“I know why you left, Deirdre. And I don’t blame you.” He glanced over at me, and gave the nuance of a smile. “At least not too much. I spent three weeks flat on my back rationalizing the situation, knowing that you wouldn’t have left me without good reasons, knowing what those reasons were.”
“Mitch, I . . .”
“And still you won’t let me finish. I took the blame for Max’s death, self–defense in the line of duty. Actually,” and he gave me a cold–blooded grin, “I prefer to think of it as credit, rather than blame.”
“But you were so weakened, so beat up. How could they believe you had done it?”
He shrugged. “The files are full of cases of people performing under duress. It won’t be investigated fully, anyway. I heard his confession. There’s no family or friends to press any charges and the precinct is happy to have the case successfully solved at last.”
“I am glad, Mitch, that it turned out well for you.”
“There is one thing that bothers me, though.” His voice softened and he looked up at me from his seat at the couch. “Why didn’t you come to see me in the hospital? I thought you would do at least that for me.”
“But I did come, Mitch. The first few times they wouldn’t let me in. After that I bypassed the nurses’ station and came in after hours.” I thought back to those dark nights when I sat by his bed, holding his hand as he tossed and turned in delirium. “You were asleep, but I was there.”
He gave me a smile, genuine now. “I knew it. I knew you’d been there, it couldn’t have been a dream. But when I asked the nurses they didn’t know who you were and swore there had been no visitors. How’d you manage it?”
I gave a little laugh. “You shouldn’t have to ask that, Mitch. I managed, that’s all.”
My confession relieved the tension somewhat. “You could have come when I was awake, you know. They do have visiting hours at night.”
“I know, but I wasn’t sure what sort of welcome I might get. After all, you were there, in part, because of what I did to you. I was afraid you might not want to see me.”
“Deirdre,” he stared at me with his blue eyes, “you’re a fool. If you don’t realize how I feel by now . . .” He broke off as he again considered my suitcase by the door. “But I guess you don’t, since you planned on leaving without a word to me. I guess I’ve just been wasting my time.” He sounded bitter and my heart felt torn.
“I am a fool, Mitch,” I said and knelt on the floor in front of him. Reaching up, I took his left hand in mine and held it to my face. “I had no right to get involved with you, and certainly no right to fall in love with you. But I do love you and nothing can change that now. Not my leaving, not your anger.”
“Then don’t leave,” he urged. “Stay here, Deirdre. Marry me. How can I convince you that I don’t care who or what you are.” He gave me a long, appraising stare then chuckled and reached over and tousled my hair. “I don’t even care what you’ve done to yourself.” He grew serious again. “All I care about is being with you. I love you. I don’t doubt that you’d like to get away from here. That’s fine, we could go together, start a new life for the two of us. Marry me, Deirdre,” he repeated urgently. “Say yes.”
I sighed and shifted my position slightly so that I could rest my head on his uninjured leg. I gave no answer, no sign of the wavering I felt. Instead, I rubbed my cheek on his knee, considering his words. We could leave together. Another plane ticket could be purchased, another passport obtained. My new home could accommodate two quite easily. I allowed myself to envision a future with Mitch, our lives shared and our loneliness abated. It was a gentle dream and I sighed with the sweetness of it.
“Deirdre,” he asked, his voice low and intense, “will you?”
The phone rang and I got up to answer it without a word.
“No, Frank,” I said, still gazing at Mitch. “I’m not ready now. Ask him if he’ll wait a while; if not, you can call another.” I gently put the phone down.
“My cab is here,” I said nervously and dropped my eyes. “I don’t know what to say, Mitch.”
“That’s an easy call,” he said, smiling uncertainly. “Just say yes.”
I tried to return his smile but began to cry instead. “I can’t. It wouldn’t work.” I saw him through a glaze of tears. “You and I both know that it wouldn’t. The first few decades would be wonderful, but after that . . .” I brushed away the tears and continued. “How could I bear to see you grow older every year, knowing that I never would? How could I bear to see you sicken and die and know that I could never join you after death? And how could you endure what I need to do to survive? Your love cannot change what I am: a creature of night, doomed to prowl and hunt for my sustenance.” I shook my head and repeated, “It wouldn’t work.”
