Night's Master (8 page)

After leaving Kathy’s house, Rafe returned to the woods. The smell of blood and violent death hung heavy in the air.

He stared at the Werewolf’s body. Whoever had attacked the Were had caught him in the midst of the change, when he was the most vulnerable. They had attacked him and drained him until there was little blood left in his veins, then ripped out his liver and his intestines, condemning him to die a slow, painful death. Had he been in Werewolf form, he would have survived, but caught in the middle of the change, there had been no hope for him.

Rafe blew out a sigh. He felt no remorse for taking the Were’s life. The creature had begged him to do it. It had been the humane thing to do, something he would have done anyway. Still, it was an awesome thing to take a life, even when that life was on the brink of extinction, to drink a man dry, to take his life and his memories and leave only a dry husk behind. There had been little blood remaining in the Were, yet in taking the last of it, Raphael had not only taken the Werewolf’s life and his memories, but the power that came from taking that life, as well. No matter that the Were had been nearly dead, his life force nearly gone, his Supernatural power had flowed into Rafe. He could still taste the last of the Were’s blood on his tongue.

Draping the body over his shoulder, Rafe carried it deeper into the woods; then, using his bare hands, he quickly dug a grave and buried the luckless creature.

He couldn’t prove it, of course, but he was certain that the Werewolf had been killed in retaliation for Cristophe’s death. He was equally certain that a young hothead known only as Dawson was the Vampire who was responsible.

Raphael went suddenly still, all his senses on alert, and then, smiling, he turned around. “Hello, Godmother.”

Mara smiled. “I never could sneak up on you.”

He had always been in awe of the Vampire who was his godmother. She was a beautiful woman, timeless, ageless. Her thick black hair fell to her slim hips in long, rippling waves, her eyes were as green as the waters of the Nile. It was said she had been alive in the days when Antony stood at Cleopatra’s side, that the blood of the Pharaohs ran in her veins. He didn’t know whether that was true or not, but her powers were unmatched by any Vampire in existence. It wasn’t her vast age that fascinated him so much as her ability to walk in the sun’s light, an ability that she had passed to his father and, to a lesser degree, to his grandfather. She looked sexy as hell in a pair of white jeans, white high-heeled boots, and a slinky black silk shirt that revealed a good deal of creamy cleavage. She wore a heart-shaped ruby necklace at her throat that Rafe knew was worth a small fortune.

She moved closer to the grave, her nostrils flaring, and then she looked at Raphael, her eyes narrowing in anger. “Explain yourself! Did I not declare a truce? And yet you have defied me by taking this Were’s life.”

Rafe shook his head. “I killed him at his request, but I’m not the one who attacked him.”

She regarded him a moment, her gaze burning into his, and then she turned her attention to the grave once more. “Dawson,” she murmured, her eyes narrowing. “He dares much!”

Rafe nodded. Mara had declared a truce. To go against her wishes was a foolhardy thing to do. Dawson’s future could now be measured in minutes instead of centuries.

Mara turned her attention to Raphael once again. “The woman in the log house, she means a great deal to you.”

It wasn’t a question, and Rafe saw no reason to confirm or deny it.

“You are very much like your father,” she mused.

“Am I?”

“Indeed. A love for mortal females seems to plague the men in your family.”

Rafe couldn’t argue with that. His maternal grandfather, Roshan DeLongpre, had traveled back in time to find the woman whose photograph had obsessed him. Brenna Flannagan had not only been mortal at the time, but a practicing witch, as well. Roshan had saved her from a fiery death at the stake, brought her forward in time, and married her. His own father, Vince, had fallen in love with Roshan’s adopted daughter, Cara Aideen. His parents seemed perfectly suited to one another, and happier than any couple he knew.

“I’ve not seen Vince in quite some time,” Mara remarked. “How is he? And your mother?”

“Well enough, the last time I heard from them.”

“Have you heard from Rane?”

Rafe shook his head. “Not a word,” he said, and then, like a bolt from the blue, he realized that Mara knew where Rane was, just as she had always known where they were.

“You know, don’t you?” he said, his hands fisted at his sides. “All this time, you’ve known.”

“Of course,” she replied coolly. “I’m surprised it’s taken you this long to figure that out.”

“Where is he?”

“If he wanted you to know, you would have heard from him.” She raised her hand, stilling any further questions. “When he has made peace with himself, he’ll come home.”

Rafe blew out an exasperated breath, knowing he wouldn’t get any more out of her.

“Back to the matter at hand,” she said, glancing at the grave. “I want this truce to work. I don’t know about the Werewolves and Were-tigers, but our people need mortals to survive. I was opposed to going to war with the Werewolves when it began, and I’m still opposed to it. Fighting among ourselves solves nothing. Hopefully, cooler heads will now prevail.”

