In the Dark (34 page)

Damian shrugged. “I was in somewhat of a hurry,” he said, as he unlocked the cuffs on Conrad's wrists, catching him when he would have fallen and easing him to the ground.

As Conrad began to feed, Damian sagged against the wall, exhausted. He untied his hair and used the scarf to mop the blood on his neck, wincing a little as the cloth came in contact with his newly burned flesh.
Another scar
, he thought, almost too weary to care.
Fabulous. How very
déclassé I'm becoming.

The sound of footsteps approaching brought him back to his feet in a hurry, muscles tensing as Julie and Marc appeared in the chamber's doorway. Two sets of eyes searched out his face immediately. Marc's were bleak, frightened but without the savage gleam they'd held earlier. Julie's showed only concern as her gaze focused on his neck. “You're bleeding? Damian, what happened?”

Damian shook his head. “It's nothing,
chica
. Just a scratch.”

At the sound of Julie's voice, Conrad glanced up. His face darkened instantly. “What are you two doing here?” he demanded in a reasonable facsimile of his usual dictatorial tone. Damian smirked—amusement warring with exasperation—as Conrad rose to his feet and took one shaky step in his direction. “Damian? You did this? You brought them
here
?”

“Oh, good,” Damian drawled. “You're feeling more like yourself.”

“Have you no sense at all?” Conrad demanded right before his legs gave out.

Damian leaped forward to catch him. Lifting him onto his shoulder, he turned toward the doorway.

“You shouldn't have done it,” Conrad murmured weakly. “You take too many risks, damn it.”

Damian nodded. “
Si
. So you've said. But, let's get you home now. You can bite my head off about that later.”

 

“Wait!” Julie blurted, pointing toward the body Conrad had been feeding from. “Wh-what are we gonna do about him?”

Damian's gaze held little interest as he glanced back toward the cell he'd just exited. “Burn it,” he said as he turned again and disappeared up the tunnel. “It's the quickest way.”

It?
Julie shrank back against the wall. “It” had been a person, once. Less than an hour ago, in fact. They couldn't burn people—even dead ones. Could they?

“Give me those.” Marc grabbed the matches from her hand and strode into the cell. He upended the container of gasoline over Vincent's body then tossed the container aside and struck a match.

“It's not working,” Julie moaned, feeling alternately relieved and dismayed by how slowly Vincent's damp clothes seemed to smolder, even despite the gasoline. “What'll we do now, Marc? We're in so much trouble.”

“It'll work,” Marc insisted, hovering dangerously close to the smoking ruin. “Give it a chance. He's a vampire. Remember? He'll burn.”

“How do you know?” Julie asked wildly. “Maybe it's just another myth—like garlic and holy water.”

“So what? People burn too, don't they?” Marc asked wearily. “Either way, we're good.”

The next instant proved his point. Julie jumped in alarm as the vampire went up in one brief, sudden burst of white flame. The force of the explosion pushed Marc back against the cell's bars and left him gasping for air, wiping furiously at his face.

“W-wow.” Julie stared wide-eyed at the spot where Vincent's body had lain. There was nothing left now but a scorch mark on the rocky floor. “Di-did you
see
that? That was…was…”

“Yeah,” Marc sighed, still coughing, as he gathered up the rest of their things. “I saw.” Taking her roughly by the arm, he propelled her into the tunnel once again. “Now, come on. It's over. Let's get the hell out of here.”

Chapter Eighteen

Friday, February 28th, 1969

Suzanne had ample time to think during the three days she lay in Conrad's bed, not quite asleep, not quite awake, aware of all the changes occurring within her body. Three days to think, to ponder, to mourn, to grieve, to rage against her fate.

It was so unfair that this should be happening. She hadn't wanted children. She had
never
wanted children. Her own childhood had been so completely joyless she could not imagine ever wanting to visit such a horror on someone else.

Her father had left home when she was four. It was her fault he left, her mother made sure she knew that was the case. Suzanne's only memory of him was his voice, raised in anger, yelling at someone. Her mother, she supposed.

