Twilight Phantasies (Wings in the Night #1)

Twilight Phantasies (Wings in the Night #1) Page 4

Her mental cries woke him earlier tonight than last. Eric stood less than erect and squeezed his eyes shut tight, as if doing so might clear his mind. Rising before sunset produced an effect in him not unlike what humans feel after a night of heavy drinking. Bracing one hand upon the smooth mahogany, his fingertips brushing the satin lining within, he focused on Tamara. He wanted only to comfort her. If he could ease the torment of her subconscious mind, though she might not be fully aware of it, she'd feel better. She might even be more able to sleep. He couldn't be sure, though. Her situation was unique, after all.

He focused on her mind, still hearing her whispered pleas. Where are you, Eric? Why won't you come to me? I'm lost. I need you.

He swallowed once, and concentrated every ounce of his power into a single invisible beam of thought, shooting through time and space, directed at her. I am here, Tamara.

I can't see you!

The immediate response shocked him. He hadn't been certain he could make her aware of his thoughts. Again he focused. I am near. I will come to you soon, love. Now you must rest. You needn't call to me in your dreams anymore. I have heard-I will come.

He awaited a response, but felt none. The emotions that reached him, though, were tense, uncertain. He wanted to ease her mind, but he'd done all he could for the moment. The sun far above, though unseen by him, was not unfelt. It sapped his strength. He took a moment to be certain of his balance and crossed slowly to the hearth, bending to rekindle the sparks of this morning's fire. That done, he used a long wooden match to ignite the three oil lamps posted around the room. With fragrant cherry logs emitting aromatic warmth, and the golden lamplight, the Oriental rugs over the concrete floor and the paintings he'd hung, the place seemed a bit less like a tomb in the bowels of the earth. He sat himself carefully in the oversize antique oak rocking chair, and allowed his muscles to relax. His head fell heavily back against the cushion, and he reached, without looking, for the remote control on the pedestal table beside him. He thumbed a button. His heavy lids fell closed as music surrounded him.

A smile touched his lips as the bittersweet notes brought a memory. He'd seen young Amadeus perform in Paris. 1775, had it been? So many years. He'd been enthralled-an ordinary boy of seventeen, awestruck by the gift of another, only two years older. The sublime feeling had remained with him for days after that performance, he recalled. He'd talked about it until his poor mother's ears were sore. He'd had Jaqueline on the brink of declaring she'd fallen in love with a man she'd never met, and she'd teased and cajoled until he'd managed to get her a seat at his side for the next night's performance. His sister had failed to see what caused him to be so impressed. "He is good," she'd declared, fanning herself in the hot, crowded hall. "But I've seen better." He smiled at the memory. She hadn't been referring to the young man's talents, but to his appearance. He'd caught her peering over her fan's lacy edge at a skinny dandy she considered "better."

He sighed. He'd thought it tragic that a man of such genius had died at thirty-five. Lately he'd wondered if it was so tragic, after all. Eric, too, had died at thirty-five, but in a far different manner. His was a living death. All things considered, he hadn't convinced himself that Mozart had suffered the less desirable fate. Of the two of them, Mozart must be the most serene. He couldn't possibly be the most alone. There were times when he wished the guillotine had got to him before Roland had.

Such maudlin thoughts on such a delightfully snowy night? I don't recall you were all that eager to meet the blade, at the time.

Roland! Eric's head snapped up, buzzing with energy now that the sun had set. He rose and hurriedly released the locks, to run through the hall and take the stairs two at a time. He yanked the front door open just as his dearest friend mounted the front steps. The two embraced violently, and Eric drew Roland inside.

Roland paused in the center of the room, cocking his head and listening to Mozart's music. "What's this? Not a recording, surely! It sounds as if the orchestra were right here, in this very room!"

Eric shook his head, having forgotten that the last time he'd seen Roland he hadn't yet installed the state-of-the-art stereo system, with speakers in every room. "Come, I'll show you." He drew his friend toward the equipment, stacked near the far wall, and withdrew a CD from its case. Roland turned the disc in his hand, watching the light dance in vivid rainbows of green, blue and yellow.

"They had no such inventions where I have been." He returned the disc to its case, and replaced it on the shelf.

"Where have you been, you recluse? It's been twenty years." Roland had not aged a day. He still had the swarthy good looks he'd had as a thirty-two year old mortal and the build of an athlete.

