He sat on the sofa in the living room, his feet resting on a hassock, his gaze fixed on the fire in the raised hearth. The fire served no purpose save that he found it pleasing to look upon. He had no need for its warmth; he felt neither the heat nor the cold, but sitting in front of a fire on a cold night seemed a very human thing to do. And tonight, tormented by memories of his past, he had a strong desire to feel mortal again.

He had been born in a time of great superstition: when a woman with the gift to heal might be judged a witch and burned at the stake; when people believed that werewolves prowled the forests in the dead of night; when ghosts might be found wandering through castle and hovel alike.

He had never seen a ghost, and he'd never believed in werewolves, but he'd come to believe in vampires. Oh, yes, he'd never forget the night he had learned about vampires.

He'd had an argument with his wife, Jolene. He couldn't remember now what they had quarreled about, but he'd stormed out of the cottage and headed for the tavern, determined to drown his troubles in a mug of ale. He'd been working his way through his third tankard when Marguerite approached him. There had been something about the way she looked at him, the way her dark eyes had caressed him, that had chilled him to the very marrow of his bones and yet? and yet it had drawn him to her side.

Mesmerized by her beauty, by the husky tremor in her voice, he had followed her upstairs. Never before had he been unfaithful to Jolene, but that night it was as if he'd had no control over his passion. And so he had followed her up the narrow wooden stairway and into a life of eternal darkness.

She had taken his blood and returned it to him, then left him just before dawn, warning him that he would need to find a place to hide himself from the sun unless he wished to perish on the morrow.

He had not believed her?until he stepped into the dawn of a new day. The pain of the sun on his face had been excruciating. With a cry he had run into the woods and taken refuge in a cave.

Trembling with pain and fear, he'd become as one drugged, unable to move, only vaguely aware of the ghastly changes taking place in his body as Marguerite's accursed blood wrought the hideous transformation.

He had died that day, and when he awoke that night, he knew his old life was gone.

He had sought Marguerite the next night, begging her to undo what she had done, but she had only laughed softly as her hand caressed his cheek.

"There is no going back,mon amour."

"There must be a way!"

"None that I know, except?"

He had grabbed her by the arms, his fingers biting deep into her cool white flesh. "Except?"

"It is rumored that there is one bloodline that has the power to transform you into a mortal again, but I have no idea as to how it's done. I know only that the power is not in the blood." She shrugged, as if the whole conversation were unimportant. "That's all I know."

"Whose bloodline? Where do I find it?"

"I know not. I care not. I am happy as I am, and have no wish to be mortal again."

She had pried his fingers from her arm, then patted his cheek, much as a mother might comfort a weeping child.

"Give it time,c?ri. One day you will bless me for what I have done."

Bless her! He would have killed her had he known how. That night, he had gone home to find Jolene frantic with worry, her beautiful face ravaged by tears.

She had been disbelieving when he told her what had happened, disbelieving until the sun came up and she had seen for herself the deathlike lethargy that held him in its grip.

To her credit, she hadn't turned her back on him. Although she had been repulsed by his lust for blood, she had never stopped loving him. Blessed woman that she was, she had kept his secret until the day she died.

And that had been the hardest thing of all to bear, watching his beloved wife grow old and feeble while he stayed forever young and strong. Her soft, unblemished skin had wrinkled with the passing years, her hair, as fine as black silk, had turned white, the joy of living had gone out of her eyes, those beautiful green eyes that had ever looked on him with love.

It had been torment of the worst kind, watching her sicken and die. In desperation he had offered to save her, to make her into what he had become, but she had refused, and in the end, she had died in his arms, whispering his name.

In his youth he had been zealously religious. Always, he had believed in a just and loving God. He had been faithful in his prayers, certain they were heard. But now he was cut off from the powers of heaven, unable to offer a prayer on behalf of his wife.

That night, for the first time since Marguerite had turned him into a monster, he had contemplated putting an end to his existence. Considered it and found he lacked the courage, for far worse than the thought of dying was the knowledge that, in death, he would come face-to-face with the Almighty and have to confess his sins.

