“Tell me if you think so when I’m finished. Oh, Novgorod was indeed grand then, the capital of a vast territory and the oldest Russian city, but long before my father was born the princes had lost their influence. They existed and survived only at the whims of the citizens who held the true reins of power.”
Drago paused for the length of three steps, gazing at the spacious yard of the house they were passing. “My father wasn’t even allowed to own land. The boy-child was one of nine children born to the prince. Only three survived to adulthood. In the city, bread was dear. One-half ruble for two baskets, and that was when there was any to be had. There was crying in the streets and market place. Death from hunger. No law or justice. There were those who robbed in the villages and districts, and those who confiscated and demanded money. You would call them criminals today, but in that age they were neighbors and leaders. But the boy survived. So what do you say? Was he privileged?”
She suddenly found herself the one caught off guard. She had expected him to grudgingly give her a few facts and figures, but never thought he’d reveal details of his past. “The boy lived.” It was the only thing she could think to say.
“Yes, the boy lived and grew to manhood. And in spite of what I just told you, yes, he was privileged. Novgorod, for all its problems, ruled itself. When the city fell, everything ended. Everything.”
Marya was silent, and in spite of the warmth of the day, a shudder ran through her. She almost felt sorry for him, then she reminded herself that he was a vampire. Whatever pain he had suffered in life, he had paid back a thousand times over in death.
His final words hadn’t exactly been a happy invitation for more questions, but she pressed on, eager for more information. “The mark on your arm. Will you tell me what it is?”
“No.”
She looked down at his arm, but his sleeve covered the mark. “Why not?”
“It is not a thing to be shared.”
Did he truly wish to spare her feelings? She doubted it, but it was the opening she was looking for.
“Drago, why are you being so nice to me?”
“Nice, mademoiselle?”
Apparently it was a word not in a vampire’s vocabulary. “Why are you here? I’m sure you have more important things to do than baby-sit a mortal.”
“I’m here to safeguard your life. What does the reason matter?”
“It matters.”
She watched his profile carefully, but he gave nothing away. There were no sighs, no agitated shifting of the eyes, no muscle tics. Just the same alignment she had seen so often before to his features—the slight lift to his brows, the hooded eyes staring at nothing in particular, the chiseled mouth set in that irritatingly noncommittal half-smile. “You will not like the truth, mademoiselle.”
“I want to hear it.”
“Very well. I should have had you terminated in the beginning. On any other day I would have, but on that particular evening it was your good fortune that I felt like amusing myself. I knew that giving you life would annoy a great many people.”
She had expected something like this, but even so, to hear him state it so coldly gave her chills. “So that’s the only reason you’re keeping me alive? To annoy other people?”
He turned toward her, and the sight of his eyes cast even more of a shadow over the sun’s warmth than his words had. Beautiful. And empty.
“You’re an aberration, mademoiselle, and there is no aberration that generates more disgust among the Undead than a dhampir.”
Marya felt tears sting the back of her eyes. She couldn’t understand why. She had known all along that he cared nothing for her personally. “And if I weren’t an aberration?”
“You’d be food.”
She asked no more questions.
DRAGO WAS DISTURBED. He hadn’t intended to be so brutally honest with the girl. Perhaps it had been a reaction to the lamentable error he had made in telling her about his birth. Giving someone personal information was the same as giving that person a weapon. And while he no longer believed she wanted to do him harm, one didn’t live to be over five hundred years old by making assumptions.
He wasn’t sure why he had told her about Novgorod. He tried to tell himself that it was her Roma heritage that made him believe she would relate to his past, but even as an excuse the explanation didn’t satisfy him. The one thing his naked honesty had accomplished was silencing her questions, but he wondered if the look of pain he saw in her dark eyes was worth it.
When they arrived back at the house, he watched as she worked in her garden, then retired to the kitchen to prepare her evening meal. She made no attempt at conversation, and he gave her plenty of space. But he caught her sliding surreptitious looks his way a number of times. On those occasions when he met her eyes she was quick to glance away.
