Again his eyes swept her swollen bosom, the witch’s full-bodied build—a temptation that raced through his veins like hot blood. As if she would block his getaway path, Genevieve stood. The curve of her hips under a matronly skirt held his interest. Enough so that he didn’t want to walk out the door. “You’re too young to be alone.” “I’m not considered young anymore.” “At any age, madam, I’d think you too formidable to find contentment in the arms of a mortal man.” She took another step toward him showing no fear. “Or you’d find me an easy target. I think what’s in your mind is more than a woman to talk to.” “Then you shouldn’t be in my mind.” “I’m not.” “I don’t believe you.” “When I mentioned holding on to humanity you told me I seemed surprised. Since I didn’t want to annoy you any further, I’m now simply interpreting what’s on your face.” “You choose when and if to use your gift.” “Well of course! If I read everyone all the time, I’d probably go mad.” He bristled, hid his wince. A flood of unspoken words battled against begging her to see into him again. What he was, what he would always be should have already worn out his welcome. But she took another step, now just a reach away. And when Genevieve closed her beautiful eyes, for the slowest second of his existence, having a bond to the beating heart of this woman filled Drummond’s soul.
Praise for Shela Sky "Be prepared to be drawn into THE VAMPIRE'S TOUCH from the very first. I didn't want to stop reading even after I got to 'The End.' Ms. Sky drew me into her world and never let me go." ~Linda J. Parisi, author of Noble Blood (available from The Wild Rose Press), winner 2009 Golden Leaf "Loved it, with its twists and turns in a Yule season like no other. Genevieve rediscovers the powers of good and evil in a battle for all she holds dear." ~Melina Morel, author of Smolder "Shela Sky weaves an intense and sensual story about the love between Genevieve and Drummond, two lonely souls brought together by tragedy. THE VAMPIRE'S TOUCH is a must read!" ~Jenn Nixon, author of Lucky's Charm "I sat down intending to read just a few chapters for the moment and ended up devouring the whole story because I just couldn’t put it down. THE VAMPIRE’S TOUCH is fast paced, sensuous, and filled with that delicious tension that keeps you turning the pages. A keeper." ~Anne Carrole, author of Re-Ride at the Rodeo (available from The Wild Rose Press)
The Vampire’s Touch by Shela Sky
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental. The Vampire’s Touch COPYRIGHT 2011 by Michelle A. Flagg All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. Contact Information:
[email protected] Cover Art by Angela Anderson The Wild Rose Press PO Box 706 Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706 Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com Publishing History First Black Rose Edition, 2011 Published in the United States of America
Dedication To all the beloveds in my life
Chapter 1 Drummond studied the witch’s daughter. “The echo of a child’s Hell still rings in my ears,” left his lips in a private whisper meant only for him. When he saved them, the witch had introduced herself as Genevieve. Swift and merciless, he had driven a wooden stake through the attacker’s useless heart. Now, he stood still in the little girl’s bedroom doorway watching her mother cast a spell of peaceful sleep, smoothing loose wisps of chestnut hair from her daughter’s cheek. Affection swelled from Genevieve’s ample bosom like a protective aura, almost visible, almost tangible. He sensed good magic and a potent force, perhaps out of fear for the innocent one. How could a child be marked for undeath? Had the mindless creature not sensed the witch’s abilities? Not possible, Drummond thought. Tasting a child, the vampire had broken a timeless law. “We do not drink from such young veins” was instilled forever in his thoughts. Every vampire honored it, mindless, thirsty or not. Surely, ending a witch’s life would also mark a vampire for immediate destruction by the Powers That Rule The Universe. “We are two of humankind never hunted. A child. A witch. Quite a foolish move, but you saved Lydia’s life, and I thank you,” entered his mind. His back stiffened, his shoulders braced. She read a vampire’s thoughts as if he were a mere mortal. “It is an unwritten law. Yet one of your kind 1
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dared to take my child.” “It was not like me, madam, yet we are both born of a need for blood.” The witch’s mystical force seemed to ripen as the child closed her sable eyes. Drummond thought them exquisite for one so young, beautiful in such sweet innocence. “My daughter’s eyes have been trained on you since her rescue. Lydia believes you are different. Are you different, vampire?” He noticed a slight unsteadiness when Genevieve came away from the bed, also acutely aware that beads of crimson blood formed along the scrape on the woman’s right cheek. No doubt, her face had sustained the injury when the vicious thing shoved her away and onto the slippery ground. Following her uneven steps down the hall confirmed the toll such an attack had taken on her as well. Tall and buxom by early twentieth century standards, the witch appeared more than able to defend herself, perhaps even without mystical skills. They entered a modern kitchen. Drummond didn’t particularly care for Art Deco. Nevertheless, even in its linear symmetry, it was lived in, neatly decorated in patterns of black, white, and shades of gray. He studied subtle nuances of a comfortable human existence. A breadbox and two dishes in the sink, a pot of cooked poultry still stood on the stove. “I’ve made a good life for my daughter, for myself. The building has been in my family since its construction in 1908.” “The store downstairs?” he asked. “It’s an art gallery, which has been in my family for generations. I operate it.” She settled into a chair, and Drummond reached for a soft towel, wetting it before pressing it against her cheek. She took a quick breath, and he dabbed the scrape gently. The draw of blood didn’t surface. 2
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It was a need he was able to bury, to access only for existence. Tender sadness crossed the witch’s face, her ruddy skin already hinting a bruise. “Thank you,” came quickly, changing her staid demeanor. “May I pour you a cup of tea?” he asked as if this were his home, not hers. She fixated on the china cup, half-empty on the table. An hour ago, brewed herbs had settled the child’s nerves. He hadn’t touched, much less, dared to hold a child since the night he met undeath. His hands, usually gloved, didn’t automatically reach out for a human. Yet before he carried the sleepy child to her room, Lydia had curled on his lap, clinging as if she were his. It triggered a human response in him, and without caution, he had quickly vowed to protect the little one now and always. When Genevieve placed Lydia in her bed, emptiness filled him. “Lydia only sipped the tea when you held the cup to her turned-down lips.” Genevieve sighed, and he glimpsed a mother’s terror still on her face. “She wasn’t frightened by you. Neither am I. Why is that, vampire?” Stepping back to the counter, he couldn’t meet her intense gaze. “Does the wound still smart?” She pulled the towel away from her grazed skin and slowly shook her head. “Voice your thought, please.” “There is no scent of a man in your home.” The factual statement sounded forward for Drummond, uncommonly so. Again she shook her head, saying “No,” and although he rarely engaged in conversation with humans, he craved the tenor of her voice. “You are a creature who lives in the shadow of life—neither part of my world nor content in yours. You prefer solitude, whether your heart beats or not. Is it because you remain the master of your soul?” 3
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“They call me Drummond,” he softly replied, unwilling to answer her question. “I know what they call you,” she whispered. “From the Gaelic ‘drum’ and ‘onde’ meaning high ground, Scottish heritage is presumed.” His eyes bore through her. “You’d be correct, on both counts, madam.” “Lord Perth is the current British emissary to Rome. Were you Catholic in life?” “I practiced faith, although considered a bastard son conceived without love.” “In what century,” she asked. “The eighteenth, madam,” he answered. “From the line of John, James, or William,” she replied with visible curiosity. “It makes no difference, suffice to say that side of my family tree has a splendid history recorded for a thousand years. Shall I ask your history, madam?” “You may call me Genevieve.” “I wouldn’t wish to appear forward.” The slightest smile lit her cocoa eyes. “It’s not the 1700s. The 1900s will hold many advances never dreamed possible.” He nodded, put off by her reply. Modern advances meant nothing to a vampire. Decades pass. Styles change. Yet the draw of the drink and drain remained an eternal lesson in self-control for him. “Oh my, you most definitely are different.” “That I am.” Genevieve laughed. The lyrical huskiness, low for a woman, teased him like a majestic musical cadence. Her boldness was refreshing, which pleased him. So did her full figure, and his eyes slid to heavy breasts hidden beneath a high-buttoned blouse. “You took a risk tonight, destroying one of your own.” “He attacked a young one, and I assure you, he was not like me.” 4
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“With thirst like his, you would have done the same.” “I would not,” he replied, less indignant, more informative. “I control my need to feed. And I don’t drink from a child.” “But you’ve tasted human blood.” “On the rare occasion,” he replied with a smirk. Her doe-shaped eyes narrowed. “You’ve never killed a human.” “No, although I’ve assisted death,” he said looking away. “I have the ability to listen to my conscience.” “Very few with your, uh, affliction deny themselves.” Genevieve’s smirk intrigued him as she added, “Plus you wear your soul on your sleeve.” “But in a good way.” Then she smiled, revealing even white teeth as her cheeks dimpled. “An attractive way, since I don’t see a reason to tell you a lie.” “Touché, madam,” he whispered. “You are easy to talk to.” “You avoid humanity.” “I’ve broken up the occasional bar fight.” “But you don’t make it a habit of standing in a kitchen and offering someone a cup of tea.” “No.” “In fact, the last conversation with a human took place a week ago.” “I do happen to enjoy pressed shirts and clean trousers.” He leaned against the counter, arms locked across his open cashmere coat. “I find myself oddly relaxed around you.” “Well, you should. There’s no wooden stake in my hand. Not one silver sword in the cupboard about to slice across your pale throat. Would you like to check?” “I believe you,” he said with a looser smile. “But some day this immortal body will be turned to dust 5
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and bone, sent swirling into the maelstrom of purgatorial fires to purge a moral conscience.” She studied him. Did he sense acceptance or something more? “I invited you into my home, Drummond. I allowed you to hold my child.” He nodded once. “You’ve said kind words, madam. Are you truly not worried that the sweet, life-sustaining force pulsing through your veins might be my forbidden midnight feast?” Her expression turned serious. “I don’t sense it, not at all.” She indicated the chair across the table. He remained at the counter as she asked, “How long ago, Drummond?” “My turning came about a hundred-twenty years ago.” “It was in this city, wasn’t it?” “Yes,” he replied, more intrigued by her ability to read him. The witch’s gaze drifted down. “It happened on a snowy night just like this one, during the season of Yule.” “Do you follow the Wiccan Way of a witch?” “As my mother and her mother before, for generations,” she replied, adding with a little grin, “But in a good way.” He returned a grin as well. “I was at death’s very door, anyway.” “You left your homeland to make a new life where your family name wouldn’t be a gossip topic.” A partial truth, he thought. “And I wasn’t well.” “But you weren’t ready to die.” “No,” he confirmed. “I had an incurable disease of the lungs. In a way, I’d been given a death sentence. Tonics helped me breath, numbed the discomfort. Coming to this country, I thought I’d find a cure. Instead, I met someone I thought a charming woman.” 6
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“You were entering a-a friendship with her.” “I assumed so.” “But the demon that did this to you was a beauty,” Genevieve replied. He looked into her eyes saying, “Beyond belief, madam.” “Nothing gave her away?” “Nothing. We’d meet after sunset in small cafes. One night, she asked me to her home, and I was eager to oblige.” “You wanted her to turn you?” He straightened his back. “Read my soul, madam. It wasn’t in my belief system, the existence of vampires merely a folktale or some such nonsense. I was under her spell, not ready for death, yet unable to live a healthy, normal life.” One thin eyebrow arched as if she’d had a revelation. “You fought what settled in your soul, and she didn’t know.” “Most like me don’t think.” “You found a way to hold on to humanity.” “You seem surprised.” She grinned in a satisfied fashion. “To be honest, yes and no, I mean I’ve heard about the legends, though I never fully accepted that any such creatures of the night existed. Stories are whispered in Wiccan circles, passed from the Old Ones. Fairytales… Those unlike other damned creatures who stay hidden from sight and the wooden stake. I’ve always dismissed the fantasies, until tonight. What stamina to deny the craving.” “I am what I am, madam.” “To have such ability is a gift.” She paused, studying him further. “Why have you tried to destroy yourself?” His gaze locked on Genevieve’s warm brown eyes. Like needles they probed for details he’d never spoken about. “This damned existence lures me like 7
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a solemn requiem. There’s no purpose to it. So I take on the mindless drinkers with hopes that one will finally bring my soul to its rightful end.” “You don’t seem the suicidal type, Drummond.” His name had never been spoken with such emotion. Had he been a living man, a quick lurch of his heart would be immediate. Something stirred within him. Something so different, he didn’t know how to react. To kiss those full lips, to hold this woman close in a dance of love and sway together flesh on flesh stole his response. Forever aware of his icy grip, soft leather gloves usually disguised an unnatural touch. Yet tonight of all nights, with snow falling and bitter north wind, he’d left them behind and then walked the same narrow, deserted street of the city as Genevieve and her daughter, intentionally looking for the one moment of destruction—not conversation with someone who could read thought or cast spells. With clenched fists, he’d have to stand his ground against desires that never surfaced. As his discomfort grew, he turned the conversation’s focus around. “Your cheek no longer bleeds.” She placed the soiled towel on the table and looked away. “Did I hit a nerve? I’m sorry.” “There’s no need, madam.” “Genevieve.” “Yes, Genevieve,” he replied in a whisper. “There’s hope for your soul. I don’t sense you’re doomed to the fires of Hell.” “Because I rule my conscience,” he replied with sarcasm, and then straightened his stance about to leave. Again his eyes swept her swollen bosom, the witch’s full-bodied build—a temptation that raced through his veins like hot blood. As if she would block his getaway path, Genevieve stood. The curve of her hips under a 8
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matronly skirt held his interest. Enough so that he didn’t want to walk out the door. “You’re too young to be alone.” “I’m not considered young anymore.” “At any age, madam, I’d think you too formidable to find contentment in the arms of a mortal man.” She took another step toward him showing no fear. “Or you’d find me an easy target. I think what’s in your mind is more than a woman to talk to.” “Then you shouldn’t be in my mind.” “I’m not.” “I don’t believe you.” “When I mentioned holding on to humanity you told me I seemed surprised. Since I didn’t want to annoy you any further, I’m now simply interpreting what’s on your face.” “You choose when and if to use your gift.” “Well of course! If I read everyone all the time, I’d probably go mad.” He bristled, hid his wince. A flood of unspoken words battled against begging her to see into him again. What he was, what he would always be should have already worn out his welcome. But she took another step, now just a reach away. And when Genevieve closed her beautiful eyes, for the slowest second of his existence, having a bond to the beating heart of this woman filled Drummond’s soul.
