Immortal Sins (4 page)

With a shake of her head, she leaned against him, content to sit there in the moonlight with the wind blowing softly on her face. The breeze rustled the leaves of the trees and made gentle ripples on the surface of the water. She laughed softly as the dog splashed along the shore, threw up her hands when it bounded toward them and then stopped abruptly to shake the water from its fur.

She looked at the man beside her, thinking how handsome he was, and suddenly she was lying on her back on the grass, his body covering hers, his kiss gently driving all other thoughts from her mind.

With a sigh, she closed her eyes and surrendered to the magic of his touch, the exquisite taste of his kisses. A part of her knew it was only a dream, yet it felt more real than the world she had left behind. Perhaps
this
was reality and everything else was a dream. She wished fleetingly that she could stay here, with him, forever.

She gazed into his eyes, trying to find a way to ask if there was some way she could stay with him when, suddenly, she was sitting at the castle window, alone, seeing what he saw, hearing what he heard, feeling what he felt. What he felt…her whole being was consumed with rage and frustration at being trapped inside a stagnant world where outside sounds were muted and the view of the universe was limited to wherever the painting was located at the time. And overall, a never-ending, all-consuming hunger unlike anything she had ever experienced. She felt it in every fiber and cell of her being, a pain far worse than anything she had ever known, an agony so great she knew it would consume her, body and soul, if she couldn’t escape.

Fear rose up within her, hot and swift. She had to get out, had to get away before it was too late. She was smothering, unable to breathe, unable to move.

She woke with a start, wept tears of relief to find herself in her own bed, in her own house.

He was in her thoughts all the next day at work, whether she was talking on the phone with a client, adding the final touches to a presentation, or sending a fax. What did it say about her life that her dreams were more exciting than her reality?

She went to lunch with several of her coworkers but she was scarcely aware of the conversation around her. All she could think about was him and how wonderful it would be if he were made of flesh and blood, muscle and sinew, instead of paint and canvas.

She hurried home after work, eager to see where he would be. For some inexplicable reason, it no longer seemed odd that he should flit from place to place. It was simply the way it was. She had made a game of it on her way home from work, trying to guess if she would find him walking in the forest or sitting in the castle window or reclining near the water. She no longer wondered if she was crazy; she just accepted that she was. Not stark raving mad. Not a raving lunatic. Just a little bit insane.

At home, she put on her favorite soft-rock station, changed out of her work clothes and into a pair of comfy blue jeans and a sweater. She ate a quick dinner, then went into the living room and plopped down onto the sofa.

As always, her gaze was drawn to the man in the painting. Tonight he was riding the horse, or at least sitting on it.

She was about to get up and turn off the radio and turn on the TV when he dismounted and walked toward the glass.

Toward her.

Kari let out a startled gasp. She knew he changed locations but never before had she actually seen him move.

Mesmerized, she watched him stride toward her, his movements lithe, almost catlike. He wore the cloak tonight; it billowed out behind him, almost as if it had a life of its own. She was tempted to run out of the room, but she couldn’t move, couldn’t stop watching him as he drew ever closer.

He was stopped by the glass, of course. For a moment, he simply looked at her, and then he smiled that smile that was somehow warm and wistful at the same time.

Hardly aware that she was speaking aloud, she murmured, “You’re so handsome. I wish I knew your name. But then, you probably don’t have one, do you?”

With a shake of her head, she went into the kitchen to get a drink of water. She stood at the sink a moment, staring out the window into the darkness beyond. She hated winter, the long nights, the storms with their ominous rumblings of thunder and dagger-like streaks of lightning.

After putting the glass in the sink, she went back into the living room. It was almost ten. Maybe she would just watch the news and go to bed.

But all thought of world events evaporated when she glanced at the painting. There was another white square stuck to the glass.

This one said,
Rourke.

Kari repeated his name in her mind, wondering if it was his first name or his last, and then murmured it out loud. “Rourke.”

It was a strong name, a very masculine name, and it suited him perfectly. She said it again and then again, liking the sound of it.

