Amanda Ashley - [Children of the Night 02]

by Night's Touch

  She pressed his picture to her breast. She had fallen in love with Anthony Loken the first moment she had seen him, so tall and blond, like one of Satan’s angels. She would never forget the day Myra had introduced her to Anthony. He had smiled at Serafina, and she had known that he loved her in return. One night, during a spring ritual shortly before his death, she had offered herself to him. Anton was the result.

  Anthony had never known of her love for him or about the child she had conceived. By the time she knew she was pregnant, he was gone. She had raised her son alone, teaching him everything she knew about Magick and witchcraft, whispering to him late at night that he would be the instrument that would bring down the people responsible for his father’s death. And always, in the back of her mind, she clung to the sure knowledge that Anthony had loved her, assured herself every day that if he had lived, he would have married her and claimed Anton as his son. She believed it with every fiber of her being, her surety growing more unshakeable with every passing year, until she had convinced herself that Anthony had not only loved her, but married her before he died. If DeLongpre and his witch wife hadn’t destroyed her beloved, Anthony would have been hers for all eternity.

  Even though her beloved was gone, Serafina refused to let him go. His clothing filled her closet. His books and journals were in a trunk in her basement. Each Beltane, she made a list of seven reasons why she loved Anthony Loken. When her list was complete, she drew a circle of power on the floor of her bedroom. She sat on one side of the circle and on the other she placed a life-sized rag doll that she had dressed in Anthony’s clothes. Sitting in the circle, she read her list. The reasons were different each year. When she finished reading her list, she took her make-believe Anthony’s hand in hers and said, “I will love you forever because you’re you.”

  She kissed his image, then placed the photograph on her dresser. Soon his death would be avenged and when the deed was done, she would join him in the After World where they would finally be together forever.

  With that thought in mind, Serafina crawled into bed, one of Anthony’s handkerchiefs clutched to her breast.

  She would dream of him again tonight.

  Chapter 3

  Roshan DeLongpre looked up as his daughter entered the room. She was a lovely child, he thought, though at twenty-two, he supposed she was no longer a child. Still, she would always be his little girl. Her hair, the color of ripe wheat, fell to her waist in soft waves. Her eyes were as blue as sapphires, her skin smooth and unblemished. How had she grown up so fast? It seemed like only yesterday that Brenna had found Cara’s mother in an alley giving birth. Roshan had spread his cloak beneath the girl; Brenna had helped bring the child into the world.

  He remembered that night clearly, especially the look of wonder in Brenna’s eyes as she wrapped the tiny, newborn infant in her cloak.

  “You have a beautiful little girl,” Brenna had said.

  “Take her,” the mother said. “I don’t want her. I don’t want to see her.”

  Brenna had looked up at him, her arms tightening around the infant.

  He shook his head. “Don’t even think about it.”

  “But she does not want it.”

  “Brenna, what would we do with a baby?”

  “Love her.”

  “No. It won’t work. There’s no way…”

  The mother glanced at Brenna. “If you don’t take her, I’m just going to dump her in a trash can somewhere. I can’t take her home with me.”

  “Surely the baby’s father…”

  “I don’t know who he is.” The teenager was pulling on her discarded jeans as she spoke. Taking a deep breath, she stood up, one hand braced against the wall behind her.

  “What are you doing?” Brenna asked.

  “I’m leaving.” A sob rose in the girl’s throat. “Do whatever you want with the baby.”

  How quickly that baby had grown, Roshan thought again. It was hard to believe he had not wanted her. Now, he couldn’t imagine their life without her. She was vibrant and alive and he loved her more than his own life.

  “Did you have a good time tonight?” he asked as she sat down on the sofa beside him.

  “Yes.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “I went for a drive and then I stopped at a nightclub. It was a strange place.”

  Warning bells went off in Roshan’s mind. “Strange?”

  She nodded. “Everyone was dressed in black, like something out of an old horror movie, if you know what I mean. I met a guy there. He seemed nice.”