In all the years since Jolene's death, he had kept a tight rein on his emotions, never letting anyone get close to him. He had no friends, mortal or otherwise. At any rate, trusting one of the undead could be as dangerous to his existence as trusting the living, and so he had trusted no one, loved no one.

Until now.

He thought of Leanne, and her memory engulfed him with a warm, sustaining glow. She had brought light to his existence, given him a reason to live, pierced the protective wall he'd erected around his heart and forced him to accept that he had fallen in love again.

Fallen in love with a woman who looked enough like Jolene to be her sister.

A long, slow sigh escaped his lips. He could not endure the agony of watching another woman he loved grow old and die, nor could he be responsible for giving her the Dark Gift. Leanne was a creature of sunshine. He could not condemn her to a life spent in the shadows?

And yet he could not think of facing the future without her, not now, when he had glimpsed her goodness, felt the sweet magic that had flowed between them the moment their eyes met for the first time.


* * *


He was tired of meeting her after the theater and spending the evening in a darkened movie house or a smoke-filled bar, and since he dared not go to her house, which no doubt contained several mirrors, he brought her home.

Never before had be brought a woman into the house. He bade her wait in the entry hall while he went inside and lit the candles. No doubt she would think it strange that he eschewed electric lights, but he much preferred candlelight to lamp light.

Returning to the entry hall, he bowed over her hand. "Welcome," he said and kissed her hand in courtly fashion.

"Do you mind if I look around?" Leanne asked.

"Please," he said. "Make my home yours."

Leanne wandered through the house, enchanted by the works of art, the sculpture. Several of the paintings were signed J. Blackthorne. The signature was bold and distinctive.

"Blackthorne," she exclaimed softly. "Of course. I saw one of his paintings in a museum." She turned to look at Jason, a question in her eyes.

"An ancestor," Jason said, "prolific but mostly unappreciated."

Leanne studied the larger of the paintings. It portrayed a tall, dark-haired man standing alone on a sea cliff. A black cape swirled around his shoulders, buffeted by the wind. Dark gray clouds hovered above storm-tossed waves. Just looking at the painting filled her with a sense of loneliness, of emptiness. "He was very good," she remarked.

Jason shrugged. "For his time, perhaps."

With a nod Leanne continued her tour, ever conscious that Jason was only a step or two behind her.

The rooms were sparsely furnished, and she noticed he had only a few small table lamps, none of which he turned on, obviously preferring the softer, more romantic glow of the candles that lit every room, even the bathrooms.

The living room was decorated in earth tones. A sofa faced the fireplace; there were two matching over-stuffed chairs on either side of the hearth. A book on ancient Rome sat on a carved oak table beside the couch. Heavy beige draperies covered the windows.

The master bedroom was decorated in shades of blue and white. Standing in the doorway, she had the oddest impression that the bed had never been slept in; indeed, she had the feeling that the room had rarely been used at all. Adjoining the master bedroom was a large bathroom with a sunken tub and a skylight.

In an enormous den next to the bedroom two of the walls were lined with bookshelves that reached from floor to ceiling. She paused in front of one of the bookshelves, her gaze perusing the titles. She saw Shakespeare and Homer, Louis L'Amour and Stephen King, Tom Clancy and Anne Rice's Vampire books, as well as numerous books on history and geography, medicine, art, literature, and folklore, many of which were written in foreign languages.

"Have you read all these?" she asked, amazed by the quantity and variety of books. Some of them appeared quite old, judging by their fragile covers.

"Not all," Jason replied.

Leanne smiled, thinking it would take a hundred years to read every book on the shelves.

Turning away from the bookshelf, she glanced around the room. A beautiful black marble fireplace took up most of the third wall. The fourth wall contained a large window that was covered with heavy floor-to-ceiling drapes. A big, comfortable-looking black leather chair stood in front of the hearth.

