Shades of Gray (6 page)

"You should be safe, so long as you don't invite him inside."

"Why? What's to keep him out? If all those chains couldn't keep him locked up, I'm sure the puny locks on my door won't give him any trouble."

"There are a great many beliefs about vampyres, about what they can and cannot do. Most of them are fables told to frighten children; a few are true. Alexi cannot enter your house unless you invite him inside. He must seek shelter from the sun, although, as old as he is now, he may no longer succumb to the dark sleep. A cross will offer only as much protection as the wearer's faith in it. Silver will burn his flesh, but he will heal quickly. He must have blood to survive, although he can go without it for long periods of time." He paused, as though considering what else to tell her. "Some vampyres have the power to change shape; others have the power to fly."

"What about crossing running water and not casting a reflection in a mirror?"

"Nothing but fables, as is the ridiculous notion that if you wrap a vampyre in a net or fill his coffin with seeds, he will be forced to untie all the knots or collect all the seeds at the rate of one a year before he can leave his grave."

"What about garlic repelling vampires?"

He shook his head. "It bothers them no more than you."

She looked at him suspiciously. "How do you know all this?"

He glided across the floor toward her. Standing there, he looked tall and dangerous and invulnerable. "I told you, I've been hunting him a very long time."

"Ramsey said — " She took a deep breath, wondering if she was making a fatal mistake. "He said you're one of them, a vampire."

"Indeed?"

She waited for him to deny it, her heart pounding fiercely. "Is it true?"

He considered the truth and opted for a lie. "No."

She laughed, tension flowing out of her. Of course he wasn't a vampire.

"Why don't you join up with Ramsey?"

Grigori's expression softened to one of wry amusement. "In a way, we are working together. He hunts the days, and I hunt the nights."

"Would you mind spending the night here? I really don't want to be alone."

Grigori looked at her for a long moment. She was a pretty woman, soft and curvy, beautiful in a quiet way that he found most appealing. "If you're sure."

She looked up at him, aware that he was little more than a stranger, and wondered if she'd done the right thing.

He sat down in the big, overstuffed chair next to the sofa and stretched out his legs.

His presence dwarfed the room, made it suddenly difficult to draw breath. Discomfited, she reached for the remote and switched on the TV.

"… bodies found earlier this evening in a ravine in La Habra Heights. Police are holding identification of the two women pending notification of next of kin. In other news…"

Marisa stared at the television screen. "No," she whispered. "Not again." She looked at Grigori. "It's all my fault."

"No."

She nodded, her eyes filling with tears. "It is," she said emphatically. "I know it is."

She waited for him to say something, hoping he could ease her guilt, but he wasn't looking at her. He was staring at the front door, his whole body tense, as if poised for flight.

And then she felt it, that same sense of evil she had experienced once before. "What is it? What's wrong?"

He rose to his feet in a single, fluid movement. "Lock the door behind me."

"Where are you going?"

"Just do as I say," he said brusquely, and then he was gone.

Heart pounding, Marisa locked the door, and then slid the safety chain in place. Too nervous to sit down and wait, she went from room to room, checking to make sure all the windows were closed and locked. She closed the curtains in the bedrooms and kitchen, drew the drapes in the living room, checked the lock on the front door again. And then, at a loss for something to do, she sat on the sofa, pulled a furry Mickey Mouse blanket up to her chin, and stared at the door.

She had convinced herself that the evil she had sensed in the laundry room the other night had been nothing more than the product of her imagination, but she knew now that it had been real. And that it had a name.

Alexi Kristov.

Grigori walked swiftly down the stairs to the street, then paused on the sidewalk, all his senses alert.

"Alexi, show yourself." He whirled around as the sound of soft laughter was carried to him by a sudden gust of wind. "Alexi, damn you, show yourself!"

"I'm here."

Grigori spun around, his whole body tense, poised for attack.

A fine gray mist materialized out of the deep shadows of the night, then coalesced into the form of a man, a man Grigori recognized all too well.

"Alexi."

The count bowed from the waist. He looked like an old-world aristocrat in a full-sleeved white shirt open at the throat, tight black breeches, and soft black leather boots.

