. He was still stopped from time to time, whenever there was a new cop on the beat.
He continued on, his senses alert to his surroundings, his thoughts drifting to Brenna as though drawn by invisible cords. What was he going to do with her, now that he had her here? She was totally dependent on him; to his astonishment, he found he rather liked the idea. But she had a quick intelligent mind; it wouldn't take her long to get the hang of things in the twenty-first century, and even though there wasn't much call for witches these days, he was pretty sure she could find a way to earn a living, if that was what she wanted, though there was no need for her to work. He could easily support her if she decided to stay with him. And if she wanted to leave… what then?
He would not keep her in his house against her will, though the idea was far more tempting than it should have been. He could make her his creature, keep her at his side, enchant her to do his bidding, drink of her sweetness whenever he desired… oh yes, the idea was tempting indeed. In days past, when women were little more than chattel, he had done just that, not only to satisfy his own cravings, but to save the life of a young woman whose husband had abused her verbally and physically until she was little more than a frightened shell of a woman. Roshan had dispatched the husband, then taken the girl under his wing. He had found her a safe place to live, fed her and clothed her, cared for her until she died.
"Bethany." He shared her name with the night. He had not thought of her in over a century.
He found his prey exiting a high-class nightclub in a wealthy part of the city. She was dark-haired and statuesque, with deep brown eyes and caramel-colored skin. Her clothes, a tight black sweater with a deep V neck, a pair of skintight white pants, and a white leather jacket, were expensive.
She smiled a knowing smile as he approached. "Sorry, honey," she purred, "but it's late and I'm on my way home."
"I'll walk you," he said, falling into step beside her.
"I'm not walking." Pulling a set of keys out of a small black handbag, she opened the door to a late-model luxury car.
Roshan glanced around. He could take her, here and now, in the car, but there was always the chance of being seen. Better to take her home where there was no chance of discovery.
"Then I'll be your chauffeur for the evening."
"That won't be necessary. I…" Her gaze met his, her voice trailing off as his mind captured hers. She smiled blankly. "Yes, of course."
"My pleasure." Taking the keys from her hand, he escorted her around to the passenger side door, opened it, and handed her into the automobile. Returning to the driver's side, he slid behind the wheel and put the key in the ignition. The car started with a low growl.
"Where do you live?" he asked, pulling away from the curb.
She gave him her address, then sat back in her seat, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes slightly unfocused as he probed her mind.
On the way, he learned that she was a fashion model, recently divorced from a high-profile movie star, that she was the sole support for her mother and her invalid grandmother.
A nice girl, Roshan mused as he parked the car.
She lived on the top floor of a high-rise condo. An elevator whisked them to her apartment. The walls were a stark white, the furniture black leather. Red accent pieces offered the only touch of color—a vase of blood red roses on the mantel, a couple of red throw pillows, a bird carved from a piece of red glass.
The woman—her name was Tiffany—turned on the lights, then shrugged out of her jacket and sat down on the sofa, waiting.
Roshan sat beside her, his arm slipping around her shoulders.
Confusion flickered in the woman's eyes. "You're not going to hurt me, are you?"
He glanced at the pulse throbbing in the hollow of her throat. A deep breath filled his nostrils with the scent of vibrant life. "No, Tiffany, not at all." He stroked her cheek. "Close your eyes, my sweet. You won't feel a thing."
The sound of his voice soothed her. She closed her eyes. Her head fell back across his arm, exposing the slender curve of her neck.
He ran his fingertips over her skin, then bent down, his tongue laving the sensitive skin below her ear.
She sighed as his teeth grazed her skin. She moaned with pleasure as he took what he needed, made a soft sound of protest when he lifted his head.
"Don't stop." She put her hand behind his head, drawing him toward her once again. "Don't stop."
He closed his eyes, fighting the urge to take what she offered, to drink her life, all of it. Past, present, and future. To drink and drink until he was replete, sated.
But she was the sole support of her family. To deprive her of her life would be to condemn her mother and grandmother to a life of poverty. He knew too well what that was like.
"Not tonight, my sweet," he murmured. "You will sleep now. You will forget me. You will forget any of this happened."
She looked up at him through eyes that were filled with sorrow. "I don't want to forget."
"I know." His gaze trapped hers, his mind sifting through her memories of the past half hour. "But you will forget," he said quietly.
A tear rolled down her cheek and then her expression went blank. A moment later, she was asleep.
Rising, he left the building. When the woman awoke, she would have no memory of him or of anything that had happened after she left the nightclub.
Whistling softly, he went home.
