Shades of Gray (19 page)

"Not now," he said firmly. "Not until the sun's up. Way up."

Marisa flinched as Edward washed the dried blood from the numerous scrapes on her arms and legs and face.

They had taken shelter in a small roadside chapel they had stumbled on in their flight. Edward dipped his handkerchief into the font of holy water again. She had objected at first, but he had waved away her protests, insisting that it would protect her from infection, and vampires.

Edward sat back on his heels. "Did Alexi… did he drink from you, or make you drink from him?"

"No." She rubbed her wrists, which were still sore from being bound. She looked down at her dress, which was torn and stained with blood. "I need a change of clothes."

"I don't know where you'll find any. Hell, I don't even know where we are."

"Edward, watch your language."

"What? Oh, sorry." He glanced around. The chapel was small. Built of dark wood and stone, it stood in the center of a small copse of trees. A statue of a sad-faced Madonna stood beside a rough-hewn altar. A single stained-glass window was set in the east wall. A large wooden crucifix hung below the window. It made him feel safe, protected.

"We can't just stay here," Marisa said.

"Oh, yes, we can," Edward said. He sat down with his back against the altar. "I've hunted vampires most of my life," he mused. "I've never met one as strong as Alexi. I wonder just how old he is."

"You don't think he's killed Grigori, do you?"

"I don't know. I hope not. I'd hate to have to spend the rest of my life in eighteenth-century Italy."

"Oh, Lord." She had forgotten, for the moment, that they were in the past.

"Yeah." He glanced at the stained-glass window, smiled when he saw the colors brighten and come to life as the sun rose behind the glass. Dust motes danced in reflected ribbons of red and gold and green light. "Let's go."

Marisa took off her heels, then peeled off her ruined nylons, glad that she wasn't wearing panty hose. Edward took her shoes and placed them in the pockets of his jacket.

Outside, the morning was bright and clear, the air fresh and clean. A faint breeze stirred the leaves.

Marisa's trepidation increased with every step she took. What would they find when they returned to the winery?

The sun was high in the sky when they reached the cellar.

"Stay here," Edward said.

Marisa nodded. She had no desire to see what, if anything, was left in the cellar.

Clasping his cross in both hands, Edward descended the narrow wooden stairs. The smell of blood filled his nostrils. He could see dark patches of it splattered across the walls and on the hard-packed earthen floor. It took only a glance to see that the cellar was empty.

"Edward?"

He ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time. The day seemed incredibly bright and beautiful and he took a deep breath, glad to be alive. "There's no one down there."

She stared at him, afraid to ask what it might mean. "What do we do now?"

Ramsey judged the position of the sun, then jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Grigori's house is in that direction. There must be a town nearby."

"How far is it?" Marisa asked.

"His house? I'm not sure. I think Chiavari said it was about three miles from Pietro's." Edward grimaced as he contemplated the walk. "I should have spent more time working out."

"Come on, you wimp. Three miles is a piece of cake." The thought of food made her stomach growl. "Wish I
had
a piece of cake," she muttered, although it seemed wrong to feel hungry at a time like this.

"Yeah, me too." Ramsey shook his head. "Been a helluva night."

The town was located about a half mile from Pietro's. It was early and there were only a few people out and about. The people they passed regarded them with blatant curiosity. Marisa could hardly blame them. Their clothing alone would have made the people stare. Her dress was far too short for the mode of the day; worse, it was torn and stained with blood. Her hair was a mess; her face was bruised. Ramsey looked more presentable. His gray slacks were dirty, but his shirt and coat were remarkably clean, considering all they had been through.

It occurred to her, abruptly, that whatever money they had would not be accepted or recognized.

They passed a small bakery and her stomach growled loudly as the scent of coffee and freshly baked bread wafted through the air.

"Geez, I'd kill for a cup of that coffee," Ramsey muttered.

"Perhaps we could offer them something in exchange for breakfast," Marisa suggested.

"Yeah? Like what?"

"I don't know. My earrings, maybe?"

"It's worth a try."

"Let's just hope they speak English."

