Masquerade

Masquerade Page 4

Jason sat on the sofa in the living room, his feet resting on a leather hassock, his gaze fixed on the dancing flames in the raised hearth. The fire served no purpose save that he found it pleasing to look upon. He had no need for its warmth; he felt neither the heat nor the cold, but sitting in front of a fire on a cool autumn night seemed a very human thing to do. Tonight, tormented by vivid memories of his past, he had a strong desire to feel mortal again.

He had been born in a time of great superstition, when a young woman with the gift to heal might be judged a witch and burned at the stake, when country folk believed that werewolves prowled the forests in the light of the full moon, when restless ghosts were thought to wander the rooms of castle and hovel alike.

He had never seen a ghost and he had never put much stock in werewolves, but he had come to believe in vampires. Oh, yes, he would never forget the night he had learned about vampires.

It had been a warm summer evening, just after supper. He'd had an argument with his wife, Jolene. He could not now remember what they quarreled about, but he had stormed out of the cottage and headed for the local tavern, determined to drown his troubles in a mug or two of golden ale. He had been working his way through his third tankard when Marguerite approached him. There had been something compelling in the way she looked at him, the way her hell-black eyes caressed him, that had chilled him to the very marrow of his bones. And yet it had been that same unsettling look which had drawn him inexplicably to her side.

Mesmerized by her dark beauty, by the husky tremor in her voice and the 'come hither' expression in her eyes, he had followed her to the rooms upstairs. Never before had he been unfaithful to Jolene, but that night it was as if he'd had no control over either his body or his passion. Like a puppy at its master's heels, he had followed Marguerite up the narrow wooden stairway and into a life of eternal darkness.

She had drugged him with her kisses, aroused him until he had been mindless with need and then, in the midst of their love-making, she had buried her fangs in his throat, drained him to the point of death, and then given him her blood in return.

She had left him just before dawn, warning him that he must find a place to hide himself from the sun unless he wished that night to be his last.

He had not believed her. Until he stepped out into the bright light of a new day. The pain of the sun on his face had been excruciating. With a cry of alarm, he had bolted into the woods and taken refuge in a cave.

Trembling with pain and fear, his skin blistering, he had pressed himself against the wall, unable to move, only vaguely aware of the ghastly changes taking place in his body as Marguerite's accursed blood wrought the hideous transformation.

Weak, helpless to resist, he had died that day, his body convulsing as it purged itself of useless fluids. And, as the sun climbed higher in the sky, he had lain as one dead until the setting of the sun.

When he awoke that night, he had known his old life was gone forever.

He had sought Marguerite when he left the cave, begging her to undo the evil she had wrought upon him, but she had only laughed softly as she caressed his cheek.

"There is no going back, mon amour."

"There must be a way!"

"None that I know of, except..." She made a vague gesture with one hand.

He grabbed her arms, his fingers biting deep into her cool white flesh. "Except?"

"It is rumored among the ancient ones that there is a bloodline which has the power to transform a vampire into a mortal again, but I have no idea how it is done. I know only that the power is not in the blood." She shrugged, as if the whole conversation were unimportant. "That is all I know."

"Whose bloodline?" he demanded, giving her a shake. "Where do I find such a person?"

"I know not. I care not. I am happy as I am, and have no wish to be mortal again."

She had pried his fingers from her arm, then patted his cheek, much as a mother might comfort a weeping child. "Give it time, cheri. One day you will bless me for what I have done."

Bless her! He would have killed her had he known how. Late that night, he had gone home to find Jolene frantic with worry, her beautiful face ravaged by tears.

She had been disbelieving when he told her what had happened, disbelieving until the sun came up and she had seen for herself the death-like lethargy that held him captive in its grip.

To Jolene's credit, she hadn't turned her back on him. Although she had been repulsed by his lust for blood, by the corpse-like figure that slept in the cellar by day, she had never stopped loving him. Blessed woman that she was, she had kept his secret until the day she died.

And that had been the hardest thing of all to bear, watching his beloved wife grow old and feeble while he stayed forever young and strong. Her once unblemished skin grew wrinkled with the passing years, her hair, once as fine as black silk, had turned white. The joy of living had gone out of her eyes, those beautiful green eyes that had ever looked on him with love and tenderness. It had been torment of the worst kind, watching her body weaken and wither, ravaged by age and disease. In desperation, he had offered to save her, to transform her into the horror he had become, but she had refused. In the end, she had died in his arms, whispering his name.

