Nights Pleasure

by Amanda Ashley

“Is that what we shared? Comfort?”

  “No, it was more than that, and we both know it.” He brushed her cheek with his knuckles, then wiped the tears from her eyes. “Go on,” he said, drawing her into his arms. “Let it out.”

  With a sob, she buried her face against his chest and let the tears flow.

  Rane stroked her back, unmindful of the flood of tears dripping down his chest. Gradually, her sobs subsided. She dried her face with a corner of the sheet, then rested in his embrace, her eyes closed.

  Rane took a deep breath as he fought the urge to do what came naturally, what he had intended to do since the beginning. He had seduced women before, seduced them and taken their life’s blood, and sometimes, when they had been lost and unhappy and tired of living, he had taken their lives, as well. But he couldn’t steal Savanah’s life. He cared for her too much, feared that if he tasted her again, he would never be able to let her go.

  It surprised him to realize he had grown truly fond of her, that he cared more for her future and her well-being than he did about satisfying his craving for her life’s blood.

  He grunted softly, wondering when he had grown a conscience. Heaven knew it hadn’t made itself known in decades.

  He was pondering this odd turn of events when his skin began to tingle. Muttering softly, he glanced at the window. The sun was rising. It was time to go.

  He stirred restlessly. He hated to leave her, but he had to go now or be trapped in the hotel until nightfall. He glanced down at Savanah’s face. Even with her cheeks stained with tears and her hair sleep-tousled, she was the most beautiful, delectable creature he had ever known.

  “Rane?”

  He was sorely tempted to stay, to take her in his arms and bend her will to his, to bury himself in her sweetness before he surrendered to the Dark Sleep. He swore under his breath. He had to go, now, before he did something they would both regret.

  He kissed her, hard and quick. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t have time to talk now.” He kissed her again, then pulled on his shirt and trousers and fled the hotel with the sun’s light nipping at his heels.

  Savanah sat up, frowning as she tried to make sense of what had just happened. One minute they were cuddling and the next he was gone, with no explanation.

  With a sigh, she buried herself under the covers and went back to sleep.

  The ringing of Savanah’s cell phone roused her several hours later. She flipped open the phone and heard the cigarette-roughened voice of Mr. Van Black, owner of the Chronicle. Savanah accepted his condolences, answered his questions about what had happened to her father as best she could, and thanked him for his offer to take as much time off as she needed.

  Breakfast was a cup of hot black coffee, and then, with a heavy heart, she sat down and called the cemetery. She was relieved to learn that her father had made arrangements for his own demise shortly after her mother had passed away, thereby sparing Savanah the stress of picking out a plot and a casket. Next, she called the church and set the date for the funeral.

  With that taken care of, she made the necessary phone calls to her father’s brother, Arthur, in New York and his cousin, Frank, in South America. Arthur said he would have to rearrange several meetings, but he would be there; a message on Frank’s answering machine advised her that he was somewhere in the jungles of Brazil and would be without any means of communication for several weeks. She left him a brief message.

  She sat there a moment, blinking back her tears, and then she called the police department, relieved when the officer at the desk informed her that she was free to return home. Home, she thought. It would never be the same without her father. After what had happened, she wondered if she would ever feel safe there again.

  With a sigh, she dropped the phone on the bed, only to pick it up moments later to call Rane. She was disappointed when his answering machine picked up.

  “Sorry, I can’t get to the phone right now. Leave your name and number and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

  “Rane, hello? Please pick up if you’re there.”

  When there was no answer, she hung up, only to call back a second time just to hear the sound of his voice on the machine, and then she went back to bed and cried herself to sleep.

  It was early afternoon when she woke again. She took a quick shower, dressed, checked out of the hotel, and drove home.

  She sat in her car a moment, staring at a strip of yellow police tape fluttering from a bush. She could only wonder what her neighbors must think about the goings-on last night. She still couldn’t believe it hadn’t been some horrible nightmare. If only she could wake up and find her father waiting for her in the kitchen, the morning paper spread out on the table in front of him. If only she could turn back time….

