by Carter, Mina
“Yeah right, you are such a man-eater. Back down to reality Gracie-girl.”
Miles away Jaron’s eyes snapped open in the forced darkness of his bedroom. The shutters were closed, the room pitch black behind them and the floor-to-ceiling blackout curtains. The windows didn’t need the curtains, the shutters were enough, but when the smallest amount of sunlight gave you a fatal case of sunburn it wasn’t worth taking chances.
Lust hit Jaron before he fully awoke. He groaned and rolled over onto his back. His cock was rigid, engorged with blood and harder than he could ever recall. Realisation filtered through the red fog behind his eyes. She’d used the vial, she’d drunk his blood. It had pulled him out of his rest.
Another wave hit and Jaron groaned. He bit his lip, lifting his arms, gripping the pillow and dragging it over his head.
In his mind’s eye he could see her, the link his blood had forged slamming into place with a strength that took his breath away. He’d known this would happen. Something about Grace called to him, told him she was made to be a vampire’s bride. More than that, his bride.
For all their immortal lives male vampires, whether they were bitten or born, were driven to find a mate. Some called them life mates, soul mates. Jaron didn’t believe in such things. But even he couldn’t account for the need that had hit him as soon as he’d seen Grace. The possessive need to take her and make her his.
Oh my god, she had her hands on her body. Jaron moaned, a mingled sound of distress and need as the link relayed what Grace was seeing. A short-term effect of her drinking his blood, one Jaron assumed he would sleep through. He hadn’t anticipated the link’s strength would wake him and certainly not with such erotic images. Images designed to drive him mad—her hands on her tight little body, her fingers running over those delicate curves.
Heat swept through him and a bead of pre-cum slid from the head of his rigid cock as he held himself perfectly still, praying the link would hold. He just needed a little longer, so he could watch her touch herself. But the vision faded into blackness, her laughter, full and rich, teasing him as he slid back down into the blackness of the daytime sleep. Desperately he tried to hold on, stay with her, but the sun was high and the familiar leadenness claimed him again.
“No...”
*
Grace snapped her head around, convinced she’d heard a voice behind her. Her hands dropped from her body, a guilty flush covering her cheeks. For a moment, she’d thought she heard Jaron’s voice. She shook her head. God, she had it bad if she was hearing his voice in an empty room. Just the thought of him was enough to make her ache with heat again.
“I can assure you, if you paraded around in front of me naked I wouldn’t be leaving you alone. In fact, I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off you.”
Her memory supplied his voice again, taunting her with his words from the other night. He couldn’t have meant what she’d thought he meant. Last night he hadn’t kissed her, hadn’t made a move to kiss her, much as she’d wanted him to. Anticipation had coursed through her body, right up to the point he’d slid her into the backseat of the car and bid her goodnight. No kiss. Nothing.
Rather than dwell on something she couldn’t change, Grace slid her empty glass to the side and reached for the phone. The main phone for the house was cordless. She carried it around when alone in case she fell. She’d programmed Fayte’s mobile and the local nursing service telephone number on the speed-dial. Usually she rang Fayte but today, and from now on, it was going to be the latter.
Her fingertips brushed against the phone but it skittered away. “Oh fuck it.”
The handset danced across the table and leapt off the edge like a lemming hell-bent on the final leap. She winced as it hit the tiles, a shattering noise telling her it was broken. Cursing under her breath she leapt from the chair and rounded the table to collect the pieces.
The back was off, the batteries out and rolling in different directions. Relief swept through her as she grabbed the wayward pieces. It didn’t look too bad. Perhaps if she put the batteries back in and the back on it would be ok. She really needed the phone, in case she fell…
Only then did she realise she knelt on the cold tile floor, her once shattered legs folded easily beneath her.
“What the hell…?”
She looked back at the table. Her crutches were still balanced against the chair where she’d left them. Somehow, she’d managed to move at least six feet without assistance. Something she hadn’t been able to do since before the day of the accident.
“Ok, calm down Gracie-girl, it’s obviously a dream. A really fucking sick one, but a dream. There is no such thing as a miracle cure; you know that,” she told herself firmly, fighting down the wonder trying to crowd into her heart. Slowly she got to her feet, waiting for the debilitating pain to return and drive her to her knees again.
But nothing happened. Her muscles were tight, as if she’d tried to dance without warming up first. She flexed her calves, easing a little of the tightness. Again, nothing. No pain, no trembling.
Hope joined the wonder, jostling for the best view. Could this be real? Could herbs have come through where modern medicine had failed? Stranger things had happened. Right at this moment she wasn’t sure what, but they had.
She took a step. Then another and another. In seconds, she reached the other side of the kitchen. She clutched at the marble countertop as tears welled in her eyes. She could walk.
“It worked. It really worked. Fucking hell, it worked.”
She whooped in joy as she walked across the kitchen again. She grabbed the doorframe, spun around it then broke into a run down the corridor.
No careful feeling her way now for Grace. Finally, after so many long months, she could walk and the only thing she wanted to do was dance. She scrambled up the stairs, ran past her bedroom on swift feet to crash through the doors at the end of the corridor. The doors that led to her dance studio.
