After Sundown Read online

  His lips parted, and she saw his fangs. She moved quickly to Grigori's side, her heart pounding. She knew vampire blood lust when she saw it.

  It is all right, cara. Have no fear.

  Grigori's voice whispered in her mind. It was a bond they shared, the ability to read each other's minds.

  I'm not afraid, she replied, as long as you're with me.

  Ramsey took another step forward, seemingly oblivious to everything but her.

  "Ramsey, no." Grigori's voice cut across the room, as sharp and deadly as a blade.

  Ramsey came to an abrupt halt. With a shake of his head, he looked around the room, his expression slightly dazed, like a sleepwalker abruptly roused from sleep. "Marisa, I'm sorry."

  "It's all right," she replied gently. "I understand."

  Grigori brushed a kiss across Marisa's lips. "I'll be back later, cara. Ramsey, come with me."

  Wordlessly, Ramsey turned and followed the vampire out of the house and down the narrow flagstone walkway that led to the garage.

  "Have you fed since I brought you across?" Chiavari asked.

  "No."

  "Nothng in five days?"

  Ramsey shook his head. He had made two attempts. The second had been on a kitten he had found in an alley. He had held the terrified creature in his hands, but in the end, he had let the animal go. "I don't think I have what it takes to be a vampire," he said ruefully.

  "Nonsense. Any man who can track a vampyre to its lair and cut off its head shouldn't have any trouble finding something to drink."

  "Are you mocking me?"

  "Merely stating a fact," Chiavari slid behind the wheel of a sleek black Corvette, reached over, and opened the passenger door. "Get in."

  "Where are we going?"

  "Hunting."

  With a sigh, Ramsey got in the car and closed the door. Once, he had hunted vampires. Now he was hunting humans. "I don't want to kill anyone."

  "That's up to you."

  "But you told me you killed, in the beginning."

  Chiavari switched on the ignition and backed the Corvette out of the garage to the street. "I shall teach you to hunt without killing."

  "I don't think I can drink… blood."

  "Of course you can. You have done it before."

  Ramsey stared into the darkness. Blood. The elixir of life. He had said he didn't think he could drink it, but he knew it was a lie, a taboo that no longer had any meaning. He remembered the warm, rich coppery taste of Chiavari's blood on his tongue. Once it had sickened him; now he craved to taste its like again. "Where are we going?"

  "My first rule," Chiavari said. "Never hunt where you live."

  Chiavari drove down to the beach. It was one of his favorite haunts. He parked on a dimly lit side street near a run-down bar, switched off the engine, turned off the lights.

  "You are Vampyre now," Grigori said. "You have powers of which you are not yet aware. Few mortals have the strength to resist you. You have the power to mesmerize them, to compel them to do your bidding, to wipe your memory from their minds. You can drink your fill from one and take his memories and his life as well, or you can drink only enough to sustain your own existence. The choice is yours."

  "How have you stood it for so many years, Chiavari?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "The noise, the light, the constant hunger. Sometimes I think I'm going out of my mind."

  "In time, you will learn to block the noise, to shut out the siren call of the heartbeats around you." He pulled the key from the ignition and slid out of the car.

  Ramsey followed Chiavari into the dimly lit bar. It was a little after eleven, and there were only a handful of people in the place.

  Ramsey grimaced at the stench of old smoke and old sweat that flooded his nostrils.

  Chiavari took a seat at a back booth, and Ramsey slid in across from him.

  "Look around you," Chiavari said. "What do you see?"

  Ramsey shrugged. "Men and women talking too loud and drinking too much."

  "No. You see prey. Food. You are a young vampire. You will need to feed often, at least for a while. Forget what you were before. Who you were before. You are Vampyre now, and you can never go back to what you were. That life is gone. That man is gone. You have been reborn. Accept it. If you want to live, you will embrace your new life. If not, then go out and meet the sun and end it. There is no worse hell than being caught between worlds."

  Ramsey clenched his hands as he listened to the vampire speak. They were hard words—hard to believe, harder to accept. He looked at the other patrons. Once, he had protected them from the undead; now they needed protecting from him. In his mind, he saw the chasm between himself and the rest of humanity grow deeper, wider—saw it fill with an endless river of warm, rich crimson.

