Night's Pleasure

by Amanda Ashley

  It had always been so easy for his brother, Rafe. Rane remembered their first hunt, remembered the woman their father had chosen, the way she had felt in his arms, the enticing beat of her heart, the intoxicating scent of her blood. He had wanted to drink and drink until there was nothing left.

  “We’re not going to kill her,” their father had said, and Rafe had dutifully obeyed. Rane had complied, as well. What other choice had he had with his father standing there, watching?

  But later, when Rafe and his parents were occupied elsewhere, Rane had left the house. He had found a young woman plying her trade on a dark street where nice people didn’t go, and he had taken her. Oh, he had given her pleasure first—she had deserved that much—but in the end, he had taken what he so desperately craved. He had taken her blood, her memories, her life.

  Taken it all, and reveled in the taking.

  And in so doing, had damned himself for all eternity.

  Savanah huddled deeper into her jacket, wondering if Santoro the Magnificent had somehow managed to slip past her in the dark. Of course, being a master magician, she supposed he could have just turned into a bird and flown away. She had lost track of the number of times she had seen his act. Each time, his tricks had been more amazing, more spectacular, than the last. Each time, her curiosity about his prowess had grown. He was no ordinary magician. Of that she was certain. But if his tricks weren’t tricks, what were they, and how on Earth did he do them? She didn’t believe for a minute that he had sold his soul to Satan, and yet…it made for interesting speculation. She had read countless stories of men and women who had made deals with the devil, trading their souls for youth or longevity, for power or wealth. But they were just fables. At least, she had always thought so, until now.

  She waited another half an hour before giving up. He wouldn’t elude her tomorrow night. One way or another, she was determined to talk to him. Not only was she eager to satisfy her own curiosity about the man, but she was slated to write an article about him for the local paper. In addition to that, she hoped to include him in a book she was thinking of writing about famous magicians, past and present, magicians like Houdini, David Copperfield, and Criss Angel.

  Turning up the collar of her coat, she returned to the parking lot for her car and drove home.

  When she entered the living room, she found her father sitting in his favorite easy chair watching a high-stakes poker game on the satellite screen.

  “Hi, sweetie,” he said. “How was the show?”

  “Amazing, as always.” Taking off her coat, she hung it in the hall closet, then kissed her dad on the cheek before dropping down on the sofa and kicking off her shoes.

  “Did you get to interview him?” William Gentry asked.

  “No, I didn’t see him.” She hated to admit defeat, especially since her father was the one who had given her the assignment. If necessary, she would just write the article without the interview.

  Her father chuckled softly. “Seems like he’s a hard one to catch. Are you going to try again?”

  “Sure, if you want me to, but honestly, Dad, I don’t know why you’re so determined about this. The man is a great magician, but it’s not like he’s a rock star or anything. I mean, how many people even know who he is?”

  “If it’s too hard for you, just let it go.”

  Savanah’s eyes narrowed. “Did I say that?”

  “So, you’ll try again?”

  “Of course, and I’ll get him. You just wait and see.”

  “I don’t doubt it for a minute. It’ll make a good story.”

  “I hope so.”

  For the last five years, her father had been the editor-in-chief of the local newspaper. Before that, he had been an investigative reporter, one of the best in the country. He had blown the whistle on high-level government officials and small-town gangsters alike. He had brought down drug lords and pimps and put an end to a group of scumbags who had been selling crystal meth to high school kids. Once, he had spent several months in jail because he had refused to give up a snitch. He had been honest and fearless, never turning away from a story, no matter how gritty it might be, never backing down when the going got tough.

  Although he was now the editor-in-chief and no longer a field reporter, she knew he was working on a story, and she knew it was something big because he refused to talk to her about it.

  Savanah wanted to be just like him; however, being just a rookie, she hadn’t yet been assigned to any big stories. Of course, in a small town like Kelton, there weren’t too many big stories to begin with, but once she had gained some experience, she hoped to move to New York, Chicago, or Los Angeles.

  Savanah smiled at her father. Though he was still a relatively young man, his hair was tinged with gray. Lines of pain were deeply etched around his mouth and eyes. He rarely smiled. Savanah couldn’t blame him. Eighteen years ago, her mother had passed away from a mysterious illness. Savanah had been seven at the time. She remembered very little about her mother except that she’d had an infectious laugh, made the world’s best chocolate chip cookies, and loved to dance.

  Seventeen months ago, Savanah’s father had been the victim of a hit-and-run accident that had cost him the use of both legs and left him confined to a wheelchair. He had spent several months in the hospital. The driver had never been found. For a time, Savanah had feared that her father would never recover, and then, one night, on the spur of the moment, she had bundled him into the car and headed for the next town to see a new magician. To her surprise, it had been the man now billing himself as Santoro the Magnificent. Miraculously, her father had regained his old zest for living. He had gone back to work, and bought a special van to get around in.