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Chapter 2 Why you, and why tonight, Genevieve wondered. Each gentle probe of the vampire’s psyche revealed a strong personality full of a man’s wants and needs. Like a man, his thoughts were a linear progression, not scattered or as creative as hers. She had hoped to expound blistering accusations, enough to send the mysterious creature out into the bitter winds rattling the parlor windows. His good looks alone were a sensual intimidation. The mind-vision of sculpted muscle on his arms and chest continued to keep her off balance, and she sensed there was no mistake to be made. He was drawn to converse with her as if they were long lost friends filling each other in on recent happenings in one another’s lives. Nothing about him warned danger, yet perhaps he was tempted to fulfill a different craving, which for a healthy man came across as strong as blood lust. Why me and why tonight. Both questions again resonated through her subconscious. I am as far removed from beautiful as breath is from an undead. He is interesting, more attractive than a human in a mysterious way. Not a model in any catalog I’ve seen rivals his masculine carriage. He seemed at ease taking in everything about the kitchen. Most women would flutter their eyelashes and give a brilliant smile. Instantly aware of herself, Genevieve’s gaze faltered looking past Drummond and to the wall. No. He’d see nothing inviting in a woman left swollen and plump from childbirth, unlike her Wiccan sisters who had cast spell upon spell returning to their former trim shapes in weeks 10
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after the grueling ordeal. She spent years trying but not a pound melted off. Her proud, slender carriage would never return. Her hands eased down a plain black skirt, smoothing the fine wool. When she gave herself permission to take another glimpse of Drummond, he appeared lost in his own memories, far from the reality of standing so close to her. “Tell me about your daughter,” he suddenly said. “She’s the joy in my life.” A smile started, which she couldn’t hide. “That was perceptive of you, finding the one subject that fills my heart.” “Come, madam, there must be more.” Genevieve looked away. The sting of rejection, abysmal humiliation hit full force. One night with Lydia’s father sputtered like a doused flame. “I lead a very subdued life, Drummond.” He turned pensive as she recalled the Old One’s bitter accusation when her condition was sensed. You’ll live the punishment for allowing his child to live. Misery beyond sorrow, Genevieve! There should be nothing in your womb. Expel the seed, witch. Furious with the old witch as well as her Wiccan sisters, she had answered with contempt, “You’re a fool, Esther! And you, my sisters, can all go to Hell!” “There’s nothing more,” she softly replied. “Being alone makes you strong.” “Alone,” he asked in a hushed voice. “Many were furious with my decision to carry the child of a man who didn’t love me. My mother left the city after Lydia was born.” Why had she shared the bitter twists and turns of her life? Her gaze strayed to his hand. “You must have many friends.” “I’ve stayed close to neighbors I’ve known all my life.” Through the years, an aching need to protect the next generation born with her abilities caused 11
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something close to fearlessness in her soul. “Then you must be a good friend to them as well.” The meaning behind his thoughtful words gave her confidence enough to meet his gaze. Drummond’s aura shimmered with an intensity she’d never seen. She couldn’t step back nor defend herself from its effect. Studying his pensiveness, a deep desire took hold. For six years, Genevieve had denied it. “What is within your soul, Drummond?” The question seemed to rattle him and his posture changed, his wide shoulders lowered. She touched his hand. It could have been a block of ice. Brushing his palm, the absence of a lifeline was almost painful to her sixth sense, but Genevieve couldn’t let go. She allowed him to stand closer than any man. He towered above her, masculine and still. Like a fine work of art, features chiseled his face. Drummond’s shiny brown hair was pulled back, unfashionably long and bound at the nape of his neck as if he didn’t belong to this century. The widow’s peak on his forehead, directly in line with a strong, cleft chin, became one more defining factor to fine-tune his handsomeness. Mute frustration swept across his face, yet he didn’t pull away. “You are warm,” he finally whispered. Flush crept up her cheeks. A hint of interest swirled through the dark lenses of his eyes and a scowl began. His gaze landed on the rise and fall of her breasts. Instantly unsure, Genevieve tried to wiggle her hand away. Instead, their fingers laced, drifted around her wide waist. She wanted his embrace. Afraid to breathe, afraid of being possessed by what she couldn’t control, shock waves prickled her senses as if this were the first time in the arms 12
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of a man. “Does my touch make you uncomfortable?” “Yes… No,” she whispered. For an endless minute they were locked together. A gentle tug drew her deeper into his arms. Resting against the hardness of his chest underneath a pressed black shirt, the fabric cooled her cheek but not what simmered within. She sensed he was as alone in this world of desire as she. The reverie of silence heightened. Then his lips brushed her hair away and lingered on her forehead. A sigh escaped. She closed her eyes. “This is wrong.” “What is, madam?” The question had her searching his soul again. What it revealed made her heart skip a beat. Exploration, passion, the hope of a connection had been laid bare. She stepped back, still unsure of his tender embrace. Drummond held her hand, and they strolled through the parlor, past the piano and the stark tree in front of the window. She didn’t hesitate when they entered her bedroom. Darkness engulfed them. And easing the door closed, not a word was spoken, but Genevieve gave herself permission to feel again. **** He needed her in his arms, against his chest and cushioned. Her face tilted up and their lips were less than a breath apart. He wanted her, all of her. Frenzied nips at Genevieve’s full lips and dancing tongues replaced kisses both soft and sweet. Hungry for more, temptation within Drummond steered her to the side of her bed. Her body stiffened, but her heart raced. In an uneven rhythm, he removed her blouse and bared her breasts. Luscious and plump, he teased until she gasped. Her nails dug into the soft cashmere of his 13
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coat when he unfastened her skirt. A silken slip that smelled of lavender fluttered to the floor as well. His hunger became insatiable as he eased down the underclothes hugging her skin. Warm and inviting, she was curved and soft. Aroused by her scent, one finger slid across her round belly and something close to a sob sounded. “You are lovely,” he whispered. Her blush was visible even in darkness, the racing of her heart thundered in his ears. “Please go,” she suddenly whispered. Something stirred within him, and he whispered her name. She didn’t look into his eyes, and in a harsh tone repeated, “Go.” Was it the coldness of his hand that denied any further exploration? Drummond didn’t dwell on the reason, stepping back. Anger at misreading her mood forced a deliberate turn away. Walking to the window, he closed his eyes against moonlight filtering through the white lace curtains. “I apologize, madam.” “There’s no need,” she replied. “If I were able to suppress my desire for you, I’d leave through the door.” With an easy push, the window rose and he stepped onto the ledge. Without a sound, his feet hit the ground. The street was empty. Bitter wind howled. Drummond raced down the snow covered street. Mon Dieu, I’ve never been so forward! What did you expect her to say? He cursed to himself as anger and frustration peaked. He had to hunt; needed to feed. Above all, he wanted to turn back time and undo the last awkward hour of his undead existence. **** Frigid wind whipped around Genevieve’s room. She shivered, trembled from head to toe. Yet she 14
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didn’t attempt to cover her exposed body. Tears burned in her eyes, ready to drip like icicles should she allow them to fall. She sat on the soft quilted bed unwilling to acknowledge what she felt. A thrill knifed through her very core. No man had ever called her lovely. No man had ever made her feel so alive. One by one, she unlaced the sturdy shoes on her feet and slipped out of thick stockings. What made you stop him? Why did you have such callousness in your voice? You didn’t think twice about inviting him into your home! You sensed no danger when he held you in his arms! The chill inside deepened, clutching her soul in a strangle hold. Even as a child, intuition had been astounding. Yet when it came to Drummond, she chose to cower inside herself instead of allowing what she sensed to guide her actions. The Old One had been right. Misery beyond sorrow, she thought. Drummond was different, his tenderness real. He had saved her life; Lydia’s life. The room suddenly felt as empty as her heart. A fierce chill shot through, and Genevieve hid under the quilt. Close the window. Check on Lydia. Bolt the door, put away supper. Wash the tea cup. Above all, deny what you sense—that there’s a reason this creature of the night crossed your path and saved your child. Above all, deny what you feel. Deny what you want.
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Chapter 3 The next morning, Genevieve sipped strong coffee while staring at little Lydia across the breakfast table. Nibbling the toast’s edge, homemade strawberry jelly dripped and the child’s pinky raked it off the plate before bringing it to her mouth. Automatically, Genevieve studied the purple wound on Lydia’s wrist, a horrific reminder of last night. In an instant, she swept Lydia’s memory of the attack. No fear. No upset. Only being held by Drummond and feeling protected. Interesting, she thought, an innocent child can forget the terror and find comfort in the vampire’s touch. Yet she had as well. She studied Lydia’s sweet face. “It’s almost time for school.” With a shrug, her daughter sat back, both legs dangling off the kitchen chair, snow boots thumping against its wooden legs. Her attention switched to the puncture marks with pursed lips and a serious expression. “I don’t want a bandage on them, and I promise to keep my sweater sleeve down so no one in class will see. My Drummond will come back tonight.” Setting down the china cup, Genevieve swallowed and then narrowed her eyes. “Your Drummond?” “Yes, Mamma, that’s what I sense. Maybe he’ll help us decorate the Christmas tree.” “I don’t think so.” “Can he walk us to school?” Not today, she thought, or any other day. “We 16
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can manage to get to Saint Bridget’s ourselves, lovey.” Lydia gave a long sigh and a longer shrug. She crunched the rest of the toast into her mouth and with bulging cheeks went for her book-strap. Already able to read and showing signs of high intelligence, Genevieve hated the fact that no public school had the ability to nourish Lydia’s quick mind. Private schools springing up all over the city cost a fortune. But Saint Bridget’s placed her daughter under the watchful eye of a life-long, trusted friend. Whether or not she admitted it to anyone, Loretta had the gift. Plus, the moral tenets instilled in Lydia would create a compass for her psychic ability as it matured. Lydia, like Genevieve would choose her own path. No Old One would label her daughter foolish or stubborn or unwise. They both bundled under layer after layer before walking six short city blocks. The snowy night of terror had given way to bright sunshine this December morning. No danger lurked in the narrow alleys between buildings, but Genevieve kept Lydia as close as possible. “I want to decorate the tree tonight when Drummond comes,” her daughter said as they crossed the last street. “We don’t own Christmas decorations.” “But Mister Pete found us a tree, just like I wished for! Now it has to be dressed so Drummond will like it.” “Dressed?” she exclaimed, not mentioning Drummond’s name on purpose. “You whined and sobbed crocodile tears to Mister Pete! Now you want it decorated as well?” “Yes. Like all the other girls in class,” Lydia replied. “I celebrate Yule, not Christmas,” she stated. “You call it Yule, I call it Christmas.” 17
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Giving in to her daughter’s request had been hard enough. A living evergreen had been cut from the earth for what good purpose? And decorating it would be an insult. Genevieve hid her displeasure with a bothered smile. “I suppose I can buy some.” “Oh no, Mamma, you have to make them yourself, real pretty ones with sparkles on them.” “Really? I have to make them?” “You don’t want to. I sense it,” her daughter softly whispered. “Lovey, it’s not a question of want.” “Didn’t you have a Christmas tree when you were my age?” “My mother didn’t celebrate Christmas. I didn’t, either.” “But it isn’t only you and me anymore. Think about Drummond.” How poignant, she thought, how true. Getting Drummond off her mind was nearly impossible. Every cold breath of air reminded her of being in his arms last night. Natural curiosity about the way most of the world celebrated their holiday should have been expected. Her daughter was around many children her age in Saint Bridget’s. Loretta had something to do with this as well. The adamant inquisition about having a Christmas tree was normal, but Lydia’s insistent inclusion of Drummond was not, as if the child had already accessed her psychic abilities to read another’s mind. “I’ll see if I can get something together this morning.” Lydia squeezed her hand with an excited squeal. “Oh, Mamma, it’ll be perfect. Our tree will look beautiful. I’ll draw a picture to show everyone in my class! Drummond will love it!” She gripped her daughter’s hand tighter while her heart sank like a stone. The way she had ordered the vampire to leave had been firm, if not as 18
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cold as the winter wind. Whether or not he had vowed to protect Lydia, there was no reason for him to show himself again. The fact that she hadn’t foreseen last night’s attack continued to frighten Genevieve. Like a ghost haunting her, the Old One’s words, spoken six years ago, again ransacked her heart. The child will bring danger to you as never before, witch. Expel the man’s seed before there’s no turning back. Until last night, she hadn’t thought about the bitter proclamation. Now, it took every bit of determination to swallow a growing fear. **** In a straight row like little soldiers, Lydia’s classmates exited Saint Bridget’s church. Genevieve pulled the heavy wool cloak away from her mouth to kiss the child who left her side. Then as if expected, Loretta caught her eye and whispered to Sister Caroline. The other teacher herded two classes into the adjoining school as Loretta studied her. “Good morning, Genevieve. Need to talk?” They entered the church together. “You definitely have the gift,” Genevieve said. “When I sense you it hums twice as fast. Let’s sit in the back, and I promise not to douse you with holy water.” “How long have we been friends, Loretta?” “The catchy phrase ‘all my life’ comes to mind, but I suspect even longer than that.” “I still can’t believe you’re happy living like this.” “I respect your beliefs, Gen, as I know you respect mine. So tell me about last night before we talk about, you know, him.” Genevieve’s mouth dropped open. “How in hell— how in His good name do you know?” “The same way you’d know if something so horrific happened to me.” “I didn’t see it. I didn’t sense it.” 19
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“Vampire attacks aren’t common.” “And no demon in its right mind attempts to kill an innocent child.” “All the more reason to accept his protection, Gen.” “A vampire’s protection, I don’t believe I’m hearing this from you.” “He’s different, just like in the fairytales our mothers told. You know about the legends. You know it in your heart. His soul is his own and as troubled as yours. He’s different.” “Singled-out creatures following a destined path like they are the otherworld’s heroes? You expect me to believe that such creatures exist.” “Remember how we used to dream about one finding us. How he’d reveal his dark, romantic side? We’d be tied to railroad tracks or dangling from some building in peril.” “Yes, and we were thirteen years old and full of drama. Legends are fiction.” “I’m not so sure anymore. He is the legend, my friend. You felt it last night, uh, among other things.” As if the temperature inside the church had suddenly plunged, Genevieve shivered, clenched her hands tight beneath the woolen cloak. “What do you sense?” “Lydia is special, perhaps born to be a witch beyond our abilities. She already shows innate signs of the gift. I see it in her during class. She can read anyone’s mood so quickly it astounds me. We couldn’t sense the coming rainstorm until we were twelve, but she’s only five years old, Gen, and wise beyond her years. Someone in the dark world may have spotted her. If so, he or she is hidden behind dark magic spells you and I can’t penetrate. I swear Lydia’s safe with us during the day, but no human can protect her once the sun sets. Let him do what 20
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you and I can’t. He has to fulfill his own destiny, and you won’t be able to stand in the way or stop what has already started.” “You stood in the way of yours, Loretta.” Her best friend smiled. “I choose to embrace it differently than our sisters.” “Our sisters? They turned their backs on me because I had her.” “I know this is where I’m supposed to be, how about you?” “Lydia and I are fine on our own.” “Are you really? Is being alone what you see for yourself or did you intentionally make it happen?” “Why should I let him into our lives?” “Because you felt something again and that’s allowed. Talk to the Old One.” The chill inside her heart grew colder. “Six years ago when I needed her, she judged me strong-headed and foolish. It’s because of her my mother left, like I’d brought shame upon the Wiccan Way.” “You always danced to a different melody, Gen, and you’re very good at pushing everyone else away. Lydia has an impressive gift. She may embrace the sisterhood some day. She may need them.” “I’m all my daughter needs.” “I don’t sense that’s true. Well, you’ve already broken away from the old ways. I’d make peace with the Old One. And I’d decorate the tree.” “I still embrace Yule.” “And who embraces you?” Loretta softly asked. “Uh-oh, my class is rambunctious today, and I’m sure the closer we get to Christmas, the worse it’ll be. I have to go before they hang from the chalk boards.” Genevieve accepted a hug, but Loretta’s last question lingered on long after her friend was gone. Had the vampire purposely attacked her daughter? Was Lydia singled out by dark magic? Is that why 21
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she couldn’t fight the damned thing? Why she couldn’t cast a protection spell when it shoved her to the ground? Had Drummond not been there, she would have lost Lydia. I need to speak to the Old One, she thought, and that won’t be an easy accomplishment by any stretch of the imagination.
