I quickly try to press up to sitting, but the pain in my chest makes me cry out and knocks me back at once. My half-closed eyelids flutter, and even as my consciousness gradually departs I see his hazy figure bending over me.
8
Amkaya
The old woman looks at me in surprise, her eyes wide. She has put her long, white hair up and wears a blouse with very loose sleeves. The expression in her light blue eyes changes, first into annoyance and then into fear. I want her to answer me, and I shake her, but she is silent. I push her down the steps in rage, watching as she falls, tumbles and lies motionless at the foot of the steps. A black cat with white paws and a white tip of its tail hisses at me from the side and I lash out at it.
Cassie! I tear my eyes open and my heart is pounding in my chest. These bloody nightmares. Why do I always have such crazy dreams, and where am I anyway?
Sunset falls in vibrant, warm, gold-orange tones through a window in the strange room with wooden walls and rustic fixtures. It seems to be a kind of holiday home. Dust dances in the sunbeams that shine in. I lie in my totally mangled and for the most part blood-soaked clothes on a soft bed with pristine white bedding. It smells musty. I try to sit up and notice that the pain has significantly decreased and my body has already made a marked recovery. The external wounds are almost all closed and only the dried blood on my skin shows that they really were there before.
“Ah, you're awake. Would you like something to drink? I found tea and a couple of juices in the cupboards. Apart from that though, there's not much in the kitchen.”
Noah Elyas Sandman. At least that's how he introduced himself to me. With a searching gaze, he stands casually in the doorway. The light of the setting sun makes his silhouette look almost surreal, but I can easily recognize his face. The eyes that put me completely off balance this morning and his mouth which . . .
The kiss. The crash. His sudden appearance before I lost consciousness. The flood of memories accelerates my heartbeat again within seconds.
Questions fairly whirl through my mind.
“What are you?”
Somehow I have to start solving the puzzle after all. Thus my first question is posed. I have to know why he didn't get any visible injuries in the crash and is standing before me, his clothes unscathed. As if he'd never even been on the plane. Not even I, with my powers and abilities, am capable of surviving such forceful trauma without temporary damage.
“Interesting. I was about to ask you the same thing. Your wounds heal unusually fast for a human.” Arms folded over his chest, he leans casually against the door frame and fixes his gaze on me.
“I asked first,” I insist, heart racing. If someone is going to reveal their secret first, it sure isn't going to be me. The shame would be unbearable. No way would you have kissed me, if you'd known what I'm capable of. Or do you know? Did you see? And what the hell are you?
The situation overwhelms me. Totally unsure how I should act, for a start I try once more to sit up, so I can at least gain physical security. But it's easier said than done, since my body doesn't seem to be as fully recovered as I'd thought. The movements still hurt and I have trouble getting into a proper leaning position against the head of the bed. Suddenly, he is by me. I only let him out of my sight for a second, and already he's bending over me. While his scent paralyzes me at first, I see the last rays of sunlight making his dark hair shine. The muscles of my body tense up all at once, and the fine hairs signal danger and excitement again, as they did at the airport before. But this time I'm not sure what type of excitement it is.
He reaches for the second pillow and shoves it between my back and the head of the bed, which makes my position significantly more comfortable. I would like to thank him, but I feel incapable of speech. He's still way too close and I'm still way too confused and. . .
“You didn't answer my question about the drink,” he interrupts my train of thought. He straightens up and sits down on the chair in front of the window.
“What will it be? Tea? Juice? Blood?”
My cheeks are suddenly burning. He saw.
I want to sink through the floor or pull the covers over my head so I'm not at the mercy of his gaze, but he stares on unwaveringly. Why did he bring me here if he saw what I did, and where are we anyway? And another burning question weighs on my heart. “Aren't you afraid?” I choke the words out bitterly.
“Of you? No. Do you think I should be?” A mocking smile plays on his lips and reveals dimples in his cheeks.
“Maybe.”
He reaches for the floor lamp in the corner of the room and switches the light on.
“This cabin is pretty far away from the others by the lake. I doubt anyone will notice we're uninvited guests here,” he explains and is then right up close to me again, casting an interested glance at my tattered clothing.
“Let me see,” he says and pulls a scrap of the leg of my jeans to the side. “Nothing left to see. Not bad.”
“Can we come back to you and the fact that you don't even have a single injury?” I pull my leg away from him irritably, and notice that I'm gradually able to move better.
“What are you?” I repeat my question.
“I know you must be the offspring of those creatures of the night I run into every so often. Hmm, but you're not a vampire. Since you're running around in broad daylight, I bet you're a half-blood.” He makes himself comfortable in the chair again. “Interesting. As far as I knew, vampires can't procreate.” He cocks his head a little and stares at me again with obvious fascination.
His words also increase my curiosity. “My mother was human, but weren't we going to talk about you?” It sounds impatient, but I am impatient. After all, I'm out here in the middle of nowhere with a stranger who survived a plane crash without the tiniest scratch, dragged me to this cabin and all this in spite of the fact he saw me killing a person and drinking their blood. I look at him eagerly, hoping to finally get an answer to my question.