  Savanah chatted with her father for another few minutes, then excused herself to go upstairs and take a bath. Her father hadn’t slept in the master bedroom since her mother died. It was a nice, big room, and while her father couldn’t bear to sleep there, it made Savanah feel closer to the mother she scarcely remembered. Her father slept in one of the bedrooms downstairs, and used the downstairs’ guestroom as his office. When Savanah had turned fifteen, her father had given her carte blanche to redecorate the master bedroom. She had spent weeks looking at paint and wallpaper and new furniture.

  Savanah’s old bedroom now served as her office. It was her favorite room in the house. An antique oak desk held her computer, a state-of-the-art printer, a small gum-ball machine, and a photograph of her parents on their wedding day. Her first newspaper story published under her byline hung in a silver frame on the wall across from her desk. A large bookcase filled with paperback novels, a couple of dictionaries, a thesaurus, a world atlas, and several encyclopedias took up most of one wall.

  After filling the tub and adding a generous amount of jasmine-scented bubbles, Savanah sank into the water and closed her eyes. Tomorrow night, she vowed, tomorrow night she would get that interview with Santoro the Magnificent, or know the reason why.

  Chapter Two

  The dark-haired woman was there again, front row center. For the first time in his life, Rane found it difficult to keep his mind on what he was doing while on stage. He was aware of the intensity of her gaze as she followed his every move. She wasn’t there to be entertained, he thought. She was there to discover how he did what he did. Rane grunted softly. If he told her his secrets, she would undoubtedly run screaming into the night. Not that he would blame her. He was a predator, a killer, and she looked good enough to eat.

  Showing off a little, Rane left the stage and strolled up the wide center aisle. Stopping at one row after another, he asked men and women chosen at random to think of something that no one else could possibly know, and then he told them what it was. No doubt most of the people in the audience thought those he spoke to were shills, but he had no need of such. He had only to open his mind to hear the thoughts of those around him.

  From time to time, he glanced back at the dark-haired woman sitting in the front row, annoyed by the blatant sk
epticism in her eyes. Backtracking, he stopped in front of her.

  “Good evening, Miss Gentry.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise when he called her by name.

  “Your expression tells me you think that maybe the people I’ve talked to are shills, planted in the audience to make me look good.”

  She blushed under his regard. “No…that is, well…” Her chin came up defiantly. “Maybe I do.”

  He took a step closer, heard her heartbeat increase as he deliberately moved into her space. “Shall I tell you what you’re thinking now?”

  The pink in her cheeks turned brighter, darker. She shook her head vigorously. “No!”

  He laughed, amused, because she had been thinking he was the handsomest man she had ever seen, and that she would like to run her fingertips over his bare chest.

  Savanah pressed her hands to her burning cheeks. There were several people in the audience that she knew, including one of the reporters she worked with. How would she ever face any of them again if Santoro the Magnificent blurted out what she had been thinking?

  Sensing her mortification and unwilling to humiliate her in public, Rane asked, “Would you care to think of something else?”

  She nodded, wishing she was anywhere but there. His nearness sparked an odd tingling in the pit of her stomach. Nerves, she thought, and who could blame her, when he was standing so close, when his gaze rested on her face like a physical caress?

  “In high school,” he said, “you had a crush on your journalism teacher, Mr. Tabor.”

  Savanah’s cheeks grew hotter. She had never told anyone about that, not her dad, not even Liz, who had been her best friend at the time. It had been a well-guarded secret, until now.

  “Is that true?” Rane asked, already knowing the answer.

  Savanah nodded. It didn’t really matter if her secret was out now. Mr. Tabor had married one of his students and left town years ago.

  Rane bowed in her direction and then returned to the stage. In what had become his signature farewell, he walked to the front of the boards and took a bow, then crossed his arms over his chest, and vanished from sight.

  As soon as the curtains were drawn, Savanah ran out the side door and headed for the alley behind the theater. Hiding in the shadows, she settled down to wait for Santoro to leave the building, determined to catch him this time.

  Rane quickly changed into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, ran a hand through his hair, and then, as was his habit, he left the theater by the back door. Being close to the Gentry woman, smelling the warmth of her body, hearing the siren call of her blood, had aroused his hunger. He needed to feed, he thought, and soon. If he waited much longer, his prey would pay the ultimate price.

  As soon as he stepped into the alley, he knew she was there. Lifting his head, he sniffed the air, felt his fangs lengthen as he honed in on her hiding place. There, in the shadows beside the Dumpster. Foolish woman, to wait for him in the dark where there was no one to see her, no one to save her.

  From her hiding place, Savanah watched the magician lift his head, his nostrils flaring as if he was sniffing her out. Her heart raced as he headed straight toward her hiding place. Did he know she was there? But that was impossible. There was no light where she stood, no way he could see her in the dark. She could scarcely see her hand in front of her face. And yet, like a jungle cat on the scent of prey, he moved unerringly toward her, his footsteps eerily silent on the damp pavement.

  She had him now, she thought triumphantly. He wouldn’t escape her this time. But as she watched him stride purposefully toward her, she forgot that she had been trying for days to see him. Her only thought was to run, to hide, before he found her. But there was nowhere to hide, and it was too late to run.