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Chapter 4 Genevieve took a sharp breath but knocked softly. For years, she had avoided this block, this part of the city. Herbs and a variety of spices assaulted her sinus cavities, but the real discomfort remained in her soul. A full five minutes passed, knowing that the witchy woman continued to vacillate between ignoring the intrusion and letting her in. About to walk away, Genevieve purposely closed her mind. As if falling on her knees with her face to the floor, this was as close to a grovel as she was willing to get. Then a multitude of locks slid and one latch unhinged from its resting place. The painted knob turned, and Genevieve pushed open the door with one finger and a resolute frown. “Blessed Yule, Genevieve.” “Blessed Yule to you, Esther,” she muttered less than gracious. Her mind raced allowing images of the attack, of Drummond. “Stop bombarding my psyche, witch. I prefer we use words on this very special occasion. After all, six years is a long time.” Esther shuffled to the kitchen table where a deck of worn tarot cards were stacked. “I won’t charge you for a Celtic spread.” “I didn’t come to hear my future.” “It was a little humor to break the ice, Genevieve.” The witch cackled, a sound Genevieve recalled all too well. It reminded her of claws scratching down a window. She glared at the wrinkled woman. “I’m so sorry to have bothered you. Let’s forget I was ever here.” 23
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“Now, now, that was harsh, child. Your mother would be mortified.” “My mother is not around.” “And the mice will play, won’t they. She closed her heart to you and the child because you’re impossible to live with, Genevieve.” “It’s because of you she left the city.” “Wrong,” she huffed. “I have always told the truth. Misery and sorrow has found you, hasn’t it?” She clicked her tongue and folded her gnarled hands on the table. “But you aren’t bothering me, child. I sense it’s time we talk again, no matter how acerbic your tongue can be. I’m brewing wassail. Help yourself. You always enjoyed it.” “No thank you, I won’t intrude any further.” Turning to leave, she bit her lip. The taste of spiced cider filled Genevieve’s mouth as if on purpose, the power of Esther’s mind and will always a singular gift. “Such a lie, such a lie, you think even a small sip would infect you somehow. That wouldn’t be enough to crack the shell you’ve built. I know differently.” Sweltering from the heat in the room, Genevieve unclasped the woolen cloak. Holly, ivy, and mistletoe hung in every doorway. Evergreen branches were intertwined as expected. Reluctantly, she sat across from the old witch and waited. “Have you begun decorating for Yule? Tonight is the night, do you recall?” Once again, Esther clicked her tongue. “Ah, the child prefers Christmas, like the other traitor.” “Neither I nor Loretta betrayed you, Old One.” Genevieve looked Esther in the eyes. “I didn’t come here to discuss decorating anything. Something happened last night.” The witch nodded once and leaned back in her chair. “It involves the child.” “We took a walk,” she began, knowing that when 24
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it came to Lydia’s safety, she’d hold nothing back. “It was her request when the snow had stopped falling.” After a deep breath, Genevieve nodded and licked her lips. “The night air was crisp, and it was so peaceful until out of nowhere, a vampire pulled her out of my hold. The force knocked me to the ground.” “Did you cast a spell?” “I-I couldn’t. My mind went blank as she screamed. Its fangs sank into her wrist. I tried to, but I couldn’t.” “The child,” Esther said in a cold voice, “She was meant to be taken from you.” “No! Never! How can you even say that to me? Children are never marked for death, and when another appeared—” “What do you mean, another appeared.” The witch leaned forward scrutinizing Genevieve. “He wrestled her free, and she landed safe in my arms. Then he drove a stake through its heart.” Esther’s ice-blue eyes seemed crystals ready to crack. “He was also a vampire.” “What are you saying, Genevieve? What are you trying to pull?” “Do they exist, the ones who keep their souls?” “No witch has ever been approached by one.” “Until last night when I sensed he owned his soul. He calls himself Drummond.” Esther’s gaze narrowed. Her lips a thin line slashed across a wrinkled face. “The name is Scottish, a clan of proud and noble birth.” Genevieve felt the old witch’s probe to her mind. “He said he’s a bastard son, and I’m sure there were hundreds born through the centuries. How he died doesn’t matter.” Genevieve nodded. “I swear he has kept his soul.” The elder’s head drifted back. She closed her 25
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eyes for what seemed an eternity. “A legend has been shown to you of all people! It is an omen,” Esther exclaimed. “What did you do, witch?” Her heart raced. “He saved my daughter. I invited him into our home.” “You saw goodness in him.” She hadn’t meant to pause, but then answered, “Yes.” Esther straightened her back, never looking away. “There is more you’re not saying.” “He, he kissed me,” she whispered. Esther shook her head. “He did more than kiss you, child. He begged a deeper connection. Ah, poor stubborn Genevieve, once again you were a fool.” “I am not a fool, Old One,” she angrily huffed. “How rude of you to say…!” Two brittle hands flew up as Esther ordered, “Stop, witch! Look at what you’ve done, spitting in the face of destiny! Brighid’s flame like a new light can pierce the darkness of spirit and mind, yet bitter Genevieve’s heart remains locked in winter’s frozen earth. A Mother Goddess extends her hand. You, of course, push it away. Who do you think you are to reject such an auspicious offering?” Esther held the table for support as she stood. A storm of anger seemed to swirl around her. “Perhaps the child who brings danger is a blessing, not a curse. Don’t be thick, Genevieve! Legends are born of truth. You are unwise to turn him away. He will embrace the darkness and you as well as the child will be dead.” She hobbled the few steps and stirred the heady brew on a small gas stove. “What a fool! Leave. There is nothing I can teach you. You never learned how to listen.” Tears clouded Genevieve’s eyes. The lump in her throat made it impossible to swallow. Without a word, she hauled her heavy body out of the chair and walked out the door. 26
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Chapter 5 “Spiteful old woman, I should have known better. Loretta was wrong.” Genevieve muttered a diatribe of curse words while swiping her eyes. The street was busy now, with people carefully walking on packed snow and ice. The Old One’s accusations were meant to hurt, not help. No Mother Goddess extended a hand. She alone was the master of her destiny. She huffed a heavy breath, more critical of the path she had carved for herself. Fate had nothing to do with this. Call it a family trait or vaporous intuition, she thought, I’ve made my way through life with clouded judgment enough to be a talent. As a young woman, she wanted to study music instead of art, and she did. It only forced her to learn the family business the hard way when her mother left. She yearned for a career instead of a husband, and almost managed it until a man swept her off her feet. Her Wiccan sisters had warned her. Her mother and grandmother, both gifted with mystical sight discouraged her with dire predictions of failure and floundering. Did Genevieve listen? Of course not! Loretta would have stopped me, she thought as she maneuvered through the ice and snow, but when I needed her the most, she ran off to some Pennsylvania convent to learn what it meant to be a modern day vestal virgin for God. Sometimes, being an only child didn’t have an advantage. The weight of tradition and family hung over your head like a guillotine’s blade. One whoosh and the future you dreamed about didn’t exist anymore. 27
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She slid, caught the edge of a building before landing flat on her back. No one stopped to steady her, but the embarrassing possibility of falling made her heart drum in her chest cavity. Whether it was love or some romantic infatuation, she had tolerated Claude’s razzle-dazzle ways. The musician had no depth of emotion. He swore he was destined for fame and fortune until she told him about the child she carried. Typical Claude, she thought, he cursed and barked like a madman. It wasn’t hard to recall the look in his eyes, the selfcentered kind she should have expected. Her eyes stayed unfocused, cast down to the dirty slush. Leaning against the building, the conversation with Claude replayed in her mind. “I have the golden ticket in my hand, babe, the chance of a lifetime,” he had said with a nasty glimmer in his eye. “Six months on the road with a heap of top performers and you want me to blow it? The band is ready. It’s our time to shine.” Then Claude’s gleam slid into disgust. “Take care of it, Genevieve, or we’re through.” That was the one and only time Genevieve had lowered herself enough to grovel, until today. After cursing under her breath she muttered, “And that was that.” She turned the corner and hoped to make it to the gallery door without another slip and slide. Braced against the wind, she felt thankful to be on the street where her life existed. Other store owners chopped ice, shoveling the dull white mess off the curb. Her neighbor leaned on the chopper as she gingerly walked toward him concentrating on the concrete. “It’s a silly superstition to avoid all the cracks, Gen. You’re not gonna miss every single one today. I did your place, too.” She gave a grateful smile. “I owe you one, Pete.” 28
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“You decoratin’ the window for Christmas? It’s gettin’ kinda late, already the twenty-first. How ‘bout that tree, eh? I thought Lydia would explode, she was so excited. I got me one at the same place. The missus is pretty pleased and the kids are over the top. Did you decorate it with Lydia last night after I got it up for you?” His soft eyes watered as Genevieve shrugged. “No. We’re going to do that tonight.” As Pete winked and waved she thought, last night I tangled with a vampire and then I opened my home to a creature like none other—who happened to save my daughter’s life. One female child birthed in every generation has the gift, and last night I almost lost her. “Let’s hope it’s a good day for business, right?” she added as the key turned in the lock. “Yeah, from your mouth to God’s ear!” he said with a wry laugh while she entered the dark storefront gallery. **** She had hemmed and hawed, straightening rows of frames and categorizing canvases by size from small to large. Dora, the seamstress next door, had a store full of customers, and Genevieve wrote a note and placed it by her sewing machine. Then, she left with a little wave. It was already late morning when the small bell above the door jingled and Genevieve looked up with a nervous smile. “This winter weather is bad for business, not good at all,” Dora said. “What are you talking about? The store looked swamped!” “Yeah, busy busy, right? How about you?” Her tailor shop was right next door. “The gallery’s mostly dark these days, with the occasional frame for a special portrait mounted as a present. It’s not the season for gala exhibitions, but bookings are pretty plentiful after the New Year 29
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with many exciting shows.” “I can’t wait. It brings business in to me and Pete as well.” Genevieve took the bag from the seamstress’s outstretched hand and opening it, her smile widened. “Ooh, pretty baubles!” “Sorry, sweetie, I can only spare gold, green and red sequins—you know they’re in demand this time of year. I’ve got buttons of all shapes and sizes, though.” “They’re perfect,” she squealed, “And the ribbons?” “All rolled up underneath. Green and white velvet, just for our little cupcake, and I put in some industrial cotton thread and two sharp needles, just in case you don’t have any lying around the gallery.” “Stay for a few?” She wanted someone to talk to, and Dora was kind and wise. “Got to get back ‘cause customers all want these new fancy dresses and mink muffs before Christmas Eve, you know. They look so good under that tree. Tell Lydia I say hello!” She watched the spry seamstress practically sprint through the door, hugging her arms against the cold. Through the large display window, Dora waved a hasty goodbye and once again, Genevieve was alone with her thoughts. It wasn’t the most pleasant place to be today. The prospect of cutting, sewing, and creating bows to garnish a symbol she didn’t want in her home had to be tackled. Lydia’s pleas for handmade decorations settled in Genevieve’s heart. However, the visit to Esther as well as the terrifying scene last night threatened to resurface. Then Genevieve recalled the look in Drummond’s eyes, the feel of him against her. It would never happen again. Her priggish “Go” had shut him right down. He had saved her 30
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daughter from a random act of killing, but neither of them needed protection. She didn’t sense it. “I’m as good with a spell as any witch in this city. It won’t happen again. It can’t,” she whispered. The needle threaded after two tries. On the workbench, sequins of different colors piled to her left, rolls of ribbon to her right. “You have the next industrious hours to talk yourself out of what you don’t want to feel. After ordering him out of your home, he won’t come back, not tonight nor the next.” She straightened the shawl over her round shoulders and threw herself into tree decoration duty. With a sturdy basting stitch little metal dots lined a ribbon. “White for the season, green for the earth, gold for the harvest and the Sun God’s mirth,” she chanted in a low voice. The childhood rhyme brought visions of her and Loretta decorating their houses for Yule. Then melodies of a Bach concerto danced lively and bright in her head. She didn’t need a radio or a record to hear it, the touch of a harpsichord’s keys and correct hand positions imbedded in memory like second nature to Genevieve. The sound of strings and its lively tempo stylistic of the Baroque Era came alive in her heart. When all the strips of ribbon were decorated, she took hold of one. Forming two equal loops, she twisted them, tucked them into the opening and pulled with equal tension. One lovely bow was complete and then another. Solitude like the repetitious act was a comfort, almost a familiar friend. She craved both. It reminded her of how she memorized a new musical piece; perfecting each note, adjusting each finger’s weight until she owned it. Then there was the emotion behind the composition, prearranged yet interpretative. When Claude introduced her to jazz, 31
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Genevieve used the same mental exercise to learn the new art form. The world of music was where her heart lived, where her soul knew love. What she sensed in Drummond had everything to do with emotion and nothing to do with familiar. Once again, she shook those thoughts away. “There is no threat to Lydia,” she told herself, “but there is a threat to me, to what I know.” Bows in tribute to the Yule now littered the workbench. She’d hang them on the tree to symbolize both holidays. They had surreptitiously been intertwined for centuries anyway. “The twelve days of Christmas takes on a whole new meaning,” she whispered, proud of each decoration. A knock on the window jarred her from the thought. Dora motioned to her, and quickly, Genevieve sprang from the wooden stool to meet her at the door. “Oh, I didn’t scare you, did I? Listen, Loretta just called. They’re closing school early.” Air was instantly knocked out of Genevieve’s lungs, and she gripped the threshold. “What happened? What’s wrong?” Dora stared at her. “The radio just announced another snow storm is on the way. Weren’t you listening?” “I-I didn’t want to listen to the radio today.” “And I told you to have a telephone line installed.” “I have to get to the school.” “Slow down, honey. Loretta said she’d keep Lydia ‘cause it’s stew night, and we both know Caroline makes a terrific stew. They’ll bring her home after dark…” “After dark,” she gasped, pulling the shawl tight. “No. No, no, no…” “Are you all right? Why you and Loretta have been thick as thieves since God knows when. Lydia 32
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loves to be with her.” “She has to be in my house before sunset.” “Now why would you say that? It’s not like something is gonna pop out of nowhere and grab ya.” That’s exactly what Genevieve was worried about. “Are you hearin’ me? Lordy, you’re as pale as a ghost!” “Another will be waiting,” she barely whispered. “Say what? You’re not makin’ any sense at all.” “I’m, I’m sorry, Dora. I have to go.” She hurried back to the workbench, threw the finished bows in a shopping bag, and left. “Gen,” the seamstress called, “You didn’t lock—” “I don’t care! I don’t care,” she called over her shoulder. Not ice, snow, or slush would slow her step. **** Genevieve raced down six slippery blocks to the school. She didn’t take in the beauty of a city covered in white, didn’t feel the blistering cold or the huge flakes that began to fall again. Wind howled in time with the Salvation Army Band’s rendition of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentleman.” She reached into the pocket of her skirt, and two coins hit the tin with resonant pings. Empty. The coffers were as empty as was her heart. With the economy slowly coming back, it didn’t surprise her. Be very afraid. Don’t be a fool, she’ll be safe. Every other thought didn’t register. No sign of the sun in the sky brought another panic. Did time matter when you were singled out for some evil deed? What if Lydia was still in danger? What if the new swirl of snow hid another deadly attack? City blocks weren’t long. She’d get to the school; gather Lydia and tonight’s homework and leave. Loretta would balk at her over-protective attitude, but they’d be safe and sound inside her home well 33
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before sunset. This time, she’d cast a spell of enormous magnitude. Time did matter. It had to. As the school came into view, she saw other mothers bundled in heavy coats and muffs already gathered outside. They stared and whispered to each other as she rushed past in nothing but a shawl and still clutching a paper shopping bag. Genevieve slid on the top step, but with a determined yank, the heavy wooden door yielded. Once inside, she eyed the polished corridor cursing the fact that Loretta’s room was at the far end, not right here by the door. Her features set into a frown while marching to the classroom. Loretta, who already stood waiting at the door, wore a bothered expression. “Great, so you sensed my panic. I didn’t come for another lecture, Loretta. How do you expect me to react?” She lowered her voice. “Last night, I almost lost my daughter. No one here can protect her.” “So she’ll never see the world after sunset for the rest of her natural life, Gen, is that what you’re thinking? An army of women with holy water will safely deliver her to you!” Genevieve lurched back. “Loretta, I didn’t mean—” “Oh yes you did, and I see what’s in your mind, so don’t lie,” she replied with a click of her tongue. “It’s snowing already.” “We have windows in the school.” “You’re mad at me now.” “Disappointed in ‘oh ye of little faith’ would better suit the moment. Genevieve, you’re not yourself. For someone who redefines self-control, you’re not being rational. Lydia is in no danger. I’d sense it. You’d sense it. Your mother would be hounding the long distance operator and on the first ship crossing the Atlantic if it were so.” 34
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“Don’t play that card, Loretta. My mother’s dead to me. I’d rather be safe than immensely sorry.” She shook her head. “I’ll take her now,” she whispered. “Suit yourself, but get a grip, please. You’ll scare her with what I see in you.” Loretta called Lydia’s name, instructed her to get her coat. Genevieve waited anxiously in the hall, peeking through the window every other second. Recalling Lydia’s dramatic pleas for a trimmed Christmas tree in the parlor, she clutched the shopping bag’s handle as if it would fly away once outside.