He called Deverick several times during the afternoon and evening, but the dialogues accomplished nothing except to give him the equivalent of a headache. Technically, Deverick was obligated to obey the orders of a superior, especially a member of the Directorate. But the man came up with one excuse after another for not agreeing to Drago’s demands to return at once to Vicksburg. And over the phone, Drago lacked the compelling power of his eyes. Until he could meet face-to-face with the man, there was little he could do. He disconnected the final call in frustration, wanting nothing more than to smash something, but he quickly brought his anger under control. He would not win this battle of wits if he lost his temper.
It wasn’t until nine o’clock that Marya appeared in the doorway to his room and spoke to him. “Are we going to New Orleans tomorrow? It would be nice to know if we are.”
“Plan on it,” he answered softly.
She let out a long sigh. “All right. I’ll pack now, so I can be ready as early as you want.”
He nodded, expecting her to turn around and head for her own room, but she lingered, glancing around the spare room he had made his.
“So . . . aren’t you going to search my room before I go to bed to make sure I don’t have any more silver or knives?”
He smiled. “Do you wish me dead, mademoiselle?”
Her gaze returned to him. “I told you at our first meeting that I have no desire to kill any vampire, even you.”
He watched her eyes very carefully. “Can I trust you?”
She gave a slight shrug. “You didn’t at the hotel. Why would you take my word now?”
He took a step in her direction, bringing his body to within a couple feet of hers. “I would like to. In payment for this afternoon, when I trusted you with a part of myself. Have I your word?”
She held her ground, and he wondered if it was pride or an answer to his question. Trust. He opened his senses to her, and the sound of her heartbeat thudded all about him like primitive music. A very fast heartbeat. Fear? Or desire?
She moved even closer to him, inches away. “You can trust me,” she whispered. She gently prodded his chest with one finger. “Truth, you said, right? Well, there’s nothing so foul as a monster who walks the night after death, but as much as I would like to be rid of you, I don’t think killing you to do it would be in my best interest.”
With that, she turned and swept out of the room.
HE LAY ON THE bed for a long time before summoning sleep. His sparring with Marya may be finished for the day, but his thoughts of her continued. He knew that her reference to him as a foul monster who walks the night was nothing more than payment for earlier in the day when he had refused to answer her questions and had referred to mortals as food. If what he had sensed in her was truly desire, her harsh words were as much a mask for her feelings as his detachment was for his feelings. His body told him the truth of the matter as he tried to relax.
He was glad, in a way, that the room he occupied was at the opposite side of the house from her
bedroom. If she were any closer to him, he had no doubt the scent and sound of her blood would not only keep him up all night, but keep his body in a perpetual state of arousal. In his work he usually dealt more with vampires than humans, and he couldn’t remember the last time he had spent so many nights alone with a mortal without taking his pleasure.
A million ‘ifs’ ran through his mind. If only she weren’t an aberration . . . If only her heritage didn’t make them such natural enemies . . . If only . . .
But the ‘ifs’ were better than sheep, and the sleep of the Undead finally stole over him.
“DRAGO?”
He thought he heard her calling him, but it couldn’t be. Only in a dream would she call for him.
A scream jolted him from the half-sleep, and a fetid stink assailed his nostrils instead of Marya’s fragrance. Vampire! He was out of the bedroom and across the living room in an instant. A tall figure in black loomed in the dining area. At Drago’s approach the man whirled, hissing like a roused serpent. Pale moonlight from the patio door illuminated short dark hair, a highly stylized goatee, and eyes that burned a dark red.
“Drago!” The creature hesitated in confusion. “What are you doing here?”
“I would ask you the same question, monsieur.”