"Ahh, paradise. A tiny island in the South Pacific, Eric. No meddling humans to contend with. Just simple villagers who accept what they see instead of feeling the need to explain it. I tell you, Eric, it's a haven for our kind. The palms, the sweet smell of the night-"

"How did you live?" Eric knew he sounded doubtful. He'd always despised the loneliness of this existence. Roland embraced it. "Don't tell me you've taken to tapping the veins of innocent natives."

Roland's brows drew together. "You know better. The animals there keep me in good stead. The wild boar are particularly-"

"Pigs' blood!" Eric shouted. "I think the sun must have penetrated your coffin! Pigs' blood! Ach!"

"Wild boars, not pigs."

"Great difference, I'll wager." Eric urged Roland toward the velvet-covered antique settee. "Sit. I'll get refreshment to restore your senses."

Roland watched suspiciously as Eric moved behind the bar, to the small built-in refrigerator. "What have you, a half dozen freshly killed virgins stored in that thing?"

Eric threw back his head and laughed, realizing just how long it had been since he'd done so. He withdrew a plastic bag from the refrigerator, and rummaged beneath the bar for glasses. When he handed the drink to Roland, he felt himself thoroughly perused.

"Is it the girl's nightly cries that trouble you so?"

Eric blinked. "You've heard her, too?"

"I hear her cries when I look inside your mind, Eric. They are what brought me to you. Tell me what this is about."

Eric sighed, and took a seat in a claw-footed, brocade cushioned chair near the fireplace. Few coals glowed in this hearth. He really ought to kindle it. Should some nosy human manage to scale the gate and breach the security systems, they might well notice that smoke spiraled from the chimney, but no fire warmed the grate.

Reading his thoughts, Roland set his glass aside. "I'll do that. You simply talk."

Eric sighed again. Where to begin? "I came to know of a child, right after you left last time. A beautiful girl, with raven curls and cherub's cheeks and eyes like glossy bits of coal."

"One of the Chosen?" Roland sat forward.

"Yes. She was one of those rare humans with a slight psychic connection to the un dead, although, like most, she was completely unaware of it. I've found that there are ways of detecting the Chosen, aside from our natural awareness of them, you know."

Roland looked around from where he'd hunkered before the hearth. "Really?"

Eric nodded. "All those humans who can be transformed, those we call Chosen, share a common ancestor. Prince Vlad the Impaler." He glanced sharply at Roland. "Was he the first?"

Roland shook his head. "I know your love of science, Eric, but some. things are better left alone. Go on with your story."

Eric felt a ripple of exasperation at Roland's tightlipped stance on the subject. He swallowed his irritation and continued. "They also share a rare blood antigen. We all had it, as humans. It's known as Belladonna. Only those with both these unlikely traits can become vampires. They are the Chosen."

"Doesn't seem like an earth-shattering discovery to me, Eric. We've always been able to sense the Chosen ones, instinctively."

"But other humans haven't. Some of them have now discovered the same things I have. DPI knows about it. They can pinpoint Chosen humans, and then watch them, and wait for one of us to approach. I believe that is precisely what has happened with Tamara."

"Perhaps you need to back up a bit, old friend," Roland said gently.

Eric pushed one hand through his black hair, lifting it from his shoulders and clenching a fist in the tangles. "I couldn't stay away from her, Roland. God help me, I tried, but I couldn't. Something in her tugged at me. I used to look in on her as she slept. You should've seen her then. Sooty lashes on her rosy cheeks, lips like a small pink bow." He looked up, feeling absurdly defensive. " I never meant her harm, you know. How could I? I adored the child."

Roland frowned. "This should not trouble you. It happens all the time, this unseen bond between our kind and the Chosen. Many was the night I peered in upon you as a boy. Rarely to find you asleep, though. Usually, you were awake and teasing your poor sister."

Eric absorbed that information with dawning understanding. "You never told me. I'd thought you only came to me when I was in danger."

"I'm sorry we haven't discussed this matter before, Eric. It simply never came up. You only saw me those times you were in danger. There was little time for discretion when a coach was about to flatten you, or when I pulled you spluttering from the Channel."

"Then you felt the same connection to me that I felt for her?"

"I felt a connection, yes. An urge to protect. I can't say it's the same because I haven't experienced what you felt for the child. But, Eric, many young ones over the centuries have had a vampire as a guardian and never even known it. After all, we don't go to them to harm, or transform, or even make contact. Only to watch over, and protect."

