Secrets of the Night Special Edition (92 page)

"Why should she discover it at all? I've given her no grounds for suspicion. And if she should suspect me, then I'll do as you suggest.” By St. Aidan, how could he bear never to see Stevie again?

"If she even questions what you are, her doubts would cause difficulties for us. What if she goes to the police with her suspicions?” 

"The police?”  Galan laughed.” For certain, they'd be vastly amused.” 

"Don't be so sure of that. Remember the vampire hunts of the last several centuries, and how so many of our people suffered? Have you forgotten
Budapest
in 1760? You escaped that persecution only because of the vanishing powers you'd developed over the centuries. Newly-created vampires lack that ability.”

Galan scoffed.” So you think there'll be public burnings again? Vampires roasted alive, like two-hundred years ago?” 

"It could happen, boy. If your lady friend--"

"She's not 'my' lady friend.” Unfortunately.

Moloch sighed.” Never forget--I could destroy the mortal woman without a thought. Neither you nor any of the undead could stop me. But since you're one of my favorites, I'll let you transform her into one of us.”

Galan felt his heart ease. Perhaps there was a way to fool Moloch and pursue Stevie at the same time. What a splendid idea, Moloch!

He nodded.” Ah, I can see it already. A partner for eternity. Only let me toy with her for awhile, tease her a little, then the metamorphosis will be so much more exhilarating.” Rubbing his hands together, he hoped he gave a credible performance.

Moloch wagged a gnarled finger in front of his face.” Fine, have your way with her. If she begins to guess what you are, shun her like holy water. Or better still, turn her into one of the undead as soon as she suspects. You understand?” 

"Perfectly.” Galan understood something else, a painful reality he yearned to deny. Because of Moloch, he would remain a vampire until the end of time.

Unless he could rid himself of the fiend.

Darkness crept over Schloss Oberau, a remote thirteenth-century castle Moloch had acquired centuries ago, nestled near the foothills of the
Alps
. He stretched his skeletal limbs and awakened, then stepped over the side of the casket, bare feet hitting the stone floor of the great hall.

With its crumbling stone walls outside, the castle looked a hulk of its former self, presenting the appearance of a derelict, deserted habitation, an image sufficient to keep away any curious visitors. And that was fine with Moloch.

Inside, the castle revealed a different story. Splendid tapestries decorated the stone walls, and finely-crafted oaken furniture added an enchanting charm to the vast room. Purple velvet draperies fluttered at the windows, catching the light of the
Waterford
chandelier that glittered from the majestic ceiling. Too bad he couldn't enjoy these amenities more, Moloch thought as he ran his fingers through his bushy hair. He slept in his coffin during the day, and at night--ah, the night! --he prowled the world.

A stiff wind gusted through the wide open windows, billowing his robe about him, and his unkempt hair whipped across his face. A black cat snoozed against a far wall, flat on his back, his paws upright.

Moloch stopped by the long trestle table, thinking of all the proteges who demanded his supervision, most particularly Galan. What should he do about that nightwalker? The young man was giving him problems, yet he realized that Galan's very stubbornness and contrariness were desirable traits for a leader. Galan's not telling the truth, he fumed, and that mortal woman could spell trouble yet. Moloch's jaw clenched with determination. He'd get the truth from him, no question about it.

Occasionally a vampire longed to regain mortality, an inexplicable truth Moloch had learned centuries ago. This desire didn't happen often, not once among a million vampires, but even once was enough to make him seethe with fury.

Not to his surprise, this wish always involved a member of the opposite sex, a mortal.

Could a vampire regain his mortality? A persistent rumor nagged him, now and then erupting to taunt him to distraction. He'd heard tales of an elixir that could reverse the process of vampirism and make one of the undead mortal again. Did such an elixir really exist? Were there any former vampires now living mortal lives? He'd never known of any, but he'd sell his soul to find out . . . if he had a soul.

Why would one of the undead want to become human again? Why would he want to relinquish his strength, his powers, his ability to transport himself from one place to another without benefit of plane, boat, or car? To relinquish all that, just for a weak, inspid mortal?

Galan won't get away with it, Moloch vowed, staring out the window at the snow-capped
Alps
in the distance as he tapped his fingers on the stone window ledge. After all the time and machinations he'd invested in Galan, the ingrate had better stop this foolishness and content himself with his vampirism.

An idea came to Moloch. The best way to get at Galan was through the mortal woman . . . the shifty, deceitful female,

definitely an obstacle to his plans.

He sat down on a high-backed chair with its intricate carvings and pulled on his short leather boots, then rose and fastened a thick leather belt studded with gemstones, a recent find from his last trip to
Barcelona
. Behind him stood a magnificent glass-fronted oaken cabinet, an adornment he'd acquired over two-hundred years ago, a genuine Chippendale.

Moloch reached inside the cabinet and fingered his latest treasure, a Faberge gilt-painted cup from the
Victoria
and
Albert
Museum
, another addition to his objects d'art.

He grinned in sly anticipation. One of these nights, he intended to visit the
Tower
of
London
and add the crown jewels to his collection.

After one last affectionate look at his accumulation, he strode toward the outer ward, where the cat dozed in sleepy contentment, unaware he blocked Moloch's path.

Moloch aimed a vicious kick at the cat.” Get out of my way!”

Cringing with fear, the feline hissed and slunk away into the deepest recesses of the castle.

And that's how Galan should kick the mortal woman out of his life. Kick her until she screamed for mercy, kick her to death!

