Embrace the Night Page 3

Chapter Two

  He reached his lair in Crosswick Abbey minutes before the sun climbed above the horizon. Bolting the door behind him, he rested the back of his head against the solid wood, his skin still tingling from the promise of the sun's warmth.

  Closing his eyes, he tried to remember what it had been like to walk in the light of day, to welcome the touch of the sun on his face, to bask in its warmth.

  With a muttered oath, he pushed away from the door and crossed the floor. Sinking down in the huge, thronelike chair that was the room's only piece of furniture, he stared into the blackness of the hearth.

  She was in pain, and she wanted to end her life. There were all kinds of pain, he thought. Sara's wasn't physical; it went much deeper than that, piercing her heart, her soul. Sweet and sensitive, she felt she was a burden to the handful of nuns who ran the Sisters of Eternal Mercy Orphanage.

  His heart ached for her. She had been born to wealthy parents, but from the day of her birth, theDuncan family had been plagued by a constant stream of bad luck. Two ships belonging to the fleet owned by her father were lost at sea; a fire destroyed a part of their home. In the following year, Adalaina Duncan gave birth to a stillborn son. Shortly after Sara's third birthday, her father was killed in a carriage accident. Only then did his wife learn that he had gambled away not only their fortune, but the shipping line as well. His creditors, previously kept at bay by his good name and his fervent promises to make good on his many outstanding notes, had foreclosed on the family estate. Sara's mother, stricken by her husband's death and the loss of her home, had abandoned her daughter, never to be seen again.

  It was no wonder Sara was bitter, he mused. Perhaps he should have told her that she was the single ray of sunshine in his own miserable existence, that her life had purpose, even if it was only to bring light into one man's world of darkness.

  But he couldn't tell her that. Much as he longed to give her comfort, he couldn't give her hope when he had none to give.

  He felt the sun rising, felt the faint lethargy that came with the dawn, a lassitude that grew ever stronger until it rendered him powerless. When he'd first been made, centuries ago, he had been unable to withstand the overpowering weakness that had come with daylight. Drained of his strength, he had been forced to seek total darkness during the daylight hours, to sleep the restorative sleep of the undead. But as he got older, and stronger, he found that he was able to take his rest later in the day, to rise earlier at night, though the touch of the sunlight still meant death. He feared the touch of the sun, the agony of a fiery death, as he feared nothing else.

  Those early days had been filled with confusion and frustration. The lust for blood had filled him with self-loathing, yet he had been unable to resist the urge to drink, and drink, and drink, until he was sated with it. His hearing, sharpened to a new awareness, was bombarded with noise. The sound of thunder was deafening. Only with long practice did he learn to shut out the thoughts of others, to regain a sense of inner quiet. His eyesight was nothing short of miraculous; his strength was that of twenty men. Like a child with a new toy, he had tested the limits of his powers, his endurance. And in the testing, he had heedlessly brought pain and death to those helpless mortals who had unwittingly crossed his path.

  Filled with loneliness, cut off from mankind, he had leftItaly and wandered through the world, searching for a safe haven,anew place to call home. Gradually, he had learned to control the blood lust. He had learned it wasn't necessary to drain his prey, or take so much that life was lost. He had learned to hypnotize a victim to his side, take only enough to appease his need, and leave, with the victim never realizing what had been done. And still there were times when the urge to feed was overwhelming, when even his considerable willpower wasn't enough to keep him from taking a life.

  It was not an easy burden to bear, knowing he must exist on the life's blood of others or perish, knowing he was hated and feared by all mankind.

  Some accepted the Dark Gift and reveled in it, as he had. Others went mad.

  He slumped down in the chair, shrouded in darkness and in his own bleak thoughts. For centuries he had prowled the earth, inflicting havoc on humanity, exulting in his immortality, content to wander aimlessly, caring for no one, letting no one care for him, until the loneliness became more than he could bear. He had accepted what he was by then, had learned to control the lust for blood, and so he had sought a mate, searched the world from end to end looking for that one woman who would see past the monster he had become to the man he had once been.

  He'd had no trouble finding women. He needed no mirror to remind him that he was a virile male in his prime. His hair was long and straight, as black as his soul; his eyes were as gray as the morning mist that rose from the river. His face was pleasant enough, his lips full and sensuous; his nose, while slightly crooked, was not offensive.

  He'd had women. Countless women. Beautiful women. Highborn or low, they had come to him gladly, showering him with their affection, until they discovered what he was. Some turned away in disgust, some in horror. One had fallen to her death. . .

  He swore a vile oath at the memory. He had loved Rosalia with all the passion of youth, and she had died because of him. There had been times since then when he had grown heartily sick of the monster he'd become, times when death had beckoned sweetly.

  Thirteen years ago had been such a time. He had been on the brink of destroying himself, of walking out into the sunlight to feel the sun on his face before it destroyed him. That had been the night he had seen Sara for the first time, a small, golden-haired girl huddled in the corner of an empty room.

  She had been crying softly, as if she were afraid of disturbing the quiet of the night, and the sound, so filled with sorrow, had drawn him out of his own misery. The sound of her tears had led him to an elegant manor house.

  She had stopped crying the instant he picked her up, staring at him through bright blue eyes filled with tears. And then she had smiled at him, a sweet, innocent smile filled with trust, and he had vowed to protect her for as long as she lived.

  He had searched the rooms, looking for the child's mother, but there was no sign that anyone lived in the house. The furniture was covered; the closets were empty.

  He had cursed softly, wondering who would abandon such a precious child.

  He had learned later that Sara was the child of Adalaina Duncan, and that the woman had fled her home in the middle of the night. The townspeople had assumed she had taken the child with her.

  Late that night, he had taken Sara to the orphanage run by the Sisters of Eternal Mercy.

  When he handed her to the nuns, she had stared up at him, her little face looking sad, as if she realized she would never see him again.

  He had watched over her ever since. . .

  A long, slow sigh escaped his lips as he stared into the blackened hearth. Sara. What would he do if she tried to take her life while he slept? What would his life be like without her?

  Have you come to take me to heaven? The sound of her voice echoed in his mind, as did his own cryptic reply: That I could never do. Truer words had never been spoken, he thought, for he was far beyond the reach of heaven.

  And is your name Gabriel? she had asked, to which he had replied, If you wish.

  A faint smile curved the corner of his mouth. He had lived many lives and worn many names, but none pleased him more than the one she had given him.

  For this lifetime, her lifetime, he would be Gabriel.