It was the curtains she recognized in the end. Thick, heavy velvet, and deep, dark red, they covered the two windows of his drawing room on the first floor, and two windows of his bedroom next to it.
Her heart beat hard. She knew this was it. She recognized the shape of the door now, the ornate, carved arch above it. The tall wrought-iron gates she hadn’t noticed before. They were pad-locked, so, careless of passersby, she climbed over the wall.
She’d been wrong, though. She couldn’t smell him. And as she approached the door, she even began to doubt this was the right place. She had a brief comic vision of barging in like a whirling dervish, brandishing her sharpened stake over a baffled family at the tea table.
As well she meant to ring the bell. What she had to say could be conveyed from the doorstep while he lurked in the shadows. It would be best that way. She wouldn’t have to look at the bastard.
On the other hand, when she pressed the bell, she didn’t hear any sound. She doubted it worked. It didn’t matter. If she didn’t smell him, he could certainly sense her, though he seemed to have no intention of answering the door. Interesting.
Unless he really wasn’t in. Dmitriu had moved about in the daylight, keeping to the shaded paths of Maria’s garden. She was sure Saloman had ways of doing the same in the city.
Well, damn it, she wouldn’t walk away with her tail between her legs. Lifting her hand, she grasped the door handle, more to test the strength of the lock before she kicked it in than with any expectation of its turning.
It didn’t need to turn. At her first touch, the door swung open.
Her breath caught. Had he gone already, sure she would tell the hunters about this house as she’d told them about the church in Bistriƫa?
How many horror films had she seen like this? Stupid lone female walks helplessly into a place of obvious danger.
Well, she’d just have to hope she was right and he wouldn’t kill her. After all, he’d had his revenge, which would, presumably, lose its sweetness if she was dead and unable to appreciate having been so utterly seduced.
And if she was wrong . . . Just get it over with.
She pushed open the door and stepped inside. From meanness, she left the door wide, allowing a shaft of sunlight to fall across the hall.
There were rooms downstairs that she hadn’t been in. She wondered what he did in them, what he kept in them and the rest of the house. If he wasn’t home, she would look around, but she was damned if she’d lose her dignity by snooping in front of him. What kind of weird dignity is that?
She moved toward the staircase, schooling herself to walk with firm, even steps, although her mouth was so dry she doubted she could speak and her heart hammered in her breast like a piston.
She’d rounded the curve of the staircase before she saw him. Her stomach and her heart both seemed to flip, as if they’d swapped places. He stood in the upper hall, leaning one shoulder against the wall as he watched her approach.
His long, slender feet were bare. With fresh shock, she remembered the sensual feel of them caressing her legs, and forced the memory down. He wore his usual plain but stylish black trousers with a loose white shirt, unfastened. Or perhaps it was the one he’d torn the buttons off in his urgency to make love to her the first time.
Don’t go there, for God’s sake!
His raven hair fell in unruly tangles about his face and shoulders, completing the impression of a man disturbed too early before appropriate grooming could occur. The thought was stupidly arousing, and she had to squash that one too, because his eyes were far too bright and far too piercing to allow her to slip back into that haze of blind, depraved, wishful thinking.
“Elizabeth.”
It was downright insulting that he should say her name like that. In a voice like that. It seemed to reach through her entire body and turn her outside in. But she was stronger now. Gathering the tatters of that strength around her, she imagined herself turning the right way out again.
“Saloman.”
“I didn’t expect to welcome you here again so soon.”
“I’m sure you didn’t.” She came at last to the top of the stairs, and he straightened, bringing his body far too close to her.
“Please.” Without taking his gaze from hers, he spread his hand toward the drawing room. Beyond the door, which stood ajar, open books and newspapers were strewn about the floor in a large, untidy circle with a bare patch of rug at the center, as if he’d been sitting there while studying in the semigloom. “Go in.”
“I’m not staying,” she said frigidly. “I’m leaving Hungary tonight. I just came to say that I know who I am and what my importance is. I know I can learn to fight you, and I will. Take what you have and leave the descendants alone. If you don’t, I’ll find a way to kill you.”
His eyes searched hers. She thought the gleam had gone, but otherwise his face was expressionless. Had she really imagined she could read him the other night?
“You’re a clever woman,” he acknowledged. “You probably could, given time.”
“Count on it.”
“So they finally told you about Tsigana.”
“They didn’t need to. I’m a clever woman.”
He inclined his head, apparently still unmoved. Because she had to, she said, “You’ve always known. Even Dmitriu knew. He sent me to you deliberately.”
“He was a friend who remembered enough to act on it.”
“He even planted a thorn to make me bleed.”
“It’s a simple matter for a vampire of his age to draw the blood from your veins without touching. He even followed you to make sure he kept the connection and the blood still flowed by the time you got to me.”
“Then I did see him on the road!”
A faint flickering smile on his lips reminded her that she’d slipped out of character—and that she’d come to tell him she understood everything now. She curled her lip in a sneer. “I hope revenge was sweet for you.”
“The sweetest,” he said softly.
