"But—"
"I won't be long." He silenced her questions with a wave of his hand. "Go along now. Have some tea and cookies with Mrs. Thornfield."
With a little "humph" of pique, Analisa turned and flounced out of the room. She was a woman, for goodness sake, not some child to be sent off to another room while the grown-ups talked.
She paused at the end of the hallway. She stood there a moment and then she turned and tiptoed toward the library. Holding her breath, she pressed her ear to the door, frowning as she strained to hear what was being said.
"Good evening, Constable Drummond." Alesandro's voice came to her, strong and deep, filled with self-assurance.
"Dr. Avallone."
"Please, be seated."
"No, thank you."
She could almost visualize the two of them, facing each other in front of the hearth, the constable as short and squat as a mushroom, Alesandro tall and elegant.
"You wished to see me?" Alesandro sounded faintly bored.
"Yes, I would like an account of your activities tonight."
"I was treating the butcher's wife." Alesandro's voice turned soft, mesmerizing. "She cut her hand on a knife and lost a great deal of blood."
"Yes," the constable repeated, his voice strangely flat. "The butcher's wife."
"I was with her most of the evening," Alesandro went on in the same hypnotic tone. "She will be on her feet again in a few days. As soon as her condition was stable, I came home. You were waiting for me. We took tea together in front of the fire. Mrs. Thornfield brought us a tray of bread and cheese. You questioned me quite thoroughly."
"Yes, thoroughly," the constable repeated.
"My answers satisfied you completely."
"Completely," the constable agreed.
"There is no reason for you to come here again."
"There is no reason for me to come here again."
"I trust there are no further questions," Alesandro said briskly.
"What? Oh, no. No further questions. Thank you for your time, Dr. Avallone. And don't worry, we'll catch this madman, whoever he might be."
"Yes, of course you will," Alesandro said. "Come, I will see you out."
Lifting her skirts, Analisa turned and ran down the hallway toward the parlor.
"Heavens, child," the housekeeper exclaimed as she burst into the room. "Are you being chased?"
"No, of course not." Blowing out a breath, she turned and peeked out the door in time to see Alesandro bid the constable a final good night.
Alesandro stood there a moment, staring out into the darkness before he shut the door, and then he was striding toward her.
"My lord," she murmured as he entered the room.
"Come with me." He didn't wait for an answer; didn't look to see if she followed him.
She trailed in his wake, her gaze fixed on his back. How tall and broad he was. Elegant. Handsome. Forbidding, at times.
He opened the door to the library, held it for her, then closed it firmly behind him.
"So," he said abruptly. "What did you hear?"
She looked up at him with feigned innocence, her heart pounding erratically. "Hear, my lord?"
"Do not play childish games with me, Analisa. I know you were listening at the door."
A guilty flush warmed her cheeks. "What did you do to him?"
"I merely planted a suggestion in his mind."
"You hypnotized him?"
He shrugged. "It is fortunate that his mind is susceptible to suggestion. I had no wish to kill him." He spoke as if it were a matter of no consequence, but his eyes belied his calm demeanor.
She bit down on her lower lip. He had told her before that he had killed in defense of his own life, but to hear him speak of it so openly chilled her to the marrow of her bones.
"I have distressed you."
"Oh, no… well, yes. I mean… would you really have killed him?"
"If I thought it necessary. Do not be fooled, Analisa. As I told you, I am a killer by nature, a predator."
"Alesandro—"
"It is late," he said quietly.
It wasn't that late, she thought. He was just giving her an excuse to leave the room. And, coward that she was, she took it.
"Yes, it is," she said. "Good night."
"Good night, Analisa."
She didn't see him the next night, or the next. As always when he wasn't there, she felt a keen sense of loss, of emptiness. She picked at her food, couldn't concentrate on her lessons, slept poorly. She had disappointed him in some way she didn't quite understand, she thought. He had told her the truth, told her from the beginning that he was a predator, a killer, but she had been too caught up in going to the opera and the ballet, in seeing the beauty of Paris and London, to think about the rest. She had been so mesmerized by the magic of what he was, by the powers he possessed, that she had blocked out the rest of it, refused to see the danger, the ugliness, that was also a part of what he was.
