Run from Twilight

by Maggie Shayne

Chapter 9

 

  The full moon was tonight.

  No matter how else Mary tried to occupy herself though the day, that was one of the three thoughts that kept circulating through her mind.

  The second was a question. Why hadn't Michael taken his car this morning? She lied to think he had decided at the last minute to leave it for her-except that she'd found the keys lying on the front seat and the car unlocked. Which just didn't seem in keeping with his past as a police officer.

  He'd left in such a hurry-almost as if he were desperate to get out of her sight. She'd run to the window to wave him off, but he'd seemed. . . almost ill, suddenly. The way he stopped near the car, fumbling with the keys, dropped them, then went staggering off at an uneven run across the street and out of sight.

  Had someone picked him up? Did he have a car pool he'd forgotten about or something?

  No matter, she could just ask him when he got back home. She was sure there was some explanation.

  The third thing on her mind was the dream she'd had last night. God, it ha been so real. In the dream he'd made love other, and it had been intense and incredible and the most erotic thing she'd ever experienced, real or imagined.

  She cleaned up the kitchen, then took Michael's car out to do some shopping, a coffeemaker being at the top of her list. But all day long, erotic images and fluttering arousal gnawed at her, fighting for space beside the ice-cold fear in her mind. Shopping didn't help to alleviate either of the conflicting emotions. So when she returned to his place, she put her purchases away and tried to think of something else to occupy her mind.

  She tried watching TV, but he didn't get many channels. She thought about planning an extravagant dinner, but she really didn't think he'd enjoyed the breakfast all that much. So she sat on the sofa, and she gave in to the more pleasant of the barrage of thoughts. She let herself relive her exquisite dream of the night before. Her and Michael, making love. The things he'd whispered in to her ear, the ways he'd make her feel, the places he'd touched her, the feeling of him inside her. . .

  She shivered and closed her eyes. She had never had an experience like that one in her dream. She'd had sex, but never like that. It had been-like something beyond. And she wasn't sure, but she thought she'd climaxed in her sleep. Up until last night, she hadn't thought such a thing was possible.

  Oh, hell, so now she was going to sit here and have sexual fantasies about Michael for the rest of the day?

  Yeah, she realized, she just might at that. She'd wanted him from her very first glimpse of him, watching her in the bar, from the darkness. His eyes, so intent and appreciative. Almost hungry.

  A delicious chill raced up her spine. She shook it away, evens she wondered if he could possibly feel as powerfully attracted to her as she did to him. She thought he did, and yet it didn't seem possible anyone could feel as strongly as she did about him.

  But she shouldn't even be thinking along those line, not now, when so much else was happening. The full moon was tonight.

  She got to her feet and decided to explore the house. Surely that would keep her mind off sex with Michael. So she wandered. There wasn't much more to the place than what she had already seen. A laundry room in the back, with a nice jet-black washer and dryer. A garage on the side. She went into it, not expecting to find much of interest-it was a garage, after all. What would there be besides a few tools and car accessories, maybe some spare tires? But when she entered she was surprised. There was a shiny midnight-blue motorcycle leaning on its kickstand.

  And why did knowing he rode that thing make him even more attractive to her? She flashed on an image of the two of them riding it, her thighs framing his hips, her arms tight around his waist, her hair blowing in the wind.

  Sighing, she wandered back into the house and went to the room she had been avoiding up to now. Michael's bedroom. Her hand closed on the doorknob, and she was almost surprised that it gave easily. Then again, why would he lock her out of his bedroom?

  What surprised her even more than the unlocked door was the total and complete wall of darkness that greeted her on the other side. The place was black as pitch. She felt the wall for a light switch, found one and flipped it on.

  But illuminated, the room was almost as grim as it had been in the dark. There was a bed, perfectly made not a wrinkle or rumple in it. A dresser and matching stand flanked it, but aside from that, the room was empty. It looked as rarely used as the guest room had. And the windows! There were only two in the entire bedroom, and they were covered so tightly that not a droplet of light could penetrate.

  She moved closer to inspect the thick, velvet drapes of dark burgundy. Behind them were black curtain panels in a cotton woven more densely than any she'd seen. They were heavy and thick. And behind those were blue window shades that must have been custom fitted, pulled down tight.

