Embrace the Night

Page 8



fiery death, as he feared nothing else.

Those early days had been filled with confusion and frustration. The lust for blood had filled him with self-loathing, yet he had been unable to resist the urge to drink, and drink, and drink, until he was sated with it. His hearing, sharpened to a new awareness, was bombarded with noise. The sound of thunder was deafening. Only with long practice did he learn to shut out the thoughts of others, to regain a sense of inner quiet. His eyesight was nothing short of miraculous; his strength was that of twenty men. Like a child with a new toy, he had tested the limits of his powers, his endurance. And in the testing, he had heedlessly brought pain and death to those helpless mortals who had unwittingly crossed his path.

Filled with loneliness, cut off from mankind, he had leftItaly and wandered through the world, searching for a safe haven,anew place to call home. Gradually, he had learned to control the blood lust. He had learned it wasn't necessary to drain his prey, or take so much that life was lost. He had learned to hypnotize a victim to his side, take only enough to appease his need, and leave, with the victim never realizing what had been done. And still there were times when the urge to feed was overwhelming, when even his considerable willpower wasn't enough to keep him from taking a life.

It was not an easy burden to bear, knowing he must exist on the life's blood of others or perish, knowing he was hated and feared by all mankind.

Some accepted the Dark Gift and reveled in it, as he had. Others went mad.

He slumped down in the chair, shrouded in darkness and in his own bleak thoughts. For centuries he had prowled the earth, inflicting havoc on humanity, exulting in his immortality, content to wander aimlessly, caring for no one, letting no one care for him, until the loneliness became more than he could bear. He had accepted what he was by then, had learned to control the lust for blood, and so he had sought a mate, searched the world from end to end looking for that one woman who would see past the monster he had become to the man he had once been.

He'd had no trouble finding women. He needed no mirror to remind him that he was a virile male in his prime. His hair was long and straight, as black as his soul; his eyes were as gray as the morning mist that rose from the river. His face was pleasant enough, his lips full and sensuous; his nose, while slightly crooked, was not offensive.

He'd had women. Countless women. Beautiful women. Highborn or low, they had come to him gladly, showering him with their affection, until they discovered what he was. Some turned away in disgust, some in horror. One had fallen to her death…

He swore a vile oath at the memory. He had loved Rosalia with all the passion of youth, and she had died because of him. There had been times since then when he had grown heartily sick of the monster he'd become, times when death had beckoned sweetly.

Thirteen years ago had been such a time. He had been on the brink of destroying himself, of walking out into the sunlight to feel the sun on his face before it destroyed him. That had been the night he had seen Sara for the first time, a small, golden-haired girl huddled in the corner of an empty room.

She had been crying softly, as if she were afraid of disturbing the quiet of the night, and the sound, so filled with sorrow, had drawn him out of his own misery. The sound of her tears had led him to an elegant manor house.

She had stopped crying the instant he picked her up, staring at him through bright blue eyes filled with