He paused on the front steps, his head tilted back to look up at the stars wheeling high overhead. Eternity dwelled there, beyond the white expanse of the Milky Way. How many times had he stood thus, contemplating the hereafter, wondering what awaited him should death find him? In the course of his existence, he had killed countless times, sometimes in self-defense, sometimes because the temptation to drink his fill was more than he could withstand. Would he be called to answer for all the lives he had taken, or just those he had taken because he was too weak to resist? Would he writhe in the flames of an unforgiving hell forever, or was there redemption even for one such as he? He had not asked for the Dark Gift. Would he be punished for what he had done to survive?
He b
lew out a sigh. He regretted the lives he had taken. Not long ago, he had considered ending his own existence, but then he had found Brenna. She had added meaning and luster to his life, given him something to look forward to when the moon chased the sun from the sky.
A shift in the wind carried her scent to him. He turned toward her window. An errant breeze carried the fragrance of her hair, her skin, her very being.
A thought carried him to her bedside. She slept on her back, her face turned away from him. Moonlight filtered through the window, casting her face in light and shadow. She was quite the loveliest creature he had seen in centuries. And she was here, in his house. In his bed. His for the taking…
Though he had just fed, the beast stirred deep within him. Leaning down, he gently brushed a lock of hair away from the side of her neck. He could see her pulse beating there, slow and steady. He stroked it with his fingertip, felt his own heart begin to beat in time with hers.
His mouth watered.
His fangs lengthened in response to the turn of his thoughts.
One taste.
What could it hurt?
He ran his tongue across the silky warmth of her skin, closed his eyes in sensual pleasure, and then, quietly cursing himself, he pierced her tender flesh. It was the tiniest of bites, hardly more than a scratch, yielding only a few drops of blood. But it was enough. Enough to tell him that he could never let her go.
He closed the wound with a stroke of his tongue and then, muttering a vile oath, he turned and fled the room before he surrendered to the demon within him.
She dreamed, a dark, sensual dream, and in her dream she saw a man standing in the shadows, a tall, broad-shouldered man clad in a long black cloak. He blended into the darkness as though he were darkness itself. She couldn't see his face but she knew it was him, the stranger, Roshan DeLongpre. She could feel his supernatural power crawling over her skin, sense his gaze upon her face. His loneliness whispered to her, a wordless cry of desolation and pain that sank deep into her heart. She reached for him and he backed away, stepping into a pool of moonlight that cast silver shadows in his long black hair. She saw the sadness in his dark eyes, yearned to comfort him. She reached for him again, felt a sudden rush of motion, a subtle shift in the fabric of the night, and she was no longer standing outside but lying in her bed overshadowed by a dark presence. Fear roiled deep in the pit of her stomach. She saw a flash of sharp white teeth, opened her mouth in a silent scream as she felt the prick of fangs at her throat…
Brenna woke to the sound of her own screams. Sitting up, she turned on the light beside her bed, her gaze darting around the room. A faint breeze ruffled the curtains at the window. She frowned, certain that she had closed the windows before she went to bed.
Rising, she went into the bathroom and turned on the light, then looked into the mirror on the medicine cabinet. It was, she realized, the only mirror in the house. Holding her hair back, she turned her head from side to side. There! Was that a bite? Fear congealed in the pit of her stomach. She leaned closer to the mirror, her eyes narrowed in concentration, and then she frowned. She would have sworn there was a bite there a moment ago but now it was gone. Had she imagined it?
With a sigh, she turned off the light and went back to bed, one arm curling around Morgana, grateful for the cat's presence. And then she noticed the cat was staring at the window, a low growl rumbling in her throat.
Fear clutched at Brenna's heart once more. "Who's there? Roshan, is that you?"
He materialized in a swirl of sparkling silver motes to stand before her. Even in the unfamiliar light cast by the strange lamp beside her bed, he seemed to be a part of the night.
"What are you doing here?" she asked.
He glanced at her neck. "I heard your scream."
The skin beneath her ear felt suddenly hot and she covered it with her hand. "What have you done to me?" she asked, her voice hushed. "Have you made me what you are?"
"No, my sweet Brenna, I have not cursed you with the Dark Trick."
"But you bit me? You took my blood while I slept."
He nodded.
"You promised I would be safe here!"
Upset at the anger in her mistress's voice, Morgana sprang to her feet, hissing.
"And safe you shall be," Roshan said.
She glared at him. "Safe? Hah!"
"Forgive me, Brenna. I took but a small taste, hardly more than a drop."
"You are no more trustworthy than the fox who promised safety to the goose if she would carry him across the lake."
He lifted one brow, waiting for her to explain.