“I'm a descendant of the egregoroi Shemichaza. His son Ohajah was my father. A Nephilim.”
Egregoroi? Nephilim? Thoughts tumble through my head, then I suddenly remember I've read about that in the old scriptures. The egregoroi are angels, also known as watchers, and the Nephilim are children of those angels from their liaisons with human females. They were born with the power of an angel and the soul of a human, as far as I remember.
“Your grandfather is a fallen angel?”
That's the answer? He's descended from an archangel?
Driven by a sudden restlessness, I push my legs cautiously over the edge of the bed to sit up, and see that where I lie, the white bedclothes are colored red from my blood. But I notice with satisfaction that I can move well. Only a faint prick in my abdomen reminds me I was injured.
“Yes.”
He cocks his head and gives me a wry smile. Is that a little uncertainty I see in his gaze now? Damn, that makes him look even more attractive. He really is incredibly good-looking.
“But didn't all the Nephilim have to die because their fathers, the angels, got involved with human women?”
“You know quite a bit about it,” he replies softly, and his voice does indeed betray some uncertainty. But why? “Not all of them died. Some few Nephilim escaped and survived the sanction. My father was one of them.”
That sounded kind of crazy, then again I couldn't talk, as daughter of a vampire.
“So you can come through a plane crash unscathed because you have angel blood in you. But I never read anything about there being Nephilim who survived and reproduced. It's said they all died,” I wondered.
“First of all, you can't believe everything you read, and second, you're quite inquisitive,” he says with a smile, and I have to force myself to look away so I don't stare at him constantly.
He sits down beside me and I move away a little, breathing through my mouth because his scent distracts me and keeps me from thinking straight.
Suddenly he brushes a strand of ha
ir from my face.
“You're incredibly captivating.” His eyes sweep over me again and my cheeks burn. I can't remember ever having felt so awkward, so unsure in the presence of another, nor my heart ever racing quite this way. The tension in me is growing and growing.
“Don't come too close,” I warn him, but he ignores my warning and draws nearer my face.
“You're crazy.” With the speed of a predator I grab him by the upper arms and push him roughly up against the closest wall, holding him there with my whole body. The animal in me has awoken and I'm trembling from the exertion it takes to control myself. All pain is forgotten. All I feel is an explosive cocktail of emotions. Outrage. Fear. Fury and desire. Who the hell does this guy think he is?
“Shit. Why won't you stay away from me?” I blurt out, gasping, and feel a bead of sweat roll down my forehead.
“Is that really what you want?” His questioning gaze wraps itself around my neck like a noose.
“Yes,” I gasp, although it only partially reflects the truth. But I can't allow anything else to happen. Suddenly I fall forward against the wall and cry out in shock. Like magic, Noah is gone. He simply disappeared into thin air beneath my hands.
“What. . .?” At first I'm too stunned to understand, but a quick look around the room and I realize how his trick with the airplane worked. He's gone. Vanished. I feel disappointment, but also relief. He is safe. But with his ability to disappear from one second to the next, was he ever really in danger? My heartbeat gradually slows and I feel calmer.
The room still smells like him. An earthy, warm and also sensual smell. It's hard to even begin to describe this scent, but it's still very strong here. Is Noah perhaps still in the room?
“Are you still here?”
“Did you change your mind?” his voice rings out behind me and I jerk around to face him. He stands before me, the picture of nonchalance, and winks at me.
“I mean, about me staying away from you?” Again, this wry, stunning smile. But then his expression becomes serious and thoughtful.
“Somehow I got the feeling you enjoyed the kiss up there as much as I did. That's why I dared to try it again. If I made a mistake, then . . .”
“I did enjoy it,” I interrupt and even I'm surprised by my confession. In my mind's eye, the last moments before the crash play again like a film and along with the images I also remember how I felt. His eyes flash.
“Is that an invitation?”
“Of course not.” I give him an icy glare, but somehow he doesn't really seem to take me seriously.
“Did you know?” I ask.
“Know what?”
“Why did you say that on the plane?”
“Why did I say what?” He raises an eyebrow questioningly.
“That you were sorry. It wasn't about the kiss, was it? You knew the plane was going to crash. Did you think I'd die too?”
He nods without hesitation, and I gulp. If that really was the case, what had he been doing on the plane?
I want to ask my question out loud, but he nips it in the bud by laying his finger on my lips.
“I think that's enough questions for now. But I'll let you kiss me.”
Such impudence. Who does he think he is? I'm filled with indignation, and just wish he wasn't so damn attractive.
“Don't come any closer,” I warn him, as I realize how terrible I must look. The dried blood sticks uncomfortably to my skin and the smell of it, mixed with dirt and grime, even disgusts me.
“Sit.” I point to the bed. “And don't move from the spot.”
He looks surprised. Curious. But he follows my order wordlessly. If he wants to play games, then it's about time I made some new rules.
“You're right, before we talk any more I need to have a shower and get out of these rags. Where's the bathroom?”
