Twilight Hunger (9 page)

“When can I meet this Lydia person?”

“Then you'll do it?” he asked.

She met his eyes, swallowed hard. “For you? Sure, Lou. You know I can't say no to you. I just wish you'd get around to asking me for something a little more fun.”

He laughed uneasily, patted her on the head and looked away. Then he started the car up again and drove her back home.

D
ante woke in the sour-tasting darkness of his tomb and looked around, seeing everything.

It wasn't really a tomb. Not exactly, though all it would need to make it mirror one was a rotting corpse or two. The square concrete room was large, windowless, airless. Down here, one inhaled stagnant dankness and mold rather than oxygen. The subterranean room held only a handful of items: a kerosene lantern on a rickety old table and a coffin. And while he found sleeping in the thing to be a laughable cliché, it had its advantages. First and foremost, it would discourage anyone who might somehow find his way in here. Anyone other than a vampire hunter, that was. Secondly, coffins were built to last. This one was as well preserved as it had been when he'd been here last. The padding inside was still soft and intact, if a little less-than-fresh smelling. It sat on a bier that was a rectangle of concrete, rising up from the floor. Built for just that purpose, the bier was the third advantage. Hollow inside, it led to a secondary tunnel. He had never yet needed to use the trap door in the bottom of the coffin, but it was good to know it was there, should he need it.

This place was secure. Safe. But it had never been meant for habitation. It was a last resort, nothing more. That he had been forced to retreat to this place should only spur him to take action that much sooner.

He needed to learn who these new vampire hunters were, where they were getting their information. He needed to stop them.

Smoothing the wrinkles from his clothes, he glanced just once at the cement spiral steps that led up to a solid ceiling. There was a hinged doorway in the floor there, completely in visible from above. But when he'd opened it, curious to see what the woman had done to his house, he'd found a wooden barrier. Someone had apparently laid a new hardwood floor over the old one in his study. Oh, he could have smashed through it easily enough, but announcing his presence was the last thing he had in mind.

Bad enough she had glimpsed him that first night, just be fore dawn.

Looked right at him and whispered his name. He'd heard her clearly, despite the distance. His senses were honed by centuries of immortality and, he thought, blood drinking. Living blood was raw power to his kind.

She had said his name. And he'd heard her, physically heard her, but also heard her mentally. He had
felt
that whisper echoing within his mind. And he'd felt the intense yearning that had been wrapped around it. He had even felt an answering tug at his own heart, and yet that made no sense. He didn't even know the woman. But she, apparently, knew him.

He wondered about that. It ate at him. Had she seen his name on some stray scrap of paper that had been
left lying around the house? It wasn't on the deed—he'd used a false name then.

And if she had simply seen his name somewhere, that did not explain how she could connect that name to the stranger she had glimpsed standing on the shore in the dead of night. She had recognized him. How that could be, he didn't know.

She was one of the Chosen, those few special mortals with the rare Belladonna Antigen in their blood. The same antigen all vampires shared. They were the only mortals who could be successfully transformed. And they drew his kind like magnets. Many vampires found honor in watching over the Chosen. Protecting them. To Dante's way of thinking, that was foolhardy in the extreme. Being drawn to mortals, caring for them in the least, would only make a vampire vulnerable, weak. It was said that it was nearly impossible for a vampire to harm one of them, unless he were insane or mad with passion. The bloodlust, perhaps.

He knew he had to find out all of that and more about the woman in his house. Despite the fact that he felt, already, that legendary attraction between her kind and his. He could fight that. It was information he needed from her.

She probably didn't even know about the antigen in her blood that made her different from other mortals. He didn't know much about it himself, except that all vampires shared it. And that there was a psychic attraction between mortals with the antigen and the vampires who could smell it on them like a perfume.

He smelled it now!

Footsteps padded across the floor over his head, and Dante looked up sharply, listening. It was
her.
He
felt
her. Her feet were either bare or clad only in something soft, socks or stockings or thin cloth slippers. She stopped walking, stood in place. Right in front of the fireplace, if the fireplace were even still there.

