Afterimage

by Jaye Roycraft

  A moment later she felt the edge of the mattress dip under his weight and felt him gather a long strand of her hair. She opened her eyes. He had put on the shorts, but was still naked above the waist. She watched him twirl his finger, wrapping the strand of hair around it. He let go, and the hair uncoiled slowly and fell from his hand. His gaze met hers. His eyes had paled once more to the color of blue glass.

  “Forgive me, cherie. I know I hurt you. I should have warned you. But if I had, your fear would have increased, and you would have never been able to relax. The next time will be better, I promise. In the meantime I can erase the memory of the pain if you wish.”

  Better? She didn’t know if she could stand ‘better.’ And she certainly didn’t want any part of the experience erased. “No. I’m all right. But you . . . you didn’t . . . you couldn’t . . .” He hadn’t been able to consummate his bloodlust. This she did know, if little else.

  “No. Feeding for me isn’t as vital as it is for a younger vampire, but even so, it’s difficult to disconnect bloodlust from lovemaking. And lovemaking such as that was . . . Well, you must understand if I separate myself from you for a while. Yes?” He was off the bed before he spoke the final word.

  She nodded, though in truth she understood little other than the fact that reality had already dropped on her like an unwelcome downpour.

  Fifteen

  DRAGO HADN’T planned this. In the beginning, she had been nothing more than an aberration. Unique, to be sure, but not the kind of mortal female that the Undead chose as objects of entertainment. Somehow, in the course of serving as her protector, he had come to realize just how unique she was. It had been years since he had made love to a woman who knew him for what he was and accepted him for it. With Marya, however, it hadn’t been mere acceptance, but true desire. True desire for him when she had never before made love to a man. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her, but even if he had known beforehand that she was untried, he didn’t know if he could have resisted her. His craving had been just as strong as hers.

  He had been exhausted—still was—but when Marya had come to him he hadn’t been able to refuse her. He hadn’t wanted to, and the result shook him even now. He thought of the vampire game of fantasy—the sport of seduction that began with allowing a mortal female to see in the vampire what she wanted to see and ended with the vampire’s satisfaction in destroying her. He had never wanted to play this game with Marya. She saw beyond any fantasy he might project, and harming her was the last thing he wanted. Still, the beast was hard to control. He dared not go near her just yet. When he had realized she was a virgin, feelings had risen so powerful and elemental that the bloodlust had arisen as well. And the lust was not so easily tamped down.

  He sat on the bed and told her he’d have to keep his distance, and the look in her eyes had reached deep into him and touched places he thought didn’t exist. It would be a problem, but not one he was able to think about now. He still hadn’t slept, and right now the desire for sleep pushed all else aside.

  He called the airport and inquired about a flight to Jackson. There were no direct flights, but a connecting flight to Memphis at nine o’clock this evening. He booked reservations and hung up. Next he called Scott’s room and relayed the message regarding the evening flight. The last thing to be done was to call for a wake up at six o’clock.

  Everything done, Drago drew a deep breath. He couldn’t recall being this fatigued in a long, long time. A vampire’s exhaustion was generally mental, not physical, but right now Drago swore every muscle in his body ached and every joint was stiff. The days on end without sleep, the battles with Evrard, and the assault of the silver on his body and mind had taken a toll greater than he wanted to acknowledge, even to himself.

  He glided to the bed and knelt by Marya. She was curled at the edge of her side of the bed, but her eyes opened as soon as he came near her.

  “I need sleep, cherie. I would love nothing more than to fall asleep with you in my arms, but the things you do to me would prevent me from resting. Do you understand?”

  “You don’t want me to touch you.”

  He wanted nothing more, but he couldn’t tell her that. “The only way I can rebuild my strength is by getting some uninterrupted sleep. The game is not over, cherie. If I am to find and defeat the vampire who forged that order, I will need to replenish what I have lost.”

