Night's Mistress (Children of the Night) (2 page)

“I go where I wish,” he had replied. “No one can keep me in. Or lock me out.” He took a step toward her. “Tell me, my raven-haired beauty, are you happy here?”

“Of course not.” She recoiled when his hand snaked out from under his heavy black cloak to brush her cheek. “Leave me alone!”

“And if I refuse, what will you do? Cry for help? Who is going to hear you down here, I wonder?”

“Who are you?”

“I am Dendar, master of the night.”

He moved closer. She could see little of his face or form in the near darkness of her cell. But she could see his eyes, red and glowing now, like Hell’s own light.

When he put his arms around her, she struggled for a moment, and then went still. She had prayed for death, and now Death stood before her.

With a sigh, she closed her eyes and waited. Soon, her misery would be over. Soon, she would discover the Great Mystery that awaited everyone.

There was a moment of pain, and then there was pleasure beyond anything she had ever known. She felt weightless, as if her spirit had left her body far behind and was now floating effortlessly in the air. She had no fears, no worries. There was only a deep, sensual pleasure she hoped would last forever.

And then he was gone, and she was alone in her cell, confused by what had happened. Had she imagined him? Had it all been a dream? She lifted a hand to her neck, shivered with revulsion when she felt two tiny puncture wounds. When she licked her fingertips, she tasted blood. Was it hers?

Near dawn, pain unlike anything she had ever known engulfed her body. Moaning softly, she writhed in agony on the cold stone floor until, after what seemed like an eternity, she pitched headlong into a chasm deeper and blacker than anything she had ever known or imagined. Her last conscious thought was that, at last, death had found her.

When next she opened her eyes, she was lying naked on a slab, about to be mummified, no doubt to be put into Shakir’s burial chamber where, upon his death, she would serve him throughout all eternity. She didn’t know who was more surprised to find that she was alive—herself, or the handful of men who ran screaming out of the chamber when she sat up. She had looked around, confused, her senses reeling under a visual and aural assault unlike anything she had ever known. Heedless of her nudity, she had leaped lightly from the slab, hungry in a way she had never been hungry before. The frantic beating of many hearts drummed against her ears.

She hadn’t known what she wanted until, in his haste, one of the fleeing men tripped and cut his hand on a sharp stone.

The warm, coppery scent of fresh blood wafted through the air, sweet, tantalizing. She had pounced on the luckless creature before he’d had time to scream.

Other men had come, armed with daggers and spears. Impervious to their puny weapons, she had effortlessly swatted them all aside and left the building.

Filled with power, she had gone to Shakir’s residence. She had found him reclining on a pile of furs, a woman at his side. He had stared up at her, eyes wide, mouth open in a silent scream for mercy. She had advanced on him slowly, eyes burning, fangs bared. The woman had run screaming from the room, but Mara had no interest in the female. She had pinned Shakir to the floor, buried her fangs in his throat, and slowly drained him dry. After she had avenged herself on him, she had freed his slaves, and then she had burned his house to the ground.

She had found the vampire who had turned her against her will the next night. Still in the throes of acclimating to her new life, nearly mad with her hunger for blood, she had attacked Dendar without mercy.

Mara shook her head at the memory. She had prayed for death and the Fates had granted it to her, only not quite in the way she had imagined.

“Be careful what you wish for,” she murmured to the man in the moon, “lest you get it.”

Thinking of Dendar now, she regretted destroying him. But, back then, angry and confused, afraid of the changes his bite had wrought, her only thought had been to kill him. Had she known how much she would glory in being a vampire, she might have kissed him instead.

 

Kyle Bowden stood in front of the canvas, the paint drying on the brush in his hand as he looked at the portraits of the woman he had drawn from memory. The first canvas, painted in the first blush of new love, depicted Mara as she had looked when he’d met her—beautiful, exquisite, almost ethereal, with her glossy black hair and flawless, alabaster skin.