  She shook the thought away. Wishing she could change the past served no purpose.

  Getting out of the car, she stooped to pick up the newspaper, then unlocked the door and went inside. The house was as she had left it, except that now every surface appeared to be covered with black fingerprint powder.

  After tossing her keys, the paper, her suitcase, and her handbag on the sofa, she went into the kitchen and filled a pail with hot soapy water. She pulled an apron from one of the drawers and slipped it over her head, then pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and began to wash the black powder from the doorknob, glad to have something to do to occupy her mind.

  She was cleaning the top of her mother’s desk when she suddenly recalled her father’s last words, something about his desk and an envelope.

  Dropping the gloves into the pail, Savanah dried her hands on her apron, then walked down the hall to her father’s office.

  She paused outside the door. She had never entered his work space uninvited; her father had respected her privacy, as well.

  Blinking back a rush of tears, she stepped across the threshold. The furniture in here had also been dusted with fingerprint powder, leaving a fine black residue on the oak file cabinet, her father’s old-fashioned rolltop desk, the bookshelves, and his keyboard.

  Savanah blew out a sigh as she looked around. Whoever had invaded their home last night had gone through her father’s office with a vengeance. Books had been pulled from the shelves and tossed on the floor. A photo of her parents, taken on their wedding day, had been knocked off its customary place on top of the file cabinet. Fighting the urge to cry, she picked it up and put it back where it belonged. The top two drawers in the file cabinet, always locked, had been forced open. Her father’s desk had practically been turned inside out. All the drawers had been opened, the middle one had been removed, its contents strewn on the floor. Had the intruder been searching for the envelope her father mentioned? Had they found it?

  Taking a deep breath, she removed the bottom drawer from the desk. Setting it on the floor, she peered into the opening, wondering if the envelope was still there. Reaching inside, she ran her fingertips over the wood. A muffled sound of success rose in her throat as her fingers encountered something taped to the back panel of the desk. Tearing it free, she stared at the long white envelope. Her name was scrawled across the front.

  Savanah stared at it for several moments before opening it. Inside, she found a folded sheet of flowered stationery that had belonged to her mother. She recognized it immediately. She had given it to her mother on the last Mother’s Day they had spent together.

  With trembling fingers, Savanah unfolded the letter. It was dated a month after her father’s car accident, and written in his own bold hand.

  My darling Savanah,

  I had hoped never to have to tell you these things, but after what happened last month, I feel the need to write them down, that you may know the truth.

  There are many things about your mother that I never told you—things she could have explained so much better than I.

  Your mother’s maiden name was not Johnston, but Van Helsing. Yes, she is a direct descendent
of the well-known Vampire hunter, Abraham Van Helsing. And like her predecessors, she, too, was a Vampire hunter.

  Savanah stared at the words. Vampire hunter. It wasn’t possible. Her mother had cringed at the thought of killing a spider.

  Her passing was not from some mysterious disease, as I told you. It was a Vampire who was responsible for her death.

  You may remember that I left you with your aunt Ramona shortly after your mother passed away. I spent the time hunting for information, trying to track down the monster responsible for your mother’s demise, but to no avail. I’m sorry to say that I’m not the hunter your mother was. As my grief ebbed, I realized that my daughter needed a father more than I needed to avenge your mother’s death, and so I came home.

  Your mother told me that Vampire hunting is in your blood, that the day may come when you will feel the need to take up where she left off. Whether you choose to accept the call will, of course, be up to you. I hope you do not follow in your mother’s footsteps. It is a nasty business, but the decision, of course, must be yours.

  Under the tree to the right of where we buried your bunny, you will find a box. Inside, is a silver crucifix on a silver chain. It belonged to your mother. Wear it always. You will also find several wooden stakes and a number of other implements used for destroying the Undead, together with two books. One contains a list of known Vampires; the other is a book of instructions written by your mother.