  She pulled the window shade out a just a little, to look beyond it. But the outside of the window was blocked, too, by shutters closed tight.

  "I guess he can't sleep with any light in the room," she muttered. Sighing, she carefully smoothed the layers of shade and fabric back into place and turned to go. But paused when she saw that he had left his brown satchel on the bed.

  The one with the evidence of Tommy's murder I it, and the laptop computer, and. . .

  Licking her lips, she wondered suddenly if he had the evidence from the other murders in that bag, as well. She glanced around almost guiltily, but that was silly. She was doing nothing wrong. Surely she sad as much right to peruse those files as Michael did. More even. Nodding hard, she snatched the satchel from the bed and darted from the room with it.

  She chose to work in the little kitchen, because its sunny front window looked right out on the driveway, so she would see him if he came back. She could also see the back doors and the steps to the beach from here. If she was careful, she would see his approach and be able to shove the files back in the case, dash to his room toss it on the bed and get back out before he opened the door.

  As an afterthought, she turned the dead-bolt locks on both doors, just in case. Finally she extracted manila file folders from the bag and began to explore the records inside. Beginning with the one marked Samantha Carlson.

  Before lone she wished she hadn't snooped Hell, she was fine reading the reports. The police report said the woman's body had been found by fisherman in a New Jersey river, just as Michael had told her. But the police had found photographs, as well, taken by the killer and left behind at the woman's apartment. There were several snapshots, the instant kind, and she flipped through them one by one, growing colder and sicker with every shot.

  The woman was nude, her body marred by stab wounds that the coroner said had not been the cause of death. She'd been bound at the ankles and suspended by the from a light fixture. Her throat was deeply cut, and a pool of blood covered the floor beneath her.

  She'd been stabbed numerous times, then strung up and finally her throat had been cut. Her arms were free and probably had never been bund. Mary guessed that from the close-up shot of the arms and hands, covered with blood, probably because the woman had tried to keep the precious fluid from escaping as she'd hung upside down and bled to death.

  So that was how he killed them. And that was why Michael hadn't wanted her to know.

  She finally found the ability to move again and returned to the written report. It claimed the woman had been stabbed numerous times, either in an effort to subdue her or from a desire to torture her. The killer apparently knew where he could drive the blade without causing immediately fatal injuries. The killer had some sick reason for wanting to keep the victims alive until they bled out.

  She couldn't read any more. She closed the folder and returned everything to the brown bag. She glanced outside, seeing no sign of Michael, ad then carried the bag back to his room, placing it on the bed just where she'd found it. She was tiptoeing out of his room, pulling the door gently
closed behind her, when a sound shot through her head like an arrow through her heart.

  But it was only the ringing of her cell phone.

  Sighing, she ran through the house to her temporary bedroom, rummaged in her bag while the phone rang again and again, and finally found the thing, yanked it out, her heart still pounding, and hit the answer button.

  "Mary McLean speaking. "

  "Hi, Ms. McLean, this is Stormy from S. I. S. We've finished your background check, and I thought you should probably know about it as soon as possible. "

  "What did you find?"

  The woman sighed. "First, you should know that I contacted Officer Dunst and got the background on what's been going on with you. I told him nothing, just asked questions. Normally this isn't the kind of information I would pas on to a client I didn't know, but I think in your case, you need the fully story. Can you come out here I'd really rather tell you in person. "

  She glanced at the clock. "I don't know. Where are you?"

  "Two hours north of you, in Eaton. The address is on the card. "

  Mary shook her head. 'No. There's no way I can go that far and get back in time, and I really can't wait. I need to know now. "

  The woman hesitate but finally began talking again. "All right. But this is going to be a lot to swallow over the phone, especially if you don't already know about. . . some of the things I'm going to tell you. Michael Gray was indeed an officer of in the Chicago Police Department, and he was indeed shot in the line of duty-by a member of the Capone gang in 1928. "

  "Excuse me?"

  "Officer Michael Gray, Chicago PD, has been dead for more than seventy years. "

  She shook her head. "There's some kind of mistake. It was probably his father or grandfather, or someone else by the same name. "

  "He's the only Michael Gray who ever worked there. But given human imperfection, I got my hands on a photo just to make sure. Do you have a fax?"