Maybe it wasn't even him, she was remembering? Her mother ran through a string of lovers after he left, perhaps, it was one of them.

His voice, so loud in the night, even with a wall between them, Suzanne could not help hearing. It startled her out of sleep. It made her cry.

No, she was sure she was not mistaken. It had to have been her father's voice. For hadn't her mother always said that's why he left—because he couldn't stand her constant crying?

“Four years old—you weren't even a baby anymore. What did you have to cry about?”

When she was nine, Suzanne lost her mother, as well—to marriage. Suzanne had no trouble at all remembering her stepfather. She remembered his hot breath on her neck, his clumsy hands fumbling with her nightgown. She remembered the secrecy, the shame, the big black car that had come to take her away after she'd finally told her teacher what was happening.

For the next six years, her life was spent in motion, from foster home to foster home, until she'd finally had enough. Her new foster father made her skin crawl. It was something in his gaze, something far too similar to the way her stepfather used to look at her. If that was the way it was going to be, Suzanne was sure as hell not going to stick around and wait for it. If anyone was
ever
going to touch her like that again, it would be on her terms.

She packed her bag while the rest of the family slept, stole the grocery money on her way out the door and left. She was on the run for two years before she ran out of road and fetched up against the Pacific Ocean. Shortly after that, she finally found herself in the arms of the first person to ever make her feel that she'd come home.

And now, she was going to have to leave him. Again.

Her heart ached at the unfairness of it all, but what choice did she have? He'd made it clear he wouldn't allow her to stay human now. He'd force her to feed—hadn't he said as much? He'd force her to change, force her to follow in her mother's footsteps and betray her own children.

As much as she loved him, she just couldn't let that happen.

 

The sun was setting when Suzanne finally woke up. She lay still for a moment, experimenting, wiggling her fingers and toes, tensing each of her muscles in turn. Yes. All working. Good.

It took her several minutes to ease out of bed. Conrad was asleep beside her, his body curled protectively around hers, with one big hand resting possessively on her hip, the other tangled up in her hair. She had to move slowly and carefully to keep from waking him.

And every move she made felt like a betrayal.

She dressed quickly, grateful to whoever had left her clothes, washed and folded, at the end of the bed. She wasn't sure what she would have done otherwise. It was still raining, however, so maybe no one would have even noticed if she'd dressed like a tramp in clothes pulled from Conrad's closet.

Carrying her shoes, she crept soundlessly to the door wishing she could stay for one last kiss. One last word. One last smile, at least. But she knew she couldn't risk it.

Already, there was a gnawing emptiness inside her. Unconnected to her stomach, it seemed to burn in her blood. She knew what it would take to satisfy it, and she knew that if she stayed for even half a day longer, she would be lost. She would never be able to resist the urge to feed her hunger, not if she stayed here.

She ran her tongue experimentally across the roof of her mouth where, during her long hours of rest, she'd felt the swelling, aching, tenderness blooming. She knew what mysteries the little buds her tongue explored must hold and she felt a sweet thrill of pride run through her as she thought of what she'd become…

No. Make that what she'd
almost
become. Deep inside, the tiny twin drumbeats of doom continued, constant reminders that her fate was set. She could not continue down the road she'd started on, no matter how desperately she might want to.

She hesitated in the doorway, turning back for one final look. Conrad lay sprawled on the bed, still sleeping. Beautiful. God-like. Lost to her.
Forgive me
, she thought, not even daring to whisper the words out loud, for fear he'd hear her and awaken.
I love you. I'll always love you. Don't forget me.

 

This was the time of day Armand loved most. No longer fully day but not quite night, when all the world outside the nest was slowing down and everyone inside had yet to wake. The world was his. The night was his. The gym awaited.

While he dressed in his workout clothes, he listened to the silence, drank in the peace, enjoyed the stillness…but, wait…something was different tonight. Something was not quite right.