The second canvas, the paint still wet, showed her as she truly was—a beautiful monster with bloodred eyes, and sharp white fangs.

Mara, the vampire.

Even now, months after she had told him the truth of what she was, he found it hard to believe that the woman he had adored, the exquisite, sensual creature he had taken to his bed, wasn’t a woman at all, but a soulless creature like the one who had killed his father and left his mother barely alive. His mother, may she rest in peace, had lingered between this world and the next for almost a month before death carried her away. He had been a week shy of his thirteenth birthday when she breathed her last. There followed one foster home after another until he turned sixteen and took off on his own.

For a time, Kyle had tried to find the vampire who had killed his father during the War, but by then, it was too late. The War for supremacy that had raged between the Vampires and the Werewolves was over and finding one particular vampire had been virtually impossible.

Kyle blew out a sigh. He had tried to put Mara out of his mind, tried to forget the halcyon nights they had spent in each other’s arms, but to no avail. He imagined he could still smell her scent on his clothing, on his sheets, his pillows. He told himself it was impossible and yet, each night when he climbed into bed, her essence seemed to surround him. The merry sound of her laughter echoed in his mind; his skin tingled from the memory of her touch. She had been an incredible lover, unlike any woman he had ever known. He grunted softly. A foolish statement, that, when she wasn’t really a woman at all.

This morning he had risen early and put brush to canvas, hoping that by painting her as the monster she truly was, he could somehow excise her memory from his mind and heart, but to no avail.

Vampire or temptress, her portrait only made him yearn for her all the more. He moved to stand in front of the first painting. He had captured her likeness, but not her spirit, nor the true look in her eyes. She had often seemed older than she looked, wise beyond her years; now he knew why. Her physical appearance had belied her age, but the truth had lurked in the depths of her eyes, those incredible emerald green eyes that had watched centuries come and go.

He swore a vile oath. If he lived to be a hundred, he would never forget her. He laughed humorlessly. If he lived to be a hundred, he would still be an infant compared to her. Little wonder she had known so much about Egypt’s history, he mused glumly. She had lived it.

As for being an incredible lover, he thought bitterly, that was to be expected. She’d had hundreds of years of practice.

And probably hundreds of lovers, as well.

The thought of her with other men tied his insides in knots.

Dammit! How was he ever going to forget her?

 

Needing a change of scenery, Mara decided to return to Southern California and mingle with the Hollywood crowd. In days past, she had met a movie producer or two, a star or two. It had been easy enough to charm the rich and the famous, to finagle an invite to a cocktail party here, an opening night there. Not only was she a beautiful woman, but she possessed the innate charisma of a vampire, something few men, rich or poor, old or young, could resist. Movie star and star maker alike, they had showered her with gifts—jewels, stocks and bonds, automobiles, vacations in exotic locales. Thanks to their generosity through the years, she now owned a fabulous home in the Hollywood Hills, a house in the mountains, and a sumptuous villa in Italy. She had always enjoyed mingling with the famous and the infamous; on occasion, she had thrown a few lavish parties herself.

Of course, the Hollywood of today was nothing like the Hollywood of the thirties and forties. Movie stars had truly been stars back then. There had been a mystery about them, a larger-than-life presence that had projected beyond their screen image. Stars like Gable and Bogart, and her favorite, the ever-appealing bad boy, Robert Mitchum. He had smoked too much, drunk too much, and she had adored him. She had been on the set when he filmed
Out of the Past,
totally captivated by his performance, by his broad shoulders and heavy-lidded eyes. She had once overheard him remark that acting “sure beat working.” He had been a star who defined cool. How she missed him.

Mara shook her head. Movie stars today . . . they just weren’t cut from the same cloth. Only a few of them were even worthy of the name. Most were just celebrities, rising out of nowhere, shining brightly for a few brief moments, and then disappearing just as quickly, unremarked and soon forgotten.

