by Eve Silver
“Do not lie to yourself or to her,” Killian said, his voice low. “You knew there was a way to die.”
Her father drew a breath, then blew it out. “Alright. Yes. I knew I could stand in the sun. It didn’t take long to find that out. But I—”
“Didn’t want to die,” Killian finished for him.
“I didn’t want to die,” her father agreed.
“Papa,” Sarah said past the lump in her throat, her hand reaching for him.
He lurched forward. Moving so fast he was little more than a blur, Killian insinuated himself between them, using his body as a shield.
“Do you trust yourself, Mr. Lowell?” he asked, darkly soft.
“She is my daughter,” her father said.
“She is mine,” Killian said in a tone she had never before heard from him. That single word revealed the beast inside him, the primitive creature driven by instinct, driven to claim and to hold what he claimed. He looked down at her then. “She is my light, my joy, my heartbeat. I will let nothing harm her.”
“I will not harm her. I have sat by her bed as she slept. I have followed her through this vile place—” her father gestured at their surroundings “—to keep her safe.”
“You sat by my bed?” Sleep now, Sarah. Dream sweet dreams. “You did. I remember.”
Overwhelmed, Sarah looked back and forth between the two. Her lover was a vampire, and her father had returned from the dead.
“How were you turned to a vampire, Papa?” she asked. “How did you become what you are?”
“The patient from France. You remember? The friend that Mr. Montmarche begged me to see.” His mouth twisted and his tone turned to a sneer. “My kindness was repaid by betrayal. He was a vampire, burned by the sun. His skin was blackened and falling away, and he was desperate for blood. He drained me nearly unto death.”
Sarah shuddered at his words, for the images they conjured were ghastly. She recalled the dead patients at King’s College, their wrists torn open, bloodless.
“Papa,” she said, pouring her sadness and empathy into that single word.
With a sigh, her father reached out for her. Beside her Killian tensed, ready to leap to her protection.
To protect her from her father.
She edged around Killian, weaving her fingers through his, then reached out with her free hand to her father. “You cannot know,” she whispered to Killian. “I thought him dead, and here he is. Alive.” She swallowed against the lump that clogged her throat. “I thought I would never see him again. I never even had a body to bury.” She paused. “I thought I was alone.”
Laying his hand on her back, Killian said nothing, but she could feel the tension that pulsed beneath the surface, sense the beast he had warned her lurked beneath the thin veneer. He did not trust her father, and she understood that, understood his need to hold her safe.
Warily, her father approached and took her hand. Tears traced along her cheeks. She held the hands of both men.
“You say he drained you nearly unto death, but how is it that you became what he was?” she asked her father.
“Montmarche’s friend—” her father made a dull laugh “—you know, I never did learn his name. Well, he gave me the choice. To die, or to take his blood and live. I chose life. But I did not understand. Not until I woke with the thirst.” He exhaled sharply through his nostrils. “He was long gone by then, and I was left with the thirst and a thousand questions.”
Killian made a small sound of disgust. “The newly made making more newly made. A dangerous folly.”
“Sarah, my darling, I would not have left you alone had I a choice,” her father said. “But it was better for me to die, to remove myself from your life. I have watched you from the shadows. Guarded you as best I could. I dared not be near you, for I was afraid both of what I might do to you, and of what you might think of the aberration I have become. But...you already know. You—” His gaze shot to Killian.
“Mr. Lowell,” Killian interjected. “You have been killing patients at King’s College.”
With a gasp, Sarah shook her head, reminding herself exactly why they had lured him to this place. Because of the murders. Murders. And Killian meant to end the string of deaths by terminating the killer.
“What? King’s College?” Her father scrubbed his palms over his face. Dropping his hands, he glanced first at Sarah, then Killian. He seemed to sink into himself as he made a gesture of futility. “Yes. I saw no other course, no way to slake the hunger. I took only those who were suffering. Only those who would die regardless. You know, I can sense that now. I can feel death clinging to every breath. I know who will not survive, no matter what medical machinations are offered.”
Sarah glanced at Killian. That was how he knew which patients would not benefit from any intervention. He, too, could sense death.
“So you chose with care.” Killian’s lips turned in a faint smile, and his tone was one of understanding. “I admire both your restraint and your compassion. It is common for the newly turned to feed in a mad frenzy without thought or care. That you held yourself from that is admirable.”
Something in his tone made Sarah’s breath catch. Something dark.
Admirable or not, he would kill her father.
She could not let him. But, oh God, her father was himself a murderer.
Her gaze jerked to Killian’s, and she found him studying her, his eyes flat, his expression ruthlessly neutral. There was a sinister side to what he was. He had warned her of that.