Eric's shoulders slumped forward, so great was his relief. He shook his head once and resumed his story. "I woke one night to sense her spirit fading. She was slipping away so steadily I was barely able to get to her in time." The same pain he'd felt then swept over him now, and his voice went lower. "I found her in hospital, her tiny face whiter than the sheets tucked around her. Her lips... they were blue. I overheard a doctor telling her parents that she'd lost too much blood to survive, and that her type was so rare no donors had been located. He told them to prepare themselves. She was dying, Roland."

Roland swore softly.

"So you see my dilemma. A child I'd come to love lay dying, and I knew I alone had the power to save her."

"You didn't transform her! Not a small child, Eric. She'd be better dead than to exist as we must. Her young mind could never grasp-"

"I didn't transform her. I probably couldn't if I'd tried. She hadn't enough blood left to mingle with mine. I saw another option, though. I simply opened my vein and-"

"She drank from you?"

Eric closed his eyes. "As if she were dying of thirst. I suppose, in a manner, she was. Her vitality began to return at once. I was ecstatic."

"You had right to be." Roland grinned now. "You saved the child. I've never heard of anything like this happening before, Eric, but apparently, it worked." He paused, regarding Eric intensely. "It did work, did it not? The child lives?"

Eric nodded. "Before I left her bedside, Roland, she opened her eyes and looked at me, and I swear to you, I felt her probing my mind. When I turned to go she gripped my hand in her doll-sized one and she whispered my name. "Eric," she said. "Don't go just yet. Don't leave me."

"My God." Roland sank back onto the settee, blinking as if he were thunderstruck. "Did you stay?"

"I couldn't refuse her. I stayed the night at her bedside, though I had to hide on the window ledge every time someone entered the room. When they discovered the improvement in her, the place was a madhouse for a time. But they soon saw that she would be fine, and decided to let the poor child rest."

"And then?"

Eric smiled softly. "I held her on my lap. She stayed awake, though she needed to rest, and insisted I invent story upon story to tell her. She made me sing to her, Roland. I'd never sung to anyone in my existence. Yet the whole time she was inside my mind, reading my every thought. I couldn't believe the strength of the connection between us. It was stronger even than the one between you and me."

Roland nodded. "Our blood only mixed. Yours was nearly pure in her small body. It's no wonder... What happened?"

"Toward dawn she fell asleep, and I left her. I felt it would only confuse the sweet child to have contact with one of us. I took myself as far away as I could, severed all contact with her. I refused even to think of seeing her again, until now. I thought the mental bond would weaken with time and distance. But it hasn't. I've only been back in the western hemisphere a few months, and she calls to me every night. Something happened to her parents after I'd left her, Roland. I don't know what, but she ended up in the custody of Daniel St. Claire."

"He's DPI!" Roland shot to his feet, stunned.

"So is she," Eric muttered, dropping his forehead into his hand.

"You cannot go to her, Eric. You mustn't trust her, it could be your end."

"I don't trust her. As for going to her...! have no choice about that."

Even while Tamara was arguing with Daniel and Curtis, he'd been on her mind. All day she had been unable to get that mysterious stranger-who didn't seem a stranger at all-out of her thoughts. She'd only managed to cram him far to the back, to allow herself to concentrate on her work. Now that she was home, in the secure haven of her room, and now that she'd wakened from her after-work nap, she felt refreshed, energized and free to turn last night's adventure over in her mind.

She paused and frowned. Since when did she wake refreshed? She usually woke trembling, breathless and afraid. Why was tonight different? She glanced out at the snow spotted sky, and realized it was fully dark. She normally woke from her nightmare just at dusk. She struggled to remember. It seemed to her she had had the dream-or she'd begun to. She remembered the forest and the mists, the brambles and darkness. She remembered calling that elusive name.

And hearing an answer. Yes. From very far away she'd heard an answer; a calm, deep voice, full of comfort and strength, had promised to come to her. He'd told her to rest. She'd felt uncertain, until the music came. Soft strains she thought to be Mozart-something from Elvira Madigan-soothed her taut nerves.

She allowed a small smile. Maybe she was getting past this thing, whatever it was. The smile died when she wondered if that was true, or whether she was only exchanging one problem for another. The man from the ice rink filled her mind again. Marquand-the one Daniel insisted was a vampire. He'd kissed her and, much as she hated to admit it, she'd responded to that kiss with every cell in her body.

She rose slowly from her bed and tightened the single sash that held the red satin robe around her. She leaned over her dressing table and examined the bruised skin of her neck in the mirror. Her fingers touched the spot. She recalled the odd, swooning sensation she'd experienced when he'd sucked the skin between his teeth, and wondered at it.

Lack of sleep, and too much stress.