Unable to resist, Dante moved directly beneath the spot where she stood and lifted his arms over his head. He pressed his palms to the ceiling, closed his eyes and opened his mind.

 

Morgan leaned over to turn the knob on the gas fireplace. It flared to life, and she stood there for a moment, admiring the flames. And then, suddenly, the bottom dropped out of her stomach. The blood seemed to drain from her head, and a rush of shivering cold shot up her spine.

She braced her hands on the mantle, leaned forward and dragged in one ragged breath after another. “What the hell was that?” she whispered.

Then she went very still and lifted her head slowly. Blinking, she turned and glanced behind her. “Who's there?”

No one answered. The house remained still, silent, empty. David had left for L.A. hours ago. And yet she had the most powerful feeling she was not alone.

Drawing a deep, steadying breath, she told herself she was imagining things. Just as she had been imagining that man on the cliffs last night. That man who looked like her mental image of Dante, the madman who'd lived in this house a century ago. Maybe she was spending a little too much time immersed in his journals. Of course she was. But why shouldn't she, when she no longer wanted to do anything else?

She forced herself to walk across the floor to her
desk, though her feet seemed oddly reluctant to move at first. The uneasy feeling fled as she sat down in her chair, booted up her computer, opened the file. She worked better at night than she did during the day. No wonder, given the subject matter.

The scene she wrote was one she felt in every cell of her body. She had lived it as she had read the account in his journals. And she lived it again now, as she transferred the tale onto her computer, only this time she told it from the point of view of the woman. Dante's victim.

The woman had seen the dark stranger watching her at night—but she would never approach him. There was a dangerous air about him, and yet he exuded something—some thing sinful. That drew her, spoke to her, tempted her to impure thoughts she could barely contain.

And then one night he came to her while she lay sleeping in her bed. His mouth on hers was what woke her. Although she wasn't really awake. A voice in her mind told her that this was just a dream. A dream in which she was helpless to resist him. And so she responded willingly, even eagerly, to his touch, his commands. It was all right, because it wasn't real. And in the morning she would remember it as a guilty dream and nothing more.

In her mind, as she wrote the scene, Morgan became that woman. Dante's love slave unaware. She felt every touch she described. Tasted his mouth on hers, felt his tongue invading her, its texture and cool wetness when he laved a path over her jaw and neck and, lower, to her breasts. She sucked in a gasp, shocked when he
closed his mouth on her breast, without re moving the nightgown.

The impulse to push him away, the shame, the guilt…

But it's only a dream. You can't move, love. It's but a dream.

Pleasure melted through her when he suckled her, then pinched her nipple between his teeth while she winced in ecstasy.

Morgan's heart beat faster as her fingers flew over the keys.

She lay in the bed, still, paralyzed by her dream state, as Dante's hands deftly removed the nightgown, then skimmed over her flesh, teasing and touching places she would never have dared let any man touch. He invaded her private places. He invaded
her.
And she liked it. All of it. And wanted more.

His eyes. God, his eyes, how they burned when they stared into hers. Willing her, commanding her to be still. To surrender. It's only a dream, she thought. I can't wake, and I can't move. So it's all right. It's all right to let him do as he will, be cause I have no choice.

He slid his fingers into the moist wetness between her legs and then moved them in and out. His thumb found the most sensitive place on her body, and pressed and massaged it as his fingers drove into her again and again. She found she could move after all as she parted her legs to him. He leaned closer, reaming her mercilessly as her entire body jerked against his hands. His mouth parted, and he kissed her throat, sucked the skin between his teeth, bit down. His teeth sank into her throat, and the orgasm screamed through her.

Morgan cried out loud, her entire body trembling, her
hand flying to her neck at the sensation of a mouth feeding there. Her heart pounded, and she was wet and close to orgasm herself, though she had not been touched. She sucked in a sharp breath and stood up unsteadily, backing away from her computer. God, it was so real. She'd felt the sensation of incisors puncturing her skin. His mouth on her, his hands on her, his fingers…

And then that brief, sharp, delicious stabbing bite.