  The house and everything in it is yours. All the legalities have already been taken care of. Always remember that I love you and, according to my faith in the Almighty, I know that I will see you again, just as I know that I am now in paradise with your mother.

  God bless you, my darling daughter.

  Always,

  Your loving father,

  Will

  Blinking back her tears, Savanah read the letter a second time, then replaced it in the envelope. Her mother had been killed by a Vampire. Hatred was a new emotion for Savanah. She had been taught to believe that there was good in everyone. But Vampires weren’t people. They were Undead creatures who existed on the life’s blood of others, monsters who killed without mercy or compassion. One of them had killed her mother.

  Had one of them also killed her father?

  Last night, she wouldn’t have believed it, but now it looked like a very real possibility.

  She sat there for a time, unable to come to terms with the fact that her sweet, lovable mother had been a Vampire hunter. It seemed ludicrous to think that a woman who had taught Sunday school, loved to play hide-and-seek, and made the best chocolate-chip cookies on the planet had spent her days hunting the Undead. And yet, as impossible as it was to believe, Savanah knew in her heart that it was true.

  “Savanah Gentry, Vampire hunter,” she muttered, then shook her head. Other than bothersome flies and an occasional insect, she had never killed anything in her life. She couldn’t begin to imagine driving a stake into anybody’s heart, dead or Undead. But then she thought of her mother being drained of blood to extend the existence of some creature of the night, and she knew there was one Vampire, at least, that she could kill without a qualm.

  Curiosity drove her outside. She found a shovel in the shed out back, then walked down the red brick path that divided the yard. There were fruit trees and tomato plants on one side, grass, a covered swing and a pretty gazebo on the other. As a child, she had pretended the gazebo was a castle and she was a princess. Her dog had been a fire-breathing dragon, and her dad…She blinked back her tears. Her dad had been the white knight who vanquished the dragon, then carried her away to the land of Mile High Cones for ice cream and cookies. Savanah had stopped believing in fairy tales when her mother passed away.

  She found the tree she was looking for and started digging. The ground was soft and it wasn’t long before the shovel hit something hard. Kneeling, she reached into the hole and pulled out a large, square metal box inscribed with her mother’s initials BG. Barbara Gentry.

  Savanah set it aside, filled in the hole, brushed the dirt from her knees, and then carried the box into the kitchen. Putting it on the counter, she lifted the lid. Her stomach churned as she looked at the contents: several sharp wooden stakes, a mallet, a long, heavy-bladed knife in a leather sheath, several bottles filled with what she suspected was holy water. A wooden box, its lid carved with runes and symbols, held two leather-bound books, one black, one brown. There was also a small gray velvet box that held a beautiful silver crucifix on a sturdy silver chain.

  Savanah slipped the chain over her head, then picked up the books and went into the living room. Curling up in a corner of the sofa, she opened the brown book. She ran her fingertips over the words, words written by a mother she scarcely remembered, and then began to read the precise script that told how to identify a Vampire, listed the Supernatural powers they possessed, detailed how to find them, and how to destroy them.

  Vampires were remarkable creatures. They could change shape or cross great distances in the blink of an eye. They could turn into mist, scale the side of a building like a spider, hypnotize a person with a look. Vampires had the ability to confuse or control a person’s thoughts, and to shield their presence so as to become invisible to mortals. They had the power to control the weather; they could call animals and people to them. Their wounds, if not fatal, healed almost overnight. Silver burned their skin, as did holy water. The touch of the sun’s light turned all but the very oldest to dust. They couldn’t enter a home without an invitation and had to leave if that invitation was rescinded. A handy thing to know, she mused, should a Vampire ever come calling.

  In reading the next few pages, Savanah learned more about destroying Vampires than she had ever wanted to know. In addition to driving a stake through their hearts, Vampires could be dispatched by severing the head from the body and burying the parts of the creature in separate graves. Fire was another sure way to destroy the Undead. Her mother recommended both staking and beheading in order to ensure that the Vampire did not rise again. A note written in one of the margins noted that the best stakes were made of ash, juniper, buckthorn, whitethorn, or hawthorn, with hawthorn being the wood of choice for most hunters.

