Blood Curse (4 page)

"No.” He released her arm and closed his eyes, his jaw set tightly. She saw the vein in his temple bulge before he reopened his eyes and looked at her, a strange combination of hatred and sympathy coating his gaze. “I would never kill an innocent, as I'm sure she was."

"Well, one of you bloodsuckers did. You are a vampire, aren't you?"

The side of his mouth, his too luscious not to notice mouth, turned up as he handed her backpack to her. “And you're a vampire huntress, I assume. I'd guess that you're still in training, hmm?"

"Don't mock me, you bastard,” Aria spat, instantly regretting it when his eyes blackened in anger. Her mouth went dry as she watched the muscle in his jaw clench, wondering if he would soon show her his fangs. She suddenly realized she hadn't seen any.

"You're right,” he said tightly. “I am a bastard, and you, my dear, are a pathetic vampire hunter. Take your little bag of goodies and let's get out of here before someone exits the back of that club and finds those bodies."

"I'm not going anywhere with you!"

"Yes, you are. You've already tried to outrun me, and you've seen what a waste of time and energy that was. You have no choice in the matter."

"Are you going to kill me?” she asked, hating the way her voice trembled.

"That's up to you. Let's go."

Aria thought over her options. Staying in a dark alley with a man who might or might not be a vampire wasn't exactly safe. Maybe following him would buy her the time she needed to come up with a plan.

"I know you don't trust me, but think about it,” he said, again seeming to read her mind. “Why would I save your life if I wanted you dead?"

He had a point, Aria conceded. Still, she was reluctant to move.

"I gave you back your weapons. I wouldn't do that if I intended to attack you. You play nice and I'll play nice.” He waited for a response, his eyes displaying his growing irritation as she remained silent. “Look, lady, if I wanted to kill you I would just do it. I wouldn't be standing here discussing it with you!"

Aria gave in and nodded in surrender. If he wanted to kill her, he could do it right here. And he
had
saved her life. She shifted the backpack on her shoulder and followed him out of the alley. He was right. Running from him was pointless. “Where are we going?"

"Someplace where we can talk.” He didn't glance back, and Aria found herself admiring the way his broad shoulders filled out his black shirt as she walked behind him. She mentally scolded herself as her eyes, of their own volition, traveled the length of his back. What was wrong with her? The man, or
vampire
, could very well be leading her to her own death and she was checking him out?

"What do we have to discuss?” she asked.

He stopped abruptly, nearly causing Aria to run into him, before he turned and gazed down at her. Way down. He had to be six-four at least. “How old are you?"

"Twenty-six. Why?” Aria couldn't define the look he gave her, but it made her shiver.

"Because you know my name, although we've never met, but I don't know yours.” He glared at her, the look hard and assessing. “And apparently I've been dreaming about you since you were just a baby. It's time I find out who the hell you are and what danger we pose to one another."

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Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Aria inwardly cursed as she led Rialto up the staircase leading to her third-floor apartment. When she'd set out looking for vampires she hadn't intended to bring one home with her. Not that he'd admitted to being a vampire. He had barely spoken a word to her during their walk back to the library—obviously he'd been the one she'd felt watching her when she'd left there—and once they were both seated in his black sedan he remained silent, except to ask for directions.

And here I am leading him right into my home, Aria thought as she slid her key into the lock and opened her apartment door. For all she knew, he could be a serial killer instead of a vampire. She hadn't seen any fangs; the crosses around her neck hadn't worked, and he'd killed two men without drinking their blood. Why would a vampire waste perfectly good available blood? But she had dreamed about him, and he did admit to dreaming about her. Of course, she could be going insane and he'd just seen a chance to trick a crazy woman and took it.

That would be the logical explanation but deep inside she knew they were meant to meet. Whether the reason for their meeting was good or bad she didn't know yet, but she'd dreamed of him for too long not to find out.