In his youth, he had been zealously religious. Always, he had believed in a just and loving God. He had been faithful in his prayers, certain they were heard. But now, monster and murderer that he had become, he was cut off from the powers of heaven, unable to offer a prayer in behalf of his wife.

That night, for the first time since Marguerite had turned him into a monster, he had contemplated putting an end to his existence. Considered it and found he lacked the courage, for far worse than the thought of dying was the knowledge that, in death, he would come face to face with the Almighty and have to confess his sins.

In all the years since Jolene's death, he had kept a tight rein on his emotions, never letting himself care for anyone. He made no close friends, mortal or otherwise. Trusting one of the undead could be as dangerous to his existence as trusting the living, and so he had trusted no one, loved no one.

Until now.

He thought of Leanne, and her memory engulfed him with a warm, sustaining glow. She had brought light to his dark existence, given him a reason to live, pierced the protective wall he had erected around his heart. Fool that he was, he couldn't deny the fact that he had fallen in love again.

Fallen in love with a woman who looked enough like his beloved Jolene to be her sister.

A long slow sigh escaped Jason's lips. He could not endure the agony of watching another woman he loved grow old and die, nor could he be responsible for giving her the Dark Gift. Leanne was a creature of sunshine. He could not condemn her to a life spent in the shadows.

And yet he could not think of facing the future without her, not now, when he had glimpsed her goodness, felt the sweet magic that had flowed between them the moment their eyes met for the first time.

Jason soon grew tired of meeting Leanne after the theater, then spending the evening in a darkened movie house or some smoke-filled bar, and since he dared not go to her house, which no doubt contained several mirrors, he brought her home.

Never before had he brought a woman into his house. He bade her wait in the entry hall while he went inside and lit the candles. No doubt she would think it strange that he eschewed electric lights, but he much preferred the soft glow of candlelight to the harsh glare of modern electricity.

Returning to the entry hall, he bowed over her hand. "Welcome to my humble home," he murmured, and kissed her hand in courtly fashion.

"Do you mind if I look around?" Leanne asked.

"Please," he said. "Make my home yours."

Leanne wandered through the house, enchanted by the works of art, the sculptures. Several of the paintings were signed J. Blackthorne. The signature was bold and distinctive.

"Blackthorne!" she exclaimed softly. "Now I know why your name sounded so familiar. I saw one of his paintings in a museum." She turned to look at Jason, a question in her eyes.

"An ancestor," Jason said. "Prolific, but mostly unappreciated."

Leanne studied the largest of the paintings. It depicted a tall man with hair as black as midnight standing alone on a cliff overlooking a turbulent sea. A long black cape billowed out behind him, buffeted by the wind. Dark gray clouds hovered above storm-tossed waves. Just looking at the painting filled her with a sense of loneliness, of emptiness.

"He was very good," she remarked.

Jason shrugged. "For his time, perhaps.

With a nod, Leanne continued her tour, ever conscious that Jason was only a step or two behind her.

The rooms were sparsely furnished and she noticed he had only a few small table lamps, none of which he turned on, obviously preferring the softer, more romantic glow of the candles that lit every room, even the bathrooms.

The living room was decorated in earth tones. A brown leather sofa faced the fireplace; a pair of matching overstuffed chairs flanked the sofa. A book about ancient civilizations sat on a carved oak table in front of the couch. Heavy beige draperies covered the windows.

The master bedroom was decorated in muted shades of blue and white. Standing in the doorway, she had the oddest impression that the bed had never been slept in; indeed, she had the feeling the room had rarely been used at all. Adjoining the master bedroom was a large bathroom with a sunken tub and a skylight. There was an enormous den next to the bedroom. Two of the walls were lined with oak bookcases that reached from floor to ceiling. She paused in front of one of the bookshelves, her gaze perusing the titles. She saw Shakespeare and Homer, Louis L'Amour and Stephen King, Tom Clancy and Dean Koontz, a collection of Anne Rice's vampire books, as well as numerous volumes on history and geography, medicine, art, literature and folklore, many of which were written in foreign languages.

"Have you read all of these?" she asked, amazed by the quantity and variety of books. Judging by their fragile covers, many of the volumes appeared to be quite old.

"Not all," Jason replied.

Leanne smiled, thinking it would take a hundred years to read all the books on the shelves.

Turning away from the bookcase, she glanced around the room. A beautiful black marble fireplace took up most of the third wall. The fourth wall contained a large window covered by heavy floor-to-ceiling drapes. A big, comfortable looking black leather chair and an ottoman stood in front of the hearth.

