"Well," Marisa said, suddenly ill at ease to find herself and Grigori alone in the house, "do you want to watch some TV?"
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she felt a flood of color climb up her neck into her cheeks. Did vampires watch TV? Did she really believe he was one of the undead? Looking at him made the idea seem ludicrous. She had never seen anyone, male or female, who looked more vital, more alive.
He grinned at her, as if he knew what she was thinking.
Marisa brushed by him, eager to have something else to focus on. Picking up the TV Guide, she thumbed through the pages, scanning the listings for Friday night.
"Bruce Springsteen was right," she muttered, "fifty-seven stations and there's nothing on."
She jumped as the TV crackled to life. She hadn't turned it on; the remote was on top of the set. "How did you do that?"
He lifted one brow, and shrugged. "I told you, I'm a magician."
She sat down on the sofa, as far from him as she could get, her hands tightly clasped in her lap. The theme for The X-Files provided a momentary distraction.
"Is it true? Are you really a vampire, like Ramsey said?"
He hesitated only a moment, but there seemed no point in denying it, not after what she'd heard, what she'd seen. "Yes."
The world seemed to shift somehow, and she knew, in that instant, that her life would never be the same again.
"Do you... do you drink blood?"
"When I must."
He spoke so calmly, as if his reply were an ordinary answer to an ordinary question.
She stared at him, speechless. He was a vampire. Dead but not dead. He drank human blood.... It was beyond comprehension. She tried to tell herself it couldn't be true even though she knew, deep in her heart, that it was.
"And do you... do you sleep in a coffin?"
He lifted one brow. "Would you?"
"Of course not. What are you going to do with me?" Visions of sharp fangs piercing her throat rose up in her mind.
He lifted one thick black brow. "Do with you?"
She raised a hand to her throat, the gesture more eloquent than words.
"Afraid I'm going to drink you dry?" he asked, a slight smile curving his lips.
"Are you?"
"Not tonight." He shook his head at her look of horror. "I was joking, Marisa. I'm not going to hurt you."
"I'd like to believe that," she muttered under her breath.
"Believe it. I mean you no harm."
His voice seemed to wrap around her, caressing her skin, light and soft as dandelion down. His eyes... she had never seen eyes so deep, so dark, so mesmerizing. Black flames burned in his eyes, threatening to scorch her, to engulf her until there was nothing left but smoldering ash. They seemed to call to her, promising her the secrets of eternity.
Marisa took a deep, shuddering breath. She could hear her heart pounding like thunder in her ears, feel herself succumbing to the dark power that blazed in his fathomless black eyes. She tried to look away, her heart beating triple time when she discovered she could not draw her gaze from his.
"Stop it," she said with a gasp. "Please..."
The twin flames in his eyes burned brighter, then vanished.
Grigori took a deep breath as he broke the connection between them. Sensing she would welcome some distance between them, he stood up and walked to the far side of the room.
"I'm sorry."
Had he said the words aloud, or had she only imagined them?
Marisa crossed her arms over her chest. She was alone in the house with a vampire. Silence stretched between them. What was he sorry for? Had he been trying to hypnotize her? What did one say to a vampire? A thousand questions tumbled through her mind. She grabbed the closest one. "Where did you meet Ramsey?"
"He seemed to turn up in all the same places I did," Grigori replied. "One night I approached him and asked him why he was following me. At first, he refused to tell me anything." He shrugged. "Eventually, he decided to tell me what I wanted to know."
Marisa shuddered as she imagined how Grigori had "convinced" Ramsey to talk.
Grigori looked at her and sighed. No doubt she would always expect the worst of him, but then, he couldn't blame her. He was, after all, a vampyre. No doubt she considered him a threat to her very existence. With reluctance, he admitted she had every reason to think so. Never, in two hundred years, had he bequeathed the Dark Gift to another, but Marisa tempted him sorely.
"When Ramsey discovered we were after the same thing, he decided to work with me."
"Silvano told me that Alexi had been in their family for generations."
"That's true. At one time, they kept him deep in the vault of a church. The burden of looking after him fell to the oldest male member of the family. Last year, their family fell on hard times. As head of the family, Silvano decided to take Alexi on tour. Not a very wise decision. I didn't know they had left the country until six months ago." A muscle twitched in his jaw. "I found Alexi three days too late."
"Do you think you'll be able to destroy him?"
"I hope so."
"Ramsey said he's destroyed other vampires."
"He told you about Katherine?"
"Was that her name? All he said was that a vampire had killed a friend of his." Marisa shook her head. It was so unreal, sitting here having a conversation about vampires. Until a few days ago, she would have sworn there was no such thing. Vampires had been nothing but fiction, creatures of legend, the things scary movies and nightmares were made of.
Her gaze slid over Grigori. How could someone - something - that was so outrageously handsome be one of the undead? "Are there lots of vampires running around?"
"Not many." He sat down in the overstuffed chair across from the sofa. "To my knowledge, there are only two of us in the city."