She started to drop her backpack to the floor but thought better of it, hoisting it more securely onto her shoulder instead. “Have a seat if you'd like,” she muttered as she strolled through the cluttered living space to get to the kitchen. “I'm thirsty. Do you want anything?” Anything but my blood, that is, she thought to herself.

"Water would be great,” Rialto answered in his rich textured voice as he stood before a painting propped on one of the many easels scattered about the room. Aria tried to ignore the shiver snaking its way down her core as the deep throaty tone of his voice seemed to reach out and caress her. Vampire or not, he was incredibly sexy.

"What a damn shame,” she whispered to herself as she checked to make sure he was out of sight, then reached into her backpack for one of the water guns.

Rialto stood before the painting, fixated by the emotion spent on each brush stroke. Through her art, he could see her. Aria. A befitting name, he mused to himself. Beautiful. Strong. Mesmerizing. She painted with vivid colors, bold strokes. Her very heart seemed to bleed right onto the canvas. He touched the painting before him, and for a moment it seemed as though he were touching her skin, feeling the teardrops which often dampened her cheeks.

He pulled his hand away, knowing it would not serve him well to let down his defenses against the beautiful stranger, and shifted his focus to studying the apartment. The building itself had seen better days, but her apartment was kept nice, even though it was cluttered. He found art everywhere he looked. Paints and brushes were strewn on tables and easels, canvases were stacked or mounted in all directions. The furniture was simple, consisting of a light blue sofa and chair and a wooden coffee table. A small dinette set occupied the far corner of the room. The decor consisted of several paintings and a few framed pictures of a couple who, he realized, were Aria's parents.

Who was she and why was he so drawn in by her art, by her pain? By those damned green eyes that seemed to pull him under a spell every time he connected with them. His dreams hadn't prepared him for meeting her. She was beautiful on levels he couldn't begin to fully comprehend. Never in nearly two centuries of existence had he been so enamored by a female face, a soul. She must be some sort of powerful witch, he mused, for never had a woman frightened him so badly either.

"Here you go."

Rialto nearly jumped, so lost in thought he hadn't heard her approach, a sloppy mistake which could easily get him killed. He had no doubt the woman was a danger to him. Beauty be damned, she was the enemy.

He turned to see her standing before him, a glass of water held out in a trembling hand, her other hand tightly fisted around a silver knife.

"What are you planning to do with that?” he asked with a pointed glance at the knife before taking the glass from her, careful their fingers didn't touch. He had the strangest feeling doing so could burn them both.

"That all depends on you. Don't think for one second that I trust you."

"Likewise,” he responded, struggling not to grin. The woman had guts, he admitted, even though it was that same foolish bravado which would most likely end up getting her killed. And according to the old witch in his dreams, her death would cause his own.

Aria wiped a sweaty palm along her pant leg as she watched Rialto sip from the glass, the action drawing her attention to the long, tanned column of his throat. She'd never realized that watching a man drink water could be so sensual.
Drinking holy water
, she reminded herself, waiting for him to disintegrate. He didn't.

"Thank you, Aria.” He placed the glass on the table and turned to survey her apartment.

Aria didn't know which bothered her more: The fact that the holy water had done nothing to him, him being in her apartment, or that she couldn't take her eyes off him. Snatches of dreams played through her mind, despite her efforts to shove them away. She shouldn't be visualizing him naked, not when she knew deep down what he truly was. As crazy as it seemed, she knew deep in her core that the man she'd been dreaming about, the man standing in her apartment, wasn't a man at all. He was a monster, a killer. Even if he had saved her life and was unaffected by the holy water, she couldn't allow herself to forget what he was.

"You are an incredible artist,” Rialto commented as he walked through the room, studying each canvas. “I can feel your pain through your work."

Aria rolled her eyes, earning an arched eyebrow and a smug grin from him.

"You don't believe me?"

"I find that men make comments like that only in an effort to try and con me into bed,” Aria answered candidly, a little surprised a man blessed with his physical attributes would resort to a line at all. Then again, maybe he was doing some sort of Jedi mind trick, making himself appear drop-dead gorgeous to her.