Mara had been in town less than a week when she heard that one of the major producers was hosting a little get-together at his palatial estate in Brentwood. Knowing she would be welcome, Mara donned a slinky white gown that was slit provocatively up one side, stepped into a pair of silver, spiked heels, and arrived at the house, unannounced and uninvited, just after ten.

The producer, Sterling Gaylord Price, welcomed her with his usual lecherous smile. Sterling was pushing seventy if he was a day, but you would never know it to look at him. No doubt a skilled and expensive plastic surgeon was responsible for shaving ten years off Price’s appearance. And everyone knew sixty was the new forty.

“Mara!” he gushed, kissing her soundly on both cheeks, “it’s been too long. Too long. Where have you been keeping yourself?” z&²

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she replied with a saucy grin. She linked her arm with his as they moved from the foyer to the front parlor. “I love what you’ve done to the place.”

He beamed at her. “Alison’s a whiz at decorating.” He gestured at a tall, slender young woman with bright blond hair. “She did the whole place herself.”

“Amazing.” Mara glanced at the scantily clad Mrs. Sterling Price, who was holding court amidst a group of suntanned young men. By Mara’s reckoning, the girl, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-two, was the fifth Mrs. Price. Like all the others, she was no doubt a whiz at calling a decorator, writing checks, and bleeding Price for everything she could get before he tired of her and moved on to the next overeager starlet who was willing to trade favors for fame and fortune.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Sterling said, giving Mara’s arm a squeeze. “Maybe we can get together for drinks, just the two of us, sometime next week.”

“Maybe,” Mara replied with a coy smile.
When Hell freezes over
. Sterling was a notorious playboy, always on the lookout for the next future ex-Mrs. Price.

She chatted with him another few minutes, relieved when some pouty-lipped starlet with flaming red hair and cleavage she hadn’t been born with called him away.

Mara spent the next hour flirting with several young men, all of whom were movie-star gorgeous, even though none of them truly appealed to her. They were too young, too pretty, too eager.

A handsome waiter bearing a candy-laden silver tray paused to offer her a truffle. Lost in thoughts of Kyle, she took it without thinking and popped it into her mouth. Dark rich cocoa and chocolate liqueur flowed over her tongue like liquid silk, followed by a rush of panic. What had she done? She hadn’t eaten mortal food in over two thousand years. She had thoughtlessly nibbled on a fig soon after she had been turned, and been violently ill.

Not wanting anyone to see her, she hurried toward the double doors leading to the veranda. Outside, she took a deep breath, her hands clutching her stomach, and then she frowned. She didn’t feel sick at all, didn’t feel anything except a strong desire for another chocolate truffle. Maybe two.

“How can that be?” she muttered. “Mortal food is like poison to us.” Curious, she went back inside, her gaze darting around the room until she spied the same waiter.

He smiled knowingly when he saw her hurrying toward him. “Delicious, are they not?” he asked with a wink.

“Very.” Mara picked a plump one from the tray and carried it outside. She ate it slowly, savoring the way the chocolate melted on her tongue, the way it flooded her senses with an odd sense of euphoria.

Nothing in all the world had ever tasted so good.

Or scared her so much.

What was happening to her?

 

 

Mara noticed several other changes in the course of the next few weeks. Although she could be active during the day, she had always preferred the night. Now, she found herself spending more of her waking hours in the daylight, resting more at night. In the past, she had, on various occasions, been tempted by mortal food, mainly items that were unheard of when she had been mortal—things like ice cream, cheeseburgers, hot dogs smothered in mustard and onions, caramel popcorn, thick-crust pizza topped with ham and pineapple. But she had never dared satisfy her curiosity.

Three nights after the party at Sterling’s, Mara went to a formal sit-down dinner at the home of a well-known director. Indulging her curiosity, she sampled every course that was placed before her—Maine lobster served on a bed of fluffy, long-grain, white rice, broccoli smothered in butter, a warm fudge brownie topped with vanilla ice cream and drowning in chocolate sauce.