  He knew she didn’t understand. He could tell by the injured look in her dark eyes that she felt like she was nothing more than an unwanted distraction, but he didn’t know how else to explain it to her right now. His mind felt like a road of mud, and the simple task of thought and communication was like trying to trudge through the muck one laborious step at a time. But it wasn’t just the weariness. Sleeping with a mortal who knew what he was just wasn’t something he was used to doing. He had slept with Adelle, true, but that had been years ago, and there had been no one since.

  She broke eye contact—the only reply to his statement. He stood, circled to his side of the king size bed, and lay down.

  Sleep was longer in coming than he thought it would be.

  HOURS LATER, NEEDS other than rest gradually reached deep into his vampiric sleep and roused him to wakefulness. In his frequent travels he had learned to sleep where and when he could, but rarely was his restorative sleep disrupted by something as mundane as a mortal’s presence.

  Yet there was nothing mundane about Marya. Even with his eyes closed, consciousness flooded him with the intensity of her spirit. She hadn’t touched him, but in the cool of the air-conditioned room, her scent enveloped him, warm and musky, and her life force sang to him, a siren song of seduction.

  He turned his head and looked at her. Her eyes glinted at him in the gloom of the curtained room, but there was no guile in the forthright stare. Unlike his Paris beauties, she didn’t want his money or the glamour of being seen in the presence of mysterieux le russe, ‘the mysterious Russian.’ She knew what he was and understood the world of the Undead better than all but a handful of mortals, and still she wanted him. As innocent as she was of men and the ways of love, her desire reached out to him, as tangible as her fragrance.

  “Did I wake you when I rolled over?” she whispered.

  How could he explain that it was a gap she had bridged that woke him, not a creak of the bed? So he nodded. “But it’s all right, cherie.” He glanced at the bedside clock. “I slept seven hours. Enough to nourish my control and tame the beast. Come here.”

  She hesitated, but he sensed it wasn’t out of trepidation or lack of want. She was simply no more used to this than he was.

  “Come.” He pushed the covers down in invitation.

  She slid across the sheet and eased into his embrace, but he felt a tension in her body stiffen her muscles.

  “What is it, cherie? Why do you not relax?”

  “Are you kidding? I just made love to a vampire. I don’t know if what I did will bring good fortune or bad.”

  “There’s no good or bad, no right or wrong. Each of us had a need, and together we found fulfillment. It is a rare thing, so cherish it, cherie, don’t question it.” He scooped a handful of her long hair to his face and breathed in its perfume before smoothing it back down across her shoulders.

  “Don’t ask questions. I can read between the lines. There’s no future for us, is there?”

  He let out a long, slow breath. “Just enjoy the moment, cherie.”

  “You’re a master of evasion, you know that? Tell me, is that a vampiric or a Russian trait?”

  “Both.” It was nothing but the truth.

  She laughed softly, and though there was a touch of sadness in the sound, with her amusement came a relaxation of her body. She pressed herself against him, wrapping her long legs over his, and her warmth swirled over him as though a genie had uncorked a lamp and granted him his fondest wish.

&nb
sp; “Marya. Did you know that your name is quite famous in Russian literature?”

  She made a sound against the bare skin of his chest, and the vibration awakened every part of him not already roused. “Sorry. Russian literature isn’t at the top of my reading list.”

  “Tolstoy had a Princess Marya in both Anna Karenina and War and Peace.”

  She laughed again, and her voice was like the flow of water across his skin, cool and cleansing. “Maybe if I were a vampire I’d have time to read War and Peace. But it doesn’t matter. One thing I’m sure of is that there aren’t any princesses in my ancestry. Just a vampire.” The laughter died a shuddering death against his heart.

  “Maybe your hate for him has lessened a little, yes?” His voice was very quiet.

  She hesitated before answering. Perhaps the new twists in her reality were not so easily traversed.

  “I didn’t know my grandfather. All I know is that he killed people to feed his hunger.”