Grace paused in the doorway to look at the empty room. She hadn’t been here since before the accident, hadn’t been able to face the blatant reminder of all she’d lost.
Her practise shoes still sat on the bench under the window but she ignored them. She didn’t have time to mess about with shoes, not when she could be dancing. The need to move welled inside her until it was too great to resist. Adrenalin rushed through her veins as she ran lightly across the sprung floor to the barre. Her instincts all screamed at her to dance. Now. No more wasting time. Years of training had drilled into her the need to stretch, and she started her warm-up routine.
*
Hours later, Grace slumped against the wall, sliding down to sit on the floor with her legs stretched out in front of her. Exhaustion raked her body, her muscles screamed, but she still grinned. Leaning her head back against the glass, she ran her hands through her hair, pushing it back off her face as her heart rate returned to normal. Elation filled her; she hadn’t felt so alive in months.
“Jaron,” she gasped into the empty room. He’d want to know. Of course he’d want to know. This was amazing, beyond her wildest imaginings. She didn’t even mind if he wanted to take credit publically. He could announce her recovery to the whole world for all she cared.
She’d reached the door when her muscles started to tighten. Dread hit her like a train as the familiar pain radiated up her legs. Her movements, so free a moment before, started to slow.
“No. No, not now. I was fine, it worked. This can’t be happening. Please!” She grabbed at the banister for support when her legs cramped, the pain nearly making her pass out. Tears trickled down her face. Her pleas went unheard and within seconds she’d returned to her former shuffling movements, making her way inch-by-inch to her bedroom.
Exhausted, she flopped down onto the bed. Huge, racking sobs tore at her chest as tears ran down her face. Grace gave in and let misery envelope her.
Hours later the tears had dried up and she stared blank-eyed at the ceiling. She had been walking, it had been re
al. Even she couldn’t dream up something like that…could she? Had she made the whole thing up? Jaron, his cure, the whole thing this morning? Perhaps she was sick. Not just sick in the body but sick in the head, as well.
Could she have made up the whole thing, though? The dinner date last night, the vial Jaron had given her? Memories of those things seemed so real. Surely she couldn’t have imagined something like that, something so real and detailed... Or did it go even farther back, to the night of the ballet. She winced. Had she even made up that ‘knock your socks off’ kiss? She snorted. Surely she wasn’t that desperate?
“One way to find out.” She turned over and reached for the bag on the cabinet, pulling her phone from inside. She opened it and scanned the recent contacts for Jaron’s number and hit dial.
He took a while to answer, his voice rough and sleepy. “Hello Grace. You took the vial.”
Heat raced through Grace’s body again, like earlier when she drank the herbal concoction. She wriggled to sit up, pressing her thighs together as a flush covered her cheeks. Oh my god. I really am that desperate. Just the sound of his voice turns me on.
“I did, but it wore off. I could dance. I was stronger, better even than I was before. No pain, my muscles were loose. I could even do some moves I couldn’t do without a lot of practise leading up to—”
“Calm down Grace.” His voice was soft over the phone line. “Deep breaths.”
She gulped air, recognising the onset of a panic attack. They’d been frequent in the early days, before she’d come to terms with the fact she’d never dance again, but she hadn’t had one in months. Now, having had one perfect glimpse at the world she loved only to have it snatched away, she sensed herself on the edge of the precipice once again.
“It’s not working anymore, though. I had just finished dancing, and my legs began to cramp and I can’t walk properly.” She hated the pathetic note in her voice, but fought against her pride. She needed to dance and this man could help her.
“It will wear off, Grace. It’s not a cure. The serum…alleviates the symptoms, shall we say?”
Hope filled Grace like a star going super-nova.
“You mean that wasn’t it? I can take it again and dance?” she asked. Her world contracted down to two things; the phone pressed to her ear and the man on the other end of the line.
“You can, yes. But—“
“But what? No buts. I was dancing. I need to dance, Jaron, please.”
He chuckled, the sound a low rumble that reached across the phone line and sent a shiver through her body. She smothered a small gasp as her nipples peaked, rubbing against her t-shirt.
“All I was going to say is there will be a price.”
“That’s all?” Relief washed through Grace. She’d been terrified he was going to tell her she could only take the herbs once. Or that there was some other maximum dosage she had to abide by.
“I don’t care about that. Anything you want, anything… When can I get more of it—the herbal stuff?”
“It’s an infusion, not ‘herbal stuff’,” Jaron said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. Then the deep tones dropped serious. “Be careful what you promise, Grace. Something lost can be regained, but never without a price. And it’s not always monetary. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Grace shrugged, brushing off the small tremor of alarm in the back of her mind.
“I don’t care, I said anything and I meant it. I have to dance, I need to dance. Nothing else matters.”
Chapter Four
Silence reigned in the theatre. No random chatter or mobile phones chirping. No whispered conversations. No creaking of chairs from people shifting in their seats. All eyes were riveted on the darkened stage. The anticipation in the room was palpable, as though the entire audience held a collective breath.