“Killian,” she whispered, even as her father said, “Sarah—”
Killian’s gray eyes gleamed in the darkness, holding her trapped, breathless. He had told her this. He had told her of the murderers and thieves that he had fed from. Was her father to be his next victim?
“No, love. That is not the way of it,” Killian said with a shake of his head.
Love. She drew a sharp breath, stunned by the term. Killian would not use it lightly.
“For five centuries I have been alone.” He cast a sidelong glance at her father. “And now I go from being completely alone, to having a complete family, including a father-in-law who is a fledgling I must needs tutor.” He made a wry smile. “There is a certain dark irony in that.”
Her thoughts whirling, Sarah could only gape at him, trying to understand his meaning.
Killian inclined his head to her father, and said, “If you would afford us a moment of privacy, sir?”
Without waiting for a reply, he took her hand and drew her off into the shadows.
“You called him your father-in-law,” Sarah said.
“I did. I’ll marry you if you’ll have me.”
Sarah lifted her brows and pressed her lips together. “Was that meant to be a proposal?”
Killian laughed softly. “The first I’ve ever made to any woman. And the last.” His gaze grew somber, and the teasing glint disappeared. “Do not answer me right away, love, only listen to what I offer. I want to turn you.”
“Turn me?” Even as she echoed the words, his meaning became clear. He wanted her to be as he was. “Killian—”
“Please—” he pressed his fingers to her lips “—hear me out.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her palm. “You asked me if I loved you. I knew I wanted you. I knew I respected you. I knew I treasured you. I did not believe I loved you because I did not believe myself capable of love.”
She swallowed, staring up at him, her heart thudding a painful rhythm.
“But in this alley when faced with the need to terminate the interloper, I could not because of the pain it would cause you. When faced with the instinct to stop the creature that could expose us all, I could not because of the pain it would cause you. When I realized that he was your father, the joy that swelled inside me on your behalf was brighter than a sunrise. What I feel for you is deeper than instinct, stronger than my hunger, greater than any need I have ever known. If it would benefit you in some way, I would walk into the sun. So
it appears that the monster is capable of love after all.”
“Killian,” she whispered, choking on her tears. He leaned in and kissed them where they traced down her cheek.
“I want to share eternity with you,” he said. “To show you the world. To never see you grow a day older than you are now. To watch civilizations evolve and change until there are women who are physicians and surgeons and you are one of them.” His expression grew solemn. “But there is a price. Both your father and I were turned without knowing the full extent of what we would become. If you choose this, love, if you choose me, I need you to make that choice with full understanding.
“So say nothing yet, my love. Make no hasty decision.” He pulled her against him, and brushed his lips across hers. “Stay with me, Sarah. Be my light, my love. And when you are ready, only then give me your answer.”
Her heart swelled and she could only offer a mute nod. It was too much, too much. Killian loved her. He loved her and he wanted her for exactly who she was. And he offered her the world.
She rose up on her toes and pressed her mouth to his, then whispered, “I love you,” against his lips.
Epilogue
One year later
* * *
Sarah snuggled close against Killian’s side, languid and replete in the aftermath of their lovemaking. Reaching up, she dragged her fingers through the thick golden silk of his hair, loving the feel of it.
Loving him.
A year they had been together, and each day was a gift, a treasure. They had married in a church in a small ceremony attended by her father and Mrs. Cowden and Elinor. Killian had opened a small surgery in St. Giles and Sarah worked there alongside him, offering care to women the world had forgotten. Elinor had left King’s College for a position at the surgery.
In that year, Killian had told her much of what it meant to be a vampire. The joys, the beauty, the freedom. The burden, the loneliness, the temptation.
Nothing ever came without a price.
But he had never again voiced the offer to make her what he was, and she had never asked.
Until now.
Rolling so she lay atop him, she stared into his eyes, his beautiful pewter and ice eyes, then she leaned down and pressed her mouth to his.
“It is time, Killian.” She drew her long hair to the side, baring the column of her throat. “It is time, my love. I want forever, with you.”
He smiled, and dragged his fingers along her pulse where it throbbed beneath the fragile skin of her throat.
“You are certain?”
“I am. I would know the cool and wonderful beauty of the moonlight, the sweet music of the night,” she whispered, offering back to him the words he had shared so long ago. “You are no longer alone. I would be with you always, Killian. Always and forever.”
* * *
The End
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Love my gothics? Keep reading for a sneak peek of Kiss Me Goodbye, the first book in my upcoming Contemporary Gothic series !
Kiss Me Goodbye Sneak Peek
Prologue
The Shape of a Heart
I forgot to kiss her goodbye.
Rain pelts my yellow slicker as I hesitate halfway up the steps on the first day of third grade at my new school. Around me, other kids run hand in hand with their mothers or fathers, heading for the front door, trying to escape the downpour. Some of them wear yellow slickers and rubber rain boots just like mine. Some of them are sheltered by the umbrellas their parents hold above their heads.