  “He was a very young vampire then. He had to feed often. At that stage it is an uncontrollable need more than a controlled pleasure. Besides, you told me you believed he loved his wife. So much so that he fathered a child even after the change. So he can’t be all bad in your eyes, can he?”

  “And you told me that was nothing more than lust.” She sighed, torturing him again with her breath against his skin. “I don’t know. When my father grew to adulthood he was hired to kill my grandfather for the good of the community. Everyone saw him as evil.”

  “And when the Brotherhood visited you it was for the good of the vampire community. We each look out for our own. How can you applaud one side for wanting to survive and hate the other side for wanting the exact same thing?” He knew he was steering the conversation into dangerous waters, but he truly wanted her to understand that the Undead were more than just killing machines. Of course, he hadn’t shown her anything but the violence in his world. And, as she loved to remind him, she saw too easily in him the quest for death—not a pretty picture.

  “I don’t know. It’s how I was brought up.”

  “Cherie, you can’t love me and hate the vampire.”

  “Tell me a story.”

  It was clear. In spite of everything that had happened between them, she still could not fully accept him for what he was. It was forever the way with mortals. Perhaps she had not bridged that gap after all.

  He sighed. “Very well. There’s an old Russian fairy tale of a warrior-princess named Marya Morevna. Her army had just been victorious over its enemy, and the white tents of Marya’s soldiers sat ringed by the bodies of their slain foes. Into this battlefield rode a lonely young prince named Ivan who was in search of his three married sisters. Ivan told Marya he came in peace, and he stayed and feasted for three days and nights. Ivan and Marya fell madly in love, married, and moved to Marya’s kingdom. Many tales would end there, but Ivan and Marya’s happy years together are just the beginning of their story.” Drago could feel Marya’s smile in the relaxation of her body, and it felt good.

  “For years they lived in peace, but one day Marya told Ivan she would have to leave to battle an army in a faraway part of her kingdom. Before she left, though, she implored Ivan not to enter a particular room in the deepest, dankest part of the castle dungeon under any circumstances. But after she left, curiosity got the better of Ivan, and he unlocked the cellar door. Stretched out on the floor was a giant who was held down by numerous chains to both his arms and legs. It was no commonplace giant, but the famous Koshchey the Deathless. Koshchey implored Ivan to give him water, saying he had been without food or water for ten years, and the tenderhearted Ivan gave him not one bucket of water to drink, but three. Koshchey drank it all, after which he broke all his chains as if they were made of straw. He told Ivan he would never see Marya again, and the giant flew out the window. Koshchey the Deathless did indeed capture Marya, and Ivan had many further adventures in trying to rescue his beloved princess.”

  “You just made that whole thing up.”

  He smiled. “Believe what you will, cherie. It is a story.” He reached his left arm over her to caress her side, and she brought her hand up to finger his forearm. He flinched, moving his arm away.

  “Can’t you tell me about this now? This mark, and how you got it?”

  “I got it when I was human. It has no bearing on what I am now.”

  “I think it does.”

  “You know nothing of the world, young one, and even less of me.”

  He felt her stiffen again in his arms. “I see. I’m good enough to bed, but not to trust with your past.”

  “It’s not the way of the Undead to reveal themselves to mortals.”

  She rolled away from him. “Fine. Then have it your way, vampire. I’m going to take a shower.”

  He closed his eyes and sighed as he felt the mattress shift from the release of her weight as she rose. Master of evasion. He had indeed told her the truth. Certainly the art of evasion was standard to a vampire’s repertoire. Truth was a scarcity. What wasn’t outright lie was deception or dodging. As for being a trait of his homeland, no rubakha could drape more naturally from his shoulders than the cloak of evasion. The average Russian just wanted to be left alone. But with centuries of rule by a very small elite that the typical Russian had little understanding of or identification with, survival meant paying lip service to whoever was in power and then proceeding to do exactly as he wished. It was a strategy Drago had employed for years.