“Rourke.” She gazed into his eyes, eyes that no longer looked painted. Eyes that followed every movement she made. “I’m Karinna.”

He smiled, as if in acknowledgment.

His smile moved through her, warming her blood, filling her with a slow sensual heat. His gaze rested lightly on her face, lingered on her lips. Almost, it seemed she could feel the pressure of his mouth on hers. For a moment, she closed her eyes remembering her dreams, the hard length of his body aligned with hers, the touch of his lips, the taste of his kisses.

She hadn’t had a date since she broke up with Ben almost five months ago. She hadn’t missed him at all. In fact, she had been quite content with her own company, until now. Now, she wanted to feel a man’s arms around her, to feel his body pressed intimately against her own, to taste his kisses. Only it wasn’t Ben she wanted. It was Rourke, the man in the painting.

“Merciful heavens, Karinna Abigail Adams, you’re pathetic!” she exclaimed. And after turning off the lights, she ran up the stairs to her room, and went to bed.

Once again, Rourke found himself staring after the woman. Karinna. He liked the sound of her name, the curve of her hips, the way her eyes caressed him. He wanted to hold her, touch her, taste her…. He wanted to drag her into his arms, bury his fangs in her throat, and ease the relentless pain that engulfed him with every waking moment. It was a good thing she was beyond his reach. If he ever escaped his canvas prison, the first mortal he encountered probably wouldn’t survive.

He slammed his palm against the glass that imprisoned him. He wanted out! And only Karinna, with hair like ebony silk and eyes as blue as a summer sky, could say the words that would set him free.

Hands clenched at his sides, he took a deep, calming breath. Soon, he thought, soon she would call to him, and when she did, the wizard’s spell would be broken.

And he would have her.

All of her.

For Kari, the next four days passed in a kind of haze. Feeling like a character out of
Charlotte’s Web
, or maybe
The Twilight Zone
, she woke each day to find a new message waiting for her. These messages, longer than the first, were written directly on the glass.

The one for Wednesday read,
Your hair is as black as a raven’s wing.
As if in answer to her earlier question, one she had not voiced aloud, he had signed his name.
Jason Rourke.

“Jason,” she murmured, smiling. “I like it.”

Thursday’s message read,
You are more beautiful than Venus and Aphrodite. JR

Friday’s missive made her blush. It said,
I wish I was the cup you drink from that I might feel your lips on mine. JR

She marveled that he was able to write the messages so that she could read them from her side of the painting.

Saturday’s declaration was the most appealing of all. It said, simply,
You are my life. Rourke
.

He was waiting for her near the glass that night, a strikingly handsome man clad in a white shirt and buff-colored breeches, his fair hair framing a face that was the epitome of masculine beauty. She read his message a second time—
you are my life
—then murmured, “As you’ve become mine.”

She was losing it, she thought with a sigh. She had dismissed all thought of selling the Vilnius. Like it or not, she was obsessed with the painting and with its mysterious occupant, Jason Rourke.

“I wish…” She shook her head. “I wish…”

What did she wish? That she had never gone into the Underwood Art Gallery? That she wasn’t losing her mind? That he was real instead of just paint and canvas?

“Just my luck,” Kari muttered. “There’s never a genie around when you need one.”

He placed one hand on the glass, his gaze intent upon her face.
“Tell me, Karinna, what would you wish for?”
His voice, speaking in her mind.

“I would wish that you were real, that you were standing here, beside me.” She nodded. “Yes, that’s what I would wish for.”

The words had no sooner escaped Kari’s lips than the earth seemed to shift beneath her feet. The air around her took on a kind of thickness and it was suddenly hard to breathe. Her pulse raced, there was a dull roaring in her ears. When the world righted itself again, she saw that the Vilnius had fallen off the wall and shattered on the hearth. Shards of glass littered the carpet, glinting brightly. And a tall man with long, dark blond hair and mesmerizing blue eyes stood in front of the fireplace. A man clad in an old-fashioned, loose-fitting white shirt, buff-colored breeches, and boots. A black cloak fell from a pair of broad shoulders.

