Chapter Ten
Gabriel sat in his favorite chair, staring blankly into the darkness. Five years had passed since he'd sent Sara to France. Five years was but a moment in the life of a vampire, he thought ruefully, yet each day of those years had seemed an eternity.
He had found no joy in his existence with Sara gone from him. Reading held no pleasure; there was no solace in music. He haunted the ballet, torturing himself as he gazed at the ballerina and imagined Sara in her place.
He fed in spurts. He had no appetite and fed only when the hunger grew excruciating, clawing at his insides like a wild beast until he thought he would go mad. Only when the hunger grew unbearable did he leave the abbey, prowling through the back streets for nourishment.
Even then, he took little, only enough to sustain his existence, hating what he was because it kept him from what he wanted.
Five years. . . She would be almost twenty-two now, a woman grown. And suddenly he knew he had to see her again, just once, and then he'd go to ground and sleep until her life was over and she was eternally safe from his hunger.
She was starring in Giselleat the Paris Opera. The theater was an amazing piece of architecture, Gabriel mused as he made his way to his box. He knew the history of the opera house well. He had been living in Paris when Charles Garnier designed the building. Work had begun in the summer of 1861; the facade was unveiled in 1867. Work on the building had come to a halt during the Franco-Prussian War of 1870, and the unfinished opera house had been used as an arsenal and a warehouse for storing food and wine.
Gabriel had left Paris during the siege. Not for him the ugliness and cruelty of war. Food had been scarce. Zoo animals had been killed and the carcasses sold to restaurants. The rich ate elephant meat; the poor had dined on dogs and cats and rats. Paris had been on fire, people starving; the streets had been red with blood.
It wasn't until January of 1875 that the grand staircase was thronged with the first of many distinguished guests.
Gabriel sat forward in his seat, his gaze riveted on Sara's face as she took the stage. It was amazing, what she had accomplished in five short years. The audiences wondered how she had come so far so fast. It was nothing short of a miracle, they said, mystified by her phenomenal rise to fame. But for Gabriel there was no mystery involved. It was the blood, hisblood, that had wrought the miracle, enabling her to accomplish in a few years what it usually took decades to achieve.
While waiting for the curtain to go up, he had listened to the conversations around him, an easy task for a vampire. Everyone had been talking about Sara, marveling at how effortlessly she danced. Her performances were impeccable, they all agreed, her interpretations inspired.
And now, as he watched, he could only concur. Her feet hardly seemed to touch the floor, so that she seemed to float across the stage, as fluid as water, lighter than air. Her face was radiant, her eyes glowing, as she danced, and he knew that for this short space of time, she was Giselle. She had perfectly captured every nuance, every emotion.
When the final curtain came down, he sat back in his seat and closed his eyes. Her performance had been flawless. He knew then that she had been born to dance. What he had just seen could not be taught; it had come from within her heart, her soul.
You wanted only to see her, he reminded himself. Now you must go.
But his feet refused to obey the promptings of his mind, and he found himself standing in the shadows outside the stage door, waiting for one more glimpse of her face.
He sensed her nearness even before she emerged from the theater. At first, he saw only Sara, her vivid blue eyes sparkling, her long blond hair falling like a heavenly cloud about her slim shoulders.
And then he noticed the man at her side, the proprietary grip of his hand upon her arm.
A low growl rose in Gabriel's throat. His first instinct was to attack, to rip out the man's throat with his bare hands. And then he saw the way Sara smiled at the young man, the happiness in her eyes, and he felt as if someone had driven a stake through his heart.
Dissolving into mist, Gabriel followed them as they walked down the street to a small cafe. Inside, they sat at a back table, talking about the evening's performance. The man, whose name, Gabriel learned, was Maurice Delacroix, praised Sara's dancing.
"I was good, wasn't I?" she said, but there was no boasting in her tone, or in her expression. "It was odd, but I felt as if. . . "
"As if?"
"I don't know. I can't explain it, Maurice. I wish. . . "
Maurice leaned closer, his hand enfolding hers. "What do you wish, Sara?"
"I wish Gabriel could have seen me dance tonight. I think he would have been pleased. "
Maurice withdrew his hand from hers as if he'd been stung. "Gabriel again! When are you going to get over your infatuation with your benefactor?"
"I'm not infatuated. I just miss him, that's all. " Sara stared at the candle sputtering in the middle of the table. The short time she had spent with Gabriel seemed so long ago, yet she had never forgotten him.
At first, she had written to him, but she had no last name for him, no address save Crosswick Abbey, and her letters had come back with the notation that they were undeliverable. Yet her bank account was always full. She had felt guilty spending his money when she couldn't even acknowledge his generosity with a note of thanks.
For a time, she had refused to spend his funds, and when two months passed with no withdrawal, she had received a short letter from Gabriel urging, almost demanding, that she indulge herself at his expense. It was the only letter she had received from him, and she had carried it with her until it grew dog-eared around the edges. Fearing its destruction, she had placed it between the pages of the first Paris Opera playbill that listed her name as prima ballerina.