  The thought of those in power reminded him of Nikolena. She was Russian, too. Drago had long believed that their shared heritage was the reason for her tolerance of his methods and the affection that occasionally glowed through the chinks in her armor. A call to Nikolena regarding Evrard Verkist was in order. Drago slipped from the bed and picked up his cell phone, daring to hope that this one time she would both be pleased to hear his report and proud of him for resolving an assignment without shipping a brother to la Belle Mort. It was after midnight, Paris time, a good hour to call. He would not be rousing Nikolena from sleep and, therefore, wouldn’t be rousing irritation at being awakened as well. He hoped.

  She answered.

  He gave his report matter-of-factly, without conceit over his victory or pride over the swift completion of the job. But while he hoped for Nikolena’s good will, he never presumed to have it. He told her that Evrard had confessed to the murder of three vampires in his rise to Patriarch, and that Scott had been witness to the confession. Drago gave her the names of the three victims and also told her of Evrard’s plot to kill Ricard De Chaux in the event De Chaux had been appointed Patriarch. Drago knew that Nikolena, like himself, had always had a penchant for the Frenchman De Chaux.

  Silence greeted Drago from the Paris end of the call. Sometimes silence was preferable to Nikolena’s words. Sometimes it was a very bad thing.

  Her voice, raised in question, finally floated to his ear. “And what of the forged order, Alek?”

  He swallowed. Something told him she wouldn’t like his answer. “Verkist had nothing to do with it. Neither did Deverick. The seals and signatures all looked to be true.”

  More dead air.

  “Are you certain, Aleksei Borisov?” The words were drawn out carefully and clearly, implying she wanted an answer just as deliberate.

  There was no hesitation in his voice. “Oui, madame. I am sure.”

  Two beats of silence. “You know then what needs to be done.”

  “I know. When I arrive back in Jackson I’ll call for Philippe to bring all the files. I don’t want to leave Marya behind again to travel to Paris until this thing is over.”

  “I understand. I’ll give permission for him to make the trip. And I’m anxious for your report on all this. Send it directly to me, not to Philippe. Oh, and Alek . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Have
Scott call me.”

  “Nika, where is your faith in me?”

  Laughter, crackling like burning wood, erupted from the phone.

  He sighed. “I’ll have Scott call.” His response was as dry as her laughter. It was clear that the young vampire glittered in Nikolena’s eyes. Revelin Scott would go far in the hierarchy.

  “Don’t screw this up, Aleksei Borisov.” There was never a pat on the head without a box on the ears.

  “I’ll try not to, madame.”

  He disconnected the call and glanced at the clock. Almost six o’clock. He called Scott’s room and delivered the message. As soon as he hung up the phone, it rang. The wakeup call. Marya stepped out of the bathroom, and he replaced the receiver by feel alone. His eyes were all on her.

  Her body—meagerly covered by a sleeveless blouse and tight skirt—was soft, but the gaze that flicked his way could have cut glass. Her damp hair spilled over her shoulders and down her back in shining ribbons, and drops of water glistened on her arms.

  He lifted a brow at her. “All finished?”

  “Finished.” Her voice could do a pretty could job of cutting glass as well.

  “Cherie . . .”

  She cut him off. “I know. There’s no time to talk now even if you didn’t feel like being evasive.”

  He stood before her. It wasn’t so much that he was sidestepping her remark. He simply didn’t know what to say.

  MARYA WAS NEVER so glad to be back in the Mississippi, the Hospitality State. The trip had been long and tedious. On the flight from Phoenix to Memphis she hadn’t had a seat next to Drago, Rev, or Callie. On the second leg she sat next to Callie, but that was as bad as sitting alone. Callie was no more friendly now than she had been before. The layover in Memphis had been almost two hours, and during that time Drago hadn’t been inclined toward conversation. Memphis International Airport was nearly deserted so late at night, so there had been no one to overhear them, but he had merely sat, his eyes staring at a spot far down the concourse.