It was him. The man in the painting.

She shook her head. No, it couldn’t be, it was impossible.

“Rourke.” She whispered his name and then the world spun out of control. The floor rushed up to meet her, and then everything went black.

Darting forward, Jason Rourke caught the woman in his arms. Her scent flooded his nostrils. The silk of her hair caressed his hands. The feel of her body against his reminded him, almost painfully, that he had not had a woman in three hundred years.

But it wasn’t the hunger of the flesh that burned through him. It was the almost overpowering scent of the warm crimson tide flowing sweetly through her veins, the tantalizing beat of her heart. He groaned softly as his fangs brushed his tongue. He looked at the woman, his body cold and aching with need; looked at the pulse beating slow and steady in the hollow of her throat and saw an end to the pain that had plagued him for centuries.

Lowering his head to her neck, he swept his tongue across her silken skin and then, with a low growl, he closed his eyes, sank his fangs into her throat, and forgot everything but the primal urge to feed, to slake his hellish thirst, to ease the pain that had tormented him for so long. The warmth of her life’s blood burned through him, turning away the chill, the emptiness, of three hundred years.

Lost in the ecstasy of the moment, he might have taken it all if she hadn’t moaned softly. Lifting his head, he gazed into her eyes, deep blue eyes wide with terror and disbelief.

With a hoarse cry of fear, Kari twisted out of his embrace. Had she been able, she would have run out of the room and out of the house, but she lacked the strength to do so. With a sob, she staggered backward a few feet, then collapsed onto the sofa.

She looked up at him, her expression one of fear, hopelessness, and distrust.

Rourke stood over her, his hands clenched as he fought down the hunger that still raged through him. It would take more than the life’s blood of one mortal female to satisfy his rampant hunger.

Even so, the heat of her blood sang through his veins, and with it came a renewal of his preternatural power. Colors increased in brightness and depth, his nostrils filled with a thousand scents, most of which were alien to him. He heard the harsh rasp of the woman’s breathing, the erratic beating of her heart, the ticking of a clock somewhere upstairs, the drip of water. And mingled with those mundane sounds were others he could not identify.

It had been in his mind to drain the woman dry, but he realized now that he might have need of her. The world had changed since the wizard had cursed him. During his imprisonment in the painting, Rourke had seen but little of the new world, and much of what he had seen made no sense. She could explain it to him. And then there was the fact that he owed the woman a life debt for setting him free. What kind of monster had he become, that he could even think of repaying her kindness with treachery?

Catching the woman’s gaze with his own, he willed her to go to sleep, and then, filled with the exhilaration of freedom and the burning thirst of three hundred years, he opened the door and stepped out into the night.

He paused in the darkness, hidden in the shadows, his senses expanding as his power surged up within him like lava erupting from a long-dormant volcano.

A myriad of sights and sounds and smells pummeled his senses from all sides. He drew them in, sorting those he knew from those that were foreign to him. One scent overpowered all the others. The smell of prey, nearby.

Becoming one with the night, he followed the scent. It led him to a group of five boys gathered in an alley. Music blared from a black box.

Rourke watched them for several moments before they grew aware of his presence. They were an odd-looking bunch, with their baggy trousers, sleeveless shirts, and heavy boots. One had hair that resembled a rooster’s tail; another had no hair at all; a third wore his hair in an unremarkable style save that it was bright green.

Rourke grunted softly. A veritable feast, his for the taking.

The boy with green hair noticed him first. “Hey, man,” he exclaimed, “what do you want?”

Rourke smiled, displaying his fangs. “You.”

The boy stared at him. “What the hell are you talking about, man?” Reaching behind his back, he produced a knife. “This is our turf, you freak. Get the hell out of here.”

Focusing his energy on the blade, Rourke plucked it from the boy’s hand and flung it into the street.

Perhaps thinking there was safety in numbers, the other four thugs moved closer together, their eyes narrowed. He could smell the stink of fear that rose from them with the realization that they were facing something completely beyond their ken.

“Who are you?” Green Hair asked, his voice little more than a whisper.

