Twilight Hunger Read online

Chapter 5

 

  Dante stood outside in the darkness, the wind in his face, tangling its cool damp fingers in his hair. Just a hint of rain looming. He felt its touch on his skin in that wind. He tasted it. The waves from the sea crashed to the shoreline just beyond the house. His house, or it had been once. Warm yellow light spilled from its windows, as if welcoming him home. But he knew better. Someone was inside. He could feel and taste them the same way he did the rain in the air. A woman.

  When he had decided to come here, he hadn't even been certain he would find the place still standing. Last time he'd seen it, the house had been on the verge of ruin. But no more. Someone had gone to great pains to restore the house he had built over a century ago. The white flagstone walkway that curved up to the front door was just as he remembered it. The lampposts at the far end like sentries. Oh, they hadn't been electric, of course, as they were now. Nor had the lights inside the house. But the shutters were black, and the paint was white and fresh. And the chimney was the same size and shape, even though the bricks were all brand-new.

  The door was different, he noted. It had been white, with four glass panes in a fantail pattern in the top. The new door was far more elaborate, wider, flanked by tooled hardwood borders and a wide mantle arching over the top. Artificial flowers were affixed in that arched mantle. It struck him for a moment, how false that was. How ridiculous. The smell of plastic and silk on the things made a mockery of the beauty they tried to imitate.

  Artificial flowers were a sacrilege.

  An oval of stained glass stretched almost the whole length of the door, and the handle was gleaming brass. The place looked almost new again. Two cars sat in the white gravel driveway, both of them foreign and fast. Money lived here now. A woman with wealth. And youth. He tasted that on the air, as well.

  There was a man. Older. Robust. Strong. While the female had a weakness about her. He didn't smell sex in the air, so he assumed the relationship was platonic.

  He was curious, he had to admit. Eager to see what had been done to the inside of the place. And he couldn't leave, anyway. Since his near miss with the scarred man, he had found his every haven invaded, his every familiar haunt under watch. The man knew his secrets somehow. So Dante had come back here-to a place he hadn't used in over a century-to find safety and solace, until he could figure out what to do.

  Obviously, he'd stayed away too long. Someone was riving here.

  Not that it mattered.

  He walked around to the rear of the house, found the willow tree still there, but so much larger than before that he had to look twice. God, time passed in a blur. Easily, he leapt onto a low-hanging limb and began to climb. The smooth bark, flexible limbs, the whisper of the dangling greenery, all these were familiar. He'd planted this tree here a hundred years ago.

  As he neared the level of the master bedroom, he stopped, tipping his head to one side and opening his senses. He felt something. Not quite a scent on the air. Something else. Something. . . that stroked his nerve endings to life like a magnet moving over metal shards.

  What was that?

  He crept closer, climbing from the limb onto the railing that surrounded the balcony, his hand curling around its cool metal. Then he lowered himself down onto the balcony itself and walked closer to the closed glass doors. Sheer white curtains hung in those doors. Sheer enough that he could see through them, into the bedroom beyond.

  The woman lay sleeping in a four-poster bed.

  Her hair was the color of cinnamon, lush and long, and spread over the pillows. Her skin was creamy white, and as pale as if he had already tasted her. Naked arms rested atop the thin white sheet that he sensed was all that covered her. Her neck was long and slender. Dante licked his lips, and his desire stirred. He didn't make a habit of sampling innocent blood. He killed, yes. He could live on cold, stale blood stored in plastic bags, as some did. But he didn't really call that living. So he killed, but mostly only those who dearly needed killing. Other times, he paid for his desires to be sated. There were women who specialized in satisfying needs like his. They were discreet, and paid enough to keep them that way.

  This woman. . . she wasn't one of them. And yet he was drawn to her, pulled. He wanted her.

  He stood so close to the doors that his breath, though cool, fogged the glass. He wiped it away, looking at her, and he wished silently that she would tug the sheet away, so he could see her more fully. Know for sure if she wore anything against her skin, underneath the covers.