  "No. " She recalled the laptop. "Uh, but there's a computer. Can you e-mail it to me?"

  "Sure thing. What address?"

  She rattled off the address of her online account knowing that she could access it from Michael's computer, but hating the idea that she was going to have to go back to his room an boot the thing up. It was getting late. He would be home soon.

  "I'm sending it right now. Call me back if you want us to do anything further. But. . . Mary you should prepare yourself to face some things you probably never believed in. "

  "Like what?"

  The woman on the other end sighed. "Have you ever seen Michael during the day?"

  "Well. . . no, but-"

  "I didn't think so. Listen this is going to sound far-fetched. But, Mary, there's a chance that Michael Gray might be a vampire. "

  "Vampire?" She laughed, but the woman on the other end of the phone wasn't laughing, so her own died in her throat. "You are joking right?"

  "No. I know quite a few of them. They exist. And they're nothing like what most people think they are. They tend to be driven to protect people like you. "

  "People like me?"

  "It's got to do with your blood, Mary. Dunst told me you have the belladonna antigen. That's probably why he referred you to us in the first place. "

  She went cold inside, remembering how often Michael had mentioned that the antigen connected him to her. But surely this was complete and utter fantasy. Vampires? "Okay, sure. Whatever you say. You just send me that photo. I think I can handle this myself from here. "

  "Fine. If you change your mind-"

  "I won't. " She hung up the phone. Vampires. Good grief, the woman was insane. And yet, even though she knew there were no such things, she thought it a pretty sick coincidence that she'd never seen Michael during the day. And his odd reaction to her meal this morning. As if he'd had to force himself to eat it. An the way he could read her mind. And how quickly and silently he managed to move.

  And the things he'd said about the antigen creating a bond between them. . .

  Sighing, Mary forced the ridiculous notion from her mind and walked back through the house, peering outside, seeing no one. But it was dimming. It would be dark soon. He'd said he should be back by dark.

  Just another coincidence?

  Hell. She would just have to be quick.

  She went to his room, took the computer out of its case, booted it up right there on his bed. Seconds ticked by while she waited for it to go through the motions. Then she clicked on the wireless Internet connection button, and the thing logged on immediately. As fast as her fingers could move, she typed in her online server an brought up her private e-mail account. Then she waited, drumming her fingers, staring at the mailbox icon, waiting, waiting. . . there! The little flag popped up. She quickly accessed the e-mail, clicked on the paperclip icon and watched as, line by line, a photograph revealed itself on the screen. Hair, the top of a forehead, eyebrows, and finally eyes and the bridge of a nose. . .

  "Oh, my God. . . "

  Line by line, his cheeks, his mouth, his chin. All of Michael's face stared at her from beneath a date policeman's hat. It was a photo ID, with his name and the date underneath. Michael Gray, born 5 February, 1899.

  "This can't be. . . "

  "Mary? Hey, Mary, are you here?" he called.

  Mary stiffened and lifted her chin. And then his bedroom door opened, and he stood there, staring at her an at the computer. "Mary what's going on?"

  Shaking her head slowly from side to side, she said, "I don't know. But I think it's time you told me. Don't you?"

  "I don't under-"

  He stopped speaking as she turned the computer to face him, so he could see his own face filling the screen.

  * * * * *

  He didn't know what to say, what to do. If she could only have controlled her curiosity for one more day. But God, they couldn't deal with all of this-not tonight of all nights. Tonight was the full moon. If she ran from him now. . .

  "I can ex-"

  "How?"

  He pursed his lips, shook his head. "All right. Look, I really didn't want to get into this so soon. Hell I didn't want to get into it at all. I don't want to scare you away from me, Mary. I'm not evil. I'm only trying to protect you. You have to believe that. "

  She got up off the bed, backing up a few steps. He felt as if he were reliving his worst nightmare. "So is that you in the photo?"

  He hesitated. "Mary, I'll tell you every thing but first-tell me where you put the gun I gave you. "

  She frowned, "Michael, what the hell does that have to do-"

  "Please. Deep down, you trust me. You know me. Just answer the question. "

  She licked her lips. He knew she was afraid of him, yes, but she trusted him, too. "It's in the guest room, next to my bed. "

  "You swear?" He broke his promise, probe her mind to be sure she was telling the truth.