Rourke didn’t bother to answer. He looked at each boy in turn, his mind holding each of theirs captive as he moved among them. Young blood, was there anything in all the world like it?

He was tempted to drain them dry, all of them. There was nothing to equal the rush of drinking a mortal dry, the preternatural strength that came with it, the all-encompassing sense of euphoria. But it was never wise to leave a trail of bodies behind and tonight he didn’t want to be bothered with disposing of his kills.

He drank from them all, drank until he was drunk with the taste and the smell and the power. He could feel it flooding his being, singing through his veins, sharpening powers that had lain dormant for too long.

Releasing the mortals from his thrall, he vanished from their sight. The moon he had not seen in centuries called to him and he ran effortlessly in its light, his muscles stretching after their long confinement. He ran for miles, reveling in the touch of the wind on his face, in his hair, the feel of the earth beneath his feet, thrilling to the supernatural power and strength that surged like a living, breathing thing within him. And as his strength grew, so did his hatred for the wizard who had imprisoned him and stolen so many decades of his existence.

The wizard, Vilnius. Did he still live? And what of his daughter, Ana Luisa? Was she still ensnared inside a painting, as well, or had her father taken pity on her and released her years ago? Trapped in a prison of his own, Rourke had vowed to destroy Vilnius for what he had done. It had been the thought of avenging himself on the wizard that had kept him sane during the long centuries of his imprisonment. In his mind, he had killed the wizard over and over again, each death more diabolically cruel, more lingering, than the last.

He swore softly. Finding the wizard. That could prove difficult, if not impossible, after so many years. But if the wizard still lived, Rourke would find him. One way or another, he would find him. The thought of vengeance would only grow sweeter with the passage of days. In the meantime, he would acclimate himself to this new century, this new world.

With that thought in mind, he strolled down the street, noting that houses had changed in both style and architecture since he had been born over seven hundred years ago. Cars had replaced the horse. Walking along, he found that he preferred the pungent smell of horse manure to the stink of oil and gasoline. Fashions, too, had undergone a drastic change. In his day, women had covered themselves from head to foot and often worn hats with veils. The women of today bared it all, apparently without thought for modesty or shame. Fashions for men had also undergone a radical transformation. He observed the flamboyant shirts, baggy pants, casual footwear, and shook his head.

He walked through the darkness for hours, savoring his freedom. He fed again, and yet again, until he could hold no more, until every fiber and particle of his being was replete. Sated, he made his way back to the woman’s house.

The woman. Karinna. What was he going to do about the woman?

He stood in the shadows outside her house for a moment, enjoying the quiet of a night that would soon be over.

He was still undecided about her fate when he went inside. Standing in front of the sofa, he gazed down at her. She was quite lovely, with hair the color of ebony and skin kissed by the sun. Her scent drifted to him, reminding him again that he had not had a woman in three hundred years. An eternity to a man who was sensual by nature, one who had the power to seduce a woman with a look, a word, a touch.

He should destroy her. No mortal lived who knew what he was. He could do it now, quickly and cleanly, while she slept. Yet even as he contemplated ending her life, he knew he would not. She had broken the wizard’s enchantment, and for that reason alone, he would allow her to live.

And yet it wasn’t the only reason. How could he think of destroying such a lovely creature? He had known queens and highborn ladies, trollops and scullery maids, but he had never known a woman who was lovelier, or more tempting. Her skin was smooth, warm when he stroked her cheek. Her lips were soft, like the petals of a blood rose. Her figure was slender, petite and perfect. Her hair fell over her shoulders like a waterfall of rich black silk. Unable to resist, he ran his fingers through the thick strands.

“Karinna.” He murmured her name, thinking it suited her perfectly. “Ah, Karinna, what am I to do with you?”

He couldn’t bring himself to kill her.

He had no desire to leave her.

And no time to worry about it, not now, when he needed to find a place to hide from the sun.

He glanced at the painting visible beneath shards of broken glass. There was one thing he needed to do before he sought his rest.

It was with a great deal of satisfaction that he ripped the hated canvas to shreds.

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