"When the fox reached the safety of the other side, he attacked the goose. As the goose lay dying, she asked him why he had betrayed her. 'It is my nature,' replied the fox.'" She stared at him, her eyes filled with accusation. "Like the fox, sir, I fear you cannot change your nature. Like the goose, I fear I have sorely misplaced my trust."
Roshan grunted softly. "Think what you will, Brenna Flanagan," he said quietly, and vanished from her sight.
She stared after him. She could not stay here. All too clearly, she remembered the dream she'd had before he came to her cottage, the cold certainty she'd had upon waking that she would die by his hand.
Things seemed less ominous in the clear light of day. Rising, Brenna stepped into the shower and closed the curtain. What a marvel, to have hot water anytime one wished without having to heat it on the fire or cast a spell. She stood under the spray, luxuriating in the warmth.
Exiting the bathroom, she noticed the boxes and bags containing the clothing she had chosen the night before sitting on the floor beside the bed. Roshan must have brought the packages up sometime last night, while she was asleep. The thought of him being in the room, watching her while she slept, drinking her blood, sent a shiver down her spine.
She rummaged through the packages for a change of clothing, taking out what she needed for the day, leaving the rest of the items in the bags and boxes since there was no room in the closet or the chest of drawers.
She dressed quickly, ran the brush through her hair, then, her feet bare, she went downstairs to break her fast. Entering the kitchen, she glanced around, trying to remember all the things he had told her, quietly whispering the name of each object—stove, refrigerator, sink, garbage disposal, dishwasher. Such wondrous inventions. Truly, this was a magical age.
She opened the refrigerator, marveling anew that the big box kept food cold with no visible means. Electricity kept it cold, Roshan had told her. Electricity. To Brenna, it was just another name for modern magick. She had learned that it was electricity that powered the television, cooled the house in summer, and caused the lamps to glow with light. How was it possible for the same source to provide both heat and cold, as well as light?
She withdrew two eggs and the bacon from the refrigerator and set them on the counter. She found a frying pan and placed it on the stove. And then she stood there, wondering if she dared turn on the stove. What if she did it wrong? Chiding herself for her fears, she turned on the front burner the way Roshan had showed her. If she was going to live in this century, she needed to learn how to do these things. She cracked the eggs in the pan, added two strips of bacon.
While she waited for the food to cook, she buttered two pieces of bread, noting that each slice in the package was exactly the same size as the other. She turned the eggs and the bacon, jumping a little when grease splattered on her hand. After filling a glass with buttermilk, she poured some into a small bowl for Morgana. Turning off the stove, she dished up the eggs and bacon and sat down at the table.
She glanced out the window while she ate, wondering where Roshan passed the hours of daylight, wondering what vampire sleep was like. Was it truly like death, or did he dream? She had heard that vampires were vulnerable when the sun commanded the sky, that they could be destroyed while taking their rest. Did he sleep somewhere here, in the house?
Closing her eyes, she reached out to him with her mind, but she h
ad no sense of his presence, no inkling that he was anywhere nearby. She was mystified by her overwhelming urge to see him while he slept. Was it the same sort of curiosity that had brought him to her room last night?
After finishing her meal, she put her plate and glass in the dishwasher and closed the door. A wave of her hand and a small incantation quickly washed and dried the frying pan and put it away. She could have washed and dried her dishes in the same manner but she was curious to see how the dishwasher worked.
Leaving the kitchen, she went into the living room and sat down, Morgana at her side. Settling back on the sofa, Brenna turned on the television. For a time, she was content to sit there, occasionally switching the channels. She did not understand everything she saw. Sometimes the screen was filled with horses and cattle and men in big hats, sometimes there were cars and airplanes, sometimes there were dragons and knights. Did all these people and creatures exist in this time and place? If so, how was it possible? She would have to ask Roshan when next she saw him.
Rising, she began a deeper exploration of the house than she had done before. She peeked into closets and cupboards, peered behind doors, checked in the basement and the attic. The basement was empty; the attic held several pieces of furniture and two large trunks, both of which were locked.
Returning to the parlor, she sank down on the sofa, wondering where to look next. She refused to admit that she was searching for his resting place, but she was sorely disappointed that she had failed to find it. And yet, had she found his resting place, what would she have done, assuming she would have been able to get in? And had she gained entrance, would she really want to see him sleeping the sleep of the dead? She grimaced at the thought, though it did little to diminish her curiosity.
With a little huff of irritation, she admitted that she was probably wasting her time. For all she knew, he passed the hours of daylight in some place far from this house.
Night's Kiss Page 9