Rafe nodded. A handful of rebellious Werewolves and Vampires had started the conflict. In weeks, it had spread across the world, until the paranormal creatures from nearly every nation were involved. He had been against the war from the beginning, certain that, sooner or later, the humans would realize that their future was at stake, and when that happened, the Supernatural creatures would not only be fighting each other, but the humans, as well.

Turning away from the grave, Mara walked toward the road.

Rafe fell into step beside her. “What now?”

“I’m going to pay a visit to Dawson, and then I’m going to call on Clive. We need to talk. In the last week, several of his people and a number of ours have disappeared without a trace. He’s blaming it on the war, but…” She glanced at Rafe. “Let me know if you hear of any more unrest in this area.”

“You heard about Cristophe?”

“Yes. I was nearby on another matter.”

They walked in silence for a time. Rafe couldn’t keep his eyes off the woman at his side. She carried herself like a queen, her every movement one of fluid grace. Moments later, they emerged from the woods onto the street.

“How did you get here so quick?” he asked curiously. “The last I heard, you were somewhere in Bolivia.”

She looked at him as if he were the dullest knife in the drawer.

Rafe muttered, “Oh, right.” With her almost limitless powers, she could think herself anywhere she wished to be.

“Just so,” she said, and then she leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “Until next time.”

Before he could reply, she was gone.

Rafe stared after her for a moment. What was it like for her, to exist for thousands of years? To be able to walk in the light of the sun? Compared to Mara, he had been a Vampire for a relatively short time, yet he had already forgotten what it was like to feel the sun’s warmth on his face, to partake of food and drink in the mortal way. He frowned, wondering if she was able to partake of food and drink again.

With a sigh, he walked back to where he had left his car. He paused on the sidewalk in front of Kathy’s house, tempted to knock on her door even though he knew it was a bad idea. As much as he wanted her, hungered for her, they were separated by a gulf that only she could cross.

He stood there for several moments, his arms aching to hold her, and then, muttering a vile oath, he slid behind the wheel and drove home.

I cried for a long while after Raphael left, and then I made myself a cup of hot chocolate topped with lots of marshmallows, hoping it would make me feel better. It didn’t. Going to the window, I looked out into the darkness. At first I didn’t see anything, and then I saw Raphael standing on the sidewalk. In spite of everything, I hoped he would come back inside, take me in his arms, and hold me close. For a moment, I was tempted to open the door and call his name. I was about to do just that when he looked up at the house. I felt my heart skip a beat when he took a step forward; then, obviously changing his mind, he got into his car and drove away. Perhaps it was just as well.

With a sigh, I turned away from the window, my thoughts and emotions in turmoil. The war between the Werewolves and the Vampires seemed to be escalating. Not only that, but tonight the hostilities had been too close to home for my peace of mind, almost in my backyard. As troubling as all that was, I couldn’t stop remembering that Raphael had killed a man. No matter that the man was also a Werewolf and, according to Raphael, on the verge of death. I wasn’t sure how I felt about the Werewolves killing Vampires. I mean, except for Raphael, Vampires had already died once. They didn’t really die a second time, although their existence came to an end.

Frowning, I went into the bathroom, turned on the taps in the tub, and then added a cap full of lavender-scented bubble bath to the water. How, exactly, did one become a Vampire? All I really knew was that a blood exchange was involved, but how much blood? Did it hurt? What if you changed your mind in the middle? I wasn’t exactly sure how one became a Werewolf, either, except that being bitten seemed to be a large part of it.

Turning off the water, I stepped into the tub and sank down into the fragrant bubbles. I had a feeling I’d be spending a lot of time at my computer tomorrow, surfing the Web and looking for whatever information I could find on the Supernatural world and the creatures that inhabited it.

I took a lunch with me to the store the next day, and during my lunch hour, I booted up my computer and surfed the Internet, searching for anything and everything I could find on Werewolves, shape-shifters, and Vampires. I was amazed at the number of Web sites dedicated to Werewolves, and the wealth of information available.

For instance, I learned there was something called lycanthropic disorder, which was in actuality a mental condition wherein a person believed he, or she, was really a Werewolf even though they didn’t change shape. It didn’t say if these people went running around the countryside killing things.

And then there was the real deal, where a man or a woman physically transformed into a beast. True Werewolves were immune from aging since their bodies were constantly regenerating. The only way to kill a Werewolf was to destroy the heart or the brain or deprive them of oxygen. I assumed the same was true for any Were-creature. I had always thought that a person had to be bitten to become fanged and furry, but one source said that you could become a Werewolf by birth or by being cursed by a witch. In Europe, between 1520 and 1630, some thirty thousand cases of lycanthropy had been reported.

