Midnight Embrace (2 page)

Dr. Martinson was smiling when he finished his examination. "I am pleased with your progress, Analisa, though I confess I do not understand it. It is quite beyond anything I have ever seen before."

She nodded, her gaze still on the hooded man.

"If your condition continues to improve through the night, I think you will be ready to go home tomorrow afternoon."

"Thank you, Doctor."

He patted her hand. "Rest well, my dear."

She watched him leave the room, the stranger momentarily forgotten. Home. She had no home, no place to go when she left here.

"Analisa."

The sound of her name on his lips sent a shiver down her spine. "What do you want? Why couldn't Dr. Martinson see you?"

He moved toward her, bringing the darkness with him. "Because I did not wish to be seen. As for what I want with you, only what I desired last night."

She was trembling now. "What did you do to me last night?" She lifted her hand to her throat. "Did you give me an injection of some kind?"

He hesitated. "An elixir of my own making. It made you feel better, did it not?"

"Yes. Yes, it did. But how—"

"Then close your eyes, Analisa."

"Why?"

"Close your eyes, my sweet Analisa. Listen to the sound of my voice, only my voice."

His voice. It moved over her, soft as a mother's caress, soothing her, comforting her, mesmerizing her so completely that she offered no protest when he sat down on the edge of the bed and drew her gently into his embrace. She was aware of the strength of his arms even as her eyelids grew heavy, heavier. Drifting between the awareness of consciousness and the forgetfulness of sleep, she felt again a quick needle-like pain at her throat, and then she was overcome with a familiar feeling of lethargy, of euphoria, that carried her gently down, down, into the velvet darkness of oblivion…

Her blood. It was sweet, so very, very sweet, and he drank and drank, despising himself, despising his inability to control the need that burned through him, yet reveling in the warmth that flowed through his limbs, chasing away the cold that was ever a part of him, giving him an illusion of life, of mortality.

He drew back to gaze at her face, imprinting her image in his mind. She was a beautiful child, her oval face framed by a wealth of ebony curls. Beneath closed lids, her eyes were the color of sun-warmed earth, large, luminous eyes, innocent and without guile. Her brows were delicately arched. Her nose was perfectly formed, her lips as pink as the petals of a wild rose, her skin smooth and unblemished. And warm. So warm, so alive.

How many times in the last four hundred years had he stolen the elixir of life from a child as pure and innocent as the one lying helpless and vulnerable in his arms? It mattered not that he drew them back from the brink of death and gave them life in return. Who was he to interfere with Fate? What right did he have to play with the lives of those whose blood he took?

This would be the last time. When he left here, he would wander the streets in the company of innocent mortals one last time. He would drink until he was replete, and then he would seek oblivion.

Chapter Two

Analisa forced a smile as Dr. Martinson took her hand in his and wished her well. The smile lasted until she left the hospital and stepped out onto the street. What now? she thought. The epidemic that had almost taken her life had succeeded in taking the lives of her parents and her two brothers, as well as the lives of most of the other people in their small village. The cottages of the diseased had been burned to halt the spread of the disease leaving those who survived homeless. She had nowhere to go, no place to stay, no family to take her in. Alone, she thought. For the first time in her life, she was totally alone.

The thought frightened her almost more than the thought of dying. Never in her entire life had she been without friends or family. It was her worst nightmare come true.

"Analisa!"

She turned to see Dr. Martinson hurrying down the street toward her. He was a tall, austere man in his late sixties, but he seemed much younger. It was his eyes, she thought, always so kind and compassionate, and the briskness of his step.

"I almost forgot," he said, pulling an envelope out of the pocket of his coat. "This was left for you."

"For me?" She took the envelope, turning it over in her hands. It was sealed with a dollop of dark red wax that reminded her of blood. She recognized her name, written in bold script. "Who's it from?"

"I'm sure I don't know."

"Would you… would you read it to me?"

"Of course." Dr. Martinson broke the seal and opened the envelope. Withdrawing a letter written in a bold hand on fine ivory-colored parchment, he began to read:

My dear Analisa, I am going on an extended holiday and it is my wish that you occupy my family home at Blackbriar Hall. It is an old residence, but I am confident you will be comfortable there. If you find it lacking, feel free to purchase whatsoever you may need, and to stay as long as you wish; I have made arrangements with my creditors to cover your expenses, my servants will obey your commands as though they were my own. I have included a small amount of cash to cover your transportation and meals until you arrive.

Your servant,

Lord Alesandro de Avallone

Master of Blackbriar Hall.

Dr. Martinson withdrew a handful of currency and a few coins from the envelope and dropped them into her hands, then folded the letter and put it back in the envelope.

"It seems you've found a benefactor," he remarked, handing her the envelope.

She looked at the money in her hands, then up at the doctor. "How much do I owe you?"

"Not a thing, Analisa. Your bill has been paid for. Please take care of yourself."

"Paid for? But how? Who—"

"Lord Avallone has settled your account, and made a most generous donation to our hospital.

"But who is this Lord Avallone? Why should he wish to provide for me?"

"Though I have never met the man, it's said that he is descended from a highborn Italian nobleman. His title is one of respect." He patted her shoulder. "Please, don't hesitate to send for me if you should ever have need of me."

Analisa slipped the money into her skirt pocket. "Thank you, Doctor."

"Go with God, my dear."

He was a kind man, she thought. He had cared for her day and night, knowing when she arrived that she had no money with which to pay him. She was grateful that the mysterious Alesandro had paid her debt. Grateful and extremely curious. Why would a stranger do such a thing?

