Vacation With a Vampire...and Other Immortals Page 2

  And then he felt her.

  He’d reached the landward end of the pier and stepped from it onto the little path that meandered past the lighthouse. She wasn’t far from him—a few dozen meters at most—and her emotions were overwhelming her. They were mixed, but the most prominent among them was sadness. And in spite of himself, he tuned in to her above all the other noise in his mind. He focused on her and listened in, and he heard the thoughts racing around in her head.

  My life is ending before it’s even begun…

  How can it be true? How can it be true? How can it be true?

  What will happen? Is there a heaven? Do I deserve to go there?

  Should I do it? Can I possibly be that selfish, even now?

  What about Lauren? What about Nate and Cindi?

  The kids are going to have to learn to fend for themselves, anyway. It’s not as if Lauren’s capable of taking care of them.

  They’re adults. They’ll manage. God knows I did.

  I deserve some happiness.

  I don’t have much time left.

  I could just go. Just buy the boat and go…

  God, it would be so beautiful. So peaceful. So restful.

  How can I be so selfish?

  He frowned, pulling away from her jumbled emotions and telling himself it was none of his business, anyway. Turning, he started to walk in the other direction, toward the town and the victim he would take tonight. A criminal or an abuser or a thug. No one worthy of using up this beautiful planet’s precious resources. Like lancing a boil, removing one of those. He was performing a service. And he only allowed himself the pleasure a few times a year, when he came in for supplies. The rest of the time, those supplies were his sustenance. Stolen from one of the various blood banks, clinics and hospitals that were his usual sources.

  He was running low on supplies out on the island. It was time to restock. And while dealing with humans and their world full of misery was something he dreaded, he had to admit that he looked forward to the taking of a live victim on these quarterly excursions. There was nothing quite like the rush of warm, living blood—not to mention the power of it.

  Dying. Dying. How can I possibly be dying?

  Her thoughts stopped him again, and he turned once more, gazing along the shore, spotting her. She was on the same path as he was, on one of the benches, but farther out on the long finger of the earthen pier, near the tall lighthouse at its tip. The sentinel stood impassive, as always, its black barber-pole stripe flawlessly twining upward, to the sunlike yellow glow at the top. He loved lighthouses. Perhaps because they were as close as he would get to ever seeing actual sunlight again, aside from that reflected in the mirror of the moon.

  She was sitting on a stone bench, the lighthouse at her back, her gaze on the sea. He sniffed the air and caught the scent of her tears, of her skin. The soap and cologne she used, the shampoo.

  He should stop right there. He should not notice anything more about her. Because what he had already noticed was tugging at him. She was dangerous.

  Like Cassandra had been. Cassandra, who’d come to him at the end of her mortal life, knowing exactly what she intended. Making him fall so deeply in love with her that he would have done anything for her. Anything.

  And then destroying him once she got what she wanted. When all the while, all she’d had to do was ask.

  No, he wanted no part of any beautiful woman in misery. But then, just then, he caught the scent of something else about this weeping woman. Her blood.

  And it was unlike the blood of most mortals. It held the antigen that made her…a relative of his, to put it most simply. She possessed the rare Belladonna antigen. Just like Cassandra had.

  Hell, she was one of the Chosen. That made her doubly dangerous to him.

  Mortals with the antigen were the only ones who could ever become what he was. Vampires sensed these special humans and were compelled, often to their own detriment, to protect and watch over them. For a vampire to harm one of the Chosen was, it was said, impossible.

  He’d only encountered one other. The woman who’d brought him to his knees with a heartache so crippling, he’d vowed there would never be another. And that alone made him want to leave this one to her suffering. She likely deserved it, anyway.

  Again he tried to walk away, knowing now, at least, why her emotions outshouted all the other mental energies wafting on the airwaves this night.

  And again his steps halted and he turned in her direction. Compelled, like a feline by the scent of catmint. Every instinct in his body was telling him to help her, to ease her pain, to go to her—while every thought in his brain told him the opposite.

  He could not resist going to her. He couldn’t.

  Sighing, vowing that he would only speak to her briefly, be of help if he could, and that then he would leave and never so much as think of her again, he followed the twisting path to the bench where she sat, still weeping.

  He stood over her, looking down at her. She lifted her head, sensing him there, but didn’t even gasp in surprise. Her eyes narrowed. But she said nothing.

  She was beautiful. Utterly beautiful. Auburn curls, wild and thick, falling over her shoulders, and huge blue eyes that seemed to reflect the soul of the sea itself. Her skin was pale already, and she had a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose, spilling just slightly onto her cheeks.

  And in spite of himself, he felt her pain so sharply and so keenly it nearly brought tears to his own eyes.

  “There cannot be anything so dire as to make a woman as beautiful as you are weep this bitterly.”

  She blinked. “I’ve just been told I’m dying.”

  “We’re born dying, lady. But in truth, there’s no such thing as death. We’re eternal beings, whether we choose to stay or move on.”

  Her brows bent toward each other. “I wasn’t given a choice.”

  “You will be. When the time comes, you will be.”

  Her frown deepened. “How can you know that?”