* * *

Shivers skimmed along Stevie's arms and legs as she stepped off the bus in downtown
Miami
. Brr. Sweater weather. Early for work today, she strode toward the
New World
Tower
, a sleek, modern office building with a brown marble facade and wide gleaming glass doors. She wanted to check on Nick, one of her "adopted" homeless, who always slept near the building's entrance until she woke him each weekday morning before the police could chase him away.

Sound asleep, Nick lay curled on his side, his head on his knapsack. Stevie knelt beside him and shook his shoulder, aware from past experience that often these desolate people slept like the dead. A spurt of alarm stopped her for a moment, the sight of the dead homeless man still horribly fresh in her mind. It took several minutes of patient shaking, but finally Nick roused, wiping the sleep from his eyes. He stared at her in dozy recognition.

"Nick, I brought you something for breakfast--two big poppy seed muffins,” she said, handing him a plastic bag that held the treats.” Oh, and another thing.” She reached into her purse to give him a couple of dollars.” Remember that refreshment stand on
Flagler Street
I showed you? Why don't you get orange juice and coffee.” 

"Thanks, ma'am. Sounds like a good idea.”

"Happy to do it, Nick.” She had considered job possibilities for him, too, some she would mention later after she had more facts.

She looked toward the east, where the rising sun peeked up over
Biscayne Bay
and sent the water sparkling like crystal. She rose to her feet, smoothing the wrinkles in her cotton slacks.” Don't forget about your juice and coffee. 'Bye for now.”

"'Bye, ma'am, and thanks for everything.”

With a smile and a wave, Stevie left him then, on her way to the bookstore.

* * *

Should have known things never go as planned, Stevie fretted as she hustled to the bus stop in the late afternoon, when dark clouds hid the sun, and a fierce wind whipped across the streets. Since she had her date with Galan this evening, she'd decided to leave the bookstore fifteen minutes early, but several picky customers had detained her, making her fifteen minutes late, darn it!

The bus arrived ten minutes late and was already crowded, but at least she got the last empty seat. As usual, cars, buses, and trucks crawled along
Biscayne Boulevard
, slower than a snail on Valium. Stevie closed her eyes and tried to relax while countless conversations buzzed around her, most of them in Spanish and a few in Creole, but none in English.

She dashed home from the bus stop and started to throw off her clothes once she stepped inside her apartment.

Foregoing her supper, she took a quick shower. She dressed carefully for her date, selecting her only good dress, a light blue short-sleeved silk. She slipped the whisper-soft material over her head, loving its slinky, luxurious feel. She stepped into her black three-inch slingbacks, completing her ensemble with a pearl necklace and gold earrings, legacies from her mother. With a touch of rose lipstick on her mouth and a dab of powder on her nose, she hoped Galan would like the effect.

And speaking of liking--she wondered if Galan would like to go to the beach with her, maybe her next Sunday off, if it was a warm, sunny day. She sure would enjoy a day at the beach, and Galan could definitely use a tan. Possibly she'd ask him sometime soon, she decided, checking in the mirror to make sure her slip didn't show.

Galan arrived on time, elegant in a black suit, white shirt, and burgundy tie, the dim light adding color to his face. He looked as if he'd just stepped off the runway of a
Milan
fashion show. Her heart revved up like a Dodge engine at a NASCAR race. His eyes were dark and mysterious, like the night . . . full of secrets. Catching a scent of sandalwood, she sighed. Sexy!

His dark eyes assessed her.” You look lovely,” he said with a warm smile, his deep, sensual voice washing over her.” That shade of blue is your color. Matches your eyes.”

"Thanks, you look nice yourself.” She reached for her white linen jacket.” Shall we go?”

"Indeed.” He helped her into the jacket, his hands resting on her shoulders a bit longer than necessary. Tempted to lean back against him, she gathered her wits and told herself he was only a date. Besides, she didn't want to get close to him . . . or any man. Each minute with him made it more difficult to resist his considerable charm. She wondered how she'd last throughout the evening, concealing her feelings from him.

They arrived at Gusman Theater downtown with time to spare and the best seats, ten rows from the stage. There wasn't an empty place in the theater, and most of the audience was middle-aged and well-dressed, sophisticated people who talked quietly among themselves. What a difference from the rock concerts she used to attend, Stevie mused as she settled herself.

While the quartet played Mozart's whimsical Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, she occasionally slanted a look Galan's way, feeling a rush of warmth as she observed his straight nose, the firm set of his jaw. She studied his hands in his lap, those expressive fingers, like the violinist in the quartet. What would it be like to have his hands on her, touching her, caressing her? Despite the air conditioning, the prospect sent her temperature soaring about twenty degrees.

Once, their gazes met and held, and he smiled at her, an expression that added another twenty degrees to her overheated body. When he turned away, her gaze strayed downward to his thighs and the trim fit of his black trousers, as if they'd been tailored especially for him. He reminded her of a tiger she'd seen on a National Geographic program, poised to pounce on its prey. She'd bet no one ever got the best of him, either. Master of the universe. She smiled to herself. There went her crazy imagination again.

At the end of the performance, they filed out of the theater with the other patrons, a neat, orderly exit, no pushing or shoving, reminding her again of the contrast with a rock concert.

Outside on
Flagler Street
, Galan peered down at her.” Please wait here whilst I get the car from the parking lot. Only be a few minutes.”

"Hey, I'll walk with you.”

"Very well, then.” Tucking her arm through his, Galan strolled with her in companionable silence toward his green Mercedes, less than a block away. A cool wind lifted her long hair from her shoulders and fluttered her dress around her knees, prompting her to button her jacket. Her stomach growled, a reminder she'd missed her supper. . . .

"Do you attend these concerts often?” she asked on the way home, searching for a way to fill the silent void between them.