Amanda Ashley (3 page)

Alexander shook his head, unable to voice the lie aloud.

She frowned. “Maybe it was a dream, then.”

“Most assuredly. Good night, Miss Crawford. Sleep well.”

“Your name. Tell me your name.”

“Alexander Claybourne.” He bowed his head. “And now I must go.”

“Stay, please. I . . . I'm afraid.”

“Afraid?” he asked. “Of what?” It had been centuries since he had feared anything save discovery of what he was.

“Of being alone.” She smiled self-consciously. “Of the dark.” She'd been afraid of the dark for as long as she could remember, though there was no logical reason for her fear.

“The dark cannot hurt you, Miss Crawford,” he said quietly.

“I know.” Rationally, she did know, but she feared it just the same. “Please stay. I'm not so afraid with you here.”

Ah, foolish girl, he thought, to be afraid of the darkness, but not the stranger hiding in its shadows. “Would you like me to turn on the light?”

“No. The dark doesn't seem so scary with you here.” There was a certain excitement in sharing the darkness with this man who was a stranger, an intimacy that would not have been possible with the lights on.

“You're not tired?”

“No. It seems as though all I've done the past two days is sleep.”

“Very well.” He acquiesced with a slight smile.
“Will you tell me about yourself?”

“There's not much to tell.”

“Please.” He sat down in the straight-backed chair beside her bed, careful to keep to the shadows.

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

Kara laughed. “Well, I was born in Denver. My sister, Gail, was born when I was eleven. A few months later, my folks got a divorce.”

She shrugged. Even after all these years, it still hurt. And even though she knew she wasn't to blame, she'd always wondered if the divorce had somehow been her fault.

“I guess they thought another baby would save the marriage,” she went on, “but it didn't work. My mom moved us here to live with Nana—my grandmother. When I was fourteen, Mom ran off with a truck driver and we never heard from her again. We hadn't heard anything from my Dad since the divorce, so Nana decided Gail and I should stay with her. My brother, Steve, had just started college when our parents broke up. Nana's been both mother and father to us since my mother left. I went to college for a couple of years, and now I'm a consultant at Arias.” She shrugged. “That's it.”

“Who, or what, is Arias?”

“Arias Interiors. It's an interior design firm.”

“I see.”

“What do you do?”

“Do? Ah, my work, you mean? I write.”

“You mean books?”

Alexander nodded.

“What do you write?”

“Horror stories, mostly.”

“Like Stephen King?”

“More or less.”

Kara frowned. “Have you had anything published?”

“A few things. I write under the name of A. Lucard.”

A. Lucard! He was the hottest, most prolific writer on the market. His books consistently made the
New York Times
Best Seller List. Personally, Kara didn't care to read horror. Out of curiosity to see what all the fuss was about, she had read one of his books. It had kept her up all night.

“I read one of your books,” she remarked candidly. “It gave me the worst nightmares I've ever had.”

“My apologies.”

“What are you working on now?”

“More of the same, I'm afraid.”

“My little sister would love to read your books, but Nana won't let her.”

“Indeed? I wouldn't think your sister would be interested in my work.”

“Are you kidding? Gail loves monsters.”

“And you? How do you feel about . . . monsters?”

“I don't believe in them.”

“Then I hope you never meet one.” He glanced out the window. He could sense the approaching dawn, feel the promised heat of the sun. “I must go.”

“Thank you for staying, Mr. Claybourne.”

“Alexander.”

“Alexander.” She could see him a little more clearly now, a tall, broad-shouldered figure silhouetted against the pale green wall. He wore a black sweater and black jeans. She wished she could see
his face, the color of his eyes, the shape of his mouth. He had a most unusual accent, one she couldn't quite place. “Will you come tomorrow?”

“I don't know.”

“I wish you would.” She pursed her lips, reluctant to ask a favor, yet unable to resist. “Would you bring me one of your books?”

“Of course, but I thought you didn't care for stories about monsters.”

“Well, I don't but now that I've met you . . . well, I'd like to give your books another try.”

“Then I shall see that you get one. Good night, Kara.”

“Good night.”

She watched the door close behind him, wishing, inexplicably, that he had kissed her good-bye.

Alexander prowled the dark streets, aware, always aware, of the nearness of dawn, of the necessity of returning home before it was too late. Yet he needed to be outside, to feel the darkness that had become as much a part of him as his arms and legs.

He moved through the city, driven by a horrible sense of loneliness, of separateness. He yearned for a woman to share his life, but dared not take the risk of divulging the truth of what he was. He could only imagine the panic that would result.

He felt the heat of the sun at his back. Soon, the streets would be filled with people, people who lived and worked, loved and laughed, who took their world and everything in it for granted.

With an anguished cry, he sprinted for home, for the safety of shuttered rooms.

He bolted the front door behind him. The house
was cool and dim, a refuge from the burning rays of the sun.

Sheltered by the darkness, he climbed the stairs to his room and closed the door.

His first thought, upon waking, was for Kara. He pushed it aside, determined to forget the young woman with russet-colored hair and dreamy blue eyes. She was an infant compared to him, a child with her whole life ahead of her. A creature of light, she had no need for a man who wore darkness like a shroud, a man who was not like other men.

He wandered restlessly through the empty rooms of his house, unable to concentrate on any one task, his thoughts constantly turning toward Kara.

Leaving the house, he blended into the shadows of the night. Muttering an oath, he began to run, tirelessly, effortlessly. Mile after mile he ran, his feet hardly touching the ground. But no matter how far he ran, he could not outrun the desires of his own heart. He returned home long enough to change clothes and wrap up one of his books. Certain he was making a mistake, but unable to resist the lure of seeing her again, he left the house.