There were legends of Were-cats, which were also shape-shifters, but instead of turning into wolves, they turned into felines. In days of old in Europe, shape-shifters, including Werewolves, had been considered witches. Were-creature folklore was found on all the continents except for Antarctica, with the Were-creatures turning into whatever wild feline was native to the area, such as domestic cats, lions, leopards, tigers, or lynx.

Researching Vampires proved to be not only interesting and fascinating, but, at times, amusing. For instance, I had always believed that Vampires were made, not born, but according to ancient folklore, those who were born under a new moon or on certain holy days were believed to be predisposed to becoming Vampires, as were those who were born with a red caul, with teeth, or with excess hair. The same was true for those born with a red birthmark, or with two hearts and, of course, being born the seventh son of a seventh son. Others who might be similarly affected were those who were weaned too young, or those who died without baptism. Expectant mothers in Romania were encouraged to eat plenty of salt to ensure that their babies didn’t become Vampires.

Others who were good candidates for vampirism were people who committed suicide, prostitutes, and murderers.

Sitting back in my chair, I unwrapped a candy bar and indulged my passion for chocolate. I was about to resume my search when the phone rang. It was my mother, reminding me that my father’s birthday was coming up, as if I’d forget.

“So,” she said, getting to the real reason for her call. “Are you ready to come back home?”

I blew out a sigh. She was still upset because I’d left New York.

“I saw Jimmy Lee the other day,” she said cheerfully. “He’s still single.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” I muttered. Jimmy Lee Brown thought he was the sexiest thing in shoe leather, had no interests other than computers and computer games, and, to put it politely, he smelled bad.

“Honestly, Kathy, don’t you think it’s time you came home and settled down?”

“Mom, how many times are we going to have this conversation?” It wasn’t enough that she called me every week or so, she also sent me e-mails asking the same question.

There was a long silence. I knew she was sitting there, slowly counting to ten, while she asked herself where she’d gone wrong. My brother and sister were both happily married and producing grandchildren, while I, her youngest, remained single with no husband in sight.

“Listen, Mom, I’ve got to go. Say hi to Dad for me.”

After we hung up, I went back to my research. There were a number of references linking wolves with Vampires. In Greece, it was believed that anyone who ate a sheep that had been killed by a wolf was doomed to become a Vampire. In Montenegro, it was believed that all Vampires had to spend a certain amount of time as a wolf. The Gypsies of Kosovo were of the opinion that Vampires were doomed to wander the earth until they met a wolf, which would then tear them to pieces. In Romania, Gypsy villages were supposedly guarded by white wolves that stood watch in cemeteries where they gobbled up any rising Vampires. Totally bizarre, I thought. Who would ever seriously believe such nonsense?

Of course, the dead weren’t safe, either. According to folklore, you might become a Vampire if someone passed a candle over your corpse, if your brother was a sleepwalker, or if a cat jumped over your corpse. You were also in danger if you weren’t buried with the proper rituals, or you were murdered and your murder went unavenged, or you died by drowning.

There were a number of signs to look for if you wanted to know if someone who had been buried had become one of the Undead. These included disturbed earth around the grave, fallen tombstones, broken or fallen crosses, footsteps leading away from the grave, no birds singing nearby, dogs barking or refusing to enter the cemetery, or horses shying away from the site. Numerous finger-sized holes used by the Vampire to escape his grave in mistlike form were, you should pardon the pun, also a dead giveaway.

Vampires were reputed to have many Supernatural powers. Raphael had already admitted to being able to hypnotize people, and he seemed pretty adept at reading my mind. According to folklore, Vampires were able to change shape, dissolve into mist, control the elements as well as some animals, and scurry up a wall like a spider. Of course, it was common knowledge that they could create other Vampires, and that they had superior strength.

Reading on, I learned that Vampires couldn’t swim or cross running water because water was a purifier which washed away evil and sin. In olden times, a corpse believed to be a Vampire might be placed in a river or a lake. If the body floated, it was a Vampire and the necessary steps were taken.

Destroying a Vampire was a messy business. A hawthorn stake driven into a Vampire’s heart was the most common method of destruction. Beheading was also recommended. Sunlight was also fatal, although Vampires in Poland and Russia prowled the streets from noon until midnight.

Most interesting of all was the description of folk Vampires and those in literature, which described the Undead as really disgusting creatures, not only because of their grotesque appearance, which included razorlike, blood-stained fangs, hairy palms, and glowing red eyes, but the stink that clung to them from the dried blood of their victims. Vampires had apparently changed with the times. Modern Vampires were hypnotically and sensually attractive and much more pleasing to look upon, thanks to the influence of Bram Stoker’s
Dracula
and suave actors like Bela Lugosi, George Hamilton, and Frank Langella.

And real-life Vampire, Raphael Cordova
, I thought with a smile.