  Vampire. I am a vampire. I must drink blood to survive.

  Chiavari regarded him through narrowed eyes. "Are you strong enough to be Vampyre, Ramsey, or should I have let you die?"

  Ramsey thought of the night Chiavari had brought him across, how tenaciously he had clung to the vampire's arm, to the pulsing promise of life. "I want to live."

  Chiavari nodded. "Then you must accept what you are. You do not have to be like Kristov. You can be a man with a peculiar lifestyle, or you can be a monster. You must make the choice, as does every man, mortal or otherwise."

  Ramsey stared at the cross tattooed on his right palm. "Damned," he murmured. "Forever damned."

  Grigori lifted one brow in amusement. "You did not think yourself damned when you killed my kind." He grinned faintly. "Our kind. Why are you damned now?"

  "Because of what I am!"

  "Murder is murder, Ramsey, whether you are killing vampires or killing humans for their blood. It is all the same; only the reasons are different. You can be as good, or as bad, as you wish."

  Ramsey snorted. "You don't understand."

  "No, it is you who do not understand. But you will. If you live long enough. Now, look around and decide who will be your prey."

  "How do I decide?"

  Grigori shrugged. "Probe their minds. Find the one who is most susceptible to your power. Plant the suggestion in their mind that they are ready to go home."

  "I can't do that."

  "You can. Try."

  Ramsey glanced around the room. A middle-aged man sat alone at the far end of the bar. There was an elderly couple in a front booth, a couple of young punks playing pool in the back. His gaze settled on a woman standing beside a cigarette machine. She was about twenty-five, dressed in a pair of jeans and a bulky red sweater. Her hair was brown, her eyes blue. He stared at her, wondering how to go about probing her mind, when, as if a door had suddenly opened, he was aware of her thoughts. She was recently divorced, lonely, searching for something to ease the pain.

  He swore under his breath, exhilarated and frightened by this strange new power. How often in the past had he wished he could read another's mind? But to actually have that ability… could he actually impose his will on this strange woman?

  Look at me. Ramsey sent the thought to her, felt a thrill of satisfaction when she turned in his direction. She regarded him a moment, then smiled uncertainly.

  Come to me.

  Slowly she began to walk toward him, her expression slightly puzzled.

  "Good evening," Ramsey said.

  "Hello." She had a sexy, breathy voice. "Have we met before?"

  "No."

  Ramsey gazed deep into her eyes. He had never had time for women, or for love. He had spent his whole life hunting vampires, moving from town to town, country to country. Like most hunters, he had never married. Families all too easily became victims, hostages, pawns in an endless war.

  A curious sensation swept through him as he felt his mind connect with hers, felt her will bend to his. Felt her desire reach out to him. It was something he had never felt before, never known before. Women had respected him, trusted him, confided in him. They had never desired him. And even now, it wasn'
t him she wanted, but the creature he had become. An immortal creature clothed with the vampire's mystic allure.

  "Come," he said. "I'll walk you to your car."

  She nodded, and he took her arm. Ramsey glanced over his shoulder to make sure Grigori was with them.

  Outside, some of Ramsey's confidence waned. The woman stood beside him, her expression blank.

  He looked at Grigori. "What do I do now?"

  "Follow me."

  Grigori led them into the alley that ran between the bar and a vacant lot that was overgrown with weeds and littered with empty beer cans and bottles. He gestured at the woman, who stood unmoving, like a robot waiting for instruction. "She is in your power now. You can do whatever you wish."

  "But how do I… you know."

  "Think only of her blood. Listen. Can you not hear it flowing like sweet honey through her veins?"

  Grigori took the woman in his arms, ran his fingertips ever so lightly over her cheek, down the length of her neck.

  "Smell the blood," Grigori said, and he felt his own fangs lengthen as he bent over the woman. Her head fell back, exposing the tender skin of her throat. "You must always be gentle," he said, his voice changing, growing deeper, rougher as the hunger within him stirred to life. "Human flesh is so very fragile."

  The woman made a small sound of pleasure as Grigori's mouth closed over her throat, his fangs piercing the skin. He took only a sip, and then he thrust the woman into Ramsey's arms. "She is yours. Take her."