Leaving the den, she peered into the kitchen, noting that it was stark and white. Again, she was overcome with the impression that, like the bedroom, the kitchen was rarely, if ever, used. But then maybe that wasn't so strange. Jason was a bachelor, after all. Maybe he ate all his meals out.

"So," he said as they returned to the living room, "what do you think?"

"It's very nice." She made a broad gesture with her hand. "I think I like the den the best."

"Yes, it's my favorite, too."

Leanne crossed the floor to the picture window that overlooked the backyard and pulled back the heavy curtains. A full moon hovered low in the sky, bathing the grass and the outbuildings in shimmering silver.

"Is your horse here?"

"Yes."

"Could I see it?"

"If you like."

Taking her hand, he led her out the back door and down a narrow flight of steps. They followed a narrow winding path edged with ferns and willow trees until they reached a large corral.

Jason whistled softly, and a dark shape materialized out of the shadows.

"Hello, Lucifer," he murmured, scratching the big black horse between its ears. "I've brought someone to meet you."

Leanne held out her hand, and the stallion danced away, its nostrils flaring, its eyes showing white.

"I don't think he likes me," she said, disappointment evident in her voice.

"We don't get many visitors here," Jason remarked. Slipping through the rails, he walked up to the horse, and stroked its neck.

Like all animals, the stallion had been wary of him in the beginning, but Jason had used his dark power to overcome the animal's instinctive fear.

Now, he vaulted lightly onto Lucifer's back and rode around the corral, guiding the stallion with the pressure of his knees.

Leanne clapped her hands in delight. "That's wonderful!" she exclaimed, charmed by the fluid grace of the horse, the sheer masculine beauty of the man. They looked as though they'd been made for each other, the devil black horse and the raven-haired man.

Jason rode effortlessly, his body in complete harmony with the stallion's. Like a dark angel, he rode bareback in the light of the moon.

After a few moments he rode toward the gate and slipped the latch. Riding up to Leanne, he held out his hand.

"Don't you need a bridle or something to control him?" she asked dubiously.

"No. He responds to my voice and the pressure of my legs."

The stallion's ears twitched as Jason lifted Leanne onto its back, and then they were riding down a sloping path that led to a trail into the hills.

Jason breathed in Leanne's scent as they rode through the quiet night, the only sound that of the horse's muffled hoofbeats and the chirping of crickets.

His thighs cradled her buttocks, his arm circled her waist, the fall of her hair brushed his cheek. He had only to lean forward to press a kiss to the side of her neck, and as he did so, he felt the longing to sink his fangs into the soft skin of her neck, to taste the warm rush of her blood over his tongue.

She leaned against him, her back pressing against his chest, her nearness sparking the embers of desire that were ever present when she was near.

"Jason?"

He grunted in response, unable to speak past the loathsome need rising swiftly within him, the need to drink of her sweetness, to possess her fully.

"Could we stop here for a while?"

He glanced around. They were in a small glade surrounded by tall trees. Wordlessly, he slid from the back of the horse, then reached up to help Leanne dismount. His hands lingered at her waist, and he drew her up against him, letting her feel the evidence of his desire, afraid she would refuse him, more afraid that she might not.

Leanne took a deep breath. It was all happening so quickly. She felt the pull of his gaze, felt herself falling helplessly in love with a man she hardly knew?a man she wanted to know better.

"Jason, tell me I'm not dreaming, that the magic between us is real and not just something I've imagined because I want it so badly."

"It's real. Never doubt that."

His eyes were dark, the blue-black before a storm. A lock of hair, as black as ink fell across his forehead. For a moment she felt as if he were a part of the night, a dark phantom who had stepped out of one of her dreams.

Compelled by a need she never thought to question, she reached up to touch his cheek, to assure herself he was real.

"Leanne." He murmured her name in a voice filled with longing, and she had no thought to deny him.

She lifted her face, eager for his kiss, her eyelids fluttering down as his head bent toward hers.

He hesitated only a moment, battling the ancient urge to drive his fangs into her throat, to mingle her blood with his.