On the third night, she went upstairs to her chamber early. Unable to sleep, she paced the floor.
Alesandro, come to me.
Again and again, she called to him in her mind.
Come to me, come to me, come to me…
She felt his presence. She turned as a whisper of air brushed her cheek, and then he was there. Tall and dark, his hair tousled. He wore a loose-fitting white shirt open at the throat, snug black breeches, and knee-high black boots.
"You came," she said.
"Did you think I would not?"
"I don't know what to think." She looked up at him, wanting to feel his arms around her, but lacking the courage to ask him, or to move toward him. "I disappointed you. I'm sorry."
He shook his head, his eyes filled with pain. "I forget how young you are, how innocent. How vulnerable. I am afraid I expect too much of you."
"Where have you been the last three nights?"
"Nearby."
"Alesandro…"
She gazed up at him, all her longing, her confusion, visible in the depths of her eyes.
"Analisa," he murmured. "What am I to do with you?"
Hold me.
She didn't speak the words aloud, but he heard them clearly in his mind, knew that if he took her in his arms now, their relationship would somehow be irrevocably altered. The smart thing, the best thing for both of them, would be to send her away. He did not deserve her, did not deserve the light she brought into his dark existence. Her mere presence in the house had added color to his bleak life. He had never intended to keep her with him forever, only long enough to ease his loneliness. He could salve his conscience by sending her away with enough money to live on for the rest of her life. And that was what he would do, he thought, until he saw the single tear glistening in the corner of her eye. He watched it slide down her cheek. One single tear. It was his undoing.
Murmuring her name, he drew her into his arms.
She leaned into him, so young, so vulnerable. How could he send her away?
He carried her to a chair and sat down, cradling her in his lap. It was heaven to hold her in his arms, to hear the soft beat of her heart, to feel her skin beneath his hand, the touch of her hair against his cheek.
Curled against him, she fell asleep in his arms, as trusting as a child. Time passed. Her scent filled his nostrils, awakening a myriad of emotions within him. Desire. Hunger. Lust. A need to protect her, to see her smile, hear the merry sound of her laughter.
He brushed his lips across the crown of her head, breathed in the scent of her hair, her skin, and knew he was lost, knew that, no matter what the future held, no matter what the cost, he would never willingly let her go.
* * *
Chapter Ten
He bent over the woman. Caught in his grasp, she looked up at him, mesmerized by the preternatural power of his unblinking stare. He could smell the stink of her fear, hear it in the rapid thudding of her heart, see it in the depths of her clear brown eyes. She stared at him and knew him for what he wa
s, but, like a mouse impaled on the claws of a lion, she was helpless to escape.
Her terror filled him with excitement. He loved the thrill of the hunt, the unbridled excitement when his prey was brought to its knees, the surge of power that spiraled through him in that moment when his victim realized death was inescapable.
He smiled, letting her see his fangs, letting the bloodlust that was raging through him shine clear and bright in his eyes.
She knew what he was. Oh, yes, she knew.
She would have screamed, wanted to scream, but she could not move. Could only watch, helpless, as he slowly lowered his head until she saw nothing but his eyes, and his fangs, sharp and white, descending toward her throat.
Another victim for you, my dear Dr. Avallone.
The thought made him smile in the midst of drinking.
It was a game he played, finding a victim, draining her to the point of death, then leaving her where she was sure to be found. Sometimes the good doctor reached his victims in time; sometimes he did not.
Did the doctor keep score? he wondered. By his reckoning, the doctor had fallen a little behind in the past year. Lives he had saved: 23; lives he had lost: 29.