There’s no one to shelter me, to hold my hand. I’m alone, and I forgot to kiss her goodbye.
Should I go forward? Back?
I stand frozen.
Mommy’s battered gray car with the rusted rear door and the dented bumper is still parked in front of the school. Through the misted window I see the pale smudge of her face. She’s watching me, waiting to see me safely inside.
I run down the stairs toward the car, hoping she’ll push the door open, step out, come to me. Foolish hope. I know by now that wishes don’t come true.
When I reach the car I press the tip of my finger to the window and draw the shape of a heart, raindrops clinging to my lashes and running down my cheeks. Then I press my lips to the wet glass and kiss her goodbye. She smiles with her mouth but not with her eyes. For her, even the car is too open a space. I smile back because I made her smile, if only a little.
Then I turn and run up the stairs as the morning bell chimes, loving her and hating her and telling myself it isn’t her fault.
* * *
Chapter One
Promise
The ancient pickup barrels along the narrow highway that clings to the edge of a cliff. On my right, the earth juts skyward, a wall of gray and brown and green. On my left, a single lane separates me from the white churn of the ocean that crashes against the rocks below.
Wind gusts off the water, making the pickup shiver and shake. The seatbelt isn’t working and there’s no grab handle so I curl my fingers into the worn seat and hold on. As if that will save me if we go over the edge. The driver—Rick, according to how he introduced himself when he picked me up at the airport in San Francisco; Richard Parsons, according to the letter my aunt sent—slaps his breast pocket, hauls out a cigarette one-handed, tucks it between his lips and pushes in the lighter to heat it up. He takes a deep lungful of smoke and blows it out, adding new cigarette stink to the old cigarette stink that mixes with the scents of sweat and mildew and sickly sweet rot coming off the fast food wrappers on the floor.
Rain pounds the windshield, the wipers smearing hazy arcs.
It’s the rain that makes me remember that day. I wonder if I made the wrong choice, if Mom would have stepped out of the car had I not run back to her, if she would have lived a different life if I’d only waited on those stairs, waited for her to come to me. But in my heart of hearts, I know I could have stood there for hours, even days, and she would have stayed trapped in her cocoon, tears streaming down her cheeks, eyes darting side to side, seeing things only she could see.
She must have driven home after she left me at school. She never drove again. I walked home alone that day using my memory of the landmarks she’d pointed out and the map she’d sketched on the torn corner of a piece of pink construction paper. She was waiting for me just inside the door to our building and she grabbed me and pulled me close as soon as I crossed the threshold. I walked alone to school and back the next day and every day after. The car sat untouched for six months and then Mom called someone and a tow truck came and hooked it up and that was the end of that. Mom said it was a good thing, a smart thing, because owning a car when you lived hand to mouth was just a mess of crazy.
Staring straight ahead at the yellow dividing line that unfurls like a ribbon, I swallow against the lump in my throat. It moves down a few inches to sit behind my breastbone, leaden.
Might-have-beens don’t matter, Luce. Don’t look back, baby. Never look back. Just forward, always forward. Mom wasn’t much one for nostalgia. No photo albums. No rogue’s gallery of baby pictures on the wall. We never ordered the class picture I suffered through each year. She never even showed me a picture of my dad, Joss Warner, though I figure I must look like him since Mom was blond, blue-eyed, and china doll pretty, and I’m brown-haired with hazel eyes.
Choices. Did I make the wrong one coming here?
Beside me, Rick hacks up a lung, then takes a final drag of his cigarette and stubs it out in the overflowing ashtray.
“You’re a real chatterbox, huh?” he says as he hunches forward against the wheel and peers through the windshield, his stained ball cap
shadowing his craggy face. I don’t like him, don’t like the way he looked at me when he found me at the airport or the sneer in his voice when he said my aunt’s name. Pat, he’d said, like he was horking up a loogie. But he’s my ride north and I have no other way to get where I’m going. If I’d had another option, I’d have taken it. But I didn’t, and I don’t, and it’s a waste of effort to wish otherwise.
The truck skids as we round another curve, number one million and six of the curves we’ve rounded on this endless drive. I slap my hand against the window for balance and say, “We could slow down.”
Rick glances at me then back at the road. “No need.” He thumps a closed fist against the dash. “She’s been getting me where I need to be for almost twenty years.”
I grew up knowing not to walk down Mermaid Avenue at night, to never trust that the N, Q or R would be on time, to fade into the background when the situation called for it, and to speak up for myself when there wasn’t anyone else to speak up for me. So I speak up now, making my voice calm even though my heart trip-hammers as I say, “I’d like you to slow down. I’d like to get there alive.”