  “What was the name of this place?” Roshan asked.

  “The Nocturne. It was like Halloween inside, you know? Lots of people wearing black. The valet wore a black suit and a hooded cloak. And then, to get into the club, you have to walk under this black canopy, and then down some stairs. Talk about a creepy atmosphere! The door was carved with all these mystical signs. It was awesome. I’ll have to take you and Mom there sometime.”

  Roshan nodded. It was all he could do not to demand that she never go there again. The Nocturne! There was no telling what kind of man she had met in that place. It was a hangout for vampires and other creatures of the night. Of course, he rarely let any other vampire remain in his town too long. Like all of his kind, he was a territorial creature, not disposed to sharing his domain or his food source.

  “Where’s Mom?” Cara asked.

  Roshan smiled inwardly. His wife was outside, dancing under the stars. She did that from time to time. He enjoyed nothing more than watching her, but tonight she had wanted to be alone.

  “Why don’t you go up to bed,” he suggested. “I’ll find her and send her up to you. I know she’ll want to hear about your evening.”

  “All right.” Cara kissed him on the cheek and then, humming softly, she went upstairs.

  Roshan stared after her a moment and then, muttering, “I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” he went out the back door.

  A wide path lined with night-blooming flowers wove its way through the yard. Wrought-iron benches were placed here and there along the way. A small white headstone occupied a small bower, marking the final resting place of Brenna’s cat, Morgana. He had expected Brenna to find another cat to take Morgana’s place, but when he had asked her about it, she had simply said that Morgana couldn’t be replaced, and that had been the end of it. Of course, they’d had their share of pets once Cara got old enough to want one. Dogs and cats, birds and turtles, mice and fish had all come and, thankfully, gone.

  Roshan found his wife in the middle of the yard in the midst of a circle of tall trees. He paused in the shadows, watching her dance. It reminded him of the first night he had seen her. She had been dancing in the nude then, too. It was one of his favorite memories, burned forever in his mind.

  Tonight, her fiery red hair shimmered like flame in the silvery light of the full moon. Her deep green eyes were flecked with gold and sparkled with delight as she twirled in the moonlight, her only covering the waist-length hair that fell down her back and over her shoulders like veils of crimson silk as she dipped and swayed to music only she could hear. A necklace of amber and jet circled her slender throat. She was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.

  After a moment, she stopped dancing, a seductive smile playing over her lips as she turned to face him.

  “Come,” she beckoned, holding out one slender hand. “Dance with me.”

  “Another time,” he said, stepping out of the shadows. “Our daughter is home and asking for you.”

  “Oh.” Moving toward a stone bench, Brenna pulled a velvet gown the color of the midnight sky over her head and smoothed it over her hips in a sensual, feminine gesture. “Is she all right?”

  Roshan nodded. They had ever been overprotective parents, but perhaps that was to be expected. Cara was their only child, the only one they would ever have. “She’s fine. She met a man.”

  “Really? Where?”

  “At The Nocturne.”


  Brenna stared at him in disbelief. “The Nocturne! What on earth was she doing there?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Roshan, you have to talk to her. Tell her she mustn’t go there again. The Nocturne!” Brenna pressed a hand to her heart. The Nocturne. Merciful heavens!

  “Go on up and tell her good night,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. “I’m going out to talk to Di Giorgio.”

  The bodyguard lived in a small house in the rear of the property. He was a solitary man, seemingly content with his own thoughts and his own company. Roshan knew Frank Di Giorgio had been connected to one of the crime families in Italy when he was a young man, but that had been a long time ago.

  At Roshan’s knock, Di Giorgio opened the door, gun in hand.

  “Evening, Frank.”

  Grunting softly, Di Giorgio shoved the gun into the waistband of a pair of expensive looking trousers, then invited his boss inside.

