Desire After Dark

by Amanda Ashley

  “No. I followed you here from the diner.”

  She frowned. “How did you do that? There wasn’t anyone behind me.”

  A faint smile tugged at his lips. “Are you certain of that?”

  “I am unless you were driving with your headlights off.”

  His smile widened. “There are other forms of transportation, my sweet one.”

  “Like what? A bicycle?”

  He laughed softly. She had never heard him laugh before. It was a surprisingly sensual sound. It did odd things in the pit of her stomach.

  She stood frozen in place as he moved toward her, felt her heart skip a beat as he stroked her hair, then cupped her cheek in his palm.

  “You are beautiful, my sweet. Your hair is like a silken flame, your skin as soft as that of a newborn babe. And your eyes…Ah, they are as green as the meadows I played in as a child.”

  She stared up him, lost in the heat of his eyes, the husky resonance of his voice. He was beautiful, too, she thought, from his finely chiseled lips and patrician nose to his fine straight brows and sculpted jaw. She tried to visualize him as a child and couldn’t. It was impossible to imagine that he had ever been young or vulnerable, or that he had once played childish games.

  “Victoria…”

  The hunger in his voice aroused an answering hunger deep within her. Without conscious thought, she swayed toward him, went up on her tiptoes as he lowered his head. She closed her eyes as his lips found hers, their touch burning away every other thought, every other need, but the need to be in his arms, to feel the hardness of his body pressed intimately against her own. It was a most remarkable kiss, infusing her with warmth and a heretofore unknown sense of belonging.

  Her arms slid around his waist and she clung to him, certain she would expire if he took his mouth from hers, if he deprived her of the touch of his hand, the nearness of his body.

  She moaned softly when he lifted his head. “Don’t stop.” She looked up at him, then stared in disbelief at what she saw. Yet even as she told herself she could not be seeing what she was seeing, the faint red glow faded from his eyes and they were again a deep dark blue.

  “Ah, Victoria,” he murmured, his voice ragged. “I knew you would be sweet, but…” He shook his head as if to clear it and then took a deep breath. “I think perhaps I should go.”

  She was still too astonished by what she thought she had seen in his eyes to argue.

  He gazed down at her a moment more, then turned and left the room.

  Only after he was gone did she realize his footsteps had made no sound on the tile floor.

  Vicki woke in the morning after a restless night. Her dreams had been filled with mysterious visions of figures swathed in black cloaks moving through dark shadows, of wolves howling beneath a bloodred moon, of a hooded man, his fangs glistening as he bent over her throat, of a blue-eyed cat and a yellow-eyed cat engaged in a brutal, bloody fight to the death.

  She tried to shake off the disturbing images while she showered but to no avail, until she thought of Antonio’s kiss the night before. That memory drove everything else from her mind. Where on earth had the man learned to kiss like that? It was like no kiss she had ever known before, dark and wild and filled with a deep hunger that had frightened and aroused her at the same time. Just thinking about it now sent a rush of heat through her, made her yearn to be in his arms again, to feel his mouth moving over hers…

  Jerking her thoughts away from where they were headed, she turned off the water and stepped out of the shower.

  It was Friday and she had things to do before she went to work. She dressed quickly in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Going into the kitchen, she whipped up some French toast and ate it while she read the morning paper, relieved to see that there had been no killings the night before, at least not in this part of the county.

  After breakfast, she brushed her teeth, then slipped on a pair of sandals, grabbed her handbag and her keys, and drove into town. She had always loved Pear Blossom Creek, with its wide, tree-lined streets. She loved it that she knew just about everyone in town. She waved at Ned, who was coming out of 31 Flavors with his sons. Vicki smiled, looking forward to the day when she would have kids of her own. Of course, she needed to find a husband first. Maybe she needed to put an ad in the paper. She laughed at that as she imagined what people would say.

  She picked up her cleaning, filled the car with gas, returned her books to the library, and then stopped to chat with old Mrs. Heath, who was outside watering her garden.