How did Avallone know? he wondered. How was it that he arrived so often in time to save the poor foolish women who were Rodrigo's favorite prey? Silly mortals. So easily tricked, so easily lured to his side. More often than not, he did not even have to use his preternatural power. A bit of flattery, the promise of a pretty bauble, and they hastened to him, eager to be in his arms. And they were sweet, sweeter than anything he had tasted in mortality.
He drew back, his body filled with stolen warmth, the taste of the woman's blood lingering on his lips.
She sagged in his arms, her head lolling back, her complexion pale, waxy, her lips turning blue. A bit of blood oozed from her throat. Leaning down, he slowly wiped it away with his tongue.
The good doctor would have to hurry, Rodrigo thought as he lowered the woman's limp body to the ground, for this one was nearly gone.
Alesandro caught the scent of the Other on the night wind, and with it the knowledge that a woman lay dying. It was his gift, and his curse. A thought carried him through the dark night, across the hills and valleys, to the woman's side. The stink of the Other was all around. His evil laughter rode the wings of the night as Alesandro knelt beside the woman, his dark cloak spread around them, shielding them from the sight of any who happened to be passing by.
Too late this time, Dr. Avallone. Too late… too late…
He could hear Rodrigo's voice, taunting him.
The woman was on the brink of death, her breathing shallow, labored, her skin pale. Her heartbeat was faint, the merest flutter, barely audible even to his enhanced hearing, but she had a strong will and reason to live. She had three small children at home, a husband who was ill. He drew on his power, felt his fangs lengthen. He tore a gash in his wrist, held it to her lips.
Drink, woman! Drink!
She was weak, so weak, but not so far gone that she could resist the power in his voice. Her mouth fastened onto his wrist, her throat working convulsively as she swallowed the life-giving fluid.
Gradually, the color returned to her cheeks. Her eyelids fluttered open. She stared up at him in horror.
He could not blame her. He knew how he must look, his eyes burning red, his face a monster's mask. He had seen the lust for blood burning in Tzianne's eyes when she forced the Dark Gift upon him, had seen it in Rodrigo's eyes on more than one occasion. It was a look to strike terror into the heart and soul of any mortal.
She shoved his arm away, struggling to free herself from his grasp.
Be still, woman! His mind spoke to hers in a tone that demanded obedience.
"Please, sir," she whispered. "Please, let me go."
"All in good time," he murmured.
He was bending over her, needing to take back a little of what he had given her, when the first blow came, driving him to his knees and away from the woman. He rolled onto his back, raising his arm to block Rodrigo's next attack, so that the vampire's fangs, aimed at his throat, ripped a deep gash from his wrist to his elbow instead.
Alesandro scrambled to his feet. Blood poured from the wound in his arm.
"Coward!" Alesandro spat the word.
Rodrigo laughed. Teeth bared, he hurled himself toward Alesandro a third time.
It was a silent, bitter battle. With fangs and claws, they fought like two great cats, slashing viciously at one another, the hatred that flowed between them a living thing.
The woman watched in horror and then fled into the night.
Alesandro fought as best he could, but the blood flowing from the wound in his arm weakened him. For all their preternatural strength, vampires were fragile creatures. The loss of the blood he had given the woman weakened him still more. Though it galled him to do so, he dissolved into mist and disappeared deep into the earth.
"Who's the coward now?" Rodrigo taunted.
The sound of the vampire's mocking laughter followed Alesandro underground.
* * *
Chapter Eleven
Four days, and she'd had no word from him. Where was he? Time and again Analisa sought out Mrs. Thornfield, begging the housekeeper to tell her where Alesandro was if she knew, but Mrs. Thornfield only shook her head.
"Try not to worry, child. He'll be home when he is able," was all the housekeeper would say.
When he was able. The words conjured horrible images in Analisa's mind; images of Alesandro lying helpless and alone in the dark, weak and in pain.
Her studies came to a standstill. She ate but little and slept less. Too worried to read, too restless to concentrate on needlework, she paced the floors of the manor.