  Ramsey stared at the woman, at the single drop of crimson sparkling on her throat. "What about… how do you know her blood is… don't you worry about disease?"

  "You would know if her blood was unclean."

  Ramsey nodded. Feeling as awkward and self-conscious as a boy on his first date, he gathered the woman into his embrace. She didn't resist. Pliant as a rag doll, she allowed him to hold her. She smelled of soap and perfume and cheap brandy. And blood. It called to him like a Siren's song: loud, insistent. Irresistible. He felt an ache in his gums as his fangs lengthened.

  With a low growl, he sank his fangs into the warm tender skin of her throat, felt the thick richness of her blood fill his mouth.

  "Gently," Grigori admonished. "It can be a pleasant experience for her, as well, if you choose to make it so."

  Ramsey drank, disgusted by what he was doing, yet compelled to take more and more, overcome with the warmth of it, the way it eased the pain that had clawed at him. He drank her memories, her strength, her dreams. The sound of her heartbeat echoed in his ears. How had he ever thought such an act repulsive? Her life filled him until he felt drunk with it And still he wanted more. Wanted it all.

  "Enough, Ramsey. Enough!"

  Dazed, drugged with blood and a sense of unlimited power, Ramsey lifted his head, his lips drawn back in a silent snarl. The woman was his. He would not share her.

  "Enough," Grigori said again.

  Ramsey looked down at the woman in his arms. Her heartbeat was faint, her face pale. She stared up at him through vacant eyes.

  "What have I done?" he moaned. "What have I done?"

  "Only what you had to do."

  "Is she… will she die?"

  "No."

  Horror-stricken, Ramsey shoved the woman into Chiavari's arms and backed away. He dragged a hand over his mouth, grimaced when he saw the blood there. The thrill he had felt earlier was gone, replaced by a sense of horror and self-disgust. "I can't do this."

  "You can, and you will. Abstaining will only make the pain worse. Waiting, trying to fight it, will only make it harder for you to control the Hunger. And when you are out of control, people will die."

  "How have you stood it for so long?" Ramsey asked bitterly. "How have you stood the separateness, the aloneness?"

  Grigori took a deep breath and loosed it in a long, slow sigh. "Being Vampyre is not for the weak. There are drawbacks, but they grow fewer as the years pass. And the advantages far outweigh them."

  "Advantages!" Ramsey scoffed. "What advantages?"

  "Think, Ramsey. Think of all the things I have seen, the changes in the world, the inventions. I have powers you cannot imagine. As for the other, the loneliness, the separateness…" He shrugged. "One can get used to anything."

  "Easy for you to say."

  "Ramsey, I could have killed you years ago. But I did not because I have always admired your tenacity, your will to live. Do not disappoint me now."

  Ramsey gestured at the woman in Chiavari's arms. "Will she be all right?"

  "She will be fine."

  "I…"Ramsey looked away, embarrassed by the need that had driven him to Chiavari. "Thanks for your help."

  Grigori nodded. "Give yourself time, Ramsey. Call me if you need me."

  Ramsey grunted softly. Going to Chiavari for help had been one of the most difficult things he had ever done, not only because it had pricked his pride to ask the man for help, but because it had meant seeing Marisa again, having her see what he had become.

  Marisa. Once, he had hoped she would he his. "I would have thought you'd have brought her across by now," he remarked.

  "No. She wants to wait a while, to spend time with her family while she can." Grigori shrugged. "There is no hurry."

  Ramsey nodded, jealous because Marisa had chosen Chiavari over him, because Chiavari would have her love for a dozen lifetimes to come.

  "Is she happy?"

  Grigori nodded.

  Ramsey glanced at the woman in the vampire's arms. "Thanks again for your… your help."

  "Give it time, Ramsey," Grigori said again.

  "Yes, time." Ramsey smiled ruefully as he turned and walked away. He had plenty of time.

  Chapter 2

  Marisa stood at the window, staring out into the dark, waiting. It made her nervous, thinking of Edward and Grigori together. They had never liked each other, though they were indebted to each other. A life for a life. She tapped her fingers on the windowpane. What were they doing out there?