  Ramona Heath was ninety if she was a day and as spry as a teenager. She lived alone in a small red brick house on the corner of Fifth and Main. Gardening was her hobby and her passion and her gardens were the talk not only of Pear Blossom Creek but also of all the surrounding counties. Aside from a veritable jungle of flowers, Mrs. Heath grew the largest squash and pumpkins in the county. She also grew enough garlic to stock every store in the state. She had the plants growing under all her windows and in pots on either side of the front and back doors of the house.

  Mrs. Heath also claimed to have the power of sight. Vicki didn’t believe in such things, yet Mrs. Heath had predicted far too many events that had come to pass far too often for her predictions to be mere coincidence. Mrs. Heath also believed in ghosts and spirits and claimed to have spoken to her deceased husband during a séance. Her other quirk was that she never went outside alone after sundown. Ever.

  Mrs. Heath turned off the hose and invited Vicki inside. As always, Vicki was amazed by the amount of clutter in the older woman’s house. There were magazines and newspapers everywhere. Vicki thought Mrs. Heath must be the most well-informed woman in Pear Blossom Creek. She subscribed to newspapers from just about every major city this side of the Missouri. In addition to the papers, there were plants and knickknacks and books on every available surface. A large crucifix hung over the fireplace.

  Vicki followed Ramona into the kitchen and sat down at the table.

  “Did you see the moon last night?” Mrs. Heath asked as she poured Vicki a glass of lemonade. “It was red.”

  “Red?”

  Mrs. Heath nodded as she cleared a chair of a pile of newspapers and sat down. “As blood. And I heard a wolf howl.”

  Vicki shivered. “A wolf? Are you sure?”

  Mrs. Heath nodded again.

  Vicki knew there were wolves out in the country near Hellfire Hollow, but she had never heard of one coming into town. “It was probably just a dog howling.”

  “No, dear. It was a wolf. I’m going to call Neddie later and let him know.”

  Vicki grinned. Mrs. Heath was the only one who could call Ned Williams by his childhood nickname and get away with it.

  “So, dear,” Mrs. Heath said, “have you found yourself a young man yet?”

  “Not yet, but I’m still looking.” It had long been Vicki’s dream to marry and settle down. She wanted to have the same sort of happy marriage that her parents had enjoyed, to raise some kids, to live out her life with a man who would love her as long as they lived.

  “You should give Arnie another chance,” Mrs. Heath said, patting her hand. “He’s a fine young man.”

  Vicki rolled her eyes. Was everyone in town determined to see her married to Arnie Hall?

  “You’ll never find a better man.”

  “Maybe not,” Vicki said, thinking of Antonio. “Then again, I might.”

  “Why, Victoria Lynn,” Mrs. Heath said, her eyes twinkling, “have you found a beau you’re not telling anyone about?”

  “Now, Mrs. Heath, you know if that were true, you’d be the first one to know.”

  Mrs. Heath beamed at her. “You’re such a sweet girl. You should have a family and a man to take care of you.”

  Sharlene had deserved to have a family, too, Vicki thought with a sigh. She had seen Ron at the gas station earlier. He had forced a smile when he waved at her. When she went to pay for her gas, Fred Black had told her that Ron had quit his job and was moving t
o Amarillo. She couldn’t blame him. There were too many bad memories for him here. She seemed to recall that he had some family in Texas.

  “Can I get your some more lemonade, dear?”

  “No, thank you.”

  They chatted for a few more minutes and then Vicki gave Mrs. Heath a quick hug and took her leave.

  Vicki spent the rest of the day dusting and vacuuming and doing her laundry, her mind filled with thoughts of the bounty hunter and Antonio and unblinking yellow eyes.

  She was glad when it was finally time to get ready for work. Hopefully, the diner would have a crowd tonight and she would be too busy to think of grieving parents or howling wolves or dynamite kisses.

  The bounty hunter was having dinner when she arrived. Steak again, she noted in passing. He was a real meat-and-potatoes kind of guy, she thought with a grin. Not bad looking, either. She wondered how long he was going to be in town and who the mysterious man with the yellow eyes was and if the hunter was any closer to finding him. It was still hard to believe that there was a killer on the loose in their sleepy little town.