  "Yes. Now you answer my question. I that you in the picture?"

  "Yes. "

  "Then you're more than a hundred years old?"

  He nodded.

  "How can that me, Michael? You don't look a day over thirty. "

  "I shouldn't look a day over twenty-nine. That's how old I was when I was shot. "

  "By a member of the Capone gang?"

  He closed his eyes. "There were two gangs doing the shooting. I got in between them. "

  He watched her face carefully. There was no sign of panic. No hint of hysteria he'd seen in Sally's face that night. So far.

  "Michael, I just got off the phone with some detective agency that told me you might be a. . . a. . . God, I can't even say it. "

  "Say it," he told her.

  She held his eyes with hers. "She said you might be a vampire. Is that what you are, Michael?"

  He chose his words with extreme care. "Mary, I'll tell you exactly what I am. I'm the man you see in front of you, the one who's been with you for days now, protecting you from a killer.
I'm the an you know inside and out. Nothing about me is different from what you already know. But there are some things about me that you don't know yet. Things that are unique. The don't make me a freak or a monster or a demon. I'm still me. "

  She nodded slowly. "Go on. "

  She wasn't losing it, not yet. "I don't age. If I go out in sunlight, I'll burst into flames. And in order to keep from going stark raving mad or dying of slow starvation, I have to feed on blood. But I don't kill. I never kill. I have never taken a human life. Never. "

  She stared at him, then at the door behind him.

  "I didn't want to tell you this, Mary. I didn't want to see the fear in your eyes the way I'm seeing it now. I'm not evil. I'm not a monster. "

  "No, of course not," she said. But in her min she was thinking she had to get away from him. That she couldn't think straight around him, that this was just too much to understand all at once. Humor him, she thought. Just keep him calm and get the hell out of here. He heard it all.

  "I'm trying to protect you. That's all I'm trying to do. "

  "And I'm. . . so grateful" She was only a few feet from the door. He was still by the bed. She was going to lunge fast to get past him.

  He lowered his head, sighed, and let her see her chance while he wasn't looking at her. She ran for the door, but he moved, too, a burst of speed so fast that she collided with his chest.

  "What? How did you. . . ?"

  He put his hands on her shoulders, steadying her and also preventing her from backing away. Her mind was reeling, telling her there was no way he could be there. He hadn't moved.

  "Everything I magnified in my kind, Mary. Speed and agility, physical strength and stamina, and all the senses.

  She shook her head firmly. "No. I don't believe it. I won't believe it. "

  "What's the alternative, Mary? That I'm insane? Some kind of deluded madman? Have I done anything up to now to make you question my sanity?"

  "Please, let me go. Just let me go, Michael. "

  Sighing, his heart breaking, he closed his eyes. "I can't let you go. It's the full moon. He's out there. "

  Great, she thought, so now she had to choose between taking her chances with maniac or facing a killer. Unless. . .

  "Don't. Don't even think it. You know I'm not a murderer. "

  "How? How could I possibly know that, Michael?" She was shivering now. The fear in her eyes, the hurt an confusion he felt beaming from them, was so real. And so was the caring. She felt so much for him-he could see it clearly in her eyes, in her mind. She didn't know why or how, but he cared about him. Deeply. Even now, after what he had confessed.

  "I know," he whispered. "I know, Mary It's the same for me. "

  She lowered her head. "Stop invading my mind!"

  "Shhhh. " His hand cupped her cheek, turned her face up to his, and kissed her. His mouth covered hers, moving, caressing with his lips.

  Heat pooled in his groin when her arms slid around his neck. He wrapped his around her waist, pulling her tight against his body, and his tongue parted her lips and explored her mouth. She tasted so good. His hips moved against her, and hers moved in reply. He burned for her, and though it made no sense to her, she wasn't even bothering to deny that she burned for him as well. She wanted him, and she didn't care what he was. His heart soared with that knowledge.

  His hands cupped her buttocks, holding her even closer. Then he slid one hand up her back, beneath the blouse she wore, skimming her back. No bra strap blocked its path-she wasn't wearing one.