Five years. She still couldn't believe how much she had learned, how far she'd come. She was the leading ballerina. It was a miracle. Most dancers started at a very young age and studied for years, yet the most intricate steps had come to her easily.
She was recognized on the street. Men sent her flowers and trinkets. She had received numerous proposals of marriage. She had danced before royalty. She had done all the things she had ever dreamed of, and still her life was lacking. She wanted to dance for Gabriel. She wanted to dance withGabriel, to feel his arms around her once more, to gaze into the depths of his haunted gray eyes, to hear him sing his sad songs. More than anything, she yearned to wipe the sorrow from his eyes, to make him smile, to hear him laugh.
"Sara?"
Startled, she looked up.
"I asked if you're ready to go?"
"Yes. " She smiled at Maurice. He was a handsome young man, tall and lean, with the inborn grace of a dancer. His hair and eyes were chocolate brown; his lips were full and sensual.
"I'm sorry," she said contritely. "I haven't been very good company tonight, have I?"
As always, he forgave her instantly. "Not very. Come, I'll walk you home. "
He lingered at the door until she rewarded him with a kiss, and then, whistling softly, he went down the stairs, turning to wave before he disappeared around the corner.
In the quiet of her room, Sara turned on the lamp and got ready for bed. Sitting at her dressing table to brush her hair, she thought again of how lucky she was. She had everything she had ever wanted. Her apartment was large and airy. The parlor was painted white; the furniture was dark mahogany, the sofa and chairs covered in varying shades of blue. Her bedroom was spacious and airy even though it had only one window. The walls were pale blue; the quilt on her bed was in shades of blue and rose, as was the carpet on the floor.
She had enough clothes to outfit three women, money to spend as she wished. For the first time in her life, she had friends her own age, friends who shared her passion for the ballet. Despite the fame and popularity that set her apart from the other dancers, she was well liked by those she worked with.
She had dance
d in London, in Rome and Venice, in Madrid. She had performed for kings and queens, for orphans and others who could not afford the price of a ticket to the ballet.
She should have been happy. She was happy, most of the time. But tonight. . . for some reason she couldn't stop thinking of Gabriel, wondering where he was, if he was well, if he ever thought of her at all.
With a sigh, she extinguished the light and slid under the covers, and after saying her nightly prayers, she bid a silent good night to Gabriel, hoping that somehow he would know she hadn't forgotten him.
He stood at her window as he had so often stood on the veranda at the orphanage, watching her sleep. She had been beautiful as a young girl, but now, in the bloom of womanhood, she was exquisite. Her skin was translucent ivory, her hair spread across the pillow like a golden flame. Her lashes made dark crescents on her smooth cheeks. Her lips were ripe and pink, like the petals of a wild rose. Beneath the covers, he could see the outline of her body, young and supple and amply endowed. Her legs were long and straight; strong from years of dancing on point.
He looked at her, and he ached deep inside, ached with the loneliness of 350 years, with the memory of her laughter, her smile, the chaste kisses they had shared.
A low groan rose in his throat. Three hundred and fifty years of solitude, of existing on the fringe of life, sustaining himself with the blood of others. He had studied with the most brilliant minds of the ages, traveled the world over, seen the rise and fall of countless civilizations, and yet he hadn't been a part of the world of men for over three centuries. Times had changed. Places had changed, yet he remained the same. Always the same. Always alone. Afraid to trust. Afraid to love. . .
Unable to help himself, he melded his mind with hers, and there, in the safe netherworld of sleep, he made love to her, seducing her with his thoughts, molding her body to his with the magic of his revenant power. . .
She woke with his name on her lips, her skin damp, her breathing labored, her whole being filled with a languorous sense of warmth and fulfillment.
A blush burned her cheeks as the memory of her dream surfaced in her mind. She had been dreaming of Gabriel, dreaming that he was making love to her. His hands had been hot and impatient as they caressed her, his voice raw with desire. His lips had scorched her breasts, her throat. She remembered the feel of his teeth at her neck, the heat of his tongue as he laved the pulse at her throat. And his eyes. . . they had burned with an all-consuming fire, searing away every thought but the desire to please him.
It had been the most real, most provocative dream she had ever had.
She took a deep, steadying breath, and her nostrils filled with his scent.
Startled, she sat up, clutching the sheet to her breasts.
"A dream," she murmured, her gaze peering into the dark corners of her room. "That's all it was. A dream. "
Yet she could not shake the feeling that he had been there.
He went to the theater every night for the next ten days, seeing the joy on her face as she danced. He followed her when she left the opera house, despising himself for spying on her, unable to stay away.
She seemed to be ever in the company of the young man he had seen her with that first night, and the thought that she cared forthat weakling mortal filled him with a monstrous rage.