Outside, he closed his eyes and sent his thoughts toward Kara. Her sister and her grandmother had been there earlier, but now they were gone, and she was alone. And lonely.

And thinking of him.

I'm coming, Kara.

He willed his words into her mind. A short time later, he was at the hospital, in her room.

Her smile of welcome, warm and genuine, filled his heart—nay, his very soul—with sunlight.

“Good evening, Kara.”

“Hi.”

“You look much better.”

“I feel much better.”

Reaching inside his coat, he withdrew a parcel wrapped in white paper. “I hope it doesn't give you nightmares.”

“You remembered! Thank you.” She tore off the paper and stared at the cover. It depicted a raven-haired man bending over a woman's slender neck; the light from a full moon glinted off his fangs.
“The Hunger,”
she said, reading the title aloud. “Sounds a little gruesome.”

“Not as bad as some I've written.”

“Would you autograph it for me?”

“Of course.”

She handed him the book and a pen, then watched as he opened it to the title page.

He wrote for a moment, then closed the book and handed it back to her. “Perhaps you shouldn't read it at night.”

“That scary, huh?”

“I've been told my style is dark and heavy-handed.”

Kara frowned, remembering the other book she'd read. “Well, your style is definitely dark,” she allowed, “but I didn't think it was heavy-handed. Actually, I thought the book I read was really very good. I mean, it was supposed to be scary, and it certainly scared me.”

“Which one did you read?”

“The Maiden and the Madman.”

“One of my earlier works. I think you'll find
The Hunger
far less grotesque.”

“This cover's quite a bit different from your others.”

Alexander nodded. “Actually, this is more of a love story than anything else.”

“Really?”

He shrugged. “An aberration, I assure you. The plot for my next book is filled with enough murder and mayhem to please the most bloodthirsty of my readers.”

“You won't mind if I don't buy it?”

“Not at all.”

Kara looked into his eyes, and forgot everything else. She had heard of love at first sight—who hadn't? But she had never believed in such a thing. She had met other handsome men and felt varying degrees of attraction, but nothing to equal what she felt now, an allure that was almost spiritual, as if her soul was reaching out to his. Did he feel it, too? Never before had she understood how a woman could throw away everything for the love of a man, but she had the sudden unshakable feeling that if Alexander asked her to follow him to the other side of the world, she would say yes without a second thought. It was most disconcerting, and a little frightening.

With an effort, she drew her gaze from his. “How long does it take you to write a book?”

“Not long. Three months, sometimes four.”

“How long have you been writing?”

“About twelve years.” He smiled at her as if he knew she was asking these questions because she feared another lingering silence between them. “Enough about me. Will you be going home soon?”

“Not for another few days. And then I won't be able to go back to work right away.”

“How do you feel?”

“Fine.”

“I'm glad. I should go now. You need your rest.”

“That's what everyone says.”

“Then it must be true.”

He stood up, knowing he should go, yet reluctant to leave her. She was like a beacon of light, bright and shining, untouched by darkness or evil. He knew the darkness that surrounded him would seem blacker still when he left her. But leave her he must.

“Good night, Kara.”

“Good night, Alexander. Thank you for the book.”

He smiled at her, then left the room. He would not, could not, see her again.

Kara stared after him a moment, then opened the book to the page he had autographed.

“To Kara—May your faith keep you safe from the monsters of the world.” And then his signature, written in a bold scrawl: Alexander J. Claybourne. And beneath that: A. Lucard.

She didn't know what made her read his pseudonym backward, but when she did, a shiver ran down her spine.

D . . . R . . . A . . . C . . . U . . . L . . . A.

“Dracula.”

Kara spoke the word aloud, then laughed. A fitting name indeed, for a man who wrote the kind of books penned by Alexander Claybourne.

He wasn't going to see her again. It was a promise he made to himself upon waking the following evening.

He repeated the words in his mind as he sat at the computer.

He typed them on the screen.

He spoke them aloud.

He wasn't going to see her again.

An hour passed. Two.

Unable to resist the lure of seeing her one more time, he took a quick shower, pulled on a pair of black trousers and a dark gray sweater, and left the house.

He stopped at the florist and bought a huge bouquet of roses—yellow ones because she reminded him of sunlight, pink ones that matched the color of her lips, white ones to match the innocence in
her eyes. And a single perfect red rose.

It was just after seven when he entered the hospital. He clenched his jaw as he walked down the corridor toward her room, overwhelmed by the scent of sickness and death. He knew it was only his imagination, yet, as he passed by the intensive care unit, it seemed as if he could see the spirits of those near death hovering above the bodies on the beds, their wraith-like arms reaching for him, silently begging him for what only he could give.

Cursing softly, he turned away, walking blindly down the corridor. He should leave now, he thought. He should never have come here in the first place.

And then he was outside her room, opening the door. And she was smiling at him, her blue eyes clear and bright, her cheeks flushed.

“I was hoping you'd stop by,” she said, pleasure evident in the tone of her voice.

Alexander returned her smile as he handed her the bouquet.

“They're beautiful,” Kara murmured. “Thank you.”

“You put them to shame.”

Kara felt herself blushing. “You flatter me, sir.”

“Not at all.”

“There's a vase in that cupboard,” Kara said. “Would you mind putting these in water for me?”

With a nod, he opened the cupboard door, found the vase, and filled it. Taking the flowers, he placed them in the vase, then set it on the table beside the bed.

“So,” he said, sitting down in the green plastic chair. “How are you feeling this evening?”

“Much better. Dr. Petersen is quite impressed
with my recovery.” She smiled. “He says I can go home tomorrow.”

“That is good news, indeed.”

Kara nodded. “My brother called today. He's in South America.”

“Doing what?”

“Building bridges.”

“Has he been there long?”