"I speak a little Italian," Ramsey said. "Picked it up in my travels."

Marisa combed her fingers through her hair and put on her heels. "How do I look?"

Ramsey grinned at her. "You want the truth, or a polite lie?"

"That bad, huh?"

"Well… here, put my coat on. It'll cover some of the blood on your dress."

Marisa slipped into his coat, and then they walked into the bakery.

It took a while, but eventually Ramsey managed to explain to the proprietor that they wanted to exchange Marisa's earrings for something to eat.

The man called his wife, who looked the jewelry over, and then nodded.

Marisa and Ramsey sat down at one of the tables. Marisa glanced around. It was a small place, a sort of combination bakery and cafe. There were no other customers.

A short time later, the proprietor's wife emerged from the kitchen bearing two cups of coffee and a plate of pastries. Marisa noted the woman was wearing her new earrings.

"What are we going to do when we leave here?" Marisa asked.

"Go back to the Chiavaris' and wait for them, I guess," Ramsey replied. "You got any better ideas?"

"Not really." She sipped the coffee. It was hot and bitter. She couldn't remember when she'd ever had any that tasted better.

"I watched him bring her over," Ramsey said.

"What?"

"Antoinette. I watched Chiavari bring her across."

"You mean you saw him make her a vampire?"

Ramsey nodded. "It was — " He shook his head. "I don't know how to explain it. It was awful, and yet
— " He ran his fingertips over his cross. "It was kind of… I don't know… mystical."

"How did he do it? Is it like in the books?"

"Yeah, pretty much. He drank her blood until she was at the point of death, and then he slit his wrist with his teeth and she drank his blood."

Ramsey looked at Marisa, his expression troubled. "I felt like I'd just watched someone being reborn, but that's not right, is it? She's damned now."

"Is she?"

"You know she is! They both are. It's a life against nature. A life against God."

"I always wondered why drinking blood would make you a vampire. It doesn't go in your veins when you drink it, it just goes in your stomach. I'd think it would just, you know, just go out again."

"I often wondered that myself," Ramsey admitted. "As near as I can figure, once a vampire drinks, the blood isn't digested, like food. Instead, it's absorbed into the whole body."

"It's so bizarre, so hard to believe. How many vampires have you killed, Edward?"

"Thirteen."

"How can you do it?"

"Because it has to be done, and there's no one else to do it. There's no one else who knows, no one else who believes."

"What happened to your friend, to Katherine?"

"She fell in love with a rock musician. He was a vampire, newly made. I didn't realize what he was at first. The young ones can sometimes pass for human. He dressed sort of weird and she only saw him at night, but that didn't seem strange for a guy in a rock band. By the time I realized what he was, it was too late."

"And you killed him."

"I staked him through the heart and cut off his head." Ramsey's eyes blazed with fervor. "He won't lure any more young girls to their deaths."

Marisa swallowed hard. Edward's zeal left her feeling suddenly sick to her stomach. "Are you ready to go?"

"Yes." He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Marisa. I didn't mean to upset you."

"It's all right." She took the hand he offered her and they left the cafe.

For a time, they walked in silence. The touch of the sun on her back and the beauty of the countryside soothed her. For a moment, she pretended that everything was all right, that she was in Tuscany on vacation, that she knew how to get home again.

She delved into her memory, trying to recall what she knew about Italy. Famous names immediately sprang to mind: Dante and the Medicis, Michelangelo's
David,
the Pitti Palace set in the Boboli Gardens, the canals of Venice, the cities of Rome and Naples and Florence,
Firenze,
which was known as the city of flowers. There was the Ponte Vecchio, and the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Italy was the home of so many historic sites and works of art she had always yearned to see.

But not like this.

They turned a bend in the road and Grigori's house rose up before them. It looked picturesque in the early morning light. Set amid fallow fields, with a narrow stream running behind it and a sky filled with puffy clouds overhead, it reminded her of something out of a Disney cartoon. She almost expected to see Snow White standing in the doorway kissing Dopey on the head as she sent the Seven Dwarfs off to work.