  He shrugged, not telling her that despite his vow only moments ago, he would probably be the one to give her that choice. Not yet, not now. It was too soon. He could feel the life force in her and sensed there was time yet for her. But when the time of her death came, he would return and offer her the choice, or some other vampire would find her and do it. For she gave every sign of being worthy.

  Though he’d thought that about Cassandra, too. Blinded by his own treacherous heart.

  Not so this time. Not yet. Not if he didn’t let himself be.

  He would return, yes, when her time was near, and he would ask her if she wanted to live on as one of the Undead. He would offer her that option. He decided it on the spot, which was very unlike him.

  She rose from the bench, her eyes staring into his as she blinked her tears away. “What should I do?”

  He held her gaze, peering deeply into her eyes, slipping his will inside her mind, and finding it a beautiful place to dwell. Damn, he liked this woman. In her unguarded mind, he poked through all the litter. Obligation. Guilt. Other people’s needs. More guilt. He pushed all that aside and whispered, “Let go, Anna. Let go and show me your truest heart.”

  As he whispered the words, he willed her to comply. He saw her eyes widen when he spoke her name, and then he felt her surrender. Her own will melted under the force of his mind. He saw her standing at the helm of a wooden sailboat. He saw her with the wind in her hair and the sea waves beneath her vessel, riding them like a triumphant Valkyrie.

  “You want to sail,” he said softly. “You long to be one with the sea and with the creatures who live there, and with the sky and the wind.” It stunned him how much her idea of perfection matched his own. “You need to sell the house and use the money to buy the boat of your dreams.”

  “I do?”

  “It’s what you truly want.” And with those words, he withdrew his will from her mind, leaving open the trail he’d blazed for her, through all the baggage and useless guil
t.

  “But what about my sister? What about her kids?”

  He blinked at her. “Why do you cling to the need to be needed?”

  “Is that what I’m doing?”

  He shrugged.

  Lifting a trembling hand, she touched his face, then drew her fingertips away. “You’re not real, are you?”

  You were put upon this planet to make the most of your life, Anna. To do so, then, cannot be deemed selfish, can it? His mind spoke directly to hers.

  She was looking up at him as if he had spoken aloud, but knowing he hadn’t. Her hair danced on the sea wind, almost as if reaching toward him. Her skin was pale, paler, even, than his own. And her eyes…as blue as the sea. Her beauty was beyond anything he’d ever seen.

  Don’t go there, he told himself. Tell her something to help her, and then go about your business and forget you ever saw her. Do it.

  But as she stared at him, a smile toyed with the corners of her full, ripe lips. “I’ve dreamed of you, I think.”

  “And when was that?” he asked softly.

  “All my life.” Her hands rose, one touching the nape of his neck, fingers lingering there, and he felt every point of contact to the core of his being. “That you would come to me now, of all times…”

  “I’m just a stranger, passing by and offering unasked-for advice.”

  “But you knew my name. And my deepest desires.”

  He should have been alarmed at having revealed so much, but he couldn’t seem to drum up a hint of common sense. She was listening to him, and it was helping her. And more. He felt he was touching this woman’s soul, and it was affecting him as much as it was her. Why was that? How could it be?

  He whispered again to her mind, eager now to help her and then be on his way, because the feelings swirling inside him were beyond anything he understood, and he needed to be alone to figure it all out.

  No loving creator would give a woman desires and then forbid her from fulfilling them. It is not selfish to wish to live your life to its fullest, no matter how long or how short it might be. To do so is sacred. It’s your calling. It’s why you are here. The sin would be to do anything less. I promise you that.

  “Are you an angel?”

  He smiled at her question. Follow your heart, he told her. It is the guidance you’ve been given all your life. It shows your true north. It leads you true—always.

  It was a philosophy he believed in. Admittedly, doing so had earned him the worst hurt of his existence, but it had also led him to paradise. The life he led now was blissful, if lonely. And he wouldn’t have found it without the heartbreak that came before.

  He felt her mind gently sliding into agreement, felt peace settling over her like a soft, warm blanket. Like the velvet night itself. He felt her nodding, and even sensed relief floating into her soul.

  He had helped her. And now, he told himself, it was time to walk away.

  He started to go, but she caught his shoulders in her small, gentle hands, somehow compelling him to look down into her eyes one more time. And then she rose on tiptoe, her lips moving close to his.

  So close he felt her breath.

  He whispered, “What are you doing, Anna?”

  “What my heart tells me, like you said,” she whispered back. And then she kissed him.

  The power of it was beyond imagining. He was as engulfed in the kiss—in the woman—as a lifeboat would be by a hurricane. He felt her heart, soft, and loving and pure. He smelled her scents, and heard her heartbeat inside his own chest. He tasted her kiss, and it was beyond anything he’d ever dreamed off. He wrapped his arms around her and held her to him, and they kissed and kissed and kissed.

  And then, finally, he gave heed to the sense of self-preservation he’d built upon a foundation of pain and betrayal. He’d thought Cassandra’s heart was pure, too. And he’d been wrong.