Leaving the den, she peered into the kitchen, noting it was stark and white. Again, she was overcome with the impression that, like the bedroom, the kitchen was rarely, if ever, used. But then maybe that wasn't so strange. Jason was a bachelor, after all. Maybe he ate all his meals out.

"So," he said as they returned to the living room, "what do you think?"

"It's very nice." She made a broad gesture with her hand. "I think I like the den the best."

"Yes, it's my favorite, too."

Leanne crossed the floor to the picture window that overlooked the backyard and pulled back the heavy curtains. A full moon hovered low in the sky, bathing the grass and the outbuildings in shimmering silver.

"Is your horse here?"

"Yes."

"Could I see it?"

"If you like."

Taking her hand, he led her out the back door and down a narrow flight of steps. They followed a winding path edged with ferns and willow trees until they reached a large corral.

Jason whistled softly, and a dark shape materialized out of the shadows.

"Hello, Lucifer," he murmured, scratching the big black horse between its ears. "I've brought someone to meet you."

Leanne held out her hand, and the stallion danced away, its nostrils flaring, its eyes showing white.

"I don't think he likes me," she said, disappointment evident in her voice.

"We don't get many visitors here," Jason remarked. Slipping through the rails, he walked up to the horse and stroked its neck.

Like all animals, the stallion had been wary of him in the beginning, but Jason had used his dark power to overcome the animal's instinctive fear.

Now, he vaulted lightly onto Lucifer's back and rode around the corral, guiding the stallion with the pressure of his knees.

Leanne clapped her hands in delight. "That's wonderful!" she exclaimed, charmed by the fluid grace of the horse and the sheer masculine beauty of the man. They looked as if they had been made for each other, the devil-black horse and the raven-haired man.

Jason rode effortlessly, his body in complete harmony with the stallion's. Like a dark angel cast out of the courts of heaven, he rode bareback in the pale light of the moon.

After a few moments, he rode toward the gate and slipped the latch. Riding up to Leanne, he held out his hand.

"Don't you need a bridle or something to control him?" she asked dubiously.

"No. He responds to my voice and the pressure of my knees."

The stallion's ears twitched as Jason lifted Leanne, settling her in front of him, and then they were riding down a sloping path that led to a trail into the hills.

Jason breathed in Leanne's scent as they rode through the quiet night, the only sounds that of the horse's muffled hoof beats and the chirping of crickets.

His thighs cradled her buttocks, his arm circled her waist, the fall of her hair brushed his cheek. She leaned against him, her back pressing against his chest, her nearness sparking the embers of hunger and desire that were ever present when she was near.

He had only to lean forward to press a kiss to the side of her neck, and as he did so, the longing to sink his fangs into the soft skin just below her ear, to taste the warm rush of her blood over his tongue, rose up within him. One taste, he thought, just one small taste...

"Jason?"

He grunted in response, unable to speak past the loathsome need rising hotly within him, the desire to drink in her sweetness, to possess her fully.

"Could we stop here for a while?"

He glanced around. They were in a small glade surrounded by tall trees. Wordlessly, he slid over Lucifer's rump, then walked around to help Leanne dismount. His hands lingered at her waist and he drew her up against him, letting her feel the evidence of his desire, afraid she would refuse him, and even more afraid that she might not.

Leanne took a deep breath. It was all happening so quickly. She felt the pull of his gaze, felt herself falling hopelessly in love with a man she hardly knew. A man she wanted to know better.

"Jason, tell me I'm not dreaming. Tell me the magic between us is real and not just something I've imagined because I want it so badly to be true."

"It's real." His knuckles caressed her cheek. "Never doubt that."

She sighed at his touch. His eyes were dark, the blue-black before a storm. A lock of hair, as black as ink, fell across his forehead. For a moment, it seemed as if he were a part of the night itself, a dark phantom who had clothed himself in one of her daydreams and stepped out of her imagination.

Compelled by a need she never thought to question, she reached up to brush the hair from his brow, to stroke his cheek with her fingertips. To assure herself that he was real.

"Leanne."

He murmured her name, his voice low and husky and filled with such longing, she had no thought to deny him.

She tilted her head back, eager for his kiss, her eyelids fluttering down as he lowered his head toward hers.

He hesitated only a moment, battling the ancient urge to bury his fangs in her throat, to drink and drink until his damnable thirst was assuaged. Assuaged, but never quenched. Instead, he kissed her gently, careful not to bruise her tender flesh. As if she were made of fine crystal that might shatter at the slightest touch, he held her in his arms, his body basking in her warmth, in the essence of life that flowed through her.