  He pushed her legs with his own walking her backward until she hit the bed. He lowered her onto it, breaking the kiss while his hands pushed her blouse up over her head and flung it aside. The laptop slipped off the other side, hitting the floor, and he didn't even look up. His attention was on her breast He bent to nurse at one and used his fingers to attend to the other. She lay there, writhing in response this sucking, the gentle nips and pinches that he made steadily less playful, steadily more forceful. She was moving her head now, from side to side on the mattress. Her body was hot, on fire. He caught her hands in his, then lifted his head away, pressing her hands to her breasts, guiding her fingers to her own nipples, and pressing tighter and tighter until she whimpered. Then he slid lower, his mouth working it's way over her waist and belly, this tongue dipping into her navel. He unfastened her jeans and tugged the off. Then he pulled off her panties, as well; his hands parted her thighs, and he kissed her there.

  "Michael," she whispered.

  "Shhh. Let me make you scream. " He pressed her wide open with his thumbs and kissed her again. And then his tongue slider her, teasingly, easily, before finally driving inside. He ravaged her with his mouth, tongue, teeth, driving her to the edge of ecstasy-an then he rose up over her again, naked, though she had no memory of him undressing, and he lowered himself atop her while his hands guided her knees apart. He slid into her, and a shudder moved through her from head to toe.

  She locked her legs around his hips, arms around his shoulders. Her hands ran over his back, and he shivered at her touch. She was beautiful, and wonderful, and she was his. A fierce sense of possession overwhelmed him as he drove her higher. Her nails sank into his flesh as if se would never let him get up. She wanted him, all of him, something more than this physical joining. She told him so with her mind, with her body. It was a primal need, one that was foreign to her. She could no more identify it than prevent the flood of her climax from washing over her. He could identify it though. He knew what she wanted. It was the same primal instinctive urge that made her arch beneath him, tip her chin straight up and press his head to her throat. And he answered, parting his mouth over the skin there, biting down.

  The stab of pain was brief, the ecstasy that followed blinding both of them as he tasted her life and her essence, taking it into him, making them one.

  * * * * *

  When her mind returned from the stratosphere and her body finally stopped shuddering with aftershocks, Mary found herself lying naked in Michael's bed, held in his arms, her head pillowed by his shoulder and chest, while one of his hands rubbed lazy circles over her back. Gradually she realized he was speaking to her, his voice soft and somewhat coarse.

  "I'll never hurt you No one else will, either, I promise you that. I'll die before I'll let anyone harm you. Know that, Mary. You have to know that. "

  She blinked slowly out of her state of bliss and careful stock. She was in bed with Michael. He had just confessed to being a vampire, a theory that both the investigation agency and the local cop had apparently found to be perfectly believable. He could move so fast that her eyes couldn't follow the progress. He could read her mind. And she thought he might have bitten her neck.

  Frowning, she lift a hand to touch her neck. She felt two tender spots in her skin.

  Was it possible, she wondered, that she had just had sex with a vampire? Did she even care? She loved this man.

  He was still talking, rubbing her and whispering assurances of his devotion. "I knew the blood, the antigen, connected us, but it's more than that. I swear it's more than that. I've never felt this drawn to anyone. Not ever. Belladonna antigen or not. "

  She blinked and lifted her head. "Michael, explain to me how this. . . this antigen connects me to you. "

  He met her eyes, his own seeming disappointed. And no wonder. She hadn't exactly responded to his pillow talk in kind. And he must be honoring her request that he stop reading her thoughts again, or he would have known what she was thinking. It was odd, but she was getting to the point where she could sense him when he was probing around inside her mind; it was almost visceral. But she didn't feel it then.

  "Every vampire was once a mortal with the belladonna antigen," he told her.

  She frowned. "So a person without the antigen. . . ?"

  "Can never become a vampire. Those with it have the choice. I was given that choice as I lay dying in a hospital bed, riddled with bul
lets, all those years ago. I chose life. "

  'And. . . how does one become a vampire?"

  He stroked her hair away from her face. "Another vampire has to transform you. He would first drain the blood, and then-"

  "Drain the blood," she repeated, going cold all over.