“But there’s another way,” he insisted. “You say that you can’t change, but I can. You could change me, turn me into a vampire. Maybe, after the other night, you already have.” I read fear in his eyes when he said this, but there was also a trace of hope. “Then the decision would have been reached; it would be out of our hands. You’d marry me then, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, but you must know that’s not the case, Mitch.” I saw the hope fall from his eyes. “You would need to have my blood to make the change and I won’t give it.” I crossed the room to him and took his hand again. “You’re asking me to give you something that I have always considered a curse. For so many years I searched for the phantom that caused my life; I hunted him as surely as I hunt my prey. And yet now that he is gone,” my voice quavered and I groped for the right words, “I thought I might go back to what I was before, when he died. But the change in me was too deep, too long-term; I will always be what I am. Max’s death has freed me from many things, and one of these is the hope for a normal life. I have accepted that fact, I can live in that knowledge now. I can even accept the fact that I will meet my final death in the same manner. But I do not want that death to be at your hands.”
“Deirdre,” he protested, “I would never do that, I love you.”
“And I loved Max,” I replied. “Not the way I love you, it’s true. But for many years he was my only friend, my only contact with what I thought was the human world. And yet I hated him,” I blazed into anger. “Hated him enough to kill him. He changed me, in more ways than one; discovering that I was capable of murder, no matter what the circumstances, was terrifying. I can live with that, I have to, but I will not lead you, or anyone else, down the same dark paths I have had to follow.” I could read pain in his eyes and the anger suddenly drained out of me. “Mitch,” I pleaded with him, hoping he would understand. “I couldn’t bear for you to hate me someday like that. Leaving, as hard as it is, and never seeing you again, is easier to bear.”
He started to protest again, but I put my hand gently over his mouth. “Do you really want a life like mine? Never to walk in the sun, to exist in the night only. Is that what you want, Mitch?”
He met my eyes with a fervent glance. “I want you, Deirdre. And if this is the only way . . .” He struggled to rise from the couch and when he did he put his arm around me and held me close to him. “Deirdre,” he breathed into my hair. “Damn it, I don’t know.” There was uncertainty in his voice. “I haven’t really thought it through, I guess. But the thoughts of losing you have made me half-crazy. I don’t know what to do.” He moved back to study my face. “Look, promise me you won’t say no right now. So much has happened to both of us. Would it hurt to postpone the decision? That would give us both some time to think about it. Could you do that?”
I considered his words, his proposal. Over thirty years ago I would not have hesitated; he was the answer to my dreams at that time. Even with my new-found resolve, the prospect was beguiling. To share my endless years with him. . . . I sighed and he relentlessly pressed his case.
“Give it—oh, let’s say—six months,” he urged, “or a year at the most. This would be different than what occurred with you and Ma
x. I would do it willingly, and you could teach me, help me. We would have each other.”
“No, Mitch,” I began, shaking my head, but his eyes met mine, searching, pleading. I smiled at him finally, reluctantly, and gave in. “Oh hell, Mitch, I have all the time in the world. Six months or sixty, it all means nothing to me. But I will not encourage you in this. The decision will be yours and yours alone. Do you understand?” His eyes lit again with hope; I looked away. “Now I have a plane to catch.”
He pulled me to him again in a fierce embrace that made him wince in pain. “Oh, Deirdre,” he said, “will you still leave? How can I let you go?”
“With love, Mitch.” I kissed him a final time. He stroked my hair and cheek, then slowly began to walk away. “Mitch,” I called to him and he turned. “I left something for you. It will be delivered to your apartment tomorrow.” I thought of the parcel I had instructed my attorney to give him after my departure. He would appreciate its significance. He looked at me questioningly. “It’s the Van Gogh,” I explained. “The only sunshine you and I will ever share.”
