Night's Kiss Read online

  He found the idea of time travel fascinating and he bought every book of fiction and non-fiction that he could find on the subject, and over the course of the next week and a half he read them all.

  According to Einstein, space was curved, time was relative, and time travel was possible.

  Stephen Hawking conjectured that the laws of physics disallowed the possibility of a time machine. One of his arguments was that, since we were not overrun with thousands of time travelers from the future, time travel was impossible.

  Carl Sagan had several interesting ideas on the subject. His first was that it might be possible to build a time machine that could travel into the future, but not into the past. His second theory was that it might be possible to travel into the past, but that the farther back in time you went, the more expensive it got, and that the prohibitive cost had, thus far, prevented time travelers from making it back to the twenty-first century. Sagan's third idea was that time travel might be possible but you could only travel back to the time when a time machine was invented, and since we hadn't invented one yet, time travelers couldn't reach us.

  Sagan went on to speculate that time travelers were already here, only we couldn't see them because they had invisibility cloaks, or that they were here and people did see them, only they were called something else, like ghosts or goblins or aliens. Sagan also mentioned the possibility that time travel was perfectly possible but would require a tremendous advance in our technology and that civilization would destroy itself before time travel was invented.

  There was talk of black holes and white holes in space, and worm holes, which, if Roshan understood what he was reading correctly, were the hypothetical theoretical connection between the two.

  One book put forth the theory that the past was totally defined, meaning that everything that had already happened or was supposed to happen was set in stone and could not be changed or undone. The author went on to say that if a man traveled back in time and tried to kill his grandfather, he would not be allowed to do so, that constant mishaps would prevent him from doing away with his grandfather, thus keeping the future intact.

  A second theory held that if a man went back in time and killed his grandfather, it would immediately create a new quantum universe which would, in essence, be a parallel universe where the grandfather never existed and where the grandson had never been born. The original universe would still remain.

  Another theory said that a man could not travel backward to a time when he didn't exist.

  Even though Roshan didn't plan to use a time machine, the more he read on the subject of time travel, the more fascinated he became. He watched a number of movies about time travel—Kate and Leopold, The Time Machine, Contact, which had been written by Carl Sagan, and Somewhere in Time. The last was by far his favorite, perhaps because the hero in the film fell in love with a woman in a photograph. Not that he was in love with Brenna Flanagan. Vampires did not fall in love with mortals. It was the height of folly to do so. No sane vampire revealed what he was to another, not if he valued his existence.

  No, he was not in love with Brenna Flanagan. He would never love again, but she had given him a new interest in life, a goal, however impossible it might be to achieve, to look forward to, and that was something he hadn't had in far too long. For that alone, he would save her life, should he be able to do so.

  But before he attempted something most mortals considered impossible, he would need to be at his preternatural best, so to speak, and for that, he would need to feed.

  Leaving the house, he ghosted through the darkness, a whisper of movement unseen and unheard by those he passed until he reached his favorite hunting ground in the city. As a young vampire, he had hunted among the poor and downtrodden. Hiding in doorways, lurking in shadows, he had preyed upon the dregs of humanity. But as he grew older and wiser, he left the slums behind and went hunting among the rich, the elite, those who dined at expensive restaurants and frequented exclusive clubs. They drove costly automobiles or rode in luxurious stretch limos. They lived in million-dollar houses behind high walls and electric fences and thought themselves safe from the rest of the world.

  It was so easy to breach their puny mortal defenses, to probe their minds while they slept, to call them to him. Under his spell, they left their lavish chambers. Drawn by his voice, unable to resist his power, they came to him, willingly offering themselves up to him so that he might quench his insatiable thirst. The blood of the rich was ever so much sweeter than that of the poor. The skin of the wealthy smelled of soap instead of vomit, their hair was squeaky clean instead of matted with filth, their breath was sweet and clean, not sour with cheap wine.