He points to the door behind me, and I open it and turn the light on. It's a small, simple bathroom with an open walk-in shower. Just right. I leave the door to the room half open, knowing full well he can watch me from where he's sitting. But I don't dignify him with another glance, rather I peel myself out of the unsightly remains of my clothing. Even if I simply ignore him, I still feel his eyes on my naked body. It tantalizes me, but I don't let it show. Under the warm jets of water in the shower my body softens and I feel some of the tension and pressure of the past day seeping away. Not completely, since I still feel his eyes on me, but that's another kind of tension. The dried up blood from the healed wounds still clings stubbornly to my body, and I wash it down the drain with plenty of soap and shampoo. For a moment I almost forget my observer in the next room.
“How old are you?” he calls out. In spite of the noise of the shower, I hear his question clearly.
“133 years old,” I call back.
“You've taken good care of yourself.”
I grin, but he can't see it, since I have my back to him.
As I leave the shower our eyes meet in an almost familiar way. I reach for one of the towels from the shelf by the shower, rub my hair dry and try to tame it with one of the combs. Then I wrap the towel around my hips and go back in to the bedroom half naked. My long hair only partially covers my breasts.
“I don't have anything to wear.”
My dry observation seems to amuse him. He gestures to the closet and says, “Maybe you'll find something that fits.”
He may be quite subtle in his attempt to stop staring at my naked skin so obviously, but not subtle enough that I don't notice.
“Good idea.”
I rummage hopefully through the few items of clothing in the meticulously tidy closet, and find a white 'Guns N' Roses' t-shirt and a black pair of shorts that should fit me. They look a bit big, but better than nothing. For a moment I grieve for my clothes which were in the cargo hold of the plane and are now probably nothing more than ashes. Just like my favorite handbag and its contents. But what's the point in mourning their loss? What's gone is gone, and anyway, you can replace things. You can't replace loved ones. Thoughts of Cassie force their way into my mind again, but I don't want to think of her now. To be honest, right now I feel strangely alive.
“And how old are you?” I ask and try not to sound too interested.
“Not old enough for this sight to leave me cold.” His tone is so dry, I find it hard to be indignant.
“Don't you have any better come on lines?” I tease.
“I'm working on it.”
I throw the towel at my new acquaintance, who catches it without hesitation, while I quickly slip into the clothes I found. Yes, now I feel way better and more poised.
“Are you sure there's nothing to eat here?” I ask on my way into the kitchen.
“That depends what you eat.” He has followed me and watches as I go through the cupboards looking for something edible.
“That's not funny.”
I shoot him a scathing look and then continue my search, because I'm almost nauseous from the hunger already.
I don't even have to look at him, I feel his grin as it is.
“Ha!” I hold a packet of cookies in the air triumphantly, sit down at the table, rip the pack open and get stuck into them.
“Do you want some too?” I offer them to him but he shakes his head.
“What do angels eat anyway?” I ask.
“I feed on energy.”
“Energy? Do you tap into nuclear power stations?” I joke.
He pauses noticeably before answering. Seems I'm not the only one who doesn't like talking about their eating habits.
“I pretty much don't need human food, but every so often I have some. I can hardly say no to a good wine or whiskey. But mainly I feed off the energy released when people die.”
The last sentence sets off a coughing fit on my part. I choke on the cookie in my mouth and stumble coughing over to the faucet to wash the crumbs down my throat.
“You kill too?” I stare at him in disbelief.
“Only if there's no other way.”
&n
bsp; “But you feed off souls?”
“No, not souls. Just the energy released at death. It's not always my hunger that brings death to a person. Mostly I pick up the scent of a death which is inevitably going to happen without my doing. But when my hunger comes, my presence often accelerates the death of people who would die soon anyway. Only if there is really no other way do I consciously kill. But it's not usually necessary. At accidents where lots of people die, I fill up on so much energy that sometimes I can go for days without feeding.”
“Like at a plane crash?”
“Yes, for example.”
“Are you death?”
“Are you death?” he throws my question back at me.
“It's not the same,” I explain.
“Do you think my hunger and my survival instinct are so different from yours?”
“But I don't WANT it. I hate it. I hate the beast in me and I wish I could . . .”
“What? Kill it?”
I avoid his look and remain silent.
“It's a part of you.”
I shake my head vehemently. “No, that part, that's not me . . . and anyway, what do you know about me?” I reply defiantly.
“Not nearly enough.”
His crooked smile drives me crazy, because every time it makes me all too conscious of the magnetism he exudes and shows me that in these things I really do seem to have the emotional maturity of a teenager. Not exactly gratifying, when you have to admit this to yourself at 133 years old. A fairly obvious developmental delay.
“I've accepted that it's in my nature to live off the death of people and to benefit from it. Even actively killing is okay by me, if it's necessary for self-preservation. That doesn't mean I have to enjoy it, it really doesn't.”
He plays with one of the two rings he wears on his left hand.
“I will never accept it.” I stand suddenly and cling to the wooden backrest of the chair.
The Night Within Us: Dark Vampire Romance Page 6