  The bodyguard’s report was brief. Cara had been sitting at the bar in The Nocturne when a young man approached her. He had bought Cara a drink. They had talked and danced one dance. The man seemed harmless enough. He hadn’t said or done anything out of line.

  Roshan listened carefully, some of his worry ebbing as he listened to what Di Giorgio had to say. Bidding the man good night, Roshan returned to the house.

  Brenna was waiting for him in the living room. She had turned the lights down low and started a fire in the hearth. Smiling, she patted the seat beside her.

  Sitting down, he draped his arm around her shoulders.

  Brenna sighed. This was her favorite time of the night. Cara was home and safely tucked into bed and all was right with the world.

  A wave of her hand turned on the TV. She surfed through the channels until she found a movie she liked, then settled back once again, her head resting on her husband’s shoulder.

  Roshan stared into the flames as scenes from the past paraded across his mind. He had fallen in love with Brenna Flanagan when he happened across her image in a book titled Ancient History and Myths, Fact or Fiction. It had been a small pen-and-ink drawing depicting a woman bound to a wooden stake, surrounded by a mob of angry men waving torches over their heads. The caption under the drawing had read: The Burning of Brenna Flanagan, Accused of Witchcraft.

  He had become obsessed with that drawing, so much so that he had traveled back in time to the year 1692 where he had saved her from a fiery death. He had brought her back to his time, helped her learn her way around his world. She had blossomed here, free to practice her witchcraft if she wished to do so. While exploring the city, she had come across the Wiccan Way Coffee Shop and Book Store. It had been there that she met Anthony Loken, an evil warlock who had been obsessed with discovering the secret of immortality. Convinced that the blood of vampires held the secret of eternal life, Loken had frequented The Nocturne in search of vampires, luring them to his laboratory where he took their blood and their lives. Due to Myra’s treachery, Roshan had found himself strapped to a table in that lab, bound with heavy silver chains that had burned his flesh and weakened his powers. Only his concern for Brenna, who had also been Loken’s prisoner, had given Roshan the strength he needed to free himself. In the end, Roshan had forced Loken to drink his own potion. The warlock had died a horrible, excruciatingly painful death.

  Feeling suddenly restless, Roshan went to stand in front of the hearth.

  “What’s wrong?” Brenna asked, switching off the TV.

  “I don’t know.”

  Rising, she went to stand behind him; her arms slipping around his waist. “Is it Cara? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “It’s probably nothing.”

  “If it was nothing, you wouldn’t be so worried.”

  Turning in her arms, he brushed a kiss across her cheek. “I’m going out for a while.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Just out for a walk. I won’t be long.”

  Grabbing his cloak, Roshan left the house. Standing in the shadows, he let his preternatural powers probe the night. Although he sensed nothing amiss, he couldn’t shake the feeling that danger lurked nearby.

  Anton Loken Bouchard stood across the street from DeLongpre’s house. Hidden by the darkness, he watched the vampire walk down the long driveway and stop at the gate in the high fence that surrounded the property. Hatred rose up within Anton as he stared at the creature who had killed the father he had never known. Ever since Anton had been old enough to understand, his mother had told him stories of his father. Anthony Loken had been a great man, a wizard without equal. He had been on the verge of a fantastic discovery that would have benefited all mankind when Roshan DeLongpre killed him in a jealous rage.

  Every year, on the anniversary of his father’s death, Anton accompanied his mother to the site of his father’s grave, where he lit a black candle and vowed to avenge his father’s death. As someone had once said, revenge was a dish best served cold. Over the years, Anton’s grief and anger had coalesced into a hard icy lump in the core of his being. Avenging his father’s death was the only thing that could melt that painful lump. Revenge. It was so near, so near he could almost taste it. It would be sweet, indeed.

  Humming softly, he turned and headed for home. He would be at The Nocturne again tomorrow night. He had a feeling he would find Cara there. It wouldn’t take much to seduce her. She had been sheltered her whole life. A show of interest, a few chaste kisses, and she would be his for the taking.

