Embrace the Night

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A wave of unease overtook him as he came to a flight of steps that led down, to the wine cellar, he supposed.

A fine sheen of perspiration coated his brow and dampened his hands as he took the steps one by one until he reached the door at the foot of the stairs.

He wiped his palm on his trouser leg, placed his hand on the latch. Instantly, he was overcome with a deep, primeval fear that went beyond terrorasan image of blood-red eyes shining within a cavernous skull rose within his mind. And with that death's-head image came an overwhelming sense of doom.

It was more than he could endure. With a hoarse cry, he bolted up the steps. The cold sweat of fear momentarily blinded him, and then he was running through the small cottage, diving through the broken window, impervious to the blood that oozed from his hand when he gashed it on a shard of broken glass.

As if pursued by all the hounds of hell, he vaulted into the saddle and raced away from the cottage and the terrifying evil that dwelled within.

The scent of blood, hot and fresh and rank with fear, drifted down the stairs that led to the cellar, rousing Gabriel from the lethargy that imprisoned him.

He sat up, his senses suddenly alert. Lifting his head, he sniffed the air, much as a wolf might sniff the wind, and he caught it again, the tantalizing odor of freshly spilled blood.

Someone had been inside the cottage.

Head cocked to one side, he closed his eyes and listened. And waited.

But the danger was past. Whoever had invaded his sanctuary had fled, leaving nothing behind but a few drops of blood and the lingering smell of fear.

He would have to find a new resting place, he mused as he slowly surrendered once more to the darkness of his deathlike sleep. Either that, or destroy the mortal who had dared violate his lair.

A faint smile twisted his lips. For Sara's sake, he would spare Maurice's life. For now.
Chapter Sixteen

"What is it, Maurice?" Sara asked. "You look as if you've seen a ghost."

"Sara Jayne…" He stumbled into her apartment, the fear that had choked him at the cottage still strong.
"What have you done to your hand?" she asked.

Maurice glanced at his hand. The neckerchief he had wrapped around the cut was soaked with blood.

"It's nothing," he muttered, too agitated by what had happened in the cottage to be concerned about his injury. "Saints above, Sara Jayne, he's a monster!"

Exasperated, she closed the door, then drew her dressing gown more tightly around her. "Haven't you given up that absurd notion yet? Is that why you got me out of bed at this hour of the morning? To tell me