  "It isn't as frightening as it sounds. "

  "Perhaps not, but it was exactly the way the other women, all of whom shared the antigen, had been killed. By being drained of their blood. God, she felt as if she were being torn in half. How could she be so in love with him and yet so afraid of him? His power made him dangerous. But not to her. God, he could never be a danger to her.

  "You shouldn't think about that, Mary. It's not something you need to even consider. Not now. You're strong, healthy. You will be for a long time yet. "

  "I hope you're right about that. "

  "I intend to make sure of it. It's the first night of the full moon," he told her. "And I plan to hold you close in my arms, safe and protected, until sunrise. "

  There was nothing she could do-and nothing she wanted to do more than spend the night in his arms. Her questions could wait.

  She relaxed in his arms. And it felt so good, so safe and so perfect there, that she couldn't believe there could be any wrong in it. Being with Michael felt like being reunited with some part of herself that had been missing all her life.

  The made love again. Then she needed a food break, and he admitted that he couldn't digest solid food, and that her breakfast had made him violently ill. That he'd forced himself to eat it, knowing how he would suffer, touched her deeply. No matter what else he was, Mary believed that his feelings for her were very real.

  Then spent the entire night talking, laughing, making love.

  And then, finally, he rose and pulled on his clothes as he walked to the front door, gazed out the window.

  She stood behind him her hands sliding over his shoulders. Why couldn't he be an ordinary man? Why/

  "I have to leave you, my love. It will be dawn very soon. "

  "Why can't you stay here?"

  He lowered his eyes. "I-I can't. I don't want you to see me as I am when I sleep. "

  She decided not to argue, although she wanted to 'All right. "

  He turned wrapped her up in his arms and kissed her deeply. "You don't know what it means to me, Mary, that you didn't run from me when I told you what I was. You can't know. Someday. . . someday I'll tell you. For now-just know that you have restored he pieces of a heart that was shattered. No one else could have done that, but you did.

  Tears. There were tears welling up in his eyes. Swimming there, not spilling over-he had too much will to let them spill, she thought.

  He stroked her hair. "Will you still be here when I come back?"

  She nodded, looking him straight in the eyes. "I will. I promise you, Michael, I will. I don't understand any of this, but I want to. And I'm not afraid of you. No matter what you are. "

  He averted his eye, blinking rapidly. "Lock the door behind me. " He glanced up at the sky. It was paling already. And yet he waited.

  She knew he was delaying the moment when he would have to leave, to protect her right until he simply couldn't do it any longer. And finally, jut as the first ways of sun lit the sky, he kissed her once more, then opened the door and left at a brisk jog.

  Mary watched as he crossed the road and vanished into the copse of woods just beyond. She tried to bank her curiosity, but she couldn't. She didn't fear him, didn't want to run from him. But she had to know. She had to know all of it.

  He was long gone, of course, by the time she entered the woods. She already knew how fast he could move. It was no surprise. The woods were till dark; the early shafts of dawn didn't penetrate them. The warmth did, and as the dew-damp ground warmed, it released its moisture in the form of mists that rose from the ground, and swirled around her feet and ankles. There was a path. Difficult to see beyond the writhing silver mists, but there nonetheless.

  Mary followed it. It meandered through the woodlot, then ended abruptly at a wide-open field that as dotted with shapes hiding in the food. Too short to be trees. Perhaps shrubs of some kind. A sound drew her attention, like a door closing, and she whirled toward it but saw only the shape of what appeared to be a miniature house among the shadowy shapes.

  Then she squinted as one shape seemed to come clearer. It had wings. Angel's wings. She moved closer, then went stock-still as the rays of the sun burned through the mist and it thinned, and she saw the stones all around her. Tombstones. Monuments. A stone angel. And the little house? The little house was a crypt.

  She was standing in the middle of a cemetery. And unless she was very mistaken, her loved had just entered one of the crypts and closed the door behind him. Swallowing the urge to turn and run, she reminded herself that this was Michael, her Michael. She had to know where he spent his days.

  She forced her feet to carry her closer. . . closer. . . to the crypt from whence the noise had come.

  And then she stood right before it, staring up at the name engraved at the top. M I C H A E L G R A Y.