He gave me a quiet smile and I found that I had nothing left to say to him. Instead, I opened the door and watched as he limped down the hall to the elevators. The bell rang, and he got in. As the doors began to close, he stopped them with his hand and stepped out slightly for one last glance. He gave me one of his boyish, exuberant grins. “See you in six months,” he said confidently. Then the doors shut and he was gone.
Smiling weakly, I covered my hair with a thick scarf, picked up my bag and turned out the lights. Taking one last look at the rooms, I closed the door. “I hope not, Mitch,” I said to the empty hall. “I hope not.”
Epilogue
The summer sun sets late in my new home. I have adjusted to the life well, but my internal clock is still set to another time, another place. I shower, dress and go down the stairs. The day’s mail lies strewn in front of the slot in the door. I pick it up and glance through it, finding nothing of interest except for a small envelope from that other place. The writing is bold and masculine and my heart jumps at the return address. I have waited for months to receive this letter. I open it with trembling hands. The message is short; I can tell through the folded page that it is no more than three lines. Before reading it I hold it to my heart, not really knowing what I want to find. Then I carefully unfold it; I can delay no longer.
“Deirdre,” he writes, “I do love you, but you were right after all. There’s no way I could live your life. I hope you can forgive me.” He has written nothing else except for his name; what more could he say? A single tear drops on the signature; I wipe it away and his name dissolves to a black blot on the white page. I fold it gently and place it on top of the rest of the mail.
The streets of London are dark and shining. I raise my face to the night sky and let the rain wash away the traces of that one tear. Then, purposefully I begin to walk, my footsteps echoing off the weathered walls surrounding me. Five blocks away is the pub at which I now work. It is a homey little place that serves a decent port, and does a good business in the tourist trade.
Life goes on, I think to myself and quicken my steps. I can hear the laughter, the singing, and as I near the bar, I can smell the scent of blood and flesh. The door swings open and I trade the darkness of the night temporarily for the lights of the pub.
Faces turn to greet me, some familiar, some strange. I make my choice for the evening and give him an encouraging smile as I make my way through the crowd to my position behind the bar. So life goes on.
BITTER BLOOD
Dedicated to Pete with undying love
Acknowledgments
The support network for the Vampire Legacy novels is seemingly endless. Once again, I’ll try to mention everyone involved. Thank you to: Cheri, Elise, and John, for their invaluable proofreading, often on short notice; to Paul, whose expertise on cemeteries and the seduction of barmaids was very helpful; to the ladies of the neighborhood (again); to Sherron for her promotional advice, and to my editor, John Scognamiglio, at Zebra Books, and Cherry Weiner, my agent. But the real stars are my family, for their support, their love and understanding. Thank you all.
Chapter 1
I shook the cold rain from my heavy woolen cloak as I entered the pub. That the place was nearly empty was not surprising. Although the sun had been set for nearly half an hour, it was still early, too early, for most of our regulars and certainly too early for the tourists. Two men, hunched over their bitter ale, glanced at me from the bar. To my acknowledging nod, they gave a brief grunt of greeting and returned their full attention to the contents of their mugs.
Idly, I moved behind the bar, still groggy from my nightmare-interrupted sleep. I gave the counter a cursory sweep with the dishcloth, then poured myself a large glass of port. Sipping gratefully, I leaned back into the shadows, my eyes greedily searching the dark street outside for passersby.
Business had been bad recently. And while I did not need the money, I did miss the tourists. The wine helped, but it would not be long before I had to feed, at any cost. The hunger possessed me fully, its grasp stronger, more savage each waking moment, seeming to grow proportionately with the intensity of the dream. Two years ago I had sought freedom from that grip to discover too late that there would be no deliverance for me, only a deeper traveling into the inhuman soul—mine or his, it made little difference.
A light touch on my arm drew me, shuddering, out of my thoughts and back to the present.
“Someone walking on your grave, Dottie?”
I looked up at the ruddy face of my one-time boss, now my partner and smiled slightly. “I imagine so, Pete,” I said, reaching below the bar to hand him a crumpled pack of Players. He followed the same routine every night before leaving the pub. He would smoke one cigarette, drink a glass of stout, and count the money in the drawer before making his way home to wife and family.