Holding her close, he was keenly aware of the vast gulf between them. She was light and hope and innocence, children playing in the sun, lovers strolling hand-in-hand along the beach on a hot summer day, all the things that were forever lost to him. He was the essence of darkness. It permeated his life and shrouded his soul.

He groaned low in his throat, his arms tightening around her as if, by holding her closer, he might draw a part of her goodness into himself.

In the beginning, after he had resigned himself to Jolene's loss, to the fact that he was forever changed, forever cursed, he had gloried in being a vampire. His hearing was keen, his eyesight much improved. He could cover great distances with preternatural speed, pass unseen through a crowd, bend another's will to his own. He had thought the taste of blood would disgust him, but it was a part of what he had become and not repellent at all. Indeed, he craved it as some men craved whiskey.

In the beginning, he had not realized how long forever was. He had not understood how truly alienated he was from the rest of mankind. With the coming of awareness, he had lost himself in learning. Later, to his amazement, he had discovered that he had an aptitude for painting, and he had spent a century perfecting what talent he had. When he grew bored with painting, he had tried his hand at writing.

It had come easily to him, and he had written scores of novels, many of which he had sold. And when writing lost its appeal, he had turned into a vagabond, traveling from one end of the world to the other, but nowhere had he found a sense of home, of belonging, and so he had come to America, settling in Southern California where the bizarre was taken for granted, where a man who shunned the daylight and lived like a recluse was not considered strange at all, merely eccentric.

But now Leanne was here, in his arms, and for the first time in three hundred years he felt a sense of belonging, of hope. He stroked her hair, traced the curve of her cheek.

"Leanne," he murmured. "Can you save me, I wonder."

She drew back, a frown furrowing her brow. "Save you?"

Only then did he realize he had spoken the words aloud.

"Save you from what?" she asked.

"Nothing." He looked away, knowing the hunger was glowing in his eyes. "We'd better go back."

She didn't argue, only continued to stare up at him, her expression filled with concern and another emotion he could not quite fathom. Not fear. He knew fear when he saw it.

And then, to his surprise, she gently touched his cheek. "Don't be afraid, Jason," she said quietly. "You're not alone anymore."

Before he could absorb the meaning of her words, a dog came charging through the trees, saliva dripping from its massive jaws.

Instinctively, Jason thrust Leanne behind him, putting himself between her and the Rottweiler's slathering jaws. A sharp command kept Lucifer from bolting down the hill.

Summoning his dark power, Jason turned his preternatural power on the dog. As though it had slammed into a brick wall, the Rottweiler came to an abrupt halt. Whining softly, it eyed Jason for a moment, then turned and ran down the hill with its tail tucked between its legs.

Leanne blew out the breath she had been holding. Never had she seen anything like that in her life.

"We'd best go," Jason said, and before she had time to argue, before she had time to ask what had just happened, he lifted her onto Lucifer's back. Vaulting up effortlessly behind her, he touched his heels to the stallion's flanks and the horse broke into a canter.

When they reached the yard, he dismounted. After lifting Leanne from Lucifer's back, he gave the stallion a pat on the rump. With a toss of its head, the horse trotted into the corral, then whinnied softly when Jason closed the gate.

"Jason, that dog..."

"It's getting late." He drew her into his arms and kissed her deeply. "Would you mind if I called a taxi to take you home tonight?"

"I don't mind," she murmured, all thought of the dog forgotten in the sweet afterglow of Jason's kiss.

He yearned to read her mind, to discover what she thought of him, but for the first time in his long existence, he could not bring himself to steal his way into another's thoughts.

After calling a cab, he walked her down the stairs that led to the street. "Will I see you tomorrow night?"

"I'm counting on it."

He took her in his arms and held her, drinking in her nearness, her warmth.

The taxi arrived a short time later.

"Goodnight, Jason. Sweet dreams."

He kissed her once more, briefly, sweetly, and then, reluctantly, he let her go. Already, he could sense the coming of dawn, feel the heavy lassitude stealing over his body, draining his strength, dragging him down, down, into darkness.

His steps were heavy as he made his way to his lair in the basement. Hollywood might insist that its vampires sleep in silk-lined coffins, but then Hollywood perpetuated a good many myths that had no basis in fact. He had no need to rest in a coffin; indeed, he found the mere idea macabre. Instead, he preferred to pass the long, lonely daylight hours resting in a corner of the cellar, his head and shoulders covered by a patchwork quilt similar to the one he had once shared with Jolene.

Jolene...he fell asleep with her name on his lips, but it was Leanne's image that kept him company until darkness spread her cloak over the land once more.