  The house he chose this night was like all the others on the street—large and well kept behind a high stone wall. He vaulted over the barrier effortlessly and made his way to the rear of the house. A middle-aged woman slept alone in a room on the ground floor. A servant perhaps. He gently probed her mind for her name, then called her to him.

  Moments later, she was walking toward him, a tall, slender woman, her bare feet peeking out from beneath a blue cotton nightgown. Eyes open but unseeing, she made her way toward him.

  The scent of her blood called to him; his fangs lengthened as she drew near. She offered no resistance when he drew her into his arms. Her body was warm, pliant as he bent her back over his arm.

  "Do not be afraid, Monica," he whispered. "I will not hurt you."

  He brushed her hair aside, stroked the smoothness of her throat with his fingertips, then lowered his head to her neck. Her sweetness filled his mouth as his fangs pierced her tender flesh. In the beginning, after he knew what he had become, he had been certain that feeding would be repugnant, had feared he would perish rather than succumb to the hunger that compelled him to such repulsive behavior. Ah, how wrong he had been!

  He drank his fill, erased the memory of what had happened from her mind, and sent her back to bed.

  After leaving the estate, he spent the next few hours wandering through the deep shadows of the night, listening to the sounds that mortals never heard—the whisper of a spider spinning its web, the sighing of the earth as it turned, the sleepy moan of a tree as it stretched its branches toward the sky.

  It was a beautiful thing, the night, with a life and a soul of its own. He had wandered the world by the light of the moon, marveling at the wonders of the ages—the Great Pyramid of Giza, the Sphinx, ancient castles and cathedrals and bridges built by men long turned to dust. He had seen the invention of so many modern wonders—cars and airplanes, computers and satellites, bombs capable of wiping out the whole of civilization.

  So many things that, in his time, had been impossible, undreamed of, or even imagined. When he had walked the earth as a mortal man, there had been no time or thought for anything but the work of surviving from day to day. There had been sheep and cattle to tend, seed to be sown, weeds to uproot, crops to be watered and harvested. In those days, he had worked alongside his father and his two brothers, toiling from sunup until sundown to provide food for his mother and his five sisters. There had been little time for anything else, until he had met Atiyana.

  He shook his musings aside, his body tingling with the familiar warning that preceded the sun's rising.

  It was time to return to his lair.

  Brenna Flanagan's image lingered in his mind as he prepared to take his rest. That was not particularly strange, since she had been constantly in his thoughts, but what amazed him, even in sleep, was that her image stayed with him while he was trapped in the deathlike slumber of his kind.

  He had not dreamed since the night the Dark Trick had been wrought upon him. One minute he was awake, the next he was lost in forgetful darkness, and when the sun quit the sky, he woke again, instantly mindful of his surroundings.

  But on this night, for the first time since he had received the Dark Gift, he dreamed. He was aware of the miracle of such a thing even as the images unfolded in his mind. He was standing outside
a circle of evergreen trees. Within the grove, he saw a slender young woman with fiery red hair and deep green eyes flecked with gold. As he watched, she began a slow, sensuous dance, her only covering the waist-length hair that fell down her back and over her shoulders, shimmering like veils of crimson silk in the silvery light of the full moon. A necklace of amber and jet circled her slender throat. She lifted her face toward the heavens, her eyes shining like priceless gems. Laughter rose in her throat, a sound of such joy and exuberance that, even trapped in the Dark Sleep, it brought a smile to his lips.

  He moved toward her, darkness to her light.

  She stopped dancing as he approached. A large black cat padded silently out of the shadows to rub itself against her legs.

  Roshan paused when he was an arm's length away. The woman's gaze met his, bold and unafraid, a small smile curving her lips.

  "'Tis you," she whispered.

  Startled by her words, he took another step forward, one arm outstretched. "You know me? How can that be?"

  But her answer was lost to him as the Dark Sleep dragged him down, down, into oblivion.

  On waking, her picture was the first thing he sought. He gazed into her eyes. Green eyes. Slightly slanted, like a cat's.

  'Tis you.