I poured him a drink and handed it to him as he sat on his stool, counting the day’s take. The cigarette dangled from his upper lip, and he squinted up at me through the thick smoke.
“Thank you, darlin’. What did I ever do before you came?”
I laughed. “You lost money, just the same as we do now. How was business today?”
“Could have been better, Dot. But you know how I’m not one for complaining.” He shut the cash drawer, stubbed out his cigarette, and reached for his coat on a hook behind the bar. “Now, you, I worry about. Tending this bloody place night after night—it’s not right for a young thing like you. Close up early tonight, Dottie, and go out and have some fun. Get some roses back into your cheeks.”
I reached over and protectively pulled his lapels up closer to his neck. “Pete, you are a dear, but I really enjoy the nights here, with no crowds, no pressure. And in any event, I don’t know anyone here well enough to go out with them.”
He gave a brief, angelic smile, but the feigned expression of innocence did not fool me; try as he might, he could not disguise the glint of mischief in his eyes.
“Now, and that reminds me,” he started in his slow, matter-of-fact way, “bless me if there wasn’t a young chap in here a little earlier, asking after you.” He began to rummage through his pockets, absently patting and prodding them. “Seems to me, I wrote his name and number down somewhere. A Yank, did I tell you that? He said he knew you in the States. Awful anxious he was. Now, if only I could find that paper . . .”
I folded my arms and leaned against the bar, waiting for him to complete his act as patiently as was possible. Pete, for all of his sixty-plus years, was more of a child than I had ever been, a lover of surprises and practical jokes. Finally he produced a wrinkled, grubby piece of paper with a flourish, and I held my hand out to receive it.
“Thank you, Pete. Have a nice evening.”
“You too, darlin’.” With a wink he left, whistling an old music-hall tune as he went through the door.
I shook my head and regarded the paper, folded and lying in my t
rembling hand. There was only one person who knew my current location. Two years had not been enough time to forget him, or the taste and feel of him, yet those years had merely reinforced my reasons for leaving.
Mitch was better off without me; I had believed it then and I believed it now. I was not the same woman I had been; I was changed and not, I thought, for the good. My desperate strike for freedom had failed. I had not driven away the dark spirit. Instead, by giving him death, I had allowed him entrance to my soul and will. Sometimes in my loneliest times, I held him close, savoring our shared passion and pain. We were one in his death, as we had never been in life—it was his whispering voice I heard during the hunt, his cynical pleasure I felt when I fed.
I did not hear the door open—its cheerful little bell had not announced a customer—but suddenly he was there, leaning across the bar, one eyebrow raised and a sardonic smile on his face. “How lovely you look tonight, my dear. How about a drink for an old friend?”
“Dammit, Max. Get the hell out of here.”
His body wavered and shimmered, dissolving instantly into the shape of one of our regulars, very surprised and slightly belligerent. “All I want is a drink, Dot, then I’ll leave you alone.”
“Oh, God, I’m so sorry. I thought you were someone else.” I gave him a bright smile and pushed a glass in his direction. “This one is on the house.”
He took the drink and my apology good-naturedly. “Thanks. You don’t seem too chipper tonight. You feeling all right?”
“I am fine, thank you. Just a little tired, that’s all.”
He shrugged and moved away from the bar to sit at a table, joined a few minutes later by a few of his friends. I shoved the note unread into my apron pocket and tended to the business of the pub.
Later that evening my long wait for tourists finally paid off. A group of six, loud and embarrassingly boisterous, arrived one hour before closing, quickly driving out the regulars. I singled out the likeliest candidate, tall and broad-shouldered, with a bold look in his eyes that caused my body to tighten in anticipation. I smiled at him as I took their orders and served their drinks, offering him a glass of port. When he questioned me, I leaned close to him. “For later,” I whispered, “for endurance.” He drank it in one gulp, shuddering slightly at its bitterness, and immediately asked for another.
Hunger Page 29
