know, that’s what I like best about you freakin’ vamps. You feel pain so much more than humans do.”
“Enough!”
He shouted it, using the full power of his voice—or she guessed it was full power, but maybe not, maybe he had a lot more he wasn’t tapping into just yet. But either way, the sound was deep and as potent as if her head were inside a giant bell. It rang in her ears, split her head and temporarily deafened her.
She pressed her hands to her ears and closed her eyes until the reverberations stopped bouncing around her brain. Then, slowly, she lowered her hands, opened her eyes, lifted her head. He was still standing there in front of her, staring hard, anger glinting in his jet black eyes.
“I’ve told you, I’m sorry about the coffin. It was the only way.”
She narrowed her eyes on him, about to cut lose with another stream of insults, accusations and possibly profanity, but then she caught a glimpse of the space beyond him, and she was shocked into silence.
Stone walls climbed to towering vaulted ceilings. Inverted domes housed crystal chandeliers. Sconces in the walls looked as if they could hold actual torches. The windows were huge, arched at the top, with thick glass panes so old the night beyond them appeared distorted. Sheet-draped shapes were the only furniture in the place. And a wide curving staircase wound upward and out of sight.
“This is…your place?” She swallowed hard as she took in the dust and cobwebs; then, turning slowly, she started a little at the sight of the two coffins lying side by side, both of them open. “Doesn’t look as if anyone’s used it in a while.”
“It’s been a long time since anyone has lived here, yes.”
Blinking, she went to the nearest window, passing a double fireplace that took up most of one wall on the way. Wiping the dust from the glass with her palm, she stared outside.
The impression was of sheer height and rugged, barren rock. The moon hung low in the sky, nearly full and milky white. It spilled its light over cliffs, harsh outcroppings of rock and boulders jutting upward from far, far below. Beyond the cliffs, she could see grassy hills and valleys. But around this place, there was none of that. It was dark. It was bereft. Even the few pathetic trees that clung for their lives to the steep cliff-sides were scrawny and dead looking.
Stormy swallowed the dryness in her throat—she could barely do it. She was dehydrated, thirsty, starving and a little bit scared. This didn’t look like any island off North Carolina.
“Where the hell are we, Vlad?”
2
Vlad kept his distance from the others who were visiting the museum. Mortals. Tourists. Groups of children being led about by young tour guides. He slipped into the Anatolian exhibit, which was housed in a room all its own, and stared at the ring in its glass case. Memories came flooding into his mind, into his soul, but he drove them back. It wasn’t easy. He recalled taking the precious gem from his little finger and slipping it onto Elisabeta’s forefinger, the only one it came close to fitting. He remembered how, within an hour, she’d wound it around with twine, to make it fit more snugly, and how seeing it on her made him feel proud and protective. It was large and strong and powerful on her small, delicate hand. It seemed to denote his claim to her. It seemed to mark her as his own.
“Sir? Excuse me, sir?” a woman asked.
Vlad blinked the memories away and turned to face the uniformed woman who had approached him. He hadn’t even been aware of her presence, much less of how much time had passed while he’d stood there staring at the ring.
“The museum is closing sir. You’ll have to leave now.”
“Ahh. Yes, of course.”
She left him alone, and he turned again to the ring. It was the one. He’d found it at last. And yes, he would leave the museum—for now. But no power on earth would keep that ring from him.
He closed his eyes, turned and left the museum, but as soon as he stepped out into the fresh air of the night, he sensed something else, something he had not expected.
“Tempest,” he whispered. And he turned slowly, scenting the air, feeling for her energy, certain she was close.
And she was. He began to move, barely looking, drawn by the feel of her. Like following the trail left by a comet’s tail, he homed in on her warmth, her light, the sparkling energy that was hers alone.
He wouldn’t get too close. He couldn’t, not without running the risk of her knowing. In all these years, all this time, he hadn’t come close to her, despite the temptation he could barely resist. And as long as he’d kept his distance, Elisabeta had slept. She’d been dormant, deep inside Tempest. Somewhere. He knew she hadn’t left this plane. She hadn’t died or moved on. She was still there. He felt her there. But she hadn’t stirred.
As long as he stayed away from Tempest, he thought, she wouldn’t. It was easier on Beta that way, or he hoped it was. Let her rest and bide her time. But time—God, time was running out for both of them. And now that he’d found the ring, he almost didn’t dare to hope there could be a chance. Yet he couldn’t help but hope.
So he followed her trail as her presence hummed in his blood, stroked his senses like a bow over the strings of a violin, until his longing for her vibrated into a pure, demanding tone. It was more powerful now, he realized as he drew closer, than it had been before. Even harder to resist, perhaps because he was allowing himself to move closer to her than he had in sixteen years. It drew him, drove him, until he stood on the sidewalk beside a hotel, staring up at the room where every sense told him she