Masquerade

Masquerade Page 3

He fed early the next night, his eyes closing in something akin to ecstasy as he emptied half a bag of whole blood into a glass, warmed it with his gaze, and slowly drained the contents, enjoying the rich, coppery, slightly salty taste of it on his tongue.

Only yesterday he had contemplated putting an end to his life. It would be so easy to terminate his existence, so easy to stand out on the terrace and watch the sun come up one last time.

So easy, he mused, but oh, so painful. He had felt the sting of the sun on his skin, known the agony of its touch on preternatural flesh. Now, as he dressed, he wondered, as he had so often in the past, if he truly possessed the courage he would need to face such an excruciating death.

But it was a moot point now. He no longer wished for an end to his existence. Life was new again, filled with excitement and anticipation, and all because of Leanne. Lovely Leanne, with the body of a temptress and the voice of an angel.

During the long hours of the day, as he slept the sleep of the undead in the basement of his house, her image had drifted across his mind. That, in itself, was strange, he thought. Never before had his rest been disturbed by images of anyone, living or dead. Even during the heat of the day, when he usually slept the deepest, he had seen her face in fragmented dreams, heard the sound of her voice, yearned for the touch of her hand.

Restless, he wandered through the house, trying to see it through her eyes. She would no doubt find it strange that there was no food in the kitchen, that there were no mirrors to be found, not even in the bathrooms. He could easily explain the security bars on the doors and windows. After all, crime was prevalent in the area. The old paintings, the ancient books and scrolls, would not be so easy to account for, not on a cop's salary.

He had collected quite a few masterpieces in the last three hundred years. Paintings thought destroyed in the wars that had ravaged France and Spain resided in the bedroom, sculptures believed to have been lost centuries ago graced his library. He had one of Shakespeare's original plays, signed by the Bard himself. His basement was crowded with ancient scrolls, with furniture and clothing from ages long past.

Perhaps he should have told her he was a retired antique dealer. But it was far easier to tell the few people he interacted with that he was a police officer, to say that he worked the graveyard shift and slept days, that he worked weekends and holidays, and was therefore unable to attend the picnics and parties to which he was occasionally invited.

He paced the floor for an hour and then, unable to wait a moment longer to see her, he drove to the theater. He could have willed himself there with a thought, but he enjoyed driving, enjoyed being in control of a powerful machine. And he would need the car later.

The performance was sold out, but it was an easy task to slip past the usher, to find a place in the shadows at the back of the theater.

The play mesmerized him, as always. He had lost count of how many times he had seen it, had long ago stopped wondering what there was about the production that he found so endlessly fascinating.

Lost in the dark, he became one with the Opera Ghost, lusting after the fair Christine, knowing in the depths of his aching heart that she could never be his.

He heard the anguish in the Phantom's voice as he watched Christine find comfort in the arms of the handsome Vicomte de Chagny, felt the deformed man's pain as he cursed her.

But Jason had eyes only for Leanne. Her presence called to him until he was blind to everyone else on stage, until his pulse beat in time with hers. He shared her excitement as she sang her lines during Don Juan Triumphant, sensed her pleasure when the crowd applauded.

As soon as the final curtain came down, he left the theater, eager to see her again, to discover if she was truly as beautiful, as desirable, as he remembered. Surely her eyes could not be as green as those he had seen in his dreams, her skin could not be as creamy and unblemished. No lips could be so pink and perfect; her hair could not be as thick and lustrous as he recalled.

And then she was there, hurrying toward him, a smile of welcome lighting her face as if they had known each other for years instead of a few hours.

She was breathtakingly beautiful in a pair of slinky black pants and a green blouse made of some soft material that clung to her upper body, outlining every delectable curve, emphasizing the deep green of her eyes.

His mouth watered just looking at her.

"Shall we go?" she asked, tucking her arm through his.

"My car's in the lot," he said, and for the first time since the dark curse had been bequeathed to him, he felt young. Alive.

Hand in hand, they ran across the street.

"This is yours?" Leanne exclaimed when he stopped beside his car.

Jason nodded. "Like it?"

She hadn't noticed what he was driving the night before. Now, her gaze swept over the sleek curves of the black Porsche. "What's not to like?" He opened the passenger door and she slid into the seat, her hand stroking the soft leather. "You're not a cop on the take, are you?" she asked when he slid behind the wheel.

Jason shook his head as he turned the key in the ignition. Thinking quickly, he said, "My grandfather left me quite well off."

"Then why do you work?"

"A man has to do something with his time."

They made small talk on the way to Hollywood. She told him about some of the funny things that had happened on stage, like the time the Phantom's boat veered left when it should have gone right.

"I remember that."

"You were there?"

He nodded.

"And then there was the night during the banquet scene in Don Juan Triumphant when the apple fell out of the pig's mouth and rolled across the stage," she said, laughing. "And one night, during the Masquerade number, the Phantom tossed the opera score to one of the managers, and he dropped it." She shook her head. "I think that's what makes live theater so much fun, and why people come back again and again. You just never know when something will go wrong, like the night Davis forgot the lyrics to one of the songs and just sort of ad-libbed the words."

Jason nodded. He had been in the theater during all of those incidents.

"Someone told me that one night Christine's double sprained her ankle, so Dale had to limp, but that was before my time with the show," Leanne said, laughing. "I'm sorry, I'm monopolizing the conversation," Leanne said. "So, tell me about your job. What do you like best about being a cop?"

"I guess because, like the theater, no two nights are ever the same. Of course, most of the time, the job is pretty boring. Just routine calls, mostly family squabbles." Or so he had heard.

When they reached the mall, Jason parked the car in the lot; then, hand-in-hand, they walked toward the movie theater.

Inside, they sat in the last row. Of its own volition, his hand found hers again. The touch of her fingers entwining with his sent a warm ripple of awareness surging through him, a jolt of such force that it took his breath away.

In the darkness, his gaze sought hers. She had felt it, too. He saw it in the slightly surprised expression in her eyes, heard it in the sudden intake of her breath. The attraction that hummed between them was electric, palpable.

Time and place were momentarily forgotten as his hand slid up her arm, across her shoulder. Cupping the back of her head, he drew her slowly toward him. She didn't resist, but came readily, her eyelids fluttering down as his mouth slanted over hers.

It was a kiss unlike any he had ever known - sweetly potent, volatile, explosive. His body's reaction to her nearness, to the taste of her lips, the scent of her life's essence, was instantaneous, almost painful in its intensity.

With the rise of his physical desire came another hunger, one that was more painful than unfulfilled passion, and far more deadly for the woman beside him. Unable to help himself, he pressed a kiss to her throat, let his tongue caress the pulse beating there. Her skin was warm, the whisper of the sweet nectar flowing through her veins tempting, so tempting...

With a low groan, he drew away.

"Jason, what's wrong?" Her voice was husky, drugged with desire.

"Nothing." He raked a hand through his hair, conscious of the people around them. "This isn't the time, or the place."

She smiled a knowing smile, her green eyes smoky with passion. "Any time," she murmured in a breathless whisper. "Any place."

"Leanne..."

"I'm shameless, I know, but I can't help myself. I've never felt this way before. It's as though I've known you all my life." Her hand slid over his chest. "As though I've waited for you all my life."

For a moment, he closed his eyes. Her words fell like sunshine on the blackness of his soul. And then he smiled at her through the darkness.

"We have time, Leanne," he whispered hoarsely "All the time in the world."

Later, driving her home, he couldn't remember what the movie was about, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered but the connection between them, and the sure knowledge that he would see her again the following night.

And every night after that for as long as she lived.