Instead, he kissed her gently, careful not to bruise her tender flesh. As if she were made of glass that might shatter at the slightest touch, he held her in his arms, his body basking in her warmth, in the essence of life that flowed through her.

Holding her close, he was keenly aware of the vast gulf between them. She was light and hope and innocence, children playing in the sun, lovers strolling on the beach on a hot summer day, all the things that were forever lost to him. He was the essence of darkness. It permeated his life and shrouded his soul. He groaned low in his throat, his arms tightening around her, as he sought to draw a part of her goodness into himself.

In the beginning, after he had resigned himself to Jolene's loss, to the fact that he was forever different, forever cursed, he had gloried in being a vampire. His hearing was keen, his eyesight much improved. He discovered he could cover great distances with preternatural speed. He had thought the taste of blood would disgust him, but it was a part of what he had become, and he had learned to accept it. What could not be changed must be endured.

In the beginning he had not realized how long forever was. He had not understood how truly alienated he was from the rest of mankind. With the coming of awareness, he had lost himself in learning. Later, he had discovered to his amazement that he could paint, and he had spent a century perfecting his talent, and when he grew bored with painting, he had tried his hand at writing.

It had come easily to him, and he had written scores of novels, many of which he had sold. And when writing lost its charm, he had turned into a vagabond, traveling from one end of the world to the other, but nowhere had he found a sense of home, of belonging, and so he had come back to America, a land where the bizarre was taken for granted, a place where a man who lived like a recluse was not considered odd at all.

But now Leanne was here, in his arms, and for the first time in three hundred years he felt a sense of belonging.

"Leanne," he murmured. "Can you save me, I wonder."

She drew back, a frown furrowing her brow. "Save you?"

Only then did he realize he'd spoken aloud.

"Save you from what?"

"Nothing." He gazed into her eyes, knowing the hunger was glowing in his own. "We'd better go back."

She didn't argue, only continued to stare up at him, her expression filled with concern and another emotion he could not quite fathom. Was it fear?

And then, to his surprise, she gently stroked his cheek. "Don't be afraid, Jason," she said quietly. "You're not alone anymore."

Before he could absorb the meaning of her words, a dog came charging through the trees, saliva dripping from its massive jaws.

Instantly, Jason thrust Leanne behind him, putting himself between her and the animal's slathering jaws. A sharp command kept Lucifer from bolting down the hill.

Summoning his dark power, Jason fixed his gaze on the dog. As though it had slammed into a brick wall, the beast came to an abrupt halt. Whining softly, it eyed Jason for a moment, then turned and ran, its tail between its legs.

Leanne blew out the breath she'd been holding. Never had she seen anything like that in her life.

"We'd best go," Jason said, and before she had time to argue, before she had time to ask questions, he lifted her onto the back of the horse, then swung up effortlessly behind her and kicked the stallion into a canter.

When they reached the house, he lifted Leanne from the back of the horse, then put the stallion into the corral and latched the gate.

"Jason, that dog?"

"It's getting late." He drew her into his arms and kissed her. "Will you be all right getting home?"

"Fine," she murmured, all thought of the dog forgotten in the afterglow of his kiss.

"Will I see you tomorrow?"

"I'm counting on it."

Jason nodded. He yearned to read her mind, to discover what she thought of him, but for the first time in his life, he could not bring himself to steal his way into another's thoughts.

"Goodnight, Jason. Sleep well."

He kissed her once more, briefly, sweetly, and then, reluctantly, he let her go. Already, he could feel dawn coming, feel the heavy lassitude stealing over his body, draining his strength, dragging him down, down, into darkness.

His steps were heavy as he made his way to the basement. Hollywood might insist that their vampires sleep in silk-lined coffins, but then Hollywood perpetuated a lot of myths that had no basis in fact. He had no need to rest in a coffin; indeed, he found the idea macabre. Instead, he preferred to pass the daylight hours resting in a corner of the cellar, his head and shoulders covered by a patchwork quilt similar to the one he had once shared with Jolene.