Blood surged through her, suffusing her face and neck. You mean I was hotter than my great-great-great-great-grannie? She swallowed the words before they spilled over her lips. There must have been a few more greats in there anyway.
Wildly, she reached for a safer rant. “You have to leave Konrad alone.”
“Do I?”
Shit, she was just annoying him now, putting Konrad in danger.
“So,” he said, “you’re going home to Scotland. Why?”
“I have a job to go to, a thesis to write. A life.”
His gaze had never left her face. “You’re angry because they didn’t tell you. No matter, you didn’t belong with them. But you don’t need to leave like this.”
“Like what?” she snapped.
His lips twitched. “Angry. Hurt. What has made you like this?” His hand lifted, as if to touch her face.
She couldn’t hit him. She wasn’t that good or that fast. Not yet. But she could, and did, block his movement with her arm and step back.
“Elizabeth.” Chiding, mocking, he closed the distance again. “You weren’t so averse to my touch before.”
“Before you drank my blood?” she snapped.
Flame flared in his eyes and burned, yet still he didn’t move. “I’m a vampire. Your blood was good, and I enjoyed it. So did you. Along with everything else.”
“Arsehole!” Only unpalatable truth could have made her lose her composure, and she struggled desperately to bring it back. “I slept with you to save my life.”
Through the fury, something hurt. Looking at him hurt. Without warning, his eyes dropped. For an instant, she wondered if she’d actually managed to inflict pain of her own. But of course, she hadn’t. His gaze was on her hips, her breasts.
“Next time,” he said, “it will be different.”
But at least he’d swallowed it. Triumph spurred her on. “There won’t be a next time. Good-bye, Saloman. I hope we never meet again. If we do, I’ll kill you
.”
It was a good exit line. Unfortunately, she couldn’t follow it up by spinning on her heel and sailing downstairs to the open front door. He stood too close, and even as she moved to make a less dramatic exit, he swayed with her, blocking her path.
His head lowered. Awareness flooded her, made her dizzy. And yet he didn’t even touch her. There was no body heat to arouse her, just simple, overwhelming presence. He moved his head, inhaling her as he’d done several times in the past.
“I love a worthy opponent,” he whispered. “Remember that, along with all the rest.”
His throaty, husky voice seemed to vibrate inside her body. Before she obeyed him and allowed memory to flood to her, she threw dignity to the wind and edged past him. There was an instant of flaring contact, a brushing touch that had the effect of anyone else’s most intimate caress, and then she was past him and rushing down the stairs.
This is me not running away. . . .
She half expected him to do one of his supernatural leaps and appear in front of the open door. When he didn’t, she couldn’t resist glancing over her shoulder as she crossed the hall.
Although she hadn’t heard him move, he stood halfway down the stairs watching her. His face was serious, almost . . . lost.
But if he was sad, it was a deeper emotion than any she could inspire. Watching her go, he clearly thought of something else.
She would have liked to slam the door, but dignity—and spite—won the day. She left him to work out how to shut it while staying out of the sun.
She was still shaking by the time she found her car. But hell, she’d driven in worse conditions, namely after her first terrifying encounter with Saloman. She was stronger now, and more than capable of driving herself to the airport and the welcoming sanity of home.
She just couldn’t work out why she still felt guilty, like a deserter. Or why the tears kept running down her cheeks.
Saloman watched until her shadow had gone, and the sound of her quick, light footfalls had faded into the distance. Only then, when the sunlight had lost its charm, did he blow the door closed with the power of his mind and turn to walk back upstairs.
Considering it was the first time he’d been strong enough to use this trick since his awakening, he wasn’t as pleased with it as he should have been, because he knew he’d made a mistake. He’d confused a certain empathy with knowledge and understanding of Elizabeth. He hadn’t expected her to be so appalled by the blood drink; he hadn’t expected her to leave. He’d meant her to stay in the protection of the hunters until he was ready.
He hadn’t been awake two weeks. After three hundred years of total isolation, perhaps it wasn’t surprising he’d lost a little reality in his dealings with humans. But to confuse her moment of love with trust was a basic error.
Saloman didn’t like errors; nor did he care to be thwarted, or to lose the initiative in a moment of uncharacteristic hesitation. He could have made her stay. Whatever she was trying to pretend, she wasn’t immune to him. Her body still trembled at his nearness, and it wasn’t all fear. It wouldn’t have taken long in his arms to reduce her to pliant surrender, or so he thought. But he’d made a mistake before; he still didn’t know her and he’d hesitated. Because her body was no longer enough.
I slept with you to save my life.
It had never entered his head. He had never meant there to be a possibility of that. Her death was inevitable; he’d just wanted to make it sweet for her, to give her life before he took it. He’d never pretended anything else. God knew what had induced her to believe she could change his mind with sex.
Isn’t that exactly what she did?
Saloman stepped across the muddle of books and papers in his drawing room and sat down cross-legged in the middle of it, where he’d been as he’d sensed her unexpected approach. The human woman who’d awakened him, touched him, and obsessed him was beginning to churn him up. He didn’t like that either. He needed a clear head and less, not more, distraction. Why couldn’t she just accept and wait?