The sound of someone moving stealthily down the stairs caught his ears. He listened harder, heard footsteps crossing the foyer headed for the salon. When the faint noises became the sound of someone systematically rifling through his desk, he knew they could no longer be ignored.

“What are you doing,
chérie
?” he asked, surprising the girl in the act of taking money from the box that held the household cash.

“Conrad said I could take some money,” she answered, nearly dropping the shoes she carried, hugged to her chest. “I didn't think you were awake yet and I didn't want to bother anyone. So, is it okay?”

“
Bien sur
.” Armand shrugged. “Of course. Whatever Conrad wishes. Is he still in bed then?”

She nodded, one-handedly shoving the bills into her pocket and replacing the box in the drawer. “Yes, he is, and he doesn't want to be disturbed yet. So let him sleep, okay?”

“
Tres bien
.” It was good to have her back but there was something different about the girl. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on, although he felt, somehow, as though he should recognize it for what it was. Curious, he sniffed the air. It told him nothing. She smelled very strongly of Conrad, but that was only to be expected.

“I haven't seen you since the night you arrived,” he said as he followed her into the hall. “You haven't been sick, have you? Is everything all right?”

“Why wouldn't it be?” she asked, her voice subdued.

“I don't know.” He shrugged again. “You seem…different this morning.”

A strange sound broke from her lips. “I'm not different,” she mumbled, reaching for the doorknob. “I'll never be different.”

Startled by the realization she was crying, Armand placed his palm flat on the door and held it shut. “Wait a minute. What's wrong?”

She stared at him, her face tear-stained, stricken eyes pleading with him. “Let me go, Armand, please.”

“I will. As soon as you tell me what— Wait, you're
leaving
again, aren't you? You're not just going out for the day, you're going away.”

“I have to. I have no choice now.”

Armand shook his head at her. “No. You can't. Look, whatever it is…he cares for you. You must know that? He never takes anyone back, but you… He made an exception for you once. If you leave again, you can't expect him to do so a second time. If you walk out now, you can never come back. You must know that, don't you?”

Yes, she did. He could see it in her eyes.

“I have no choice,” she said again, glancing nervously toward the stairs, starting to tremble. “I really have no choice.”

“
Ah, mon Dieu
,” Armand whispered, shocked by a second realization. The money. She was stealing the money. “But why are you doing this? You know he'd give you whatever you asked for! Let me talk to him for you. If there's something you need…let me help you.”

“No!” Eyes wide with fright, the girl backed away from him. A shaky hand held to her mouth, she mumbled, “Please, Armand. Please don't stop me. I
have
to go. I have to go
now
.”

What could possibly be frightening her so badly? It was not the fact that they were vampires. She'd obviously overcome her prejudice against them, or she wouldn't have come back. And she had to know Conrad would never hurt her…

Or would he?

Images from last December arose in Armand's mind; images of a young vampire, his face torn open in the wake of Conrad's assault, bleeding in a way no vampire should…

Armand shuddered. He didn't believe Conrad would ever attack the girl in so brutal a fashion, but clearly something had occurred to frighten her and…what if he was wrong about Conrad?

If he forced the girl to stay and Conrad lost control again, if he hurt the girl, it would be Armand's fault. Could he live with himself if he let that happen?

No. He couldn't allow it. That would change everything—the way he felt about Conrad, the way he felt about himself. Such an occurrence would throw Armand's entire life and all the choices he'd made into question. That would be unbearable. That would be worse than almost anything else he could imagine, even worse than losing her.

He'd already lost her anyway, hadn't he?

He took a deep breath and stepped back, away from the door. “Stay well,
chérie
. We'll miss you.”

Eyes widening in relief, she leaned in fast and kissed him. Armand blinked in surprise.
Wait. Something's off here. Something's definitely different…but what?

Flashing a last, grateful, close-lipped smile, the girl pulled the door open and stepped outside, disappearing into the night even as Armand, still puzzled, closed the door behind her.
What is it? What am I missing? What…