  Almost before the thought was complete, the woman lifted her hand to the top of the sheet and peeled it slowly away from her body. She was completely naked, as he had suspected. And for a moment all he could do was look at her and drink in her beauty. Small breasts, but soft, their tips rose-colored and plump. She was far too thin, ribs showing clearly beneath her skin. The hair between her thighs was the same burnished color as that on her head.

  He let his gaze move up her body again. Let it linger on her breasts, and he thought about tasting them, and even as he thought it, her nipples stiffened. Frowning, Dante watched with some amazement. Could she be aware of his thoughts on some level? He could exercise mind control over a weak-willed mortal, he knew that, but he would at least have to be trying. The odd stray thought shouldn't. . .

  He shifted his gaze to her face and wondered, should he happen to think about her creamy thighs parting for him, whether she would. . .

  Her legs moved apart. Dante shivered with arousal and hunger, and not a little fear. It was as he was backing away that his mind cleared, giving him the answer he should have seen right away. Suddenly he understood what he'd been sensing earlier, that prickling awareness and attraction.

  She was one of them. She was one of the Chosen.

  He backed across the balcony, reached the railing and, turning, jumped it without hesitation. On the ground, he stood, looking around him and then out to the sea, as if it held the answers. If he'd had anywhere else in the world to go, he would have gone, and gladly.

  But the sun would be up soon. And this place was the only haven he had left. He could create others, but that would take time. No, for now, he could only stay here.

  But he was going to have to avoid the woman at all costs. Never had he experienced that sort of mind link with a mortal. Never. Nor had he with others of his own kind. What the hell did this mean?

  He walked out toward the cliffs and, at the familiar spot, looked down at the stone ledge, some fifteen feet below. There was a small opening in the stone wall that backed that ledge. It was still shrouded by the vines he had planted ages ago. They sprouted around his feet where he stood and grew from the bits of soil along the cliff-face, draping downward to cover the cave's entrance like a curtain.

  He hoped the passage that ran beneath the earth all the way back to the house hadn't collapsed by now. And he hoped the rooms hidden beneath the old house hadn't disintegrated to dust after so much time.

  She was dreaming about Dante again.

  He stood over her bed, staring down at her. Just stood there. He didn't say anything, and he didn't touch her.

  She lay there, staring back at him, wishing he would do or say something. Anything. But he didn't.

  She opened her mouth to speak and found she couldn't. So instead she looked at him. It was odd that she knew his face so well, she thought idly as she perused it in her dream. It was angular, and cruel. Longish and shadowed. His jawbone was sharp, his nose narrow. The eyes set deep, and so dark that he seemed to be looking out at her from somewhere deep within. From his soul, maybe.

  He wanted to see her. Her eyes, once held by his, were locked there. And she knew what he wanted. All she wanted was to please him. She lifted a hand, peeled her covers away and lay there, completely naked and unashamed, as his dark, intense eyes burned over her. Every part of her.

  Touch me, she thought. For the love of God, just touch me.

  She blinked-
and he was gone.

  Just that suddenly.

  Awake now, Morgan lay in her bed. Her covers were on the floor, and her body was alive. But she was alone.

  God, these dreams were taking on a life of their own, weren't they? Maybe she needed to think about some sort of therapy. Not that she hadn't dreamed about him, over and over, night after night, since she had come to live here. But this time it had been different. It had been. . . real.

  She sat up slowly, ran a hand through her hair and got to her feet. She pulled on a satin robe the color of cream, walked to the glass doors and opened them, stepping out onto the balcony, inhaling the night air deeply. It tasted good.

  Then she paused and stared straight ahead.

  A man stood on the cliffs, wind buffeting him as it was buffeting her. He was staring out toward the sea, and she couldn't really see his face. And yet there was something so incredibly familiar about him. The fall of his hair. His stance. Something.

  A fist seemed to close around her stomach as clouds skittered away from the moon and, for just an instant, his face was touched by moonlight.

  "Dante. . . " She whispered his name, breathed it.

  And as if he had heard her, even though it was impossible from that distance, he turned sharply, looked right at her.

  "It can't be. . . " Morgan closed her eyes, took three openmouthed breaths as her heart hammered in her chest. "It can't be. "

  She opened her eyes again.

  The cliffs, the sea, the wind, and nothing else. No one was there. No one was there at all.