She watched Dr. Martinson walk back toward the hospital, her hands nervously worrying the envelope in her hands. She watched him until he was out of sight, then turned and walked down the street, avoiding the shallow puddles left by an early morning rain. Winter was coming. There was a decided chill in the air. Yesterday she'd had nothing, no place to stay, nowhere to go. Last night, steeped in despair over her future, she had tossed and turned, wondering what she would do when she left the hospital. She had never been employed, never lived anywhere but at home with her family.

Her family. They had been happy together in spite of their poverty. Even when food was scarce, when the future looked bleak, Mama and Papa had somehow managed to find something to look forward to, some tiny ray of hope. And now they were gone, Mama, Papa, Thomas and Arthur. Why had she been spared and they had not?

Who was Alesandro Avallone, and why had he offered a penniless stranger the hospitality of his home?

Turning onto a path that led through a small park, she sank down on a wrought-iron bench, the envelope still clutched in her hand. If she had the nerve to accept Lord Avallone's offer—if he truly meant what his letter said—all her troubles would be over, at least for the time being.

She couldn't believe it, didn't dare believe it. Why would this man, this stranger, offer her shelter? Blackbriar Hall. The very name sent a shiver of foreboding down her spine. Even in her small village, they had heard of Blackbriar Hall. A dark, sinister place made of gray stone atop a windswept hill. A place wreathed in mystery and superstition. Some said it was cursed, others that it was haunted.

Taking the money from her pocket, she counted it. The letter had said there was enough to cover transportation and meals, but there was enough for her to live on for many months, if she was frugal.

She sat there a moment, overwhelmed by the generosity of a stranger, and then beset by doubts. Why would Lord Avallone offer her his home? Was it some kind of ploy? But if it was, what could he possibly hope to gain? She had nothing of value, nothing save the shabby clothing she wore and the money he himself had given her.

She looked up as a few fat drops of rain landed on her cheek. There was a crack of lightning, a crash of thunder, and the heavens opened, unleashing a torrent of rain.

Jumping up, she ran toward the carriage stand on the corner and flagged down a passing coach for hire. The driver pulled over, took one look at her ragged apparel and well-worn shoes, and shook his head.

"Not working for charity today." Tugging his cap down, he clucked to the horse.

"Wait!" she called, running after him. "I can pay."

The coachman drew back on the reins. He squinted down at her, his expression skeptical. "Show me."

She withdrew a coin from her pocket and held it up.

With a nod, the driver swung down from his seat and opened the door for her. "Where to, miss?"

"Blackbriar Hall."

He looked at her, his close-set blue eyes widening beneath heavy brown brows. "Are ye daft, girl?"

"Maybe so," she muttered, and climbed into the coach.

It wasn't long before they had left the city far behind. The neat, well-tended roads turned into narrow, winding paths lined by tall trees bent by the storm. The houses grew smaller and further apart until they disappeared altogether and there was nothing to see but rolling countryside and an occasional herd of sheep clustered together against the storm.

Analisa huddled in a corner of the carriage, the lap robe pulled up to her chin, the letter clutched, like a talisman, in her hand. She grew more and more nervous with each mile that passed until, too tired to fight it, fatigue overtook her and she drifted to sleep, her dreams filled with a tall, dark, hooded figure and eyes that glowed like indigo fire.

She awoke with a start as a bright flash of lightning lit the interior of the coach. Thunder raged across the heavens, shaking the ground. She shivered, not so much from the cold, but from a sense of unease. The storm was like none she had ever seen before.

A short time later, the coach came to a halt. She heard a rap on the top of the coach and then the voice of the driver. "There's an inn ahead," he shouted, his voice muffled by the wind. "Will ye be wantin' to stop for the night?"

The thought of staying at an inn, surrounded by strangers, sleeping in an unfamiliar bed, filled her with apprehension. "How much farther is it to Blackbriar Hall?"

"About an hour."

"Let's go on then."

"Very well, miss."

She drew the curtains over the windows, then huddled deeper into the lap robe, shivering now as the wind picked up, sneaking through whatever cracks it could find. Belatedly, it occurred to her that she would be among strangers and sleeping in an unfamiliar bed at Blackbriar Hall, too.

She felt a change in the pace of the coach, knew they had begun the long upward climb to Blackbriar Hall. She drew back the curtain and peered out, though there was nothing to see but darkness, nothing to hear but the pounding of the rain on the roof of the coach. She felt a moment of regret for the driver and his horse, comforted herself with the thought that she had the means to pay them well.

A flash of movement caught her eye. Leaning forward, she peered into the darkness, her eyes widening in surprise. Was that a wolf running alongside the coach? A black wolf? A flash of lightning lit the sky, and for a moment, her gaze met the blue eyes of the wolf. She blinked and looked again, but the creature was gone, if indeed it had ever been there. With a shake of her head, she let the curtain fall back into place.

As they neared the top of the hill, a gray mist rose from the ground, floating around the coach like smoke. The road leveled out, widened, ran between a forest of ancient oaks and elms twisted into strange shapes by the wind.

And then, in a burst of lightning, she saw the house, standing dark and sinister in the midst of the storm. Gargoyles leered down at her; tall, arched windows, black in the night, stared at her like sightless eyes.

The coach came to a halt. A moment later, the driver jumped down and opened the door. "We're here, miss," he said, a shiver in his voice that had nothing to do with the chill of the night. "Blackbriar Hall."

She paid him his fare plus a generous tip, then climbed out of the coach and ran up the thirteen stone steps to the front door. Thirteen, she thought. Unlucky. She stood there a moment, shaking the rain from her hair and wondering if she shouldn't climb back into the coach and return to the city, but when she looked over her shoulder, she saw that the coach was already on its way back down the path.