  Cara thought about Anton at work the following day. She couldn’t decide how she felt about him. He was polite and handsome, and yet there was something about him that bothered her. She wasn’t sure what it was that rubbed her the wrong way, but it made her wary and distrustful. Her father had told her to always trust her instincts, though in her sheltered life she’d had little need.

  With a shake of her head, she laughed it off. She was just being silly and overly suspicious because she had so little experience with men. Instead of looking for questionable behavior where there was none, she should be flattered that a handsome man found her interesting and wanted to see her again.

  He had seemed amused when she told him she worked in a library, but she loved her job—not that she had to work. After all, her father was a rich man, but if she didn’t work, what else would she do with her days? Besides, as far back as she could remember, she had loved books and loved to read; it didn’t matter what. If it had words, she read it. She was certain that a good part of her love of books had been inherited from her father. His library at home was enormous, with bookcases that reached from wall to wall and floor to ceiling. The shelves were filled with a variety of books, many of them rare first editions. Some were so old they were in danger of disintegrating. A few were truly ancient, like the medieval Psalter that dated back to the fourteenth century. It was Cara’s favorite book, a beautiful work of art, carefully written and illustrated by hand. Her father also owned a Bible handwritten by monks. Each page was in itself a work of art. He had other books and writings that were also truly unique. Some were written on tree bark, others on bamboo or cloth or silk. One had been engraved on metal plates. He had a folding book that came from Burma. It was called a parabaiks, and it told the life of Buddha in words and pictures.

  Yes, she loved books. They were more than just words and pictures. When she had been a child, they had been her companions during the day when her schoolwork was done. They had taken her to faraway places and fueled her imagination. She had lost herself in the pages of her favorite stories. She had been Sleeping Beauty and Cinderella and Snow White. She had been the beautiful fairy princess, the valiant heroine who saved the prince, the benevolent queen who overcame the evil wizard and freed the slaves.

  One of the reasons Cara loved working in the library was the hope that she could instill her love of books in the hearts and minds of the children.

  She glanced up at the clock, then plucked one of her favorite books fr
om the shelf. It was story time, the best part of the day. Taking her place, she smiled at the children sitting in a half-circle on the floor. They smiled back at her, their eyes alight with anticipation.

  Cara opened the book and began to read. “Once upon a time, in a land far, far away…”

  The library closed at nine. Cara bid good night to her coworkers and left by the side door. After getting into her car, she sat there a moment, trying to decide if she should go home or go to The Nocturne. She had told Anton the odds were good she would be there tonight, and she always kept her word. Of course, she hadn’t really given him her word…she tapped her fingertips on the steering wheel, puzzled by her ambivalent feelings about him. Last night, she had been excited by his attention, but now…

  She shook off her doubts. What was she worrying about? She was just going to meet him for a drink after work, for goodness’ sake. What harm could there be in that? Besides, she had to see Anton again so she could decide how she really felt about him, and Frank the Hulk would be close by.

  With her mind made up, she put the key in the ignition and drove to The Nocturne.

  Chapter 4

  Vince Cordova sat at a booth in a back corner of The Nocturne, idly sipping from a glass of what looked like red wine. He was new to this town, to this place. New to the nocturnal life. He looked at the wannabe vampires that filled the club. Men and women alike, they were all clad in black—black shirts or blouses, black pants or skirts, long black cloaks, some lined in white, some in blood-red satin. The women wore black eye shadow and eyeliner and wore matching lipstick. Here and there he caught a flash of fang—fake, of course.

  Vince ran his tongue over his own teeth, felt the needle-sharp prick of his fangs. They were the real deal and he still wasn’t used to them. Or the ever-present yearning for blood.

  He stared into the glass in his hand. The liquid soothed the craving but he found no real satisfaction in it. There was nothing like drinking from the source, inhaling the scent of it, feeling the warmth slide over your tongue and trickle down your throat. Damn! Just thinking about it stirred his hunger.