Later, back at home, she paced the floor, her thoughts in turmoil as she tried to understand what was happening to her. No matter how often she contemplated her burgeoning appetite for mortal food, her diminished lust for blood, and her sudden preference for taking her rest at night, she always reached the same conclusion. Like it or not, she was becoming less vampire and more human with each passing day.

Was such a thing even possible? And if so, how long would it be until her preternatural longings and abilities were gone and she was once again mortal, subject to all the frailties and weaknesses of the human race?

She told herself it was inconceivable. She had been a vampire for thousands of years. Once a vampire, always a vampire. It wasn’t a sickness, but a way of life. There was no cure, no going back, even if one wished it. And she most definitely did not. She scarcely remembered what it had been like to be mortal, nor did she have any desire to experience it again. She was Nosferatu, the oldest and most powerful of her kind.

Any other way of life was out of the question.

And even as the thought crossed her mind, she found herself craving the taste of a hot fudge sundae like the one she had seen advertised on the satellite screen earlier that night. It would take only a moment to will herself to the nearest restaurant . . .

Muttering an oath, she slammed her palm against the doorjamb, grimacing as the wood cracked beneath her hand.

She would not be human.

She would not be mortal.

It was unthinkable, impossible. It was simply that she had gone too long without feeding, too long since she had taken a life and savored the strength and vitality that flowed into her and through her as her prey’s heartbeat slowed, and then stopped.

Tonight, she would hunt, and heaven help the first healthy, attractive mortal male who crossed her path.

 

 

Mara stalked Hollywood Boulevard, bypassing the men dressed as women, the women dressed as men, the prostitutes, the drug addicts, the pimps. There had been a time when she would have taken the first unattached mortal she saw, but not now. She wanted only the best this night, a virile, healthy male in the prime of his life.

She found what she was looking for a short time later—a young man exiting a movie theater. He was tall and tan and beautiful. She followed him to the parking lot across the street, her footsteps making no sound on the pavement, her nerves singing in anticipation.

He was reaching for his keys when he suddenly realized he was no longer alone.

Hands clenched, he whirled around to face her. “Why the hell are you following . . . ?” His voice trailed off when he saw her, the fear and anger in his expression replaced by a sheepish grin when he realized that what he had first perceived as a threat was only a slender young woman clad in tight designer jeans and a hot pink turtleneck sweater. “Sorry about that,” he said politely. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, indeed.” She took a deep breath, inhaling his scent. Young and healthy and strong, she thought, noting his flat stomach and broad shoulders. He didn’t smell of tobacco or drugs or alcohol. No doubt he ate right and worked out every day. Perfect.

“Just name it, honey, and it’s yours.” The words were innocent enough, but there was no mistaking the lustful gleam in his eyes.

“You,” she said with a smile. “I want you.”

“All right by me, babe. Your place or mine?”

“Right here,” she murmured, moving closer. “Right now.”

Before he could reply, her gaze trapped his. “Unlock the door,
babe,
and get into the backseat.”

Face slack, eyes blank, he did as she asked without hesitation.

Climbing in beside him, she closed the door and then drew him into her arms. She ran her tongue along the strong column of his neck, savoring the taste of salt and fear, the scent of warm, living blood flowing just beneath his skin. Too long since she had fed, she thought, too long since she had filled herself with the crimson elixir of life.

She closed her eyes, letting the anticipation of the pleasure that was to come wash over her—the heat of his skin, the thrill of that first warm coppery taste sliding over her tongue, the sudden rush of power, the almost sensual satisfaction when she had taken her fill.

And on that thought, she sank her fangs into his throat, only to recoil as her mouth filled with his blood. Instead of experiencing a sense of warmth and pleasure, she felt only revulsion.

Overcome with confusion, she pushed him away, then stared, horrified, at the blood that oozed from the two tiny wounds in his neck, trickling down to soak into the collar of his pale blue shirt.

Murmuring, “What’s happening to me?” she released him from her thrall and fled the scene.

She stopped when she reached the outskirts of the city. Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

She could feel it deep inside, and it felt like death.