But before the intruder could answer, Drago noticed that the door to Marya’s bedroom was already open. He had heard her slam the door when she went to bed. Drago flew at the doorway as more screams pierced the night, but the vampire in black was just as fast, catching Drago in a bear hug. They crashed onto the dinette table, slamming it against the wall. The wooden tabletop buckled under almost five hundred pounds of fury, and Marya’s painting sprang off the wall and bounced on Drago’s head. The heavy canvas was nothing, though, compared to the beast that held him. Drago guessed that the vampire was at least four inches taller and one hundred pounds heavier than he was, but physical strength in life wasn’t the same thing as vampiric strength. Not usually.
The impact had loosened the vampire’s grip, and Drago twisted until he could fasten his hands around the man’s neck. Drago squeezed, at the same time releasing the cutting power of his mind. He held nothing back, slashing at the red eyes until they ran even redder with blood.
The vampire cried out and released Drago, clutching at his eyes.
“Carlo! Carlo!” The shrieks from the bedroom were high-pitched and frenzied.
Drago cursed his blunder in being caught off guard. He threw the vampire he assumed was ‘Carlo’ against the far wall, soared into the bedroom, and collided with another body. The room was as dark as a nightmare, but his sense of smell told him instantly that the body in his arms was Marya’s. He held her tightly, thankful that her renewed screams and struggling limbs meant life.
“Be still,” he hissed into her ear. “It’s Drago.” She stopped fighting him, but he still felt the fear and tension in her body. “Are you all right?”
His hand on her head felt her nod.
“Where is he?” he asked, but she didn’t answer. Her breath came in quick gasps, but no words. He shook her insistently. “Where?”
“On the floor,” she panted. “The other side of the bed.”
He drew her away from him, still holding her head. He waited until her eyes met his. “Stay behind me, but stay close,” he whispered.
She nodded and slipped out of his way. Drago turned on a light and carefully circled the bed. The spread was on the floor, the blanket and pillow poised on the bed’s edge to follow. A very young and very dead vampire lay sprawled on the floor, his shoulders and blond head propped against the wall. His sightless eyes were open and rolled up in his head, and his mouth hung slack, a line of spittle running down his chin.
“Mon Dieu, cherie! What did you do to him?”
But her only answer was another scream. Too late, Drago turned to see Carlo grab Marya from behind and pull her to him in a choke hold.
“She’s leaving with me, Drago. If you try to stop me, I’ll kill her.”
Marya’s eyes were round with both fear and silent entreaty.
“Release her, monsieur. You’re already dead for what you did here, but if you harm the girl I’ll make sure you die in the slowest way possible.”
Carlo laughed. “You have no power over me, Drago. You’re a fool! You just defeated yourself by cutting my eyes. As long as I can’t see, you can’t compel me.”
“Ah, mon ami, but I don’t have to compel you.” Drago resorted to a very human trick. He reached down, grabbed a handful of braided rug, and yanked. Nearly three hundred pounds of vampire landed hard on the floor and cushioned Marya as she fell onto him. Before Carlo could react, Drago tore Marya from the vampire, hauled him to his feet, and pushed him out of the bedroom and down the hall to the kitchen.
“Who sent you here? Who?” growled Drago.
Carlo laughed again, a pained laugh that bordered more on hysteria than on delight. “I told you—the power of your eyes have no effect on me. I’ll tell you nothing.”
“Your eyes will heal themselves in moments, monsieur. In the meantime, I’m afraid you’re going to bleed all over mademoiselle’s clean floor.” Still holding Carlo, Drago slashed out with his mind, creating a pattern of blood with a hundred strokes of invisible blades of energy. Carlo cried out, and in that instant of distracting pain, Drago reached for the longest knife protruding from the wooden block atop Marya’s counter. Stainless steel, but a knife was a knife. One couldn’t be choosy in a struggle to the death.