  She approached Tom Duncan’s table when he pushed his plate away. “Can I get you anything else?”

  He looked up, seeming surprised to see her. “Hi. What happened to Gladys?”

  “Her shift ends at six. Can I get you some dessert?”

  “I don’t know. You got any apple pie?”

  “Best in town.”

  “How about bringing me a big slice and a cup of coffee?”

  “Sure. You want ice cream with that?”

  “Why not? You only live once, right? Might as well enjoy the good things while you can.”

  Vicki thought about how true that was as she cut him an extra-large slice of pie and added a double scoop of ice cream. Picking up the coffeepot and the plate, she carried both back to table number four.

  He murmured his thanks as she placed the plate in front of him, then refilled his coffee cup.

  He took a bite of pie and smiled his approval. “You’re right, it is good.”

  With a nod, she moved away from the table.

  Tom Duncan glanced around the diner, noting that he was the only one eating alone. Everywhere he looked there were couples on dates or families enjoying a night out together. Even Ramsey had found a mate.

  Well, he was tired of being alone, he thought irritably. Even vampire hunters deserved a night off.

  His gaze settled on Vicki as she cleared a nearby table. She was a pretty thing. He’d checked earlier, noting that she didn’t wear any rings.

  While waiting for her to bring him his bill, he looked around the diner again. It looked like something out of the fifties, with its black and white tile floor. There was a long counter lined with stools covered in red vinyl. There was a jukebox in one corner that played all the old fifties hits. He’d noted that Elvis was a big favorite. There were old movie posters on the walls. Again, Elvis was prominently featured. There were booths along two of the walls; round tables covered with red-checked cloths stood in the center of the floor.

  When she returned to see if there was anything else he wanted, Duncan took his courage in hand and blurted, “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you’d like to go out with me one of these nights?”

  Vicki started to say no, then thought how nice it would be if she could tell Mrs. Heath that she’d had a date. “I might. What did you have in mind?”

  “Dinner and a movie? Just dinner? Just a movie? I’m easy.”

  “I’m off on Sundays and Mondays.” She slid his bill under the salt shaker.

  “How about Sunday night? I could pick you up about what, five? Six?”

  “Six is good.” Tearing a page out of her pad, she wrote her address and phone number on the back and handed it to him.

  He looked at it briefly, then folded the paper in half and put it in his shirt pocket. “Sunday at six,” he said with a smile. “Of course, I’ll probably see you before then.”

  With a nod, she went to clear table two.

  Duncan whistled softly as he left the diner. It was too nice an evening to go back to the hotel. Instead, he took a walk about the town. It wasn’t a big place but it seemed prosperous enough. The people were friendly. They nodded to him or called a greeting as he passed by. It was the kind of place that reminded him of the old days, when most towns and cities were small and people didn’t bother to lock their doors and everybody knew everybody else’s business. A nice town where people expected to die of old age surrounded by friends and family, not dragged into the woods to be dinner for a hungry fiend.

  He clenched his hands into tight fists as he felt his anger and his hatred rise within him. Vampires. They had been the bane of mankind since time began. The Undead could be found in every civilization known to man as far back as recorded time. Every culture had its own account of vampires, whether they were the tales of the vukodlak in Croatia or the lupi manari of Italy.

  And just as there had always been vampires, there had always been vampire hunters. For centuries, all the firstborn males in Duncan’s family had been hunters. Duncan knew his family was something of a rarity. Most hunters never married. Wives and children could all too easily become victims, pawns in a never-ending war between good and evil. He knew that being a hunter wasn’t something that was passed from father to son in other parts of the world. Being a vampire hunter wasn’t inherited. Rather, it was a calling that might come to anyone, like being a priest.

  Edward Ramsey was the only hunter Duncan had ever known who had been turned into the very thing he had once hated and hunted. He tried to imagine what it would be like if he, himself, were suddenly turned. How had Ramsey reconciled what he had been to what he had become? What was it like to hunt mortals instead of vampires? Did it have the same kick?