  He heard the sound of her voice in his head. Soft and low, with a husky quality that he found incredibly sexy.

  Going into his library, he searched the shelves until he found a volume on witchcraft. It spoke of casting spells and magick. There was herbal magick, candle magick, animal magick, and elemental magick. Some magick was best worked during a particular phase of the moon. There was talk of rituals and chants, of altars that could be adorned with dried or fresh flowers, seashells, crystals, pictures, and incense. Some chants were spoken, others set to music. Reading on, he learned that the purpose of the chant was to help the witch focus on that which she desired. It also helped to build the energy needed to cast the spell. Dancing was another way to build energy. He recalled that there were those who claimed to have seen Brenna Flanagan dancing naked in the moonlight.

  Another section was devoted to the tools used by witches. The Athame was a black-handled knife made of iron or steel that was used to cast a circle or invoke certain spells. Since herbs shouldn't be cut with iron or steel, witches also possessed an herb knife made of copper or silver. Of course, no witch could pursue her art without a cauldron which was used for cooking raw ingredients and creating something new. Most witches owned a special cup, made of silver, wood, or clay, for use in certain rituals. The book also mentioned pentacles, necklaces, and wands. And brooms. He'd never really imagined witches flying around on broomsticks. According to the book, brooms were used to sweep away negative energy before casting a spell.

  When he came to a chapter on the signs of the moon, his curiosity was naturally aroused, for the moon, after all, played a big part in his life. According to the author, the moon was believed to create different energies that affected day-to-day life. Aries was a good time for starting things. It was believed that things begun in a Taurus moon lasted longer; things begun in Gemini were easily changed by outside influences; Cancer was a time for growth and nurturing, a time to take care of domestic needs; Leo's emphasis was on one's self; Virgo focused on health. Libra smiled on friendship and partnership; Scorpio brought an awareness of psychic power; Sagittarius favored flights of fancy and imagination; Capricorn was heavy on traditions; Aquarius was a time for breaking habits; Pisces focused on dreaming and psychic impressions.

  Each day of the week was influenced not only by a planet, but colors as well. The moon ruled Monday, bringing peace and healing. The colors associated with that day were gray and silver, lavender and white. Mars ruled Tuesday with passion and courage; warlike colors of red, white, black, and gray were associated with that day. Mercury influenced Wednesdays, bringing an inclination for study and travel; its colors were mild—peach and yellow, white and brown. Jupiter ruled on Thursday, leaning toward expansion and prosperity; Thursday's colors were lush—turquoise and white, green and violet; Friday belonged to Venus and curried love, beauty, and friendship. Colors associated with Friday were muted—rose and pink, peach and white.

  He snorted softly. If he recalled aright, he had been born on a Friday just before midnight. How did one associate love and beauty and the colors of roses with a man who stalked the shadows of the night, preying upon the lives of others? And surely any color associated with a vampire's life should be the deep dark red of blood.

  With a shake of his head, Roshan continued reading. Saturday was ruled by Saturn, leaning toward longevity, home, and endings. Saturday's colors were dark—indigo and brown, blue and gray. Sunday was, of course, ruled by the sun, bringing healing and spirituality, strength and protection. Sunday's colors were benevolent—gold and orange, peach and yellow.

  He thumbed through the rest of the book, reading the names of witches known in history and legend. Hecate, the Green Goddess of witches. Hecate was worshipped at the dark of the moon at places where three roads came together. It was said that she had three heads—horse, serpent, and dog—and thus she was able to see in three directions at once.

  Morgan Le Fey, said to be a student of Merlin the magician. Nimue, also known as the Lady of the Lake. Circe, who lived on a magical isle in the midst of the sea. Medea, the goddess of snakes. Then there was a fifteenth-century Yorkshire witch known as Mother Shipton. It was said she possessed the power to heal and cast spells. He thought it interesting that she had also been a seer who had seen modern-day inventions such as airplanes and cars. Anne Boleyn, second wife of Henry VIII, had been suspected of being a witch because she had a sixth finger on one hand.