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Chapter 6 Drummond awoke to the stillness of a winter sunset. The room was secure, in a building that would have no other tenant except himself. There had never been any intrusions, no solicitors, and no paperboy pounding on the door every morning. Nevertheless, he chose the far back corner of the basement to create his mausoleum, his daytime tomb. With heightened senses purely a necessity, he’d have to hunt for sustenance. Perhaps a diseased cat not long for the world; a starved dog intentionally put in his path. Perhaps he’d dine on deer, culling the winter herd of its sick members. Necessity, he thought as he released the lock, a despicable thirst quenched just enough to sustain this body. He took each stair with a deliberate drag of his foot. The little one needed protection. He felt it. But Genevieve—Ah, the witch encourages thoughts enough to shock my senses, creating a reaction in my soul akin to a volcanic eruption. His loins ached, the physical need prematurely awakened. Yes. He wanted her, all of her. The need for blood; the need for a woman’s tender touch grew with each hesitant step. Last night, that crazed vampire had lunged out of a dark alleyway with a purpose. Drummond knew the look in its eyes, true enough. The vision of Genevieve lying on the snow and little Lydia marked for murder became clearer. They’d both have his protection. But why explore this attraction to the witch? 36
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Sexual desire was easily assuaged with mindless nymphs in out of the way saloons or hidden salons. He paid in cash, acted like a mortal man cheating on his wife. Voluptuous socialites, rich women looking for a dangerous thrill were easily appeased. Never offering any information and confident with a list of fictitious personas, a vampire’s ability to glamour probing questions right out of their minds often came in handy. But Genevieve—I want her to remember me. I want her to love me. “What do I know of love,” he hissed as he readied his daily bath. Forcing the necessary thirst down deep inside, this ritual reminded him of human life, human needs. I may not have allowed anyone this close, but she is different. This feeling is different. He had seen stark fear in her eyes when he wrenched the child from the creature of the night. And when he buried a wooden stake in the center of its chest, he recalled the shocked expression on its evil face. There is a reason you walked that very street of the city last night. There has to be a reason. “My own kind,” he whispered, “How very wrong you were, madam. I own my soul. I choose my prey with care, not with need. I’ve put dying men out of their misery. I’ve bested the wolf and the bear for well over a century. No little one should meet a premature death. No innocent victim should be bled dry to feed a vampire’s need.” The world was all wrong, at least his was. Evil existed, and he wasn’t about to let it run rampant in a city so full of life. Call it a mission. Call it an affliction. Either way, his existence served a higher purpose. Lost in thought, he felt the water chill. He stepped over the tub’s porcelain edge, and quickly dried off before dressing. Choosing black trousers 37
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and a pressed dark shirt, he laced thick-soled shoes, which were perfect for hunting one specific park. The heavy cashmere coat that ended mid-calf was a favorite. In its inner breast pocket, he felt the slim hilt of a thin silver-coated blade. As usual, the wooden stake would be tucked in his belt and handy should another vampire cross his path. Tonight’s hunt would be swift before his vigil began across the street from Genevieve’s home above the art gallery. **** He turned the collar of his coat up against numbing wind. Drummond hadn’t expected new snow on the ground nor the severe plunge in temperature. A hearty thirst consumed him, more in need of sustenance than he expected. Sloshing and slipping down city streets wouldn’t do, not at all. Besides, tonight the street would be full of holiday shoppers. A swift duck into the alley without being noticed by a human had to be his next move. Three feet of nothingness between two dark buildings seemed the perfect escape. He closed his eyes and clutched frozen bricks, climbing like a spider to the roof. The chill, the height caused a shift within. Keen eyes swept across the vast expanse of city blocks looking north. His destination was miles away. It didn’t matter. He thought “rise”, and his body propelled itself up and forward, skipping off each roof as if they were steppingstones in a tranquil pond. By the time he reached the last one, his sense of smell increased. His prey was deep inside, scouting a dying deer. The ripe scent of alpha male hammered his flared nostrils. With full need now racing through his constricted veins, Drummond leapt— arms wide and the long coat catching a gust of bitter wind like the wings of a dark angel. Willing his body down through evergreen 38
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branches he landed on a clear patch of earth. He shed his clothes and crouched to observe the narrow eyes of a skilled hunter. Fangs lengthened in his mouth, the switch to demon complete when his fingers morphed into clawed appendages. Thick black nails raked the ground releasing the forest’s fragrant scent. No. A sickly prey wouldn’t do tonight. Thick hot blood of wolf called to him. He watched the canine approach a felled deer. It growled, bared its teeth in a show of possession. The prone animal’s head lolled once before it hit the ground. Two hunters locked eyes. Crouched low and ready, Drummond bared his fangs. Another growl sounded from the wolf, sharper than the first. It sprang upon its prey with full force and just as its jaws closed on the deer’s neck, Drummond made his move. With swiftness, he fisted the alpha by the scruff and wrestled it off the fallen animal. The scent of spilled blood teased his need, and when the wolf lunged again, he caught the creature by the snout. One frenzied yelp escaped as Drummond’s fangs tore through fur and skin. His mouth locked on a major artery, and he drank, deep and ferocious. With the last drop licked clean from his lips, he released the dead animal. A chortle, heavy breaths of death sounded from behind. The deer lay dying, its heartbeat slow. He returned to its side, stroked its warm coat. “There is no hope,” he whispered. “I’m sorry, so sorry.” Holding its face, Drummond stared deeply into dulled eyes and as they closed, he sank his fangs into the throbbing vein on its long neck. Death came without a sound. With skill and precision, he drew every ounce of its life force into him. The release was slow, and he sat back on his heels. Swallowing the last mouthful 39
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of blood, he ran a palm across his lips and reveled in the warmth within. It would soon fade. It always did. No heart beat. No circulation except when he moved. As was his way, both carcasses would be buried beneath the forest ground. He went about the task with more energy than usual, having fed twice as much tonight. Clawed fingers dug the frozen earth, the demon in him still exposed to guide his actions. The grave wasn’t shallow, some three feet deep. Drummond placed both prey and victim into it, side by side. With speed, he covered them both, stomped down the earth, and then replaced sticks and twigs to have it appear undisturbed, untouched. He ran the twenty yards to a frozen pond. One ungodly jump and the ice gave way. Beneath the surface he spun his body. Every fleck of earth dislodged, and he pushed off the bottom, willing his mystical body to solid ground, where he handed on his feet. The steady walk to his folded clothes was as slow as a human. He dressed in a hurry. After raking his fingers through his hair, he tied it back in a worn strip of leather, and then settled the long coat on his shoulders. With his collar turned up, he slipped his hands into fitted dark leather gloves and began to walk. At the edge of the park, Drummond crossed the street with many late-night strollers as if he were simply taking a pleasant jaunt in the crisp wintry air. Fully sated, he smiled to himself whenever he came upon street corner carolers. Once or twice, he even stopped with the crowd and threw coins in their cups. He allowed inviting smells of roasting chestnuts on vendor carts to fill his senses. During Christmastime, memories of 40
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being a man, a healthy man with dreams and desires managed to overtake the sense of a solitary existence in a world that wasn’t his anymore. Tonight, those memories fully enchanted him.
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Chapter 7 Like a prizefighter refusing to take a dive, Genevieve resisted decorating the tree with her daughter until after supper. Although her mother had often masked the celebration of Yule with house decorations and holiday shopping, when they visited with Pete or Dora’s family on Christmas Eve, their arms were full of presents and baked goodies like everyone else. For the past six years, Genevieve declined her neighbors’ invitations, even though they always had a present for her and Lydia under their trees. “These bows are very special, Mamma. They’re blessed,” Lydia said as the last one was tied to a bough. Lydia wore a small grin as she sighed. “You don’t believe in Christmas magic. I sense it.” “But I do believe in magic, lovey. It just doesn’t have the word Christmas attached.” Standing back with Lydia hugged close, the Yule colors, chosen specifically to honor her family heritage, made the small parlor festive. The soft glow from a shaded lamp nearby caught the sequins in a delicate dazzle. “Look, Mamma, we need more bows over there!” Lydia was right. A wide gap, somehow missed on the left side did seem to make the tree appear unfinished. She kissed Lydia’s warm cheek and put her down. “Tomorrow I’ll make more.” “No. It has to be tonight! Drummond will see the hole! It has to be perfect. Do it tonight.” Weary from the day, from last night, she shook her head. “I don’t think he’ll be here tonight. Now off to bed. Tomorrow it’ll be perfect.” 42
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After another hug, she watched Lydia scan the street from every window, and then slowly walk down the short hall to her bedroom. Genevieve tucked her in. “My Drummond’s near. I sense it.” She did as well, kissing her daughter’s forehead. “You have a unique gift, Lydia. It’s a powerful one.” Lydia smiled brightly, snuggling under a mound of covers. “Let’s make a story.” “Lovey, it’s very late.” “Please,” she begged. With a long moan, Genevieve sat next to her on the bed. “Once upon a time…” “There was a handsome warrior, and also a very sad lady who had a little girl,” her daughter added. “They lived in a castle on top of a stormy cliff.” “The warrior and the lady knew each other.” “But they didn’t really know each other very well, only meeting once or twice at the king’s ball.” “Did they dance with each other?” “I don’t think so.” “Then one night, the castle was attacked by pirates and, and…” Lydia paused. “Her little girl was taken away. They were going to sell her to a sultan.” “Oh my,” Genevieve exclaimed. “The lady cried and cried.” “She was very sad.” “But the handsome warrior found the pirates and fought them. He saved the little girl.” “And he came back with her sitting on his shoulder. The entire village cheered!” “He was a hero, and he promised to protect her forever.” “The little girl was his princess.” “No pirates ever attacked the castle again.” “Never,” Genevieve whispered. “And they all lived happily ever after,” Lydia 43
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replied with a yawn. Genevieve smoothed her daughter’s brow. “In a fairytale, everyone always does.” Turning on her side, Lydia’s sleep-heavy eyelids closed. Genevieve studied the child’s profile, a sweet silhouette in the dim nightlight. Her features, delicate and defined, were a throwback to previous generations, not plain like hers. The honey-brown hair that framed Lydia’s face had a natural curl. She looked like someone else’s daughter, not Genevieve’s. Reaching over to turn out the table lamp, Lydia whispered, “Leave it on, Mamma, so my Drummond knows where to find me.” Genevieve’s hand clenched as she drew it to her bosom. She prayed to the Mother Goddess for Lydia’s protection. She prayed to the Mother Goddess for deliverance from this infernal fear that now crept up her spine. Only after she closed Lydia’s door did she remember never locking the gallery downstairs. And she’d bring up her heavy cloak as well as the rest of the ribbon and sequins. It would keep her mind off Drummond for the rest of the long winter night. **** He crouched on the roof of Genevieve’s building and listened with a smile. So sweet the child, he thought, my Drummond. Lydia was as precious as a rare gem. Indeed, she was not only bright for a fiveyear-old, the story about castles and pirates had been creative. Mother and daughter in a private moment, he realized, not in the least feeling like a meddling intruder. He heard Genevieve leave the room, sensed the child already in dreamland. “Castles and princesses, pirates and a sultan,” he whispered. “All from her imagination and as coherent as any fairytale I know.” He stood on the flat roof, cased the backyard and 44
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then the front street. But once he heard Genevieve going down the stairs, his eyes narrowed. They shouldn’t be apart. After sunset, they shouldn’t be separated. He honed in on her gingerly walking into the gallery. He heard her go behind the trellis that separated the showroom from the working area. There has to be a rear entrance, he thought as he landed on the backyard’s snowy ground. Three doors were visible. The art gallery’s was the middle one. **** The afternoon snowfall had dropped another six inches. With her thin black shawl drawn tight, Genevieve didn’t need to worry about falling or ice dancing the ten feet into the gallery. Pete must have shoveled after she left to get Lydia from school. The gallery was dark and cold. A chill ran through her at the threshold. Nonsense, she reasoned, I sense nothing. All this talk of Lydia being marked for death, some dire twist of fate or changing someone’s destiny has me rattled. Vampires are cut down by unseen forces, perhaps by other immortals like Drummond. Perhaps that’s the reason for his existence. Without slowing her steps, she hurried to the old workbench. There in the corner lay the door key. Right beside it from a hook on the wall hung her heavy winter cloak. She reached for the key, and thinking to throw all the sequins together with the ribbons, she felt around the table for the bag Dora had brought them in. Foolish of me not to turn on the light, she thought, haphazardly tucking yards of velvet ribbon into the bag. It would be crushed and crinkled for the few minutes it took to lock up and run back upstairs. But steaming them flat wouldn’t pose a problem. Suddenly, an icy hand clutched her throat. Her 45
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feet came right off the floor. She landed heavily on a pile of picture frames. The shock had been immediate, and she tried to breathe. As taught by her mother, her hand stretched out to cast a spell that would hold the perpetrator in place. Then a guttural growl punctured her concentration, just as it had last night. “Enough, creature,” a voice commanded. “Hello, Genevieve.” A scream stuck in her throat. The spell dissipated as a long-ago memory further clouded her insight. It couldn’t be. It shouldn’t be. “Claude,” she whispered. He moved out of the shadow, which allowed her to see his face. As if knowing exactly where the outside streetlamp would light, Claude stopped and glared at her. He didn’t look the same. He looked evil. “Why did you come here?” she breathed out. “I’ve come for what’s mine.” The undead creature now held her from behind and snarled. “Don’t move or it’ll kill you.” Claude pressed the switch on the wall, and the hooded lamp over the workbench buzzed before slowly giving off a pale light. She caught a better view of the man approaching, his expression void of anything that resembled caring. “Call your creature off,” she spit out. The vampire snarled as Claude snickered. Then the damned thing gripped her throat again, this time with two fingers, and pulled her up off the floor. Pain shot through her hip. Her legs felt paralyzed although both feet touched ground. “You’ve changed, no longer the stately tall gal I remember. Now she was a looker. Not you. All oldmaid and bulging out of those clothes. What a sight for sore eyes you are.” 46
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“Go away, Claude. Leave me alone.” He bellowed, “What the hell did I ever see in you, anyway? Where’s the kid.” She struggled against the vampire’s icy grip, stammering, “What are you? What did you do to yourself?” He struck a match against the workbench, lit a cigarette. After a slow drag, his eyes swept up and down her body. Genevieve sensed nothing in his soul. No morals. No conscience. A wiry man, two inches taller than her five-foot-seven-inch height, he’d always been vain. Ripe disgust swept across his face, but nonetheless, when their eyes met, Genevieve stared Claude down. “Answer my question. What are you?” she said with more dignity. “Jacked up with power and here to take what’s mine,” he replied. He’d never take her daughter! Too rattled to fully sweep Claude’s mind, Genevieve had to stall. His musical talent had never equaled hers, and she could just imagine some twisted dream of fame and money leading him to the dark forces in this world. “Tell this thing to let go first, then you and I will talk,” she insisted. “Those are two tall orders in one breath, bitch,” he replied with a sneer. She cringed when his knuckle ran across her chin, and the simple touch revealed more than she cared to know. Genevieve saw no future. “Make him let me go,” she insisted again. “Six years ago I thought you loved me.” “I thought so too.” Bile rose in her throat, the lie full of spite. “Now you cheat, steal, and make a pact with Hell knows who, for what, Claude? Tell me why you came here.” “I need the kid,” he said without emotion. “It was you,” she shouted, sensing the truth. 47