  “You waiting for me?”

  Savanah practically jumped out of her skin. How had he crossed the distance between them so quickly?

  “Are you waiting for me?” he asked again.

  She had always found honesty to be the best policy, so she said, “Yes,” dismayed by the quiver in her voice. She had never been a coward, but there was something about being alone in a dark alley with this man that frightened her almost as much as he intrigued her.

  “Well, here I am. If you want an autograph, I hope you brought a pen and paper.”

  Savanah cleared her throat. “I want an interview.”

  “I don’t give interviews.”

  “I know. You don’t pose for pictures, either.”

  He arched one dark brow. “If you know all that, why are you wasting your time, and mine?”

  “I want to know what you’re hiding.”

  He uttered a soft sound of derision. “What makes you think I’m hiding anything?”

  “Because you don’t do interviews.”

  Rane chuckled softly. She was more than a pretty face and a shapely figure, he thought, charmed in spite of himself.

  “So,” she said, smiling, “how about that interview?”

  Rane shrugged. “I’m on my way to have a drink. Bring your poison pen and come along.”

  Without waiting for her reply, he set off down the alley toward the street.

  Now that she had almost achieved her goal, Savanah felt a sudden sense of trepidation as she stared after him. She only knew two things about Santoro the Magnificent—he was an amazing performer, and he could read her mind.

  He had almost reached the mouth of the alley. It was obvious he wasn’t going to wait for her. Gathering her courage, she hurried after him. It wasn’t easy, trying to match her shorter strides to his long ones.

  She almost changed her mind when he stopped in front of a dreary-looking nightclub. The name HELL’S HOLLOW flickered in bloodred neon lights above the door.

  For the first time, he looked back to see if she was behind him. “Coming?” he asked, a challenge in his dark eyes.

  Praying that she wasn’t making a fatal mistake, Savanah took a deep breath and followed him through the doorway.

  Inside, Savanah glanced around in amazement. Judging from the outward appearance of the place, she had expected to find some crummy nightclub populated by drunks and winos, so the interior of Hell’s Hollow came as quite a surprise. The walls were papered in a decadent red-and-gold stripe, the floor was gold-veined marble. Rich red velvet draperies hung at the windows; dozens of candles set in beautiful black wrought-iron wall sconces provided the light, adding to the club’s ambience. A three-piece band occupied a raised platform in one corner of the room. The musicians, all women, wore tight black sweaters, skintight stretch pants, and black boots. Their music was soft and seductive, with a dangerous sensual edge that did funny things in the pit of Savanah’s stomach.

  A man elegantly attired in a black tux and crisp white shirt bowed them through the door. A tall woman with a mass of sleek red hair escorted them to a secluded table for two in the back of the room. She took their drink order and glided away.

  Savanah glanced around, thinking that black seemed to be the color of choice, as nearly everyone in the place was wearing it. She felt conspicuous in her white skirt and red sweater.

  “So,” Rane said, “what do you want to know?”

  “The secrets to all your tricks, of course.” She laughed self-consciously. “I’m just kidding. I know magicians are sworn to secrecy, but you really are the most amazing performer I’ve ever seen. I had an uncle who was a pretty good magician, but he was nowhere as slick as you are.”

  Rane shrugged. “I’ve practiced for a long time.”

  Savanah pulled a small tape recorder from her pocket and laid it on the table. “Do you mind?”

  He shook his head.

  “Is Santoro your real name?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve had several names, haven’t you?” She recounted the ones she remembered. “The Remarkable Renaldo. The Marvelous Marvello. The Great Zander. The Amazing Antoine. Are they all stage names?”

  “Of course.”

  “What’s your real name?�
��

  “Rane.”

  “Is that your first name, or your last?”

  “It’s the only one you need to know.”

  She regarded him a moment, her brows drawn together in a vee. “I don’t suppose you want to tell me who or what you’re hiding from?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t think so. How long have you been a magician?”

  “About twenty-five years.”

  She stared at him in disbelief. He couldn’t be much older than twenty-five, thirty at the most. “I don’t believe you! What were you, five when you started?”

  He smiled faintly. “I’m older than I look.”

  “Really?” Her gaze moved over his face; there were no telltale signs indicating he’d had any work done. “He must have been a very skilled doctor.”

  Rane laughed. “Trust me, I’ve never gone under the knife.”

  “Are you married?”

  “No. Are you?”

  “No. So, where’s home?”

  “Here.”

  “You live in Kelton?”

  “I don’t live anywhere.”

  “You’re making this extremely difficult,” Savanah remarked, wondering at his emphasis on the word live.

  “Sorry,” he said with a sly grin. “I said I’d grant you an interview. I didn’t say it would be easy.”

  Savanah hit Pause on the tape recorder when the waitress arrived with their drinks.

  Rane smiled at the waitress, then dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the tray. “Thanks, Sylvie.”

  The waitress winked at him, then sashayed away, hips swaying provocatively beneath her tight black skirt.