  Sleep, he commanded. Sleep, and remember me as but a pleasant dream. Sleep, Anna. And when you wake, follow your heart’s desire, no matter what. I’ll find you again before you die. And you will be offered a choice. I promise you that. But for now, sleep. Sleep, Anna. Sleep.

  Anna slept. He held her against him as her legs went weak, and he scooped her up into his arms and then sped through the night, carrying her at speeds far too fast for mortal eyes to observe him. He probed her mind to find where she lived, and he took her there. An attractive, one-story house with flower boxes in the windows. Yellow. It would sell easily.

  He unlocked the doors with the power of his mind and laid her gently on her bed, and then he turned and forced himself to go away. It was, for some reason, far more difficult than it should have been.

  An hour later he sank his teeth into the throat of a drunken pedophile in a stinking alley outside the bar the man had been visiting.

  But as the rush of the blood hit him, carrying with it the pleasant burn of rum, his mind went back to the woman he’d kissed beneath the lighthouse. He saw her eyes, her face, her hair. He heard her voice, rough with tears. He tasted her mouth, felt her hands on him. He closed his eyes and for just a moment gave in to the fantasy that it was her blood he was drinking now. Her blood, rushing into his throat, warming his flesh, sizzling in his soul, filling him with power, with strength, with vigor and, God help him, with desire—for her.

  A surge of ecstasy rose in him even as he released his victim. The man’s body fell to the alley floor, and Diego tipped his head back and, in spite of himself, released a growling roar to the night. In that moment, pure primal power and unleashed lust washed through him, and he had no control.

  As he brought his head level again, he heard voices, human ones.

  “What the hell? Was that a freaking lion?”

  “I never heard anything like that in my—”

  “A bear? Here?”

  “C’mon.”

  Crouching low, Diego pushed off with his powerful legs and shot upward, rocketlike, landing easily on the roof above even as the curious mortals arrived at the mouth of the alley and saw the dead man lying there.

  He didn’t stick around to see what happened next.

  Chapter 3

  Two months later…

  Anna stood in what felt like the vastness of eternity. There was no clear boundary between the sea around her and the night sky above. The only visible difference was that the sky was dotted with glittering stars and the water was too choppy to reflect them back. On calm seas, she’d experienced nights when she honestly couldn’t tell where the mirror of the sea ended and the sky began. Breathtaking. And peaceful.

  She no longer feared dying. She imagined that the night sky above was a black canvas, and that behind it there was a light—that beautiful heavenly light talked about by near-death survivors. She imagined the stars as tears in the fabric, giving her tiny glimpses of that warm, loving glow. One more month, give or take, if Mary’s predictions were true. And then she would be able to find out for herself.

  Below, and all around, her there was water. Blue-black, with whitecaps appearing and vanishing again as if at random. But there was an order to it, she thought. One she couldn’t see but felt on some level. There was order to everything. It all happened for a reason.

  Beneath her feet, her boat, the Spanish Angel, rocked and bobbed at the whim of those waves. She’d furled her sails, dropped anchor for the night. There was a vague and brief rocky shoreline in sight, but only barely, off the starboard side. It was small enough that she suspected it was an island, but she had no desire to visit it. People, tourists, were not what she had come out here to experience.

  She stood on the port side, near the bow, staring out at the endless expanse of sea and sky, and letting her focus go soft until the two blended into one. One living, breathing, heaving, moving entity. The great Whole. And she was a part of it. Alive or dead, a part of it she would remain.

  Anna was at peace now. That night on the pier, in the hulking shadow of the lighthouse, she’d met an angel. Her own guardian angel, she thought. And t
he fact that he had the face of her dream lover, who’d hovered just beyond the edge of her dreams since she’d been a teenager, made him even more real.

  Yes, she had probably imagined him. Maybe. Her subconscious had conjured just the image she had needed. He had broken through her grief and her worry and her pain, and given her permission to be selfish. To be happy, even, during the waning months of her life.

  He’d seemed so real. She’d even given him a name, in her imagination. Diego. It had come to her during that imaginary kiss. She knew his voice, his touch, his kiss. God, his kiss. And that sense of him looking so deeply inside her that he knew her deepest thoughts, fears, longings.

  She’d spent a great many hours pondering her angel while she’d been living blissfully at sea. There had been something otherworldly about him, and a faint trace of an accent—Spanish, in his case—the way there always seemed to be when people claimed to be channeling the words of a spirit guide. Or of an angel. He’d had that accent in her dreams, too, she recalled.

  Hazy, those dreams. Vague. No real story to them, just images of him, of his eyes blazing into hers, his hand reaching out to touch her cheek. And a feeling of absolute love welling up inside her heart.

  She’d thought, in her youth, that those had been glimpses of her soul mate. Her future partner, husband, lover. But now she knew better. She’d been glimpsing her own personal guardian angel. He had come to her that night and told her what she needed to hear. And when she passed from this life into the next, he would be there, waiting. She was actually looking forward to seeing him again.

  She’d sold her home and her possessions, and she’d closed out all her bank accounts and cashed in her retirement. She’d quit her job. And then she had bought one thing for herself. Something she had always wanted.