Ah, Rafe. I wondered what he was doing. Sleeping, I supposed, and I wondered if he rested in a coffin, and what he wore to sleep in. I couldn’t imagine him in anything as mundane as a pair of cotton pajamas. Maybe a black T-shirt and briefs…or maybe nothing at all.

Feeling suddenly warm, I went into the back room for a bottle of cold water. What I had read was fascinating. Of course, I had no idea how much of it was based on fact and how much was pure fiction. It occurred to me that I was wasting a lot of time searching the Internet when I had something much better—an actual Vampire. Or did I? After last night, I wasn’t sure he was ever coming back. The thought of never seeing him again brought the sting of hot tears to my eyes.

But I didn’t have time to wallow in self-pity. The jangle of the bell over the door announced that I had one of those all-too-rare creatures—a customer. Blinking back my tears, I smoothed a hand over my hair, pasted a smile on my face, and went out front.

A pair of elderly women were browsing the romance shelves. One was tall and angular with shoulder-length white hair. The other was short and a trifle plump. Her curly red hair was obviously dyed. In addition to wide silver bracelets, silver crosses, and dangling silver earrings, they both wore designer jeans, brightly colored silk blouses, comfortable sneakers, and fake flowers in their hair. I guessed them to be in their midseventies.

They both looked over at me and smiled, then turned back to the stacks. I watched them for a few minutes as they picked up one book after another, read the back cover copy and the first page, and then either added the book to the growing pile on top of the shelf or put it back. By the time they were ready to go, they had twenty-two paperbacks between them.

“So glad you’re here,” the redheaded one said. “I don’t drive, you know, so whenever new books come out, I either have to impose on my grandson and ask him to drive me over to one of the bookstores in River’s Edge, or order them online. But now you’re here!”

“Come along, Edna,” the other woman said, taking hold of her friend’s arm. “I’m sure she doesn’t give a fig about your shopping habits.”

“Oh, but I do,” I said, smiling at the two of them. If they bought this many books every time they came in, I could stop worrying about going out of business.

Edna moved closer to the counter. “I don’t suppose you give a senior discount, do you?” she asked in a near whisper.

“Well, I never have,” I said, “but I will today. How does 10 percent sound?”

“You see, Pearl,” Edna said with a triumphant grin, “I told you it wouldn’t hurt to ask!”

“Have you two been friends long?” I asked as I rang up their sales.

“Oh, my, yes,” Pearl exclaimed.

“Fifty-five years come January,” Edna said. “We met in the maternity ward. I was having my first baby.”

“And I was having my second.” Pearl looked at Edna, and the two women smiled, obviously remembering the day they had met.

Edna sighed wistfully. “Where does the time go?”

“And you’ve lived here, in Oak Hollow, the whole time?” I asked.

“Yes, indeed.” Edna leaned forward. “Things have certainly changed, I can tell you that,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper. “All these strange people lurking about. Why last night, I heard a wolf howl, right here in the city!”

Pearl nodded. “I don’t know which is worse, the Werewolves or the Vampires.”

“You’ve seen them?” I asked, surprised that they talked about it so openly.

“The Vampires tend to be very secretive, you know,” Edna remarked. “They never tell you where they take their rest. And they never meet in the same place twice. The Werewolves meet in an abandoned building out at the end of Foster Road.”

“How do you know that?” I asked, my curiosity about Edna and Pearl growing by the minute. For that matter, I wondered how they recognized the Werewolves and the Vampires. Unless the Werewolves were in their furry forms, or the Vampires were displaying their fangs, the Supernatural folk looked pretty much like everyone else most of the time. Of course, maybe Edna and Pearl were able to detect them the same way I did. For a moment, I was tempted to ask, but then I thought better of it. My gift, such as it was, might best be kept under wraps, at least until I knew Edna and Pearl better.

The two women exchanged glances, then looked at me with conspiratorial smiles.

“We have our ways, dear,” Pearl said. “You be careful now, hear?”

“And remember,” Edna added. “Handsome is as handsome does.”

I looked from one woman to the other. “Excuse me?”

“Raphael Cordova is a mighty handsome man, dear,” Pearl said.

“Nice butt,” Edna remarked candidly.

I nodded in agreement, though I was somewhat shocked to learn that a woman of Edna’s age would notice such a thing, and more surprised that they knew I was seeing Rafe.

“You do know he’s a Vampire, don’t you, dear?” Pearl asked.

“Yes.”

“His grandmother is a witch,” Edna remarked. “Did you know that?”

“No, he never mentioned that.”

“Well, just be careful,” Edna admonished. “I know he seems like a nice young man…”

I bit back a grin. Raphael was anything but young.

“But as my husband always said, a girl can’t be too careful,” Pearl added.