  He thrust the thought away and concentrated on his reason for being in Pear Blossom Creek. Three women had been killed and drained of blood. All had been redheads. All had been young and single and lived alone. It sounded like the work of Dimitri Falco, yet Henry Adams claimed that he had destroyed Falco in South America. Of course, it was always possible that Falco was dead and it was just a coincidence that the three murdered women had all been young with red hair.

  Tom grunted softly. He had never believed in coincidence, which meant that either Falco was still alive or another vampire was copying his M.O. Either way, Vicki Cavendish was in danger. And she wasn’t the only woman in town who fit the description of the vampire’s victims. There were Suzie Collins, who worked at the post office, and Rhonda McGee, a nurse who worked the night shift at the hospital.

  Stretching his arms and shoulders, Duncan decided it was time to call it a night. He had done all he could do tonight. Tomorrow, he would continue his search for Dimitri Falco.

  Chapter 8

  Antonio Battista roamed the dark streets, his preternatural senses probing the drifting shadows of the evening for some sense of the other. Lifting his head, he sniffed the wind, his nostrils taking in the scent of cool damp earth and the underlying stink of decay, the wood smoke rising from a chimney, trees and flowers and the myriad other smells and odors associated with mankind, but nothing out of the ordinary. He listened to the sounds of the night—crickets and tree frogs, the rustle of the wind through the leaves, the barking of a dog and, farther away, the faint howl of a wolf.

  He turned toward the sound. Was it a wolf? Or one of the Undead?

  With preternatural speed, he moved through the town, pausing in front of the houses where the other redheaded women lived, his vampire senses telling him that both were safely asleep inside.

  Moving on, he turned down the street where Victoria lived. Her house was dark. A thought took him to her bedroom window. The sound of her breathing, low and even, told him that she, too, was asleep. He felt the prick of his fangs against his tongue as he listened to the steady beat of her heart, the thrum of blood moving through her veins. It aroused a hunger in him like none he had ever known before. Even the hunger
he had felt that first night when he awoke as a newly made vampire paled in comparison. How many centuries ago had that been? Five? Six? After the first century or two, time had lost its meaning. He had no need for clocks or calendars. He woke with the setting of the sun, slept when it rose in the morning. The affairs of the world no longer held any importance for him. His whole world had narrowed to only two things—the need for blood and the necessity of keeping his true identity a secret from mankind. Which reminded him that there was a vampire hunter in town. Whether by coincidence or design, he didn’t know. He had seen the man, Duncan, in the diner earlier that night and had felt a rare stab of jealousy when he saw the hunter and Victoria laughing together. It had taken all his considerable self-restraint to keep from storming into the diner and ripping the man’s heart out.

  He grinned in wry amusement. He hadn’t been plagued by a foolish human emotion like jealousy in centuries. But now it rose in him again as he imagined Victoria with another man, and not just any man, but his sworn enemy. He should have killed the man long ago. To this day, he didn’t understand why he had not dispatched the vampire hunter when he had the chance, but there had been something about Tom Duncan, some innate trace of courage and honor that Battista had found himself admiring in spite of himself. And now Duncan was here, on the hunt. The question was, who was he hunting?

  Battista settled down outside Victoria’s bedroom window, prepared to keep watch until sunrise. Sitting there, his back to the wall, he gazed into the darkness, remembering…

  He had been born in Italy. The memory of those long-ago carefree days was sweet indeed. He had been born the youngest son and little had been expected of him. His oldest brother, Joseph, had been given to the church. His other brother, James, would inherit the family vineyards. His five sisters were expected to marry well, but Battista had no expectations to fulfill. He spent his youth in the pursuit of reckless pleasure and he found it in abundance in the fruit of the vine and the arms of gorgeous women. Indeed, he might have spent the rest of his life in sweet decadence had it not been for a woman who had not been a woman at all. Mara. Mara, with hair like thick black silk and mesmerizing blue eyes. Mara, whose lips had promised an eternity of sensual pleasure but whose bite had damned him to an eternity of darkness. He had not seen her since the night she brought him across.