"You'll wear out your slippers," Mrs. Thornfield chided, but Analisa knew the housekeeper was as worried as she.
On the eighth night, overcome with exhaustion, she went up to his room. Going to the wardrobe, she opened the doors and ran her hands over the coats hanging inside. They were all fashioned of expensive cloth, most in dark colors. It comforted her a little, to see them there, to touch something he had worn. With a sigh, she crawled under the covers of his bed. His scent surrounded her, soothing her even as it reminded her of what might be forever lost. Alesandro…
She sat up, her heart pounding in anticipation when the door opened, but it was only Mrs. Thornfield.
"I brought you a nice cup of tea," she said, "to help you sleep."
Analisa knew that her disappointment was evident as she thanked the housekeeper.
"Try not to worry," Mrs. Thornfield said. "I'm sure he'll be back soon."
Analisa nodded.
"Good night, child."
"Good night."
She sipped the tea, grateful for its warmth. Putting the cup on the table beside the bed, she slid under the covers once more.
She was almost asleep when she heard his voice in her mind.
Analisa…
"Alesandro!" She bolted upright, her gaze searching the darkness. "Where are you?"
Come to me…
Slipping out of bed, she left his chamber. Heedless that her feet were bare and she wore nothing but her nightgown, she left the house, following the narrow, winding path that led to the crypt in the grove. The wind whipped her nightgown around her ankles, sent chills down her spine.
She was shivering when she reached the crypt. "Alesandro? Alesandro, where are you?"
"Here."
She whirled around, her eyes widening when she saw him. He was pale, his skin almost as white as the marble tomb. She reached for his hand, and he jerked it away, but not before she touched him. He was cold, so cold. The words cold as death whispered through her mind.
"What's happened?" she asked. "You look…"
"Rodrigo," he said, and told her, in a voice empty of emotion, what had happened.
"You need blood, don't you?"
He nodded. He looked down at her, hating himself for his weakn
ess. He should not have called her here. Had he any honor, he would have gone elsewhere to assuage his hunger, but it was her blood he craved, her blood that called to him, sweeter, more satisfying, than any other.
" 'Lisa…" He gazed into her eyes, not wanting to ask, knowing he could take what he needed by force, knowing, just as certainly, that he would not.
In silent invitation, she tilted her head to one side, brushed the hair away from her neck, and waited.
He told himself to leave her, to take his hellish thirst elsewhere, but he could not deny his need. Quietly cursing the hunger raging through him, he took her into his arms and bent over the slender curve of her neck.
She moaned softly when his fangs pierced her skin, a soft sound of mingled pain and pleasure as she surrendered to his vampire kiss. It should have repelled her, she thought. Why did she find it somehow arousing instead of abhorrent? Why did she find the thought of his going to another so distressing? But none of that mattered now. Closing her eyes, she surrendered to his need. And her own.
Strength flowed through Alesandro, chasing away his lassitude. The demon within urged him to take more than he needed, to bury his fangs deep in her soft flesh and take it all. He fought the impulse to do so, taking only what he needed to ease his pain, and then he put her away from him.
She looked up at him, her eyes unfocused.
"Analisa?" He stroked her cheek with the back of his hand.
She sagged against him, her eyelids fluttering down, her cheek resting on his chest, her face pale. Sweeping her into his arms, he carried her up to the house, settled her onto the sofa, covered her with a blanket. A wave of his hand summoned a fire in the hearth. Feeling unworthy, he sat beside her, his senses lightly probing hers.
With a sigh, she looked up at him. She had beautiful eyes. If they were indeed the windows to the soul, then her soul was as pure as that of a newborn babe.
Muttering an oath, he looked away, unable to meet her gaze. "I am sorry, cara mia. Forgive me for my need, my weakness. It is beastly. Unforgivable." He shook his head. "Irresistible."
Midnight Embrace Page 9