But he knew my name. . . .

Simple enough to answer that one. He'd done a little research on the man who'd been harassing him. Daniel was her legal guardian. It was a matter of public record.

Then why did he seem so surprised when I told him that?

Good acting. He must have known. He just assumed I'd be the easiest, most effective way to get his point across.

She frowned at her reflection, not liking the look of disappointment she saw there. She tried to erase it. "He only wanted to scare Daniel into laying off, so he followed me to the rink for that little performance. Imagine him going so far as to actually..."

She pressed her palm to the mark on her throat, and turned from the mirror. She'd failed to convince herself that was all there had been to it. So many things about the man defied explanation. Why did he seem so familiar to her? How had he made her feel as if he were reading her thoughts? What about the way she'd seemed to hear what he said, when he hadn't even spoken? And what about this. . . this longing.

Blood flooded her cheeks and a fist poked into her stomach. Desire. She recognized the feeling for what it was. Foolish though it was, Tamara was lusting after a man she didn't know-a man she felt as if she'd known forever. She had to admit, at least to herself, that the man they called Marquand stirred reactions in her as no other man ever had.

As she stood she slowly became aware of a peculiar light-headedness stealing over her. Not dizziness, but rather a floating sensation, though her bare feet still connected her to the floor. A warm whirlwind stirred around her ankles, twisting up her legs, swishing the hem of the robe so the satin brushed over her calves.

She blinked slowly, pressing her palm to her forehead, waiting for the feeling to pass. The French doors blew open all at once, as if from a great gust, and the wind that surged through felt warm, heady. It smelled faintly of bay rum.

Impossible. It's twenty degrees out there.

Yet it lingered; the warmth and the scent. She felt a pull-a mental magnet she was powerless to resist. She faced the heated blast, even as it picked up force. The scarlet satin sailed behind her. It twisted around her legs like a twining serpent.

Like the mist in my dream.

Her hair billowed around her face. The robe's sash snapped against her thighs. She moved toward the doors even as she told herself not to. She resisted, but the pull was stronger than her own will. Her feet scuffed over the soft carpet, then scraped over the cold, wet wood floor of the balcony. The whirlwind surrounded her, propelled her to the rail. She heard the doors slam behind her, and didn't even turn. Her eyes probed the darkness below. Would this unseen hand pull her right over? She didn't think she'd be able to stop it if it wanted to.

God, what is happening to me?

She resisted and the wind stiffened. The sash whipped loose and the robe blew back. No part of her went untouched by this tempest. Like invisible hands it swirled around her thighs, between them. Her breasts quivered. Her nipples stood erect and pulsing. She throbbed with heightened awareness, her flesh hypersensitive to the touch of the wind as it mercilessly stroked her body. Her heart raced, and before she could stop herself she'd let her head fall back, closed her eyes and moaned softly at the intensity of the sensations.

All at once it simply stopped. The warmth and the essence of bay rum lingered, but that intimate whirlwind died slowly, giving her control of her body once more. She didn't know what it had been. A near breakdown? A mental lapse of some sort? Whatever, it was over.

Shaken, she pushed her hands through her hair, uncaring that her robe still hung gaping, having been driven down, baring one shoulder. She turned to go back inside.

He stood so close she nearly bumped into his massive chest. Her head came up fast and her breath caught in her throat. His black eyes seemed molten as they raked her. The mystery wind stirred gently. She could see silver glints behind those onyx eyes, and she felt their heat touch her as the wind had when his gaze moved slowly upward from her bare feet. She felt it scorching her as it lifted, over her legs. The hot gaze paused at the mound of black curls at the apex of her thighs and she thought she'd go up in flames. Finally it moved again, with deliberate slowness over her stomach. She commanded her arms to come to life-to pull her robe together. They did not respond. His eyes seemed to devour her breasts, and she knew her nipples stiffened under that heated stare. The man licked his lips and she very nearly groaned aloud. She closed her eyes, but they refused to stay that way. They opened again, against her will. They focused on his, though she didn't want to see the lust in his eyes. Finally he looked at her throat. The bruise he'd put on her there seemed to come alive with his gaze. It tingled, and she felt the muscle beneath the skin twitch spasmodically. She saw his Adam's apple move as he swallowed. He closed his eyes briefly, and when they opened again they locked with hers, refusing to allow her to look away.

Her arms regained feeling and she jerked the robe together in a move that showed her anger. "You," she whispered. She felt fear and confusion. More than that, she felt sheer joy to see him again. She refused to let him see it. "What are you doing here?"