"That's two too many, if you ask me," Marisa muttered. She risked a glance at Grigori, felt her cheeks grow warm as he lifted one brow in an expression she was beginning to recognize as wry amusement.
"If Ramsey has his way, your city will soon be free of us both."
"You know he's thinking of destroying you?" Marisa exclaimed, surprised that he seemed so unconcerned.
"Of course. It's what he does. Our liaison is quite temporary."
"You're not worried?"
"No."
"Why not? If he's killed other vampires, what makes you think he won't kill you, too?"
Grigori shrugged. "The vampyre who killed Katherine was newly made. The young among us are vulnerable; sometimes they foolishly believe they cannot be destroyed. Sometimes they forget to be careful who they trust, where they choose to take their rest. Such carelessness is usually fatal."
"But that's not the only one he's killed. He must know what he's doing."
"Can I hope this concern means you are worried about my safety?"
"Of course not. Well, maybe a little." She blew out a deep breath. She didn't know what to think. It was all so confusing. True, yet beyond belief.
Clutching one of the sofa pillows to her chest, Marisa stared at the TV screen, thinking this sort of thing would be right up Fox Mulder's alley. She only wished she knew how to cope with it.
She slid a furtive glance at Grigori. He seemed engrossed in the program. How long had he been a vampire? Had it been a choice he'd made? Did he like it?
Questions, so many questions. They made her head ache. "I'm going to bed." She stood up, eyeing him warily. "Are you going to spend the night?"
"If you wish." He rose to his feet in a fluid motion that reminded her of water flowing over a dam.
She chewed on the inside of her lip, wondering which posed the greater threat, the vampire inside the house, or the one who might even now be prowling the shadows of the night.
"I'll get you some blankets," she said.
"Don't bother." His voice held a note of amusement.
"It's no bother."
"The night is my day," he reminded her softly. "Sleep well, Marisa."
"Right," she muttered. As if she could sleep at all, with a card-carrying, bloodsucking vampire in the house.
Grigori grunted softly as he watched her leave the room. Bloodsucking vampire indeed, he mused, and felt his fangs prick his tongue at the image that thought conveyed. He had not yet fed. Crossing the floor, he gazed out the window and let his supernatural powers peruse the night. The darkness beckoned him. A thousand beating hearts called to him.
With a sigh, he sank down on the sofa, his head resting on the back, his eyes closed. He could hear Marisa getting ready for bed, could track her movements by the sounds she made as she brushed her teeth, washed her face, brushed her hair. He heard the rasp of cloth as she removed her clothes, the whisper-soft brush of silk sliding over skin as she put on her nightgown, the rustle of crisp cotton sheets as she slid into bed. He could hear the sound of her breathing, the steady beat of her heart.
He took a deep breath and his nostrils filled with a plethora of odors - the food she had cooked for dinner, the soap she used to wash her dishes, the scent of the flowers on the kitchen table, the dirty clothes in the hamper, the clean clothes in her closet. And, over all, the smell of the woman herself - the fear she tried to hide, the perfume and hairspray, shampoo and soap and toothpaste she had used during the day, the warmth of her body. Her blood... it was a temptation he was hard-pressed to resist, an enticement that pulsed and glowed with every breath she took.
He drew his thoughts from her and concentrated on Alexi Kristov instead. As always, thoughts of Alexi brought Antoinette to mind, and renewed the pain of not knowing how she had died. Had Alexi killed her quickly, mercifully, or had he left her alone, a soulless creature with no will, no mind of her own? Left her to wander in darkness, lost and alone? Had she died of hunger and neglect? Had she been stoned by a mob of frightened villagers? Burned as a witch?
"Antoinette..." He groaned deep within himself as the grotesque images filled his mind.
Rage flowed through him, burning white-hot, searing him from the inside out. Anger fed the hunger within him, driving him to his feet, out of Marisa's apartment, and into the night.
Marisa woke with a start, her body drenched in perspiration, the sound of her own scream echoing in her ears. With a trembling hand, she switched on the bedside lamp, her gaze darting around the room as she drew in several deep breaths. Only a dream, only a dream... but it had seemed so real, and been so horrible.
Disjointed images flooded her mind... a woman walking along the beach under a full moon... a dark shadow swooping down on her like some monstrous bird of prey... the woman's cry of terror... bloodred eyes... sharp fangs piercing the fragile skin of the woman's throat....
Marisa shook her head to clear it. Knowing she'd never get back to sleep, she went into the kitchen and brewed a pot of tea. She was pouring herself a cup when she remembered Grigori.
Taking the cup with her, she went into the living room and turned on the light. The room was empty, the door was locked, the safety chain in place. The windows were closed.
She checked the spare bedroom, but he wasn't there, either.
Frowning, she returned to the living room and sat down on the sofa. The clock on the VCR showed it was almost three a.m.
"Some bodyguard," she muttered. Where had he gone, and why?
The answer burned itself into her mind, as vivid as the images of her nightmare.
He was a predator, and he had gone out to hunt the night.