"Grigori, my old friend. We meet again."

Grigori nodded curtly. He had not felt fear in over a hundred years, not since the last time he had encountered Kristov.

Alexi's cold gray gaze ran over him, like ice running down his spine. "Will you never give up?"

"Never."

Mocking laughter rose in the count's throat. "I fear that foolish tenacity that you call honor will be the means of your destruction."

"Perhaps. How did you escape Silvano?"

A sound of derision rose in Kristov's throat. "An easy task, I assure you. I rested for a hundred years, closely guarded at all times so I had no worry of being destroyed." A cruel smile twisted his lips. "He was a fool to think he could hold me against my will. Stupid mortal. He paid dearly for his foolishness. Did you know Ramsey is in the city?"

Grigori nodded.

"I shall have you," Kristov said, his eyes glowing with confidence. "When I am ready, I shall have you both."

"No."

"Oh, yes," Alexi said with complete and utter assurance. He glanced up at Marisa's apartment and licked his lips. "And the woman, as well."

"No. Leave the woman alone. This is between you and me."

The count shook his head. "It was the scent of her sweet blood that roused me from my sleep. I will not rest again until I have had her, until her blood feeds my hunger and burns in my soul. She will serve me well, don't you think?"

"Let us end it now!"

"No, it is too soon. I feel the need for some amusement after my long rest, and you and Ramsey will provide it for me. And the woman
— " Alexi licked his lips — "she will provide amusement of another kind."

"No!" A low growl rose in Grigori's throat as he lunged forward, his fangs bared, his hands like claws reaching for Alexi's throat. He felt a sharp pain as Kristov lashed out, his nails raking across Grigori's face, opening five deep lacerations that stretched from Grigori's hairline to his jaw.

Grigori shook his head, flinging the blood out of his eyes.

"Alexi!" He roared the vampyre's name, unleashing his pain and anger, but Kristov was gone as if he had never been there.

Swearing under his breath, he went back up the stairs to Marisa's apartment.

After asking who it was, she opened the door, her eyes widening in horror when she saw the blood dripping from his face. "Grigori, what happened?"

"Alexi happened."

"He was here?" She slammed the door and shot the bolt home.

"He's gone now."

"You're sure?"

Grigori nodded.

On legs that felt none too steady, Marisa made her way into the bathroom. Pulling a washcloth from the shelf, she soaked it in cold water, then went back into the living room. Grigori was sitting on the sofa, staring at the door.

Sitting beside him, she began to wipe the blood from Grigori's face. "You'll probably need stitches," she remarked, yet even as she watched, the deep gashes that scored his cheek began to close. It was like watching a film in fast forward, she thought, the way muscle and tissue knit together.

"This — " She stood up and backed away from him, the washcloth falling, unheeded, from her hand. "It isn't possible."

"I'm afraid it's very possible," Grigori replied.

"It's true, then," she murmured. "All true. Everything Ramsey told me. Everything he said."

"Are you all right?"

"I don't know." She stared at his face. "It's true, isn't it? You are one of them."

Grigori nodded. He would have preferred she not know the truth, but there was no help for it now. He considered erasing the memory from her mind, but as he considered it, he decided it might be better if she was fully aware of the danger that surrounded her.

"You look a trifle pale," Grigori remarked. "I think you'd better sit down."

"Yes," she replied, "I think you're right."

He caught her just before she hit the floor.

Grigori sat on the floor in Marisa's bedroom, his back against the dresser, watching her sleep. She had roused from her faint and he had insisted she go to bed. She hadn't argued. He knew it was the mortal way, to seek refuge in sleep.

The mortal way.
He had been Vampyre so long, it was hard to remember a time when he had been anything else, a time when he had been a mortal man, with a home and a family….

Rising, he went to the window and drew back the curtains.

The darkness waited outside, silently beckoning to him. Come, the night wind seemed to say, come and share the night with me.

It was tempting, but he had promised Marisa he would stay with her.