  Toward the back of the book was a list of Vampire hunters. She skimmed over the names—Abraham Van Helsing, Pearl Jackson, Travis Jackson, Rick McGee, Edna Mae Turner, Edward Ramsey, Tommy Li, Barbara Van Helsing Gentry.

  Savanah swallowed the bile that rose in her throat as she tried to imagine her sweet, gentle, cookie-baking mother indulging in such a grisly business not once, but many times.

  A small section in the back of the book was devoted to Werewolves. They were harder to find than Vampires since they were able to move about in the daytime, and able to mingle with society with no one being the wiser until the full moon turned them fanged and furry. A single silver bullet to the head or the heart was the best way to kill a Werewolf. Depriving them of oxygen by strangling or suffocation was also effective, though harder to accomplish. Unlike Vampires, once dead, Werewolves did not rise again.

  Putting the first book aside, Savanah picked up the second volume. It was far older than the other book. The ink was faded, the pages yellow with age. The flyleaf read: I take pen in hand that my heirs might finish the work I have begun and was signed Abraham Van Helsing.

  Thumbing carefully through the yellowed pages, she saw that the book contained a record of known Vampires up to the time of her father’s death. Columns listed the date the Vampire had been turned and, if applicable, the date it had been destroyed. There was also a place to note who had sired the Vampire, if known, as well as a place to include the name of the hunter who had destroyed it.

  The first name on the list of Vampires was Mara. Beside her name was a notation declaring that she was the oldest-known Vampire in existence, and that it was believed that, due to her longevity, she had become impervious to the effect of the sun’s light.

  Savanah skimmed over the names of the Vampires: Gabriel, Kitana, Pet
rina. A Vampire named Cristophe had been killed by a Werewolf during the war. Dominic St. John was a Vampire who had killed quite a few of his own kind, then turned the woman he loved. There was a note beside the name Rayven, claiming that he had been restored to humanity. Further down, she read the name Jason Blackthorne, with the same notation. Odd, she thought. Once a Vampire, always a Vampire. Everyone knew there was no cure.

  The list went on: Navarre, Alexi Kristov, Grigori Chiavari, Alessandro deAvallone, Rodrigo, Elisabeth Thorn-dyke, Khira, Zarabeth, Laslo, Joaquin Santiago, Roshan DeLongpre and his wife, Brenna. Jason Rourke, Antonio Battista, Ramon Vega. Edward Ramsey, Edna Mae Turner, Travis Jackson, and his grandmother, Pearl Jackson.

  A grandmother, Savanah thought. Good grief.

  She stared at the notes written beside the last four names. It stated that Ramsey, Turner, Travis and Pearl Jackson had all been dedicated hunters before they were turned. Ramsey had been considered one of the best. His family had been in the business for over a hundred years. It gave her a funny feeling to see his name and the other three hunters added to the list of Vampires. She wondered if it happened often, that the hunter became one of the hunted. How did those who had devoted their lives to destroying Vampires reconcile with becoming one? How did anyone accept such a drastic change in his or her life?

  Savanah tried to imagine herself as a Vampire, sleeping by day, hunting for prey at night, never to see the sun again, never to enjoy a turkey dinner at Christmas or a glass of eggnog on New Year’s Eve, never to have children and grandchildren, or do any of the other ordinary things she took for granted.

  With a sigh, she turned the page and felt her blood turn to ice. There, in neat black handwriting, she read the names Vincent Cordova, Cara DeLongpre Cordova, Raphael Cordova, Kathy Cordova.

  And Rane Cordova.

  She stared at the name. It couldn’t be. Not her Rane. It was just a horrible coincidence that he had the same first name as a known Vampire. Sure, he was a shape-shifter, but not a Vampire. He couldn’t be a Vampire. It had to be someone else. But what if it wasn’t? What if he was one of them, a blood drinker, the same kind of despicable creature of the night that had killed her mother?