  Caught up in the subject, he read further. Elisabeth Sawyer, who had been known as the Witch of Edmonton, had been accused of casting spells on her neighbors' children and on her neighbors' cattle because they refused to buy her brooms. At last, he thought with a wry grin, a witch with a broom. When Elisabeth, under duress, confessed to being a witch, she was hanged.

  Another chapter dealt with spells. A sachet bag filled with rosemary, thyme, and sage was believed to be effective in attracting love. There was also a money-making charm. For this spell, a witch cut twelve pieces of paper into the size of banknotes. The paper was then to be put into a box, with thyme sprinkled between each piece. The box was to be tied with green string in thirty-one knots and buried no more than seven inches deep. If done properly, the box would contain real money when it was dug up exactly one year later.

  He read that wood taken from an alder tree was used to summon spirits from the other world. Sitting back, he thought about that. Perhaps he could find a witch who could summon Brenna Flanagan's essence, but then, he wanted more than her spirit.

  Closing the book, he thought of his own witch woman. Brenna Flanagan. Even her name appealed to him. He murmured it aloud, liking the way it felt on his tongue.

  It was time.

  Retrieving the picture he had printed earlier, he left the house.

  Standing in the backyard, her likeness clutched in his hand, he let the night enfold him, its blackness drawn to the blackness within his soul, hiding him from the rest of the world.

  He stared at her image, his gaze focused on her face as he chanted her name over and over again, and all the while he imagined himself spinning backward through time, each breath, each passing moment, drawing him away from the world he knew and closer to hers.

  In the space of a heartbeat, thought became reality and desire became destiny. He was traveling through a long black tunnel. He saw the years falling away, the centuries receding as the modern world passed into the murky clouds of the past.

  The twentieth century, fraught with wars and rumors of wars, with inventions people in his time had never dreamed of—televisions, computers, compact disc players, microwave ovens, jet planes, cell phones, frozen foods, penicillin, the Tommy gun, and the atomic bomb.

  The nineteenth century had introduced the world
to the steam locomotive, the printing press, typewriters and telephones, elevators and bicycles, Coca Cola, sewing machines and machine guns, and the Civil War.

  The eighteenth century saw the creation of the piano, the steamboat, and the cotton gin, the fire extinguisher and sextant, submarines and parachutes, and the French Revolution.

  The seventeenth century gave the world the air pump, the telescope, pocket watches and pressure cookers, Dom Perignon champagne, and the Salem Witch Trials.

  He closed his eyes as he felt an abrupt cessation of movement, followed by a rush of dizziness.

  When he opened his eyes again, his house and yard were gone and he was standing outside a circle of gnarled oak trees.

  In the distance, he saw a small house with a thatched roof. A plume of gray smoke spiraled from the chimney. Yellow candlelight flickered in the window.

  But it was the woman dancing in the moonlight who caught and held his gaze. A woman with fiery red hair and knowing green eyes. A woman who was naked save for the shimmering veil of her hair and a necklace of amber and jet.

  He stared at her for stretched seconds, unable to believe his eyes. She was more beautiful than any artist could paint. Her skin was unblemished by mole or scar, her slender figure perfectly formed. Dancing within a circle of white candles, she moved with a lithe grace that carried an air of unconscious sensuality combined with the innocence of a woman who had not known a man's touch. Moonlight combined with candlelight to bathe her in a halo of silver. Her hair fell over her shoulders and down her back like a river of molten red silk.

  Captivated, he could only stand there, watching as she lifted her arms toward the heavens, then spun in a graceful circle, chanting, "Light of night, hear my song, bring to me my love, ere long."

  Her voice wrapped around him, warm and mesmerizing with the same low husky quality he had heard in his mind while he slept, a sound that reminded him of firelight playing over velvet on a winter night.

  "Brenna." Her name whispered past his lips, and with it a rush of desire the likes of which he had never known.