They held hands, and he wanted to rip the boy's arms from his body.
They kissed good night at her door, and he was sorely tempted to tear the boy to shreds, to claw the flesh from his handsome young face until nothing remained.
He hovered near her window, watching as she brushed her lustrous hair, and he burned for her, burned as though the sun had found him in the darkness.
He could force her to love him. The knowledge was ever there, tempting, beckoning. He could hypnotize her with his revenant power so that she would do anything he asked, or he could take her blood and bind her to him for as long as she lived. She would be his slave then, mindlessly adoring, obediently doing whatever he asked. She would live for him, beg him to take her blood, willingly die for him, if he but said the word.
But he didn't want a slave. He wanted her devotion, freely given.
Filled with self-disgust, ashamed of the cowardice that kept him from confronting her openly, he dissolved into mist and returned to his lair, an abandoned cottage on the outskirts of Paris. It was an ideal place, located in a small clearing off the side of a badly rutted road, hidden from casual view by a grove of trees and shrubs gone wild.
Assuming his own form, he prowled the empty rooms. He had sent Sara away to make a life for herself, and that was what she had done. She had dreamed of being a dancer, and now she was a prima ballerina , the toast of the Paris Opera. She had an apartment of her own, friends, a young man who obviously adored her. What need did she have for an ancient vampire?
He paused before the darkened window and stared at the glass. Had he been mortal, his reflection would have stared back at him, but he cast no shadow, no reflection, because he was not alive, not in any sense of the word.
He should have died long ago. What was the point of his existence? He contributed nothing, gave nothing. He was naught but a parasite feeding off the fear of mankind, existing on the lifeblood of others, never giving, always taking. . . but no, that wasn't entirely true. He had given Sara a few drops of his blood, and given the world a ballerina without equal.
Sara. . . He had loved her for almost twenty years. It was a pitifully short time compared to the span of his life, yet they had been the most rewarding years of his entire unearthly existence. He had thought, when he lost Rosalia, that he had lost all reason for continuing, but he knew now that what he had felt for Rosalia was as nothing compared to the love he felt for Sara. But Sara, too, was lost to him now, and he had only himself to blame.
For once in his life, he had tried to be noble, to do the right thing, and it had cost him the one thing he held dear above all others.
He sensed the coming of dawn, felt his skin begin to tingle with the rising of the sun. He stared at the brightening sky. He had lost Sara, and he had nothing left to live for. He had only to stay where he was, to let the golden rays of the sun find him, and his existence would soon be over. A few moments of excruciating pain as his body burst into flame, and the hollow shell that had once housed his immortal soul would be destroyed.
He felt a sudden yearning to see the dawn, to watch the sun rise above the horizon. Hands clenched at his sides, he stepped out into the yard and stared at the heavens, and waited.
For the sunrise. For the fiery death it would bring.
Slowly, the sun climbed over the horizon, its brightness blinding to a man who had not seen it in over three hundred years. Like a master painter, the sun splashed her light across the sky, streaking the dark canvas with colors - fiery crimsons and brilliant golds.
Mesmerized by the wonder of it, he stood there, feeling a heat he had not felt for over three hundred years, seeing the clear golden light of the sun, inhaling the scent of dew-kissed grass and damp earth.
He ignored the pain for as long as he could, and then a shriek rose in his throat as a molten shaft of sunlight found him, burning the skin on his face and hands, penetrating his clothing like the fires of hell. The smell of charred flesh stung his nostrils as his skin began to smolder.
With a harsh cry of agony, he bolted through the doorway and ran down the cellar stairs. Crawling into the long wooden box that served as his resting place, he closed his eyes, cursing the cowardice that had overcome his determination to put an end to his existence.
Writhing with pain, he willingly gave himself over to the sleep of the undead, embracing the darkness that enveloped his soul, surrendering to the blessed oblivion that blocked all thoughts of Sara from his mind, and blotted out all his useless dreams of a mortal life even as it swallowed the agony that enflamed him.
Sara woke with a cry on her lips, shaking with pain and fear as
flames engulfed her.
Sitting up, she stared wildly around the room. Dawn was lighting the sky, and she took a deep, steadying breath. It had only been a dream, after all.
She fell back against the pillows and closed her eyes. Only a dream, but it had been so real. Her first thought upon waking was that she had been reliving the fire at the orphanage, but now she realized it hadn't been the orphanage at all, nor had the pain she felt been her own.
Gabriel. . . His name rose up in her mind, and with it came an image of scorched flesh.
Gabriel. He had been much on her mind these past ten days. On her mind, and in her dreams. Once, sitting in the cafe near the opera house, she had imagined she'd seen him standing in the shadows.
"Gabriel. " His name whispered past her lips, soft as a sigh, fervent as a prayer, as she drifted back to sleep.
And deep in the cellar of a distant cottage, a creature of the damned heard her voice, and wept bloodred tears.
Embrace the Night Page 11