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“You sent a demon to take her from me last night! How could you be part of such a thing! Why?” Fear slammed through her chest. “I want to know the reason! What’s in it for you?” “Beached whales don’t have the gumption to be so uppity. Don’t push me. I made a deal. I have to keep it.” “Over my dead body,” she spit out. “That can happen with a snap of my fingers.” “Think about what you’ve just said.” “It’s not my head in a noose, it’s yours. Stop stalling. You had enough time with her. Now I have a debt to pay.” “What did you do?” “Let’s just say things are different now.” “What’s different now?” “I’ve got one shot at a record deal that comes with fame, fortune, and what I want. Years of paying my dues in all those nothing joints; living out of a suitcase in seedy hotels. This is the big time. One lousy kid for the dream is all they want. Turns out it’s a good thing you didn’t get rid of her. You gotta know how good it feels. I can taste success.” He looked dazed, driven by greed as well as fear. She shook her head slow and determined as her eyes blazed. What controlled him couldn’t be penetrated, and tears burned in Genevieve’s eyes. “Not my daughter, Claude.” “She’s my kid, too.” “You didn’t want her. Remember? You told me so right before you left me.” “Yeah, well, lucky for me that mule-stubborn streak was in you. Now I need her.” “Leave.” “I just told you no. Don’t you listen? “Where’s the rest of the dance orchestra?” “Wouldn’t you love to know?” She already knew, but wanted to hear him say 48
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it. “Jake. Steven. Harry. Tony and—” “They all met their maker.” Fine musicians, each one, she thought, barely able to whisper, “Why?” Claude’s crazed eyes narrowed. “They each had a choice.” “Did they, or did your dream get in the way?” “They never knew what hit them.” “How did you kill them?” “A friend cut the brake lines. They sailed right over some cliff across the river. I pulled over and watched. Maybe I should just take her and let you burn.” The instantaneous vision made her shake. Nothing moral remained in his heart. And when he flicked the lit cigarette, Genevieve’s eyes slid sideways, still in the undead things icy grip. Rags soaked with different grades of wood oils began to smolder, and as expected, the whoosh followed an instant later. Varnish, glue, wood picture frames and muslin canvasses would make this a living inferno. Lydia as well as Pete and Dora, along with their families would be gone when the gallery exploded. The whole block would burn. Claude gave a sinister laugh. “What’s the matter? Afraid you’re gonna die?” Her body shook as a familiar voice stated, “I’d say that is the only rational statement you’ve made so far this evening, human.” The shriek pierced her ears. Dust and bits of bone covered her, but she caught a glimpse of Claude as shock claimed his hideous face. A heavy tarp was suddenly put in her hand, and she heard Drummond whisper, “Keep your wits about you, Genevieve. Put a bucket under the spigot; open the tap to let it fill while you start to beat the fire down. I’ll take care of Claude.” Courage and fear for so many lives made Genevieve move. She held the shawl across her 49
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mouth, knowing that these fumes alone could kill. Rage surged through Drummond’s soul, enough to break the man’s neck with one hand. “Never have I been so disappointed in a human being,” he hissed. This miserable mortal whose eyes looked about to pop owned less of his soul than the vampire he had just staked. Steady and deliberately full of malice, Drummond moved forward. Although Claude backed away, the space between them narrowed. “You killed two of your own, vampire!” He tucked the wooden stake into his belt. “Are we keeping score? How many men lost their lives for your dream, human?” “I’ve got powerful friends. They could use a traitor like you.” “I don’t give my soul away to anything. I value it.” “I’ll come back for what’s mine.” One push sent Claude crashing first into the door frame and then down to the floor. Drummond was on him in an instant, crouched less than a breath away. “You won’t live long enough.” “She’s mine! I have a right!” “You have no right.” In spite of the cold, sweat streamed down the man’s face. “I need the kid.” He fisted Claude’s shirt and pulled the human high off the floor. “You have no child. She isn’t yours.” “That’s a lie! Genevieve,” Claude choked out, “Tell him! She’s mine! She’s mine!” He accessed the demon within. His fangs lengthened and with one perfectly placed punch enough to knock the wind out of a man, Claude slid out the door and onto the icy street. The base of the lamplight stopped his progression off the curb. Drummond followed out the door with steady steps. For the first time in his existence, he was willing to 50
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break his own code of honor. He’d drain this human without giving the murderous act a second thought. “Return here and your life will end. I would, however, enjoy watching you suffer. Perhaps I’ll open one vein at a time. Your blood will fill the gutter.” Claude scurried to his feet holding the lamppost for traction. “Stay away from me.” “How does it feel to be on the other end, human?” “You won’t kill me.” No, he thought, you’ll kill yourself. He halted his approach and captured Claude’s eyes with his. “I’ll find the darkest sewer and truss you up. Hot air, humidity, and rats the size of dogs will smell the drips of blood on you. The sour scent of your sweat alone will make them more ready to tear you apart.” Backing away, Claude stepped off the curb. “Just give me what I came for.” “I don’t negotiate, but out of respect for humanity, I’ll count to five before I rip into your throat.” He took one step. “Are you ready?” The man’s head bobbed repeatedly. Before the first number came off his lips, Claude hurled himself into the street. As if choreographed by the gods, a yellow cab came out of nowhere, sending his body airborne. Less than a second later, another caught Claude mid-air, tossing him to the other side of the road. Both drivers pulled over and then rushed out of their vehicles while Drummond stood beneath the lamppost to watch fate take the lead. No emotion showed on his face. No sympathy filled his soul as streaks of blood mixed with slush and ice on the slick road. Then Genevieve gasped. He took her into his arms, cradled her to his chest. “You’re safe now.” “Oh God,” she moaned. “He’s dead.” 51
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“Without a soul, he was already dead. How’s the gallery?” “Damage is minimal, thanks to you, only a small patch of singed wall.” “No art pieces lost?” “No,” she whispered. “May I survey the work needed to be done?” She nodded against his coat, and they walked inside. “An hour’s worth of work and everything will look fresh and new. The odor will dissipate, I’m sure of it, and there won’t be any sign that he’d ever been in here.” “Drummond,” she whispered, not leaving his embrace. “I have to get to Lydia.” “Can you make the stairs by yourself?” Slow to leave him, she swiped her face. He hooked her chin to drown in the beauty of her large brown eyes. “I’ll come upstairs when this is done, if you allow,” he said in a tender way. “Yes,” she replied, “I allow.” Her trembling hands pulled the thin shawl tight. “I have to know. Did you kill him?” He held her cheeks in his gloved hands. “No, madam, I did not. Now go to your child.” Holding her elbow, he led Genevieve outside to the narrow stairwell, and then leaned against the door watching her take the steps. As soon as she was out of sight, Drummond closed his eyes. The threat was ended, but a man was dead. “Then let it be on my soul,” he whispered. “I’d burn in Hell for her, for either of them.” Turning to reenter the gallery, he came face to face with a policeman. “That cabbie over there says you saw the whole thing.” With intimidation, the burly policeman continued to study Drummond. “You look kinda pale, mister.” “I’m fine, officer.” “So what can you tell me?” Holding a pencil, he 52
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licked the tip and began to write on a small-spiraled pad. “Very little, sir,” Drummond softly replied. Sitting downtown in a police station wouldn’t happen. “I was a bit out of breath as I came around the corner, and I stopped for a moment to rest against the streetlamp.” “Yeah? You been sick,” he asked. “Just a touch of the flu, I think.” “And you didn’t see anything?” “The man suddenly darted into the street.” “Was anybody chasing him?” “Not that I recall.” “Nobody with him?” “No. The street was deserted. I stopped by the streetlight, and I’m sorry to say I closed my eyes for a minute.” “Yeah, you don’t look good at all. Anything else you saw?” “His body went flying through the air?” The officer chuckled. “Yeah, that’s what one cabbie said. You got any identification on you?” “No, I’m sorry. I left a friend’s house in a hurry. My name is John Forester. I’m from Baltimore, and I’m staying at the Ansonia.” “That’s not far from here. Think you can make it?” This had gone too far, and Drummond held the man’s gaze. “My name is John Forester. I don’t live in the city. I look sick, and I didn’t see anything.” “You didn’t see anything,” the human echoed. “When you walk back to the cabbie, you’ll drop your notebook in the slush. You won’t pick it up. John Forester didn’t see anything, and you won’t put him in your report.” “I won’t put him in my report.” “You will close your eyes and turn around to walk back to the second cabbie, only focused on the 53
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identity of the dead man. When you identify him, you will begin to search for four musicians. Jake. Steven. Harry. Tony. Check the brakes will stay in your mind. Do you understand?” “Check the brakes.” “Now close your eyes.” He watched the policeman comply and then sway. In a split second, Drummond was inside the gallery behind the locked door. One by one, he peeled off his gloves and laid them on the workbench behind the trellis. Slowly he shrugged out of the long cashmere coat and laid it aside. Surveying the damage, he rolled each cuff. An hour’s worth of work waited. He made his way to the sink at the back of the gallery.
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Chapter 8 Standing at Lydia’s bedroom door and watching her sleep, Genevieve heard the grandfather clock in the parlor chime twelve times. “Blessed Yule,” she whispered with reverence. The longest night of the year was upon her. Tomorrow, the sun would climb a little higher and light the world a little longer until Mother Earth blossomed again. A hand ran down her ruined skirt. Then she scrunched the curls of her bobbed hair. For a second night, she limped down the short hall to the kitchen, sure of the bruise on her thigh from the wooden picture frames. There would be no more threats on her daughter. Lydia’s long, happy future was fully vivid once again in her mind’s eye. Not a thought would she allow for Claude. He had authored his fate, as sure as there was a Mother Goddess. “You were the turning point,” she whispered to herself. “The very moment I defended you to Esther and the sisterhood, to my mother, I caused a widening rift between us. They’d have come to accept Lydia had I not pulled so far away from who I am.” In the kitchen, her gaze swept the open door, and then she stared at the knob on one cabinet before she tugged it open. A slight squeak of the hinge would have to be addressed, but the oiling can was beside the workbench. Her thoughts turned to the immortal man who again saved her as well as many others tonight. Her heart lurched, imagining Drummond coming through the door, coming up the stairs to her. 55
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A taste of burnt rags filled her mouth, and she swallowed, staring at spice bottles and other condiments kept hidden. Pushing this and that aside, she found the one she was looking for and placed it on the counter. Her hands cupped a ripe orange, and then two sweet red apples. After opening the jar of cloves, she placed the woody spikes into the fragrant fruit. From the cupboard, Genevieve chose a small breadbasket, lining it with a fresh white dishtowel. Each piece of fruit was gently laid in the center. From the decorated tree, snipped evergreen branches embellished the table’s centerpiece. Within her soul, the Wiccan way, a witch’s true path came alive. The Depression had come and gone. She still had the family business and a roof over her head. Genevieve sensed the threat of a sinister movement led by an evil man across the Atlantic Ocean. This great country would soon be dragged into a second world war. Mother Earth would weep for Wiccan, Jew, and Christian alike as senseless death and destruction began. No harvests would grace the killing fields and the landscape of nations would change again. “There are bridges to mend, and Yule is the perfect time,” she said as she studied the centerpiece. “I’ll send a telegraph to mother and visit the Old One again.” She studied the top of the door where a dried sprig of Holly stood. It would be replaced with a fresh one. “Tomorrow,” she whispered. Genevieve cleared her throat from another whiff of burnt rags. Taking the soft silk robe off a hook behind her bedroom door, she walked into the bathroom. She brushed her teeth with baking soda and gargled before rinsing her mouth again. As water ran in the tub, the thought of Drummond’s last embrace beset her heart. His soft brown eyes 56
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held mystery. Wickedly handsome, his tall height and sturdy arms were any woman’s dream. The length of his hair, not modern fashion by any means, added to her attraction. She could step back in time to the former century when Drummond walked the earth as a living man. Would they have met? Would he have even noticed her? Could it be possible that their paths might have crossed in a previous life, were meant to cross in this one? Her heart fluttered whenever he was close. Her soul quickened in that space within where it lived. “His soul holds more tenderness than any living man I know,” she whispered. Easing into the tub, every bruise and sore muscle ached. Tears flooded her eyes and then slipped silently down her cheeks when she scrubbed her chin where Claude had touched her. The insult had come from a deranged man, not the person who had helped her create Lydia. She sponged and then soaped her dimpled arms lost in the horrifying happening of two different nights. Warm water bobbed against her breasts and she leaned her head back against the porcelain tub. She wasn’t young. She wasn’t attractive. Her mother as well as Esther had always called her plain. Lathering scented soap on her face, she recalled how even as a teenager, she used pressed powder base and rouge on her cheeks, to conceal a complexion as ruddy as a peasant who worked on a countryside farm. Her sensitive skin blotched easily, bruised easily as well. In her late twenties, at every Saturday night affair she attended with friends, wallflower Genevieve had an empty dance card. That was the last straw. Her rich alto voice, her steady hands on a piano—these were skills, a special gift. Throwing 57
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heart and soul into music closed out the world and the reality that she’d always be a plain Jane. She pulled away from the Wiccan sisterhood to practice her otherworld gift on her own terms. At odds with her mother, she found solace in musicians who pushed the limits of creativity. Hot jazz, other people’s music with outrageous rhythms replaced the schooled, classical style. To be lost in suspended notes over traditional chords meant freedom with thrilling, new harmonies sometimes less than tonal, more than magical. “Enter Claude,” she mumbled, “and then six lonely years that led me here.” He was dead. So were five fabulous musicians. Her heart ached for old friends who had once included her in every exciting gig with respect for her talent. Running her fingers through her hair, she primped the short, modern hairstyle. It took Genevieve months to take the plunge and cut off the long braid always wrapped around her head like a pagan crown. Twisted in tight pincurls every night kept it bouncy and full. Rich natural highlights like molasses swirled through chocolate could be considered a redeeming feature along with her large eyes. Her choice of clothes wasn’t fashionable, either, preferring high-necked white blouses and longish, drab skirts. Heavy stocking and sturdy black shoes topped off a ‘stay far away, I’m not interested’ look. And while most women used shawls for warmth, Genevieve found it a clever way to hide her fleshy plumpness. But Drummond had pulled her off the floor as if she weighed nothing. No grunt or groan or wince had she heard. In his arms and against his chest she felt lithe, small-boned and full of sensual desires long denied. The mind-vision of being held by him warmed 58
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Genevieve. Why was his mind easy to read? Did the vampire’s aura heighten her witch skills? Could that be possible? Why, in the past two nights, had she felt ready to spin out of control? Tension rolled off her shoulders, confident of no unseen threats or unwanted fear. Lydia was safe and sound, fast asleep in the room next door. “Drummond,” she whispered. “Have you changed my destiny?” The mysterious legend like some sort of childhood fantasy appeared in the nick of time and had made Genevieve feel like a woman again.