  She did not like to think of the answer that quickly came to mind.

  They were hunting. Hunting for human prey.

  She could picture it so clearly: the old vampire teaching the young one how to find and stalk his prey, how to drink the warm living blood that was necessary to ensure his immortality. The ancient and horrifying rituals of the Dark Gift. Would the gravity of this transfer of knowledge—of power—overcome the antipathy Grigori and Edward held for each other? Or would the uneasy truce between the two them continue?

  She pressed her forehead against the window as a new thought pushed its way into her mind. She had promised Grigori she would accept the Dark Gift so that they could be together forever. Grigori was in no hurry to bring her across, willing to let her have as much time as she needed to bid farewell to life as she knew it, but one day Grigori would bring her across. Then it would be her turn as pupil, stalking the unwary.

  She shuddered at the thought. Did she truly want to be a vampire? And yet, wanting to be with Grigori forever, what other choice did she have? For a vampire, "forever" was not a hollow promise made in the throes of infatuation. She knew he would never force her, would not try to sway her decision. But if she didn't accept the Dark Gift, she would have to watch herself grow old while he stayed forever young. Would he stay by her side while she aged? Or would he find another, still-young woman in one of his midnight prowls? Some woman who would not hesitate to accept the Gift? She couldn't imagine—didn't want to imagine—such a betrayal.

  She sighed as yet another thought crossed her mind. Sooner or later they would have to leave this place, this house. If things stayed as they were between them, they would have to move before people noticed that she aged while Grigori did not. And if she accepted the Dark Gift, they would still have to move on within a few years, but at least no one would look at her and think she was his mother, or worse, his grandmother!

  What was it really like to be a vampire? Never to see the sun? To live only at night? To drink warm blood
from the veins of a helpless victim? Did she love Grigori enough to embrace the Dark Gift?

  She thrust the thought aside. She was still young. She had plenty of time to decide before anyone began mistaking her for Grigori's mother.

  She went to the door and opened it when she heard his car pull into the drive. And then he was striding toward her, tall and dark, graceful as a cat.

  "How did Edward seem to you?" she asked. "Is he going to be all right?"

  Grigori shook his head. "I don't know."

  He followed her into the living room. Marisa had done wonders with the old house. What had once been little more than a drafty old mansion had become a home, filled with soft colors and antique oak and a warmth that came from the woman herself.

  Marisa sat down on the sofa. She expected Grigori to join her, but he began to pace in front of the fireplace, and she knew something was bothering him. She never tired of looking at him, of watching him. His thick black hair fell to his shoulders; his brows were straight above ebony eyes. His skin was pale, though not sickly looking. He was tall, with the firm, trim build of an athlete.

  Tall, dark, and handsome, she thought. It described her husband perfectly. Husband. How she loved the word and all that it meant. He was the most wonderful man she had ever met. The thought made her smile. He would have said he wasn't a man at all.

  She had first met him at a carnival on Halloween night. She had gone to the Roskovitch Carnival because they claimed to have the body of "Count Alexi Kristov, the oldest vampire in existence," She had not believed in such things, of course, had never believed in ghosts and goblins or the like. Even now, she wasn't sure what had drawn her to the carnival that night. Surely she had never dreamed that she would see not one but two vampires that evening.

  She had met Edward because of Grigori. Both men had been hunting Alexi Kristov—Grigori during the night, Edward during the day. Looking back, it all seemed like a nightmare come true.

  She had gone to the carnival, curious to see the vampire. It was a sight she would never forget: the casket on a dais in the center of the floor; the "vampire" clad in a shiny black suit, his skin as white as the satin that lined the casket. His hair had been long and limp, the color a dull reddish-brown. He had looked dead. Or rather, not alive. A wax figure of a man laid out in the casket to fool the gullible. So certain had she been that it was a hoax, that when she found herself alone with the figure, she had climbed the dais and touched its hand. It hadn't been made of wax, but flesh. The skin had been cool. Smooth and dry, it had reminded her of old parchment. She had gasped when the skin grew warm beneath her hand, shrieked when the fingers moved. She had stumbled away from the casket, fallen down the stairs, and scraped her leg.