He stared into the distance, his thoughts traveling back through the centuries, back to the time when he had been a husband and a father. He closed his eyes, and Antoinette's image rose in his mind, as fresh and vivid as if he had seen her only hours ago
— hair as black as a midnight sky, eyes that were blue-green, as changeable as the sea. And his children
— Antonio and Martina — so young, so innocent.

His hands curled into tight fists, his nails digging into his flesh, as he recalled the last time he had seen them, their bodies sprawled like rag dolls across their beds, drained of blood, of life. Alexi Kristov had stood in the doorway, his mouth stained crimson, his eyes red and feverish from the kill.

"It's true, then," Grigori had said, horrified. He had heard all the stories, listened to the rumors and whispers that had been rife in the village, but he had not believed it was true. Alexi had been his friend, and Grigori had found a logical explanation for every accusation made against Alexi. "All true," he had said again. "You are a vampyre."

Kristov had nodded, his gray eyes cold and distant.

"Antoinette…"

Grigori reached toward her, but Alexi waved him off.

"She is mine now."

"No." Yet even as he denied it, he knew it was true. Antoinette looked at him through pale, soulless eyes while drops of blood oozed from two tiny wounds in her neck. Not human, not vampyre, she was no longer his wife, no longer the vivacious girl he had fallen in love with. She had become Alexi's creature. Had the vampyre commanded, Grigori knew she would have killed him.

"Why?" Just that one anguished word, torn from the depths of his heart and soul.

Alexi did not answer. Taking Antoinette by the hand, he turned as if to leave. With a cry, Grigori lunged forward, his only thought to destroy the creature who had killed all he loved.

With a hiss, Alexi whirled around, a wicked gleam in his eye, his hands pinning Grigori's arms to his sides. "Are you so eager to die, Chiavari?"

"I'll kill you for what you've done!"

Alexi laughed. "You? Kill me? I think not."

Grigori struggled to free himself, but Alexi held him effortlessly.

"You have no strength against me," Alexi taunted. With blinding speed, he wrapped his hands around Grigori's throat, lifting him off his feet as his fingers slowly squeezed the breath from his body. "Perhaps I should bring you over," he hissed. "Then you would understand."

Grigori glared at the vampyre. "I understand you're a monster."

Alexi's gray eyes changed then, smoldering, until they glowed a hideous red. His lips drew back, revealing his fangs.

He should have been afraid, but he was too filled with anger and despair to feel anything but hatred. "Go on, do it!" he screamed. "Make me what you are so I can kill you!"

"I think not," Alexi replied. "Were you Vampyre, I think you would pursue me through eternity. But killing you now would be too kind."

Grigori struggled to free himself as Alexi's hands tightened around his throat, choking the breath from his body, until he felt himself falling, falling, into darkness. As from a great distance, he heard Alexi's mocking voice.

"I shall let you live for now, Chiavari. Life will be far more painful for you than death."

When he had awakened, the vampyre was gone. He had never seen Antoinette again….

Grigori opened his eyes as he felt the dawn approaching. It was time to go.

He checked to make sure Marisa was still asleep. She looked beautiful, vulnerable, lying there, her lashes like dark crescents against her skin, her lips warm and pink. He took a deep breath, inhaling her scent
— sleep-warmed skin, a faint trace of the flowery cologne she preferred. His gaze lingered on her throat, on the pulse beating there.

Hunger stirred within him. Bending low, he brushed a lock of hair from her neck, felt the anticipation grow as his fangs lengthened. Just one drink…

A soft sigh escaped her lips as she came awake, and he found himself gazing into her eyes.

"Go back to sleep, Marisa," he murmured, his voice low. "Go back to sleep."

With a soft sigh, her eyelids fluttered down once more.

Moments later, he was gone.

Marisa blinked, closed her eyes, and opened them again. It must have been a dream, she thought, or a nightmare. She sat up, her gaze darting around the room, but there was no one there. Yet she would have sworn that Grigori had been at her bedside, bending over her. Had it all been a dream? She had a hazy recollection of his voice telling her to sleep. She had felt the brush of his mouth against her neck, a warm intimacy, a sense of fulfillment….