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Chapter 9 Silently, Drummond took the stairs. He entered the kitchen, drawn by the fragrance of spices and fruit. The centerpiece gave the room a cozy freshness, and for a brief moment, he allowed himself another memory of mortal life. Perhaps it was the physical labor of scouring the wood panels or scrubbing the floor. He used glue, thin nails and a rubber hammer to fix each shattered frame, and then straightened up before locking the gallery and leaving. It had been over a century since he experienced the human pleasure of intense thought, precision work with a sense of purpose. He slid the bolt across the upstairs door and walked into Genevieve’s parlor. A thin smile began. A Christmas tree in a witch’s home? Does she share my Christian beliefs? Turning to face him, she replied to his unspoken questions, “No, I don’t. It’s for Lydia. She wants to be like the other girls at school.” “It amazes me that you can read my thoughts.” “It amazes me as well. A vampire’s mind is usually empty.” “And mine is not.” “Not in the least.” “Does thought come from the soul?” He studied her serious face and hoped. “Maybe in your case, it does.” She paused, not moving toward him. “Tell me about your life.” “You can see my thoughts, madam.” “I would never stay in your mind or prod. I don’t read fortunes, either.” 60
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He smiled easily. “I suspect you’d be living in a mansion with servants galore if you did.” She smiled back. “Well, that’d be one way to guarantee the best school in the city for Lydia.” Instead of walking toward him, Genevieve sat in one of two green brocade chairs in the room. “I’d really like to hear about you.” He took the other one, leaning back relaxed. “When I was alive, I wanted a family.” “Were you gentle by nature?” “I suppose so. I loved my stepbrother’s children, and found every opportunity to be with them. He had a boy and a girl.” “What did you do for a living?” “My mother owned an inn. I was assigned the books, since I had a knack for figures.” “Was it in Paris?” “Ah, you’ve guessed the other part of my heritage,” he said with a small chuckle. “It isn’t hard. You have a slight accent, and the way you pronounce my name.” “I’ve listened to enough American English to lose most of it.” “But it’s still there,” she said. “Touché, madam,” he replied. “You didn’t mention a father.” “She didn’t marry.” “But you said you had a stepbrother.” “His father was different than mine, a Brit on holiday, I suppose. Either way, neither of us gave a damn. Ma mère was smart and strong, the person every villager in Nohant came to with letters to read or write. You could say it was a very lucrative side business, and she had a staff of loyal workers because our establishment offered clean rooms, the best food and wine, the most security for miles in the early 1800s.” “Do you have a first name?” 61
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“Drummond is my first name, madam,” he replied with a laugh. “You want to know many things.” “I’m sorry.” “No, don’t apologize. I enjoy our conversation.” He’d rather hold Genevieve close, yet welcomed each question. “My last name was Laborde. I was baptized Drummond perhaps to memorialize an affair with my father. I am the quintessential bastard son. And your last name?” “Morgan,” she whispered, “Genevieve Morgan.” An awkward pause followed. Drummond smoothed his palms down his lap to his knees. He preferred them on her waist, tracing down her shoulders. He stood and moved to the tree, which was cast in a soft glow from the shaded parlor lamp. Touching the bristles, a bow with shiny baubles shimmering, he sighed. “It is decorated with love.” “Lydia insisted.” “She is asleep?” “Yes.” When Genevieve came to his side, the fragrance of lavender soap filled the air. Her hands clasped the robe tight to her breasts. He wanted them bared. “Is your bedroom off the parlor?” he asked. “Yes,” she whispered. His arm eased around her waist, and when she leaned into him, he stated, “Perhaps our conversation can continue in there.” Not waiting for a reply, as her hand left her robe, he took it in his. Then Genevieve led him into her room. **** She let go of his hand and stood next to the bed. The silk robe heaved over her ample bosom as she searched his eyes. “Tell me what happened after I went upstairs,” she whispered. Drummond hadn’t expected her to bring this up, and for a moment didn’t reply until she said his 62
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name. Less than a foot away, he drank in Genevieve’s loveliness, the darkness of her doeshaped eyes. “I simply threw him out the door, madam. Destiny did the rest.” “The police—” “Never saw you, Genevieve, and there’ll be no questions.” “How do you know?” He shrugged. “I just do.” “I need more to close this chapter in my life.” “Very well,” he stated, nodding once. “I threatened to keep him alive and torture him.” Her hand shot to her throat. “You wouldn’t have done that.” “I know and you know, but Claude didn’t.” “Did you chase him into the street?” “No. As stated before, destiny did the rest. Put this out of your mind.” She huffed and turned away. “How can I?” He kissed her shoulder until she faced him and accepted his embrace. In his arms, she felt soft, warm, inviting. “Genevieve, you must let this go and tell no one. Lydia is safe. You are safe.” His head dipped down to capture her full lips in a long, tender kiss. Her hands rested against his coat. He wanted them against his chest. He unbuttoned the damned thing. When it hit the floor, she began to rub his shirt. He took it off as well. Each tease of her fingers became a new temptation, like a slow sensual dance. His grip stayed on her waist. She undid his belt, but stopped as if she’d go no further. Drummond moved away to close the bedroom door. He unlaced his shoes and slipped off his socks. Walking to her again, he peeled the silk hiding her breasts and captured each in his hands. Full and heavy, they were warm and supple. This time, his 63
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lips crushed against hers. “I want you, Genevieve. Mon Dieu, in this long existence I have taken women to bed for release, yet I’ve never wanted to bring pure pleasure to anyone but you.” Her softness against his chest, the slightest flutter of an eyelash aroused him. When her head titled back, he kissed the hollow of her throat and then worked his way down to suckle each breast. Her skin tasted of soap and sweetness. Enraptured with one heavy bosom in his mouth, he suddenly banded an arm across her ample bottom molding her lower half against his. She sucked in a breath and stared into his eyes. “Your, your…” “I am fully in need of you.” Her hand slid down his chest in a tentative way. Drummond undid his belt. Genevieve fumbled with the button on his wool trousers and he steadied her tremble until the zipper slid down. The desire to have his way with her this very minute soared when Genevieve stroked the waistband of his boxers. In a subtle way, her feminine scent changed. Lavender soap could no longer disguise desire. Her body begged completion and a small moan came from her full lips. “The mere promise of your hand on me fulfills a long-forgotten excitement,” he whispered low. She answered with a sharp inhale of breath, and then traced all the way down his belly. When she found him, hard and pulsating, a growl eased from his throat. “You shiver and your heart flutters,” he managed to say. She nipped at his chest, stroking him with a passionate rhythm. He untied the silk robe and heard the soft belt float to the carpet. Her body swayed, drifted back enough for his hand to part her thighs. 64
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“Stop,” she hushed out as if starved for air. “No, Genevieve,” he replied, massaging the most sensitive part of her. “You are coated with desire.” “Drummond, I-I can’t.” “You’d deny the pleasure I can bring to you?” Slowly her fingers slid down the length of him, cupped his sac. He brushed his thumb across the swollen bud as silky moisture eased his path into her. The rock of her hips, ever so slight, confirmed that he now teased her more awake. “You drive me crazy, madam.” “Drummond, I-I haven’t been with a man in a very long time.” “Yet your body welcomes me, Genevieve, in a very intimate way.” “Oh, oh,” she panted with her eyes squeezed shut. Was it shyness? Did the possibility of full sexual arousal frighten her? There was no reason for either with him, and he took the lead. In his arms he turned her, one hand across her breasts, the other still buried inside her. Hard and erect against her bottom caused the type of friction that drove men wild, and they swayed together until she seemed ready to collapse. Guiding Genevieve to the bed, he whispered, “Lie down.” He left her only to reach over and push away a heavy quilt, then a thin blanket. Although she began to resist, he lowered her to the bed. Framed in wood at her head and her feet, one arm draped her face. Genevieve looked a forlorn maiden in a Rubens portrait, soft, luscious, full. The plush darkness that hid her core glistened wet and inviting in the moonlight. His open hand traced her arm, a voluptuous breast, and her round belly, but Genevieve still hid her eyes. “You are beautiful beyond measure. Just the 65
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sight of you on the edge of passion begs my devotion.” She shook her head. “I’m not good at this. And you’re, you’re well endowed.” A thin grin began. “You are all woman, madam. You will accommodate me.” “I haven’t, I,” she paused. “No one has ever touched me like this.” “No one?” She shook her head again. “You’re an experienced lover.” “In life, I was. Yes.” “Did you have a wife?” At her side, he sat back on his heels. “No, and I had many sexual experiences, always sheathed, of course.” A breath hitched in her throat, and he added, “You know that is not how I died, madam. There was no syphilis or other disease transmitted from man to woman or woman to man.” Her arm moved away from her eyes. She stared at his face. “Check my soul, search my mind, Genevieve.” “No,” she whispered. “Tell me how.” “Did I die?” “Yes.” “If I do, may I pick up where I left off?” She smiled, nodded once, and he added, “Very well, although I have not shared this with anyone.” “Ever,” she asked. “In all this time, you are the first.” He pushed making love to the back of his mind—for the moment. “A world traveler came to the inn. My nephew was full of questions, very bright and literate at the age of ten. Shortly after the traveler left, he fell ill. It was consumption.” “You mean tuberculosis.” He nodded. “I didn’t want my brother or his wife exposed.” “You were unattached,” she softly said. 66
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“Precisely, and my life was my own.” He paused, cleared his throat and looked away. “I took him to a hunting cottage that had been in our family for generations. There, I cared for him by myself. My body didn’t show the signs until well after my nephew died. Swollen red eyes, pain in my chest, sputum full of thick blood and weakness—damned weakness. In the prime of my life, I began to waste away.” “There was no cure.” “Only superstitious chatter about being a vampire or somehow cursed. Pure nonsense and nothing further from the truth—had they only known.” “But you didn’t die there.” “No. I didn’t want my mother or my brother to watch the deterioration I knew would come. There was talk of doctors in England. The new world held promise as well. I had enough money. We weren’t poor, Genevieve.” “What did you do?” “I left in the middle of the night. I sailed to England and begged every doctor to cure me. There was no cure, and folklore preceded me. I bribed a captain and boarded a ship for America under an assumed name. I used seasickness as an excuse to stay in my cabin.” “You weren’t turned aboard ship.” “No, but in the middle of a stormy sea I happened to glimpse a very beautiful woman. A month later, I ran into her in this very city. What I told you before is true. Under her spell, the bastard son of a noble Scottish clan and a loving mother, felt her fangs slice open my vein to take away my life. The world I so hoped to be a part of became a place to hunt and feed. Undeath is a dark abyss.” “But your soul is not.” “Ironic, isn’t it? To be made different is a curse, I 67
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often think.” “It isn’t, at least not in your case,” she quickly said. “Neither a soulless killer nor a human man with a heart beating in his chest has left me emotionally sterile. I’m not accepted by my kind, and trust me when I say, I don’t care to be.” “It’s a lonely existence, but there are others like you. I told you about the legend.” He shook his head. “They stay hidden. We tend to each keep to ourselves.” She sat up and kissed his cheek. He bent his head down, and she kissed his forehead. He wanted, no, needed more, capturing her lips and guiding Genevieve down until her hair met the pillow. “You are a feast before me,” he said with a soft moan. The sumptuous feminine scent that once again bathed his palm heightened his arousal. It felt primitive and forbidden. She gripped the sheets and a soft cry left her lips. Like a hearty spring bloom, her body had opened. He was sure of it. “Let me love you,” he whispered low. Still locked to his gaze and biting her lower lip, she shook her head and murmured his name as if to protest. “Genevieve,” he replied, lying at her side. Somewhere in her dark eyes were illusive answers to other questions he couldn’t ask. To hold her, to make her tremble with all the sensations of life and love would be spectacular. “Never have I wanted to bring such a lovely woman to sweet release.” Again, she whispered his name, but not in protest. Her thighs eased apart, and instantly, his open palm held the most sensitive part of her. The first gentle probe lifted her hips full off the bed. His exploration became more insistent, aware that the fragrant dampness prepared her for a passionate fulfillment. Heat radiated from her to him. The sight of her writhing against his hold thrilled to no end. 68
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Slowly the pressure of his thumb increased. She started to speak, but like an erotic demand, the first gruff kiss imprisoned her lips, pushing through them to let his tongue mimic the rhythmic penetration below. Her back arched, and she moaned. The stiff tip of him begged entry, but tonight wasn’t about release. It was about loving her. Instantly, he was on top of Genevieve, and Drummond remained poised to take her. An orgasm shot through her when his erection pressed against her quivering core. Mewls of ecstasy began, and he lowered his hips keeping no space between their bodies. Quick thumps of her heart pounded against his chest. He adored the expression on her face, wanting to share other intimate pleasures between a man and a woman. “No. Stop. I’ve never, oh, I’ve…never…” He cut her short with brutal kisses and reveled in her racing heart. Genevieve could barely breathe. Her arms flung open across the bed as each cool kiss revived a longing like never before. Totally exposed, throbbing from an experience so sensual, she gripped his wide shoulders. Another shameless gasp escaped. “Let me make love to you, Genevieve.” What would this feel like? Sex with Claude had been painful, close to mortifying. She closed her eyes recalling every awkward move that held no pleasure for her at all. Unable to let go of the fear, she had stopped him. Drummond touched parts of her in a way she never knew a lover could. Each finger seemed to serve a different purpose. The way his arm muscles flexed in her grip hinted power, danger. The scent of him filled her mouth and when his stiffness rubbed against her heat, she had to swallow another cry. A low growl pulled her back to the here and 69
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now. Drummond’s cool tongue suddenly nipped a breast, and then he slipped lower down her body until his chin rested on her belly. She eyed his new position with curiosity. “Are you ready for another intimate pleasure?” he asked with a very sexy grin. Genevieve sensed it wasn’t a question. He’d take what he wanted, unfettered by any demand to cease the frenzy he created inside her. His lips touched her. Her eyes shot wide. Her nails dug into his shoulders when the first cold flick of his tongue began. The hottest part of her seemed to swell, and she could only gasp as her body hummed. The way he held her thighs had her raw, exposed. The sensual tease made each breath hitch. She was on fire; paralyzed by passion in a most indecent way. Genevieve clenched her teeth and fisted the sheet. Her toes curled and every part of her tingled. Suddenly, Drummond kissed his way up her body and nuzzled her neck. Even the ice cold tip of him didn’t quench the furious fire inside. He nudged her open. No, demanded she open just for him. His primal gaze held her prisoner, mesmerized as he stood ready to take possession. Slow and sensual, each thrust was pure pleasure, not pain. To ease his way, her legs hooked his narrow hips craving more and more. Lost in ecstasy, she cried his name. What thundered through her couldn’t be possible. It was beyond intense. His dark, mysterious eyes bore through hers. Fierce emotion etched Drummond’s face. His lips drew tight, the lines across his brow so intense, so masculine. A deeper sensation vibrated through her body and mind, like feverish waves pounding against the seashore, one after another. Then a shocking burst 70
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of cold seed filled her. He moaned her name, low and sexy, but Genevieve had to close her eyes. No word existed to describe making love with him. Easy and slow, Drummond left her and rested at her side. A dark, distant look settled on his handsome face. She sensed his climax bittersweet, and his soul seemed to scream. “You are sad,” she whispered. “Not because of you,” he softly replied. “Tell me why.” He shook his head. “I want life dripping from me to you. Seed that is hot and determined to follow a path to your womb, to create living cells… There is no life in undeath.” “That’s not what I want from you, nor what I need. What have you awakened in me?” She hadn’t meant to ask the question. “What have you awakened in me?” he replied. They studied one another until her hand came to rest on his cheek. “You’re still aroused,” she whispered. “An erection is a thing of want and need.” Her lips curved into an unexpected but playful smile. “At least you aren’t scowling anymore.” “Are you teasing me, madam?” “I wouldn’t dare,” she answered. His mouth locked to her heavy breast, which produced a wanton sigh. No longer shy or hesitant, she had him in hand. “Take me again, Drummond.” “Mon Dieu, yes,” he growled. He tugged the heavy winter blankets up to muffle renewed sounds of passion. The bed’s padded mattress made their movements all the more silent. Like a starved woman, Genevieve wanted more.