It was quiet and dim inside. Where was Grigori? Had Alexi killed him? Wouldn't she feel it if he was dead?

She went into the kitchen and rummaged around until she found a towel and some soap.

Sitting at the wooden table, she began to sponge the blood out of her dress.

"Have you looked in the bedroom? You might be able to find something to wear in there."

"Oh, good idea." Rising, Marisa went into the bedroom. She found three dresses hanging on hooks behind the door. She selected one, lavender cotton with long sleeves and a round neck.

Slipping out of her blue jersey, she drew Antoinette's dress over her head. It was a little too long and a trifle snug on top, but other than that, it was a pretty good fit. And it was clean.

She changed quickly, thinking she would feel better once she was out of her ruined dress. She didn't. Wearing Antoinette's clothing made her edgy and uncomfortable.

"And with good reason," Marisa muttered. "You're in her house. You're falling in love with her husband
— " She shook the thought aside. She would not fall in love with Grigori. When this was over, she would never see him again.

Returning to the living room, she found Ramsey sitting on the bench, his head cradled in his hands. He glanced up when she entered the room.

"I think I'm going to try to take a nap," she said.

Ramsey nodded. "Good idea. Maybe I will, too."

"Okay." She toyed with a fold of her skirt. "Do you think he's all right?"

"I don't know, but if he isn't, we'd better start learning to speak the language."

It took longer than usual to drag himself from the darkness. He sent his senses into the night, testing the air, searching for the presence of mortals. When he was certain he was alone, he emerged from the earth, burrowing upward until his head and shoulders were clear. Exerting even that little bit of energy left him feeling drained. Never before had he lost so much blood, or felt so weak, so vulnerable.

Closing his eyes, he delved deep inside himself, gathering what strength he had left. With an effort, he gained his feet, and then he began walking. Thoughts flashed through his mind like the changing colors of a kaleidoscope.

He needed sustenance…. Where was Alexi?… Was Antoinette dead?… Where was Marisa?

The hunger's dark need spread through him, clawing at his vitals, until his whole body ached with it.

As weak as he was, he still moved with greater speed than a mere mortal. A short time later, he stood outside the house he had once shared with Antoinette. Ramsey and Marisa were inside. He could sense their warmth, hear their beating hearts. The hunger fought for control, urging him to go into the house and take what he needed, to drink and drink until the deep, empty well of his need was filled.

He stood hidden in the darkness, a part of the night, death cloaked in the guise of a man. Stood there, his hands clenched, his nails digging into his palms, until he was in control, and then he opened the door.

Ramsey saw him first. Clutching his cross, Ramsey leaped to his feet. Like a
warrior priest, he planted himself in front of Marisa. He held the crucifix in
one fist, and raised his other hand, the one with the cross tattooed on the
palm.

"Edward, what are you doing?"

"Protecting you," Ramsey replied curtly. "Look at him, Marisa! Look at him
and see what he really is."

Marisa leaned a little to her right, peering around Edward. Grigori stood in the doorway, a vision from a nightmare. Bits of dirt clung to his hair and clothing; his skin was as pale as a shroud; his dark eyes burned like the fires of an unforgiving hell. His left cheek was still blackened where Antoinette's crucifix had burned him.

"Get out of here, Chiavari," Ramsey said.

"I can't. I need your help."

"It isn't help you need. It's blood. Go find it somewhere else. We have nothing for you here."

"Edward — " Marisa stood up.

"Stay back!"

"I won't hurt her," Grigori said wearily. "Or you."

"Yeah, right." Edward took a step backward, keeping himself between Marisa and the vampire. "Get out of here."

"You seem to forget, Ramsey, this is my house," Grigori replied, a faint note of amusement evident in his tone.

"Edward, he needs our help."

"Dammit, Marisa, look at him!"

"Yes, Marisa," Grigori said. "Look at me." His voice was low and deep, as it had been the first night she met him. An angel's voice, she had thought then. "Come to me."

She met his gaze, felt his voice wrap around her like a fine, silken web, felt herself being inexplicably drawn toward him.

Grigori held out his hand. "Come to me,
cara."