His grin widened as he stopped before an easel and gestured toward the painting perched on it. “The dark colors . . . the purples . . . the blacks . . . are your anger and hatred. The bold strokes of crimson are your vengeance, your lust to see justice rendered. And this small line of bluish white which seems to be encircling the darkness is the goodness that still remains, holding your dark desires in check."

Aria's mouth fell open as he described exactly what she'd felt while painting the piece.

"And for the record,” he said as he stepped closer to her, “I wouldn't have to resort to false flattery to get you into bed."

Any response Aria would have made was cut short as he pointed to a canvas sitting against the wall. “That one represents your father's death, the one next to it represents those who made fun of you during your childhood.” His gaze fell back to the painting on the easel. “This is all about the person who killed your mother and the way it's tearing you to pieces inside, bringing out your own darkness."

"The
vampire
who killed my mother,” Aria corrected him, “and how do you know all this?” She crossed her arms over her breasts, suddenly feeling naked and vulnerable.

"I saw these things."

"You saw them? How?"

"In my dreams. I have dreamed of you for years, but recently . . ."

"Recently, what?” Aria fought to control her body before she succumbed to a fit of shivers. She didn't want him to see her shaken. He had to be manipulating her somehow.

"I've dreamed of you since you were just a baby. At that time my dreams were mostly just that. A baby crying. As you grew I caught glimpses. Then for the past several years, I only saw your adult face. These last ten years I've had more graphic dreams of you, but now I also dream in flashbacks. I see what hurts you."

"Just what is it you see?” she asked cautiously.

"I saw your father being removed from his house after he was murdered. I saw you being ridiculed by your childhood peers, degraded by your first lover, and I saw your mother in the morgue."

Aria winced as the images appeared before her. She was pained by the memories and furious that someone she didn't even know had access to her own private hell. “How
dare
you."

"It is not of my choice,” he answered coolly. “I just close my eyes and there you are. You've been doing the same thing, correct?"

"I don't violate your privacy by dreaming about your personal business! I only dream that . . .” Aria broke off abruptly, turning her face to hide the flow of color she felt rising there.

Obviously, he didn't suffer the same embarrassment. “I come to you at night while you lay in your bed, and we make love."

"Yes.” Aria squared her shoulders and forced herself to look him in the eye, willing herself not to get lost in their black depths. “But it's just a dream, not a fantasy, and definitely not a premonition."

"Good."

The clipped manner in which he spoke raised Aria's hackles. If her dreams were any indication, he'd give anything to bed her. Wait. What was she thinking? The man was a vampire, and she was irked because he didn't want to make love to her?
Get a grip, girl.
“That's right. Your loss. So what do you want from me?"

He looked at her, appearing to study her , then he walked over to the table and picked up the glass of holy water, draining the last of its contents before slamming the glass back down on the table.

"What is it you're not telling me?” Aria asked, getting as close to him as she dared. “Besides the fact that you're a vampire. I know you are, even if it seems insane."

"Yes, I drink blood.” He slowly turned his head to meet her gaze, igniting both a fear and a hunger inside her. Her limbs began to tremble. “I was born a little over two centuries ago and I have yet to die. In that sense, I am a vampire. I don't wear a cape and I never rose from the grave. Crosses and garlic have no effect on me, nor does the holy water I suspect you poured into my glass, but I guess you figured that much out when I didn't explode."

Aria could feel her cheeks redden under his mocking gaze. “Well, you can't blame a girl for trying to defend herself,” she said, self-consciously rubbing her neck.

"I suppose not,” Rialto said dryly as he used his index finger to tip her chin up, leaning in uncomfortably close. “However, movie and storybook nonsense will get you nowhere."

"Some of it must work,” Aria managed to say despite the fact that her terrified, quivering little heart was lodged in her throat. “What if I rammed a stake through your heart?"

"I'd break your pretty little neck before you could get it in deep enough. Same as I would if you cut me with that little knife of yours."

"Go to hell."