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Chapter 10 It was less than an hour to dawn when an affectionate kiss met the edge of his chin. Her huge brown eyes opened, revealing the richest circles he had ever seen. Gentle, long lashes framed the bluetinged white of Genevieve’s eyes. “Read me, madam, I am yours.” I am meant to know you. She studied him. “Yes,” she answered in a soft voice. “And I am meant to know you, Drummond, a beautiful immortal.” “You encourage thoughts of pure pleasure and lusty sex with just a whisper of my name.” “You awaken what I’ve never known was inside me.” Genevieve turned in his arms. He caressed her silken skin and spooned her ample body into the bend of his. Shrugging off the burgundy quilt that finished her bed, he replied, “I beg to differ, madam. You’re a passionate lover.” “I’ve never been anyone’s lover, and it’s been a long time since I’ve had sex.” “I refuse to believe you.” Genevieve shrugged against his chest. “When was the last time you allowed Claude to see Lydia?” Her body stiffened in his arms. “He never met her.” “You had no word from him since her birth?” “Since the moment I told him I was going to have a baby.” He pulled her close, an arm locked around her generous waist. When Genevieve’s short brown bob rubbed against his chest, he said, “How can a man 72
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not take care of his daughter, the way a good father should.” She shook her head. “Claude never wanted me to have her,” she replied in a bitter tone. His mind was already made up. “I will be here for you and the child.” In a heavy voice, she answered, “In thought only.” “Not in thought only, Genevieve. I’ll be here every night.” She pulled away and faced him the very instant her cocoa eyes resumed the guardedness of last night. “I’m able to care for my daughter, myself as well. Lydia has a good life with me. I have the gallery. I’ve thought about taking on piano students…” “And your craft, so to speak,” he added with a smirk. She looked away. “I don’t use witchcraft to make a living. I’m not a gypsy palm-reader. This gift comes without a penny across my palm.” “I didn’t mean an insult.” She sat up. “As tempting as your arms are, we have to set limits. After all, there is a child in the house.” Genevieve reached for her robe. Drummond’s eyes darted toward the door. “You don’t think she heard us, do you?” “She’s fast asleep, but she has my gift, you know. It has passed from mother to daughter. There’s only one with our gift in every generation. My mother had one child. So will I.” “You know this?” “I do.” A shadow hid her face. “I entered a meaningless affair with a man no one liked. My Wiccan sisters told me I was a fool. My mother did as well. The Old One knew he’d bring danger into my life as soon as she sensed the child in my womb.” “He abused you.” 73
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“In a way, I suppose I abused myself.” “You’re still young, Genevieve.” “No, Drummond, I’ve never been young, just headstrong and at odds with the world. I’ve simply embraced spinsterhood at thirty-six.” “I am here for you, madam.” But her eyes dulled as if the light of life had been extinguished. “Trepidation fills your soul, Genevieve.” “Do you blame me? In certain ways, my life’s a mess; add to that Claude’s death.” “It will be deemed an accident. And it’s on my soul, not yours.” “Lydia will sense something, I’m sure.” He swung his legs around to sit next to her on the bed’s edge. “I must leave before the sun begins to rise. We’ll talk about this tomorrow night.” After reaching down for his trousers and shirt, he glimpsed the look in Genevieve’s eyes. “Please don’t worry. There’s nothing to fear anymore.” “I saw no future in him, Drummond. I sensed an early death.” He took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead. “Genevieve,” he whispered, longing to take her in his arms again and hear her sigh with pleasure. “You’re right. The threat to us is gone,” she softly replied. “Shall I help you find your clothes?” “I see perfectly well in the dark.” They both stood. He dressed quicker than a human and settling the coat upon his shoulders, he came to her once again. “God, your legs are long.” He laughed and reached for her hand, planting a tender kiss on her palm. “How tall are you Drummond?” “Six foot three,” he replied. “Your father was taller.” He smiled and replied, “A strapping Scot with 74
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huge hands, or so my mother told me.” She closed her eyes. “There are living relatives in America.” “Thank you, but I’ve surmised as much. However, they are not my family.” He paused. “It’s been too long, Genevieve. No one exists who is a part of me, except you and Lydia.” A passionate kiss followed before he forced himself to pull away. “You have to go,” she whispered. “Tomorrow night, you’ll be naked in my arms again.” Genevieve suddenly reached for her robe on the bed. He laughed softly as she covered up. Drummond bent down and then handed her the belt from the carpet. “We can never do this again,” she suddenly stated. But passion’s blush coated her face and beads of sweat still stood between her shoulder blades. “Not so, madam,” he moaned with a smirk. “You’re not alive and I am.” “One so beautiful in the prime of her life is not meant to be so alone. A mortal man cannot unlock what is in you, Genevieve, but I am not a mortal man.” “Loneliness is a simpler path, Drummond.” “Please allow me to be here for you.” Turning away, she went to the window. “This is winter’s longest night.” Choosing to ignore his plea, she instead fisted the lace curtain. “It is the pagan Yule.” “It is my Yule,” she replied, already distant. Not willing to leave her this way, his hands locked to the wooden frame with her pinned between. “Say yes,” he whispered. She took a breath, and answered, “Yes.” His soul lurched, craving a bond to Genevieve. Still clutching the lace he watched her move aside. Drummond lifted the window just as he had 75
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last night. He folded his frame out and onto the ledge. Jumping to the empty street, he landed without a sound. A casual, thin-lipped grin held Genevieve captive, yet he searched her wide eyes. Even from this distance, he caught a glimpse of her tears. With a gentleman’s bow, he nodded once before disappearing into the darkness. **** Why on earth did I say yes, Genevieve said to herself. The tear slid down her cheek. She let it fall. Yesterday, today, tonight, and everything that happened in this room drained her. The longest night of the year should bring a sense of joy and hope and life. But his demand threatened her. Why did I let him into my heart? Winter air iced her lungs. She leaned against the side drapery. It took a lifetime for her to close the window and drop the lace from her hand. Ensconced in shadows, she closed her eyes. “He feels, he loves…he is truly unique. He is the legend.” Both arms hugged the robe. Drummond’s scent still lingered on her skin. It was an earthy fragrance, heavy and masculine. The bond between them was no mistake, his strong soul already clinging to hers. This had been more than a night of passion. She sensed it; the connection would soon take root within. She wouldn’t read him, refused to sense him. Not yet. The bond needed time to create such a mind-link. But her floundering identity, the very essence of a witch with a powerful gift brought her to a sad place in her soul. She had finally let herself feel, and a vampire’s need had swept hers away. Exhausted, she checked on Lydia once again, checked the door as well. She turned off the lamp in the living room and sank into bed. Tomorrow I’ll 76
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make it a point to visit the Old One. I’ll mend every bridge and put my life on track. Only Drummond remained in her mind as her eyes closed. But the sense of peace within Genevieve didn’t last very long. A violent jolt to her psyche began. Every muscle in her body jerked from intense pain. She struggled for breath as she fell from the bed and crawled across the floor. Lydia was screaming. She had to get to her daughter. As the sun rose, Genevieve thought she was dying with pains in her chest as sharp as knives. She fought back, pulled her body through the doorway. In front of the tree, her arms jerked up as if her wrists were bound high above her head. Loretta! Loretta! Oh God… Loretta, help me! Help Lydia! Her world went dark.
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Chapter 11 Nothing in the human world could inflict this kind of pain. Drummond’s arms pulled out of their sockets, chains cut his wrists, and one toe barely scraped a floor. He wore not a stitch of clothing. His eyes eased open in the darkness. He was not alone. A match struck stone and a torch whooshed to life illuminating part of his prison as well as his captor’s face. Dark bushy eyebrows under a turban of black, full beard and thick silver rings hung from each ear. No sense of smell came from the nefarious figure. Perhaps it wasn’t fully human. “Who are you?” “The Turk will suffice. I am your worst nightmare, Drummond,” he answered in a low bass voice. “How do you know my name?” A glint of yellowed teeth appeared to slice through the man’s dark features. “I always know where to collect a debt.” “I owe no creature, no human, a thing. Release me before you find out how wrong you are.” “Brazen words come from a creature whose existence can end with a piece of wood. Ah, you are different yet not so different from them. The legend is what folklore calls you. I’ve never crossed paths with one, which only heightens my interest. Beware the mortal’s world, vampire. When you indulge in human needs, the mythical skills that protect you will dissipate like a puddle of water on a hot, dry 78
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day.” “Why don’t you unhinge me, and we’ll see who walks away.” He snickered. “You’re a fighter. It won’t matter.” “Again, I state you have no business with me. I owe demon or man nothing.” “You destroyed three of my minions.” “You don’t mean those two dead things and the slimy human.” “Three of my minions,” the Turk repeated. “One had a soul. An eye for an eye, as your Christian book says.” He approached with torch in hand. “Fire will destroy you as well, but perhaps, instead of spontaneous combustion, you and I will strike a deal.” “I don’t make deals.” “The terms are simple. Replace the soul I lost with yours, and they live.” “They?” “The witch and her child.” He studied the evil thing before him. The taste of Genevieve still lingered in his mouth, and the very thought of Lydia cradled to her bosom before her own slow death filled his mind. “Think on it, vampire. You have until sunset.” The torch sliced across his chest, a deliberate move. He bellowed in pain as it ran down the length of him. Singed flesh, not enough to destroy, just enough to torture. The Turk removed one silver earring and carved a jagged wound down his arm. He yelled again, jerking and twitching. Silver was like poison in his veins. Blood dripped from ripped flesh. The wound wouldn’t seal, neither would his skin. Not until he fed on a human. For the first time, Drummond wondered if his maudlin wish to destroy himself had finally been granted. Now, after over a century of being alone, he had vowed to protect Lydia and he loved Genevieve. 79
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They were as much a part of his destiny as he was a part of theirs. That he had actually found a reason to continue this existence was an unexpected bonus. Pain grew to a level he could not tolerate. He screamed as if flames were still against his chest. His eyes bulged. Every muscle twitched. Deep in his soul, he called to her. Then the Turk seemed to vanish in a mist. He knew he was alone. He also knew there was no choice. No good end to this. Even if he traded his soul for their safety, Lydia and Genevieve were indeed marked for death. Blood dripped from his arm, the slow drain would weaken him even more. His icy flesh constricted against the fire’s assault. Any movement would have it crack and peel until the last layer of skin fell away to expose muscle and vein. I am with you, Drummond, my love. The delusion had been as brief as the speed of light. Before he could warn her, Genevieve was gone. He searched his mind, searched his soul. Nothing. Blood tears welled in his eyes. He shut them tight and sobbed.
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Chapter 12 The pain had been so intense that it took every ounce of energy for Genevieve to connect with him. And as soon as she whispered to his soul, she felt thrust away. Her eyes shot open. Tears filled them an instant later, but she knew who had intruded, who had ripped her from Drummond. “Old One,” she hissed in a raspy tone. “Shush, lie still,” Esther replied. “How could you! I can save him.” “No you can’t. And linking to his soul will only allow the other to work dark magic on you. Sever completely, Genevieve.” Her head tossed from side to side on the pillow. She sucked in a breath, and sobbed out a cry. Then Lydia was hugging her, Loretta standing close. “Esther’s right, Gen,” her friend said. Genevieve hushed her daughter, swallowing the next sob and glaring through tears at the old witch. “Take her from me, Loretta. I have to talk to Esther alone.” Instead, the nun sank down, stroking Lydia’s hair. “I came as soon as I sensed your call. Esther arrived shortly afterward. The entire sisterhood is outside your door, Gen. Don’t be mean.” “Mean,” she whispered, “Are you kidding me?” “You’re still one of our own, Genevieve,” Esther bit out. “The child is as well. Don’t know why I didn’t see it all those years ago.” “Now you accept her? Now, old witch? Remove the spell! I have to be with him!” Loretta instantly covered Lydia’s ears, but Genevieve added, “That 81
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won’t work. She senses him! I sense him in every fiber of my being!” “Oh, look at yourself, foolish girl.” Esther’s cackling voice shot through her head, on purpose, Genevieve noted. “Linking to him puts you right there in that dungeon with him!” She clicked her tongue and shook a boney finger. “I know who has him, and I know why, the imbecile!” Weak as she was, she peeled the child’s arms from her neck. “Go with Loretta, lovey.” “No! I see him too, Mamma! He needs us.” She steadied her nerves. “You’re too young to know anything like this! The Old One is right. They, he, mustn’t sense you. Loretta,” she pleaded. Soft words came from her best friend, soothing thoughts. Genevieve felt them as well. With Lydia hugged tight, Loretta left the room. Only then did she fully leer at the meddling old witch. Strangulation would not be impossible. Esther’s bones had to be as brittle as last year’s kindling. “Why did you really break the connection?” The old witch bent over her and then sank to the mattress. “You mean why am I here? I felt your pain.” “It wasn’t yours to feel.” “Nevertheless, I’m nosy in a way. Or the Mother Goddess wanted me to come to your aid.” “I’m not the one standing on the edge of oblivion.” Just like before, she clicked her tongue and shook a wrinkled finger. “If I had let you stay in his soul for another thirty seconds, that devil would have felt you. He’d snatch up your mind and call it a two for one special.” She wanted to spit. She wanted to scream. Trying to raise her head off the pillow, the bedroom spun and needles pierced her cloudy eyes. “Uh, uh, uh, witch, not until you hear what I 82
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have to say.” Hoping to get her way, Genevieve tried a different approach. “Old One, I’m asking you nicely. Please let me try and find him.” “You can’t.” “Why not,” she huffed. “He’s in another dimension.” Her eyes narrowed. “You know me, Genevieve, an Elder never lies.” Having no comeback, her lip quivered and she started to cry. Twisting her body was painful, but she buried her face in the pillow and clenched the sheet into a ball in her hand. She couldn’t give up. “You aren’t, foolish child.” “Stop reading me,” she wailed. “Didn’t you hear your nun friend—the other traitor amongst us.” “Loretta isn’t a traitor. Neither am I.” “Traitors, I say, that goes for both of you! Our sisterhood might be potent enough to pierce the portal if we have both of you helping. But no! That won’t happen because she’s in full denial of a rightful heritage, and you’re a sniveling coward.” Genevieve pushed through the pain and forced herself up on her elbows. “Get out of my house!” “Ohhh… You lied to the gods. You don’t want to mend the bridge unless it’s on your land. Won’t do, won’t do at all.” The Old One’s eyes blazed blue ice. Then crooked and slow, she stood. “There are two possible endings here, foolish girl. One is acceptable.” Genevieve swallowed, never seeing this type of power radiate from Esther. Never! “And the other,” she softly asked, afraid of the answer. “The other,” the old witch said with a curious tilt of her head. Every wrinkle looked like a crevasse; every wiry gray hair seemed to shimmer. “He’ll watch the child die. He’ll tear out his hair when you 83
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succumb.” Close to terrified, she barely whispered, “And Drummond.” “The legend will be no more. His stolen soul will burn in the eternal fires of Hell.” She gasped, tried to bring air to her lungs. Her arms went limp, her eyes rolled back in her head. Genevieve heard Esther shout her name, but a response didn’t come. **** A cool towel bathed Genevieve’s brow. “Thank God you’re awake. I’ve been praying like a sinner,” Loretta whispered. She sobbed as her eyes fluttered open. “Do you think He cares?” “He loves us all, especially those who do no malice.” “Well that leaves out Esther.” “Yeah.” Loretta slightly smiled. “And the whole sisterhood who are taking up all available space in the parlor and the kitchen. They drink a lot of coffee.” “So who does no malice besides you, Loretta?” “Well, little Lydia, of course, what a caring soul she has, Gen.” “So now that’s two for the good guys.” “And you.” “Not me,” Genevieve whispered. “I’ve done my share of petty things.” “But malice doesn’t own your heart.” “And Drummond,” she asked. “He’s pretty much a good guy, too, in spite of his, uh, affliction.” She fisted the bed and sat up all the way. The room spun a bit, and she willed it to stop. It did. That gave her immense satisfaction. It also indicated that she had control of her mind. Like a mother hen, Loretta smoothed the covers around her body. 84
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Genevieve scrunched her curls before she folded her hands. “What happens now?” “That’s up to you, witch. Make the decision you feel is the right one.” She slowly shook her head and looked away. “I can’t face them. I hate them.” “You don’t hate them.” “Six years it’s been. I haven’t seen one of them on the street, at the market, nowhere in this city. It’s impossible odds.” “Esther didn’t turn you into a toad when you visited her. She didn’t put your voice in an enchanted box to leave you speechless when you challenged her, either.” “What are you saying?” Loretta shrugged with a sincere smile. “Saints aren’t walking among the sisterhood, but they’re not all bad, you know. Every single one of them is here, Genevieve. They adore little Lydia, full of compliments on her behavior, her personality, and her talent.” “They see it?” “Why she’s been sitting on Esther’s lap all afternoon. I think your daughter charmed the old witch when she explained the meaning of her Christmas tree. Did you know that Esther could smile?” “My little Lydia,” she whispered. “Your very powerful little witch, you mean. A gift like hers is rare.” Loretta lowered her voice to say, “The Old One said so herself.” She became quiet, listening to all of them with her inner senses. “He doesn’t belong in the fires of Hell.” “Then do something about it. Only you have the ability to say let’s go for it or let him burn. Can you stand?” It wasn’t a question of whether she could or not. 85