Then the music started, and the haunting notes from the orchestra reached out to the corners of the crowded darkness and held those within spell-bound. On stage, the lights snapped up, a spotlight highlighting the single figure in the center. With the rest of the audience, Jaron sucked in a breath.
Grace.
Her head bowed, she started to move, and he was lost. The rest of the room fell away and ceased to exist; nothing mattered but the woman center stage. Her graceful, almost feline movements as she swayed then burst into movement. Pirouettes, turns, stances.
Jaron leaned back in his chair, elbow on the arm, his chin supported on his hand as he watched. The music slid into the introduction for the Grand Pas and the other dancers melted away, leaving Grace alone in the middle of the stage.
The audience cooed in excitement. This was what they’d come to see. Since she’d been ‘back’, Grace’s solo dance, the pièce de résistance of the entire show, had drawn media and public attention in a way no one had expected. The show’s run had been extended three times, extra dates added once the ballet company was sure Grace could handle the extra workload.
Back and better than ever! The return of Grace! Dancer returns in blaze of glory! The headlines had raved about Grace for weeks, reports dissected each performance and experts argued with each other over her technique. Some praising her, some looking for a weakness they couldn’t find. Other than a need to wear thick, opaque tights so no one would see the scars on her legs, there were no flaws in Grace’s performance. Nothing with which to find fault.
Jaron had seen many, many ballerinas in his time. He loved to watch the ballet, and when he said he’d been a follower all his life, most people didn’t realize that meant centuries. Almost from the very start, when the dance form had taken its first steps toward the art it was today. Of course, he’d changed his name and his appearance over the years, but he’d seen all the greats. And his Grace ranked right up there with the best of them.
The music rolled to a crescendo. On stage, Grace leapt into an impossible stance, holding it there with almost inhuman strength and poise, elegance in every line of her body. A study in dexterity and skill that had the audience erupting into cheers. The press at the front went wild, lighting up the auditorium with their flashbulbs as they sought to capture the perfect picture.
Jaron was already moving, the image imprinted in his photographic memory. There would be standing ovations, the crowd going mad until she gave into them, which gave him plenty of time to get backstage and wait for her.
Jaron let himself out of his box and headed down the back stairs. No one stopped him; everyone knew who he was and that he was here to see Grace. They didn’t know he was her ‘doctor,’ though, merely thought he was her lover; the lucky bastard who’d actually succeeded in bedding her when so many others had failed. She couldn’t understand why he didn’t want her to tell people about his herbal remedy, why he preferred the secret of her recovery to be kept between them.
He reached the corridors backstage in minutes. He’d given her an excuse of preferring to keep his profession a secret, letting the world think he was a rich philanthropist playboy type. He'd told her the herbal remedy he gave her was made from a plant so rare that, if the news leaked out, the source would be compromised. Something he couldn’t risk until he’d managed to synthesize it in a lab. A touch of light misdirection, a nudge of compulsion, and she’d swallowed the lies.
He hated to lie to her, but he had no choice. After all, he couldn’t admit what was really happening. He couldn’t tell her the vials’ contents weren’t herbal in origin at all.
No. They contained blood. His blood. The blood of a powerful, centuries-old vampire. A vampire lord, should Jaron have bothered with vampire society. He saw others of his kind around occasionally, but they kept their distance. Even the local High Lord had sensibly left Jaron alone when he’d refused an invitation to attend the city’s vampire court.
He nodded to Harold, one of the backstage hands. A smile broke out across his lined face as he caught sight of Jaron. “Evening, Guv’nor. Off to see the lady?”
“Yes, Harold. Do you know if my rose arrived yet?”
Jaron asked, stopping to chat a while with the older human. Jaron liked the man. With Harold, what you saw was what you got. No hidden agenda behind his open, dark eyes. And he clearly held Grace in awe; the stunned look on his face whenever she talked to him gave him away.
“Aye sir, put it in there myself. At the front, so the lady sees it first.” He added with a conspiratorial wink.
Jaron laughed as he clapped Harold on the arm. “Good man, good man. Right, I’d best get gone. Don’t want to keep the lady waiting, do I?”
He left Harold to go about his work and strode down the corridor to Grace’s dressing room. He pushed open the door, the floral scent hitting him straight away. It’s like a bloody florist shop in here. His lip curled as he took in the bouquets lined up for her; bouquets from admirers, most of them men.
Jealously rose sharp and strong. Grace was his. She belonged to him and no other. He closed his eyes, a tremor running through him as he got himself under control. This was getting harder and harder.
She’d taken his blood, and the powerful elixir wove its own magic and temporarily healed the horrendous injuries she’d sustained in the crash. It was his blood that allowed her to dance, granting her an ethereal grace, which when added to her own natural elegance, was breath-taking. Her movements hypnotized, drew the audience in—drew him in—and held them spellbound.
He’d seen the same thing happen before; she affected people the same way female vampires did when they hunted. They lured their victims with the promise of sex. A taste of heaven no mortal man could pass up. Hell, even he’d been falling under her sway earlier, and he hadn’t been mortal for centuries.