Carlo stumbled forward. “Drago!” His eyes had stopped bleeding, and a lurid gleam was returning to the healing orbs. Drago’s gaze snared Carlo’s restored sight, and he dazzled the larger vampire, setting before him the mirror of truth. It was Drago’s own eyes, the polished surface upon which Carlo would see and relive every hell he had ever visited.
“Behold your existence, monsieur. You will tell me everything I want to know, or this hell will be your life from this moment on.”
Carlo gave no answer, his mind and eyes alike seeing nothing but his own private nightmares. Blood glittered wetly on the front of his shirt, the result of the cutting power of Drago’s mind, but Carlo ignored the wounds. Muscles in his face twitched, and cords in his neck strained with effort, and Drago knew that Carlo was pouring all his energy into battling the control over him.
Drago curled back his lips. “Who sent you for the girl, monsieur? Who ordered you to this house? Tell me!”
But the vampire was a Master, and his resistance was formidable. He lurched toward Drago. “You’ll . . . get nothing . . .” His arms reached forward, but Drago knew it was not in surrender or supplication, but a final attempt to snare Drago and break his hypnotic hold. He allowed Carlo to reach him and drove the knife between the man’s ribs.
“Then I’ll have your death, mon ami.” Drago thrust the blade in up to the hilt, leaned forward, and twisted.
A guttural sound resembling nothing more than a laugh ground into Drago’s ear.
Drago repeated his command. “Tell me who sent you, and I’ll spare your worthless life!”
The creature spit at him.
Drago continued his deadly work with the knife, until Carlo’s body slumped against his. Drago lowered the dead weight to the floor and made sure the vampire’s heart was severed from his body.
“Bon voyage, monsieur. Enjoy the journey from Midexistence to Hell,” he whispered, sagging against the counter.
He closed his eyes, exhausted. Two vampires dead. There would truly be hell to pay now. But he couldn’t think about that now. Marya. He blinked. Was she dead as well? He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes again, letting his senses search for her. Life still rode her scent. He sat for another minute, then rose and headed for the guest bath where he washed quickly. He then changed his pajama trousers. The last thing Marya needed was to see blood all
over him.
He found her in her bedroom, huddled on the floor in a corner. He knelt beside her, sweeping her long hair from her face. “Cherie, it is safe now. They are dead.”
She raised her head and looked at him, her eyes wide with fright. She unwrapped her arms from her body, and he drew her into his embrace, cradling her against his chest. She circled his neck with her hands, pulling herself even closer to him, and in spite of his fatigue, hunger arose and demanded satisfaction. Sexual desire, bloodlust, and violence—they were the three notes of the chord that forever played in the vampire’s mind. There was never one without the other, and right now he was too tired to try to separate them.
“Cherie . . .” His hands moved up to support her head and push her far enough away from him so that his mouth could reach her face. He leaned down and pressed his lips to her cheek. Her skin was so warm, so soft. So sweet . . . He kissed her, working his way toward her mouth. When her lips met his and parted for him, a groan rumbled from deep inside him. He tried to deepen the kiss, but there was tension in her body and a tentativeness in the touch of her lips that told him she was by no means ready to surrender to him just yet. But his lust pushed him to increase the pressure of his mouth against hers even as he felt her hands against his chest.
She broke the kiss and pushed away from him. “Drago, no, please . . .” He loosened his hold and she scuttled backward across the floor until her back hit the corner. His body screamed in protest, but he let her go. Reawakening her fear would serve no purpose.
“Are they truly dead?” she asked.
He nodded. “I’m afraid so. Which reminds me, cherie. What exactly did you do to that one there?” He cocked his head at the far wall. “He’s a novice, only twenty or thirty years old by his stink, but even so, he should have killed you easily.”
“I used the same thing against him I tried to use on you. Colloidal silver. See, I didn’t know when or where you would show up, so I had syringes hidden all over the house, including my bed. I couldn’t sleep tonight. When I saw the door open, I thought it was you. But then I saw the blond hair. When he grabbed me, I was ready.”
Afterimage Page 11