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Genevieve had to, no other option possible. Two seconds later, her feet curled against the floor. Willing her body out of the bed, she stood. “Do you want to hold hands, Gen, just like we did when we were kids?” Loretta asked. “Please,” she whispered. Then she stopped. “Who got me into this nightgown?” “I did. Why?” “You picked the rattiest one!” “So throw your robe over it.” That wouldn’t do. Loretta read her and walked over to the closet. Going through Genevieve’s clothes, she suddenly stopped. “Is this the one you want?” “Yes,” she replied. She stepped into her undergarments and fastened her brassiere as quick as she could. Loretta buttoned the black opencollared shirt over it as Genevieve zipped her skirt. “Have you lost weight?” “I haven’t eaten since yesterday. Don’t worry. The pound will come back. It always does as if my girth is meant to balance the universe somehow.” They both cracked smiles. And hand in hand, Genevieve went out to face the toughest audience in her world. **** “You didn’t exaggerate,” she whispered to Loretta. “Nuns don’t lie,” Loretta answered. The kitchen and the parlor were packed with little room left to walk. Esther, of course, sat in one of two brocade armchairs, holding Lydia on her lap as if she were her own granddaughter. ‘And you could have heard a pin drop’ certainly fit the mood. She didn’t recognize the man sitting in the other armchair, but as for everyone else who stared at Genevieve without indictment, not one member of the sisterhood had aged. And none of them wore a 86
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dowdy outfit, either. Loretta took Lydia in her arms. “No. Don’t go into the bedroom,” Genevieve suddenly said. She took a breath and straightened her shoulders. “I welcome you all, my sisters. Blessed Yule.” One by one, they returned the greeting. Then Esther held up a hand and the room went silent again. “Blessed be, Genevieve.” She inclined her head with due respect. “Blessed be, Old One.” Her eyes slid to the only man in her home. “This is our matrix, so to speak,” Esther explained. He looked neither young nor old. Distinguished, however, and most likely a more powerful conduit than any of them. “You’d be correct,” he said with a line of a grin. She didn’t know what to do first. Bow before him or apologize to every sister who had come to help. “Neither is necessary,” Esther replied. “The day is fading and we must hurry.” The old witch rose slowly and stood before her. “A gathering place is needed.” “Where,” Genevieve whispered. “Rock, water, earth, and air,” the matrix stated. “He hunted before he came to you last night.” “I-I didn’t know.” Esther stared deeply into her eyes. “Just for a second, look into his mind and sense the location.” “I-I,” she stammered, “What if his captor sees me.” The matrix, a tall man, well dressed and full bodied, now stood beside Esther. “I will tell you when, Genevieve. It’s imperative you say nothing to Drummond; that you sneak the memory out of his head and not linger for a second. This is clear?” “One shot,” she replied. “Only one,” he answered. 87
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He held her gaze. Suddenly his eyes clouded and he said, “Close your eyes. Now!” The force in Genevieve’s mind surged. She connected in a split second and swept Drummond’s fading senses. Her heart thumped wild in her chest. “A pond, buried deer and wolf, fifty blocks away,” she informed them. “More,” he ordered. “See the trees.” “Yes, yes, a clear patch of earth a hundred feet off the path. I have it.” She wobbled a bit, and the matrix grabbed her arm. Energy shot from him to her. As if she’d slept a weekend away, her eyes flew open. “Who are you?” she breathed out. “Equal to the Turk, and an old friend of Esther’s,” he replied. He faced the Old One, letting go of Genevieve’s arm. “Do you have it in your mind?” “Yes,” Esther replied. He turned to her sisters. “And all of you as well,” he asked. Each sent a solid “yes.” Then his gaze fell on Lydia. “Ah, little one, you see it too!” Lydia smiled and nodded as if she were already a witch. Genevieve’s heart burst with pride as the matrix cupped her daughter’s cheeks and kissed her forehead. “She is gifted,” he announced to everyone. An audible intake of air came from each of them, and Genevieve said, “Keep her with you, Loretta.” The matrix slowly shook his head. “No. That’s not meant to happen, Genevieve. She must be with us.” “What if this evil thing senses her,” she blurted out. His eyes widened in a way that made her want to apologize profusely. How could she question someone so full of good magic? 88
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“Indeed,” he growled. The Old One touched his arm. “I told you she’s head-strong,” she cackled. “Perhaps only one who would defy us could birth such a treasure.” The scowl eased off the matrix’s face. “You may be right, Old One.” He paused, swept the rooms full of women with a commanding gaze. “Ready yourselves, sisterhood. Go by foot. It is one hour ‘til sunset. Blessed be,” he stated with an austere tone. “Blessed be” came from each of them. Then one by one, they approached and kissed Genevieve’s flushed cheeks. They kissed Lydia’s and Loretta’s as well. Esther led the matrix away, hooked on his arm like a young June bride. The door closed and Loretta, still holding Lydia’s hand, came to Genevieve’s side. “I didn’t catch his name,” she said to Loretta. “He doesn’t need one, Mamma,” Lydia replied. Genevieve stared at her daughter. The child came into her protective hug. “Put on warm clothes and two pairs of socks.” “I’ll be ready quick!” When Lydia skipped down the hall and into her room, she faced her best friend. “Thank you, Loretta. Please be with us tonight.” “That’s not possible, Gen, but you know my strength will be with you.” She nodded once. “If anything happens…” “No. I refuse to think of that possibility, especially not with the matrix in the lead.” “Who is he, anyway? Do you know? Did you ever see him at any gathering?” “Never.” “Is he Wiccan?” “I didn’t get that from him.” “Well,” she said after a pause. “What did you get?” 89
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Loretta leaned in close. “Otherworld, definitely a bigwig.” “We don’t play around with dimensions, Loretta.” “But I’ll bet Esther does. I’m willing to say she’s a bird of a different feather all the way around.” Lydia came bounding into the room. Genevieve put on two pairs of stockings and then laced up heavy shoes. She splashed water on her face and ran a brush through her hair while Loretta bundled Lydia as if they were off to Antarctica. “Put on gloves and a hat. Don’t just wear your cloak, Gen.” Genevieve didn’t disagree. She wore a heavy sweater under the shawl, under the cloak. She wrapped a scarf around her face and secured a wool hat. “Will you walk with us?” “Only to the entrance of the forest, I can’t go any further.” They hurried down the stairs and out into the street. No wind existed tonight, as if no more evil existed here. But it did exist. Drummond. The end of his existence was a possibility. The pain of a torturous act so malicious that he may not survive was a reality. She pushed her immortal beloved from her mind. Quiet at her side, her little girl seemed to sense the necessity of gathering strength in solitude. She didn’t stop to look at one decorated window. She ignored the carolers and street musicians. Neither of them noticed the crowded sidewalks on the Saturday before Christmas. Genevieve cleared her mind. She focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Emotion could not rule her witch senses, not when Drummond’s very existence was at stake. **** In silence, the gathering began. On the very spot 90
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where deer and wolf lay buried together beneath the earth, they assembled with no words, no incantation. The matrix stood in front of the Old One. Directly behind her, Genevieve held tight to Lydia’s gloved hand. With them as the apex, the sisterhood stood in rows, shoulder to shoulder. At the precise moment of sunset, the air suddenly warmed. Heat shot forth like a flaming arrow. A ripple began; then widened. Like a fissure in the universe, the other dimension slowly appeared. From Genevieve’s vantage point, she saw souls, the ghosts of the spirit world, and then, both mist and light. A figure approached the portal, appearing in no way mortal. While the gathering held their places, the conduit alone took a step forward. The ethereal creature on the other side stepped forward as well. In an aura of bright yellow light, they merged. The aura changed, deepening to orange, then red. Shades of violet and green, hues of blue bled together. Colors of the spectrum sparked around the merged mediums. Genevieve felt more powerful than ever before. She sensed every sister’s energy flowing through her, flowing through Esther to the being who straddled dimensions. Then a black orb the size of huge bolder came into view. It rolled closer as the merged mediums held open its arms. She saw him! Her heart leapt and for a moment, she lost concentration. Lydia’s hand suddenly tightened in hers, and Genevieve redoubled her mental energy. To see beyond his pain, to see beyond her attachment to his soul, she clenched her jaw and widened her eyes. In the center of the black orb, his captor held a hand to Drummond’s singed chest. Her immortal beloved screamed, his body jerked and twisted. 91
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Thunder filled Genevieve’s ears. Then a small beam of light radiated from Drummond’s chest where his captor touched. It hovered in his finger-tip, and then the light slid into his captor’s hand. Once more, Drummond’s body jerked. His eyes went wide and a look of agony filled his face. In an instant, the beam of light flickered, and then disappeared. Genevieve fought the desire to break formation and leap through the merged beings to Drummond. On the crest of exhaustion, she willed her mind to stay merged with her sisters, with the conduit. Suddenly, Drummond’s captor turned. Facing her dimension, his eyes burned black. The heat surging through her felt like she alone could destroy him. In a sweeping movement, each sister’s hands stretched forth. So did Esther’s. Then it happened. Spirits gathered behind the evil creature. Lost souls taken with no regard for their innocence would have their just revenge. The Turk’s eyes widened. His jaw wrenched down. A fiery mist spewed forth. It blocked her vision of Drummond before the opaque sphere shrank and shrank until it became the size of a pebble on a beach. It was suddenly in the merged mediums hand, crushed into minute particles. The matrix didn’t separate from the other being as the dimension’s portal swirled to a close. The air chilled and a gust of wintry wind engulfed Genevieve. She sensed it do the same to everyone who had gathered with her in the forest at sunset. A sob hitched in her throat. Was this it? Was this all? She felt suspended in time. Then Lydia’s hand slipped from hers, and Genevieve looked around. “When did they leave?” “Five minutes ago,” Esther replied. The Old One 92
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already had Lydia’s hand in hers. “She’s coming to my house for a few days.” Fully shaken and equally full of questions, she breathed out, “Like hell, she’s not.” “I want to, Mamma,” her sweet child said. “It has to be so.” Still not able to focus, ready to ask about Drummond, she could only get out, “W-wh-why?” Esther cackled. “Well that came out a strangled stammer.” They held each other’s gaze, one wise, one startled. “Ah, child, I agree with Loretta. ‘Oh ye of little faith’ doesn’t even begin to describe… She’s running back to your home, by the way.” They started to walk away, and she panicked, “Old One…” Esther’s left hand flew in the air. “Hurry, Genevieve. I have two cabs waiting. He needs your attention.” “W-who?” She cleared her throat, slow to follow. “Who needs my attention?” When Esther didn’t reply, she took a chance and allowed her mind to connect to Drummond’s. Where was his soul? Where was his… She gasped and clutched her bosom. Lydia and Esther seemed far, far away. Genevieve ran through the trees thinking, exhaustion be damned!
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Chapter 13 For two days, she applied specially prepared potions to every patch of singed skin. He had been slow to regain consciousness. Genevieve purchased cow’s blood from the Italian butcher shop and forced Drummond to drink as a human would. He needed something more, she sensed it. In her bedroom, heavy drapes remained closed over windows now painted black. He was somnolent most of the time. She knew enough not to disturb him. She napped in small spurts of time and sat at his side as often as possible. On the third night, his eyes eased open and stayed that way. Her heart skipped a beat. “You won’t fully heal without my blood.” She could barely believe she had uttered the words. Weak as he was, he managed a fierce scowl. “I don’t trust myself enough to stop, should I even attempt such a horrid thing.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t have to be a horrid thing. Take a pint. I’ve given blood before and it, it doesn’t…” “Mon Dieu, Genevieve,” he exclaimed. And then fast, French words punctuated with curses, she surmised, ran from his mouth. Her shoulders straightened. Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not strong enough to feed!” “You’re not in your right mind!” he hollered back. “Very well, go then! Feed away!” Her cheeks flushed, her lips pursed. “I am naked!” 94
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“I don’t care,” she replied and left the room in a huff. She slammed the door, and sank into the green brocade chair. The nerve of him, she thought, the stubborn, infuriating nerve! Esther had brought Lydia over last night to visit him. He had cooed and smiled wide for nearly a full minute in spite of his scarred skin and weakened state. No. Animal blood wouldn’t do it. He needed to heal. She entered the bedroom ready to put his teeth on her wrist. But the window was open, the lace curtain pushed aside. Genevieve stood there staring in total disbelief. **** He had just enough strength to climb to the roof. It was flat and low like the entire city block. He needed to feed. He needed clothes. Both battled for immediate attention and whichever he chose had to be quick. He faced south and began to walk to the roofline. The slightest lift from building to building was nothing. Jumping across wide streets and landing atop another flat roof meant he needed total concentration. It took longer than ever to get to his home. He dressed quickly in spite of the pain. What Genevieve had said was right on the money. Human blood, not animal would allow him to heal. Grabbing a roll of bills from a hidden place in the basement, he knew what he needed to do. Never had he done anything like this before, but night crews could be bribed. And hospitals had blood banks. **** He watched her enter the bedroom and stand as still as a statue. She clutched the robe at her bosom, the thin silk against winter’s icy chill not enough. It was already midnight, Christmas Eve. “Did you enjoy your tea,” he asked in a low voice. She sucked in a startled breath. 95
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With her so close, he longed to have her once again. “Come into my arms. This is a purely sensual demand, madam.” His name fluttered across her full lips. “At your service and forever grateful to you,” he whispered in reply. “You’re fully healed.” “And eternally thankful for the good magic that plucked me from a demon’s dungeon and threw me onto your bedroom floor.” Never expecting her to still be out of his reach, Drummond approached, clasped her wrist to playfully tug her to his chest. Her smile filled his soul. “You aren’t scarred.” “No, and I drank from no human tonight, either. Now can we start again, madam?” She stared at the bed. “It might creak this time.” “Who said anything about a bed?” He undid the buttons of his shirt. One by one, his shoes and socks came off. He peeled the silk robe off her shoulders and lowered the strap of a black nightgown. Her skin dotted with tiny bumps and he let his hands slide to her waist. When she worked his belt and trousers like an expert, Drummond’s head drifted back, and he smiled. And stepping out of his boxers, he watched her study his arousal. Tonight, he’d fill her with love and affection as never before. Her hands rubbed his upper arms, his shoulders. Slowly, he unbelted the robe and as it fluttered to the floor, he pulled off her nightgown, which flew across the room as he stated, “I want you naked in my arms.” Lifting her high off the ground, panic swept across Genevieve’s beautiful face, her arms locked across his back. “Get the sexy scowl off your face… And put me down,” she ordered with wide eyes. “No.” 96
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“I-I, I’m going to fall!” After a teasing kiss, he whispered, “Never from my arms.” Guiding her legs around, he anchored them slightly below his waist. Her rich brown eyes grew wider still. “Are you intrigued, madam?” “Yes, and, and…” “Coated with desire as never before, madam?” She sighed, she moaned as he lowered her onto himself. “I-I can’t, I can’t…” “You are ablaze again. Don’t deny it.” With each slow thrust, he reveled in the whimper of a woman so unique, so full of love. He would cherish her strength and nourish her need for him. He, a vampire, would find love in each cry of unbridled ecstasy from the only mortal who knew his soul. Hungry for her, his lips captured hers; his tongue explored her sensual mouth. Genevieve gasped and shuddered, and when she quivered, he released her lips. Driven to possess her as never before, he thrust deeper, deeper. When she reached the highest state of bliss, he willed his fangs to lengthen. Running the sharp tips against her neck, she bucked wild. He supported her spine with one hand, holding her soft bottom with the other. Then Genevieve’s shoulders drifted back, just as he had hoped. Gently he eased her further away to nip her lower lip, her chin. She moaned wanton and low. “Are you beyond control yet?” “Oh, oh,” she whimpered. His fangs traced down her throat. Her heaving bosoms drove Drummond crazy. He nipped one then the other as their bodies rocked together in love and need. The experience freed Genevieve. Inhibition as well as fear of crashing to the floor slipped away. 97
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Bliss flooded her, gave her a sense of weightlessness. The security of such a powerful man holding her high off the floor and guiding her hips created a new frenzy within. The lure of Drummond was an eternal enticement. When the tips of his fangs grazed her sensitive breasts, she couldn’t help but whimper. Rolls of gentle laughter rippled as he teased her, tempted her. Years convinced that life without passion was possible didn’t exist anymore. Happiness wasn’t an elusive dream, flitting like moths that danced till death around searing flames. This was beyond exhilarating. Her flushed face rested on one broad shoulder when he drew her back to his chest. She was on fire, her temperature soaring into the stratosphere. Drummond’s cool skin was a blessing. Another wave rolled through her as a cold burst of seed filled her. When his dark intense eyes opened, she searched them. Then her forehead met his and she kissed his cheek. Locked together, the connection to his soul was complete. “You’ll exist long after I’ve died, my love.” “Genevieve.” “No. Let me finish. Lydia will lead a long life. I see this. She’ll be forever attached to you.” “I hope it will be so,” he replied. “Treat her like your daughter.” “I shall always protect her, madam.” “You will be forever young, but I will age, Drummond.” “And I shall be by your side every night until the last breath leaves you.” “You’d be free to love another.” “Never, mon Dieu, never! Our souls are joined.” “Yes, they are, just as our bodies are.” Slowly, he eased out of her, holding tight to her waist and setting her down with care. She cleaved to him. “Genevieve,” he whispered. 98
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Against his cool chest, she answered, “Yes, my love.” “I would have accepted Hell to keep you and Lydia safe.” She recalled the words, the very formal mythical creature standing at her child’s door nights ago. “The fires of Hell will never echo in your ears, Drummond. Your soul is pure and strong, my immortal beloved.” His lips crushed hers. His passion fed her passion as never before. “We are destined, Genevieve.” “Destined, yes,” she whispered. “Joyeux Noel, ma chère.” “Blessed Yule, my love.” Her heart skipped a beat. As long as she had breath to breathe, Genevieve would always crave the vampire’s touch.
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A word about the author... Shela Sky likes writing about sensual vampire heroes. She is a fan of the paranormal in any form, even though as a teenager, she didn’t make it past the first chapter of Bram Stoker’s Dracula. Then along came Dark Shadows and Anne Rice novels. A member of RWA, NJRW, and LSFW, this is Shela’s first novella. For more about Shela and other authors’s writing, please visit http://paranormalpassion.blogspot.com
Thank you for purchasing this Wild Rose Press publication. For other wonderful stories of romance, please visit our on-line bookstore at www.thewildrosepress.com. For questions or more information contact us at
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