They’d meet again, of course, whatever she imagined, and whatever game they were playing was far from over. It wasn’t one she could win in the end. He rather admired her unexpected spunk in visiting him, just to tell him as she’d told the hunters, to go to hell. She was a complex creature, Elizabeth Silk. And he’d miss her presence.
Displeased, he picked up the nearest book and scanned the spread-out newspapers to regather his thoughts. He needed a human identity. Gone were the days when he could stand beside a throne and advise and influence the course of history. This was a hands-on era, like the good old days, and he thought he’d rather enjoy it.
He was most drawn toward the radical, socially active rock musician identity with enough clout to influence governments as well as ordinary people. Two Irishmen seemed to have rather cornered the market there, but they were looking a trifle craggy these days, and perhaps the world was ready for someone a little younger.
He gave a twisted smile. Younger looking.
The other, less self-indulgent idea—and one that probably had greater certainty of achievement—was politics. He rather liked the notion of being president of the United States of America, although the difficulties of achieving this for an eastern European immigrant with no documentation were not insubstantial! Perhaps some kind of adviser would be more sensible. After all, one only got to be president for four years, eight if one was lucky, and he had a lot more time to give.
Shifting countries and identities with the decades would not be easy in this new world, and even harder for anyone with a highly visible profile. But the more he discovered about modern life, the greater his excitement. There were possibilities here. He just needed to know more, much more.
The learning would distract him from his unpalatable emotions surrounding Elizabeth Silk, and would continue while he resumed control of the supernatural world and wreaked the last of his vengeance. He could take the hunter Konrad anytime, but before he could move on with his plans, Maximilian and the other human descendants of his “killers” had to be found.
Saloman. The voice in his head was faint, familiar, and filled him with pain. Another betrayal to avenge, another vengeance to savor, if he could.
What? he responded without obvious interest.
Zoltán has left the region.
I know.
A pause, then, Do you also know that he’s on visiting terms with a Romanian government minister? And dined with a Hungarian industrialist in Vienna?
Saloman’s smile was twisted. Dined with, not on him? He’s taking my idea of a human alliance seriously, then.
And excluding you!
Yes, I got that bit, Saloman said patiently.
Another palpably disgusted pause. Don’t you want to know where he’s going now?
If the information’s of any use to me. I’m busy.
Judge for yourself. . . .
Elizabeth stared out of the airplane window as it climbed through the blackness of the night sky. She was too exhausted to feel relief at leaving this craziness behind, to look forward to seeing old friends and taking up the challenges of her new job. For three nights, she’d barely slept, except for the troubled, feverish sleep of the unconscious after he’d bitten her.
She closed her eyes. Saloman. Saloman.
Deep in her gut was a pain that wouldn’t go away. She didn’t know what it was; she didn’t want to know. She wished it had a physical cause, so she could take some medicine and make it stop. Saloman was evil. He was a vampire who drank human blood to survive, and he’d survived a hell of a long time. He’d drunk hers, and she hated him for that as well as for what he was. The inconvenient lusts of her body, the sexual magnetism that tugged at her in his presence, were quite separate from that, as were the sensual pleasures of their night together.
Hatred. Fear. She was confused by a little lust because she was lonely, frustrated, and inexperienced with attractive men, let alone vampires.
A spurt of laughter s
urged in her throat, threatening to choke her if she didn’t let it out. When she swallowed it down, it felt like tears.
I’m too tired to deal with this. . . .
She would always be too tired to deal with this because it went too deep. Hate, fear, lust—they were just words, and they had little to do with whatever it was she felt now. She couldn’t and wouldn’t name it, though she knew it would take time and effort to overcome it.
But I will. I will.
Chapter Fifteen
“Think about it,” Elizabeth said. “Take down some notes, and we’ll talk about it next week. Enjoy your lunch.”
Thus dismissed, her first-year tutorial group grinned at her and began to depart in a flurry of scraping chairs and books and folders thrust into bags. Elizabeth made a grab for the coffee cups distributed around the table, which some of the students remembered to push toward her with quick words of thanks.
The more ebullient members of the group were already shouldering their way out of the door. Emma, who’d read today’s essay, stood back to let them pass. Something about her shy, self-effacing manner reminded Elizabeth of herself in first year—isolated, morbidly unself-confident, and worried about her intellectual capacity to keep up. Of course, Elizabeth’s experience was made worse by being older than her peers, but she had no intention of letting Emma suffer just because she was seventeen instead of twenty-four.
“Emma?”
The girl looked around apprehensively, clearly longing now to bolt out the door with the others.
“That was a good essay—possibly the best I’ve read from a first-year so far this term. Keep up the good work.”
A lightening of the eyes, a quick flashing smile as she mumbled thanks and joined the squeeze, were reward enough.
Elizabeth gave a lopsided smile, dumping the mugs in her sink. As Emma made it through the doorway, Richard edged his way in to meet her gaze with a sardonic twist of the lips.
“Is she any good?”
“She could be. Handles the evidence well, has good ideas—she just needs the courage to state them.”
“Like you then,” he teased.
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