Shaking all over, aroused beyond belief, she drew her hand slowly away from her throat and looked at her palm. She fully expected to see traces of blood there. But there was nothing.

“God, what is this? What is happening to me?”

Turning around on legs that wobbled, she glanced at the clock and realized that time had flown past. The page number in the corner of the screen told her she'd composed a dozen pages of sheer dark erotica, and she wondered how the hell it was going to translate onto the big screen.

No. It wouldn't.

She looked back at the pages and pages of description, and finally highlighted it all and hit the delete key. In its place she inserted the stage directions from which the actors and the director could build what they would. “They have intense sex without intercourse. He drinks from her. She remembers it as a dream the next day.” When she finished, she saved the file, shut the computer down and stood there blinking at it, wondering what the hell had possessed her just now.

She had gone on a journey. A flight of pure imagination. In her mind, she had felt every touch. And while she had fantasized about Dante before, about making
love to him, or, rather, to the character he played in his insane ramblings, it had never been so vivid. So real.

She was wet. Her skin was hot to the touch, her breasts firm and sensitized. And the blood pulsed rapidly in her neck where she had imagined his mouth.

She walked upstairs rather unsteadily, ran a cool bath and told herself she needed to get laid before long. She must be more sexually frustrated than she realized.

 

Dante had moved when she had moved, pressing his hands to the floor beneath the place where she sat, sensing her on the other side of that wooden barrier and opening his mind to hers.

What he'd found there held him fast. She was imagining herself. And because she could see herself clearly in her mind, he could see her there, as well. In her mind she wasn't as thin or as pale as he knew she was in reality. She was healthy, shapelier. Her hair was the same, burnished red and long and thick. Her eyes—he'd never had the chance to look into her eyes be fore. They were emeralds, sparkling beneath a layer of sheen.

She lay on a bed, surrounded by sheer white curtains, and he, Dante, stood over her, staring down at her. He saw his own face quite clearly in her mind, and though it shifted and hid behind the mists of her imagination, when she focused hard, those mists parted. His features were precise. It had been a long, long time since Dante had looked at himself in a mirror. But this was very much as if he were doing just that. He'd forgotten how shadowed his face appeared. How deep set his eyes were. How wide his mouth was.

It stunned him to see himself there in her mind, in her vision. And for just a moment he pulled back a
bit, unable to breathe while so completely immersed in her. He blinked, seeing only the dull room again. Very faintly, he heard tapping. Rapid, uneven tapping, broken now and then.

And then he felt the woman shiver, and he turned his attention back to her again, to the vision unfolding in her mind while that odd tapping rushed on in increasing tempo. He saw himself undressing the woman, heard himself telling the woman in the bed that this was all just a dream, that she had no control over what was about to happen and therefore no responsibility for it. That because it wasn't real, she could allow herself to feel things she would never feel, without guilt or shame or fear of any sort. He asked her to surrender her will to him, and she sighed her consent. And then he knelt be side the bed and slowly undressed the woman while she lay there, helpless to resist him, and not wanting to, anyway.

He watched this scene unfolding, mesmerized, trapped, unable to pull his mind free as the phantom Dante touched and caressed every part of the woman, first with his hands, then with his lips. He felt every sensation that passed through her in her fantasy, could smell and feel and taste her. And when he saw himself take her throat, saw his teeth sink into her delicate flesh, he bit down unconsciously, and for one glorious moment he tasted her blood on his tongue and felt her release ripple through his body as she screamed his name aloud.

Then the fantasy shattered. The woman above shot to her feet; he heard them hit the floor. The room was black again, and he stood there, beneath her, shaking, bodily, from his head to his feet.

Leaning back against a cool concrete wall, he fought to catch his breath. What the hell was the woman doing? How did she know his face, his voice, much less understand the powers he possessed? How could she know what he was? Did she
want
this thing she dreamed of in such vivid de tail it had been as if she were describing the scene aloud, like some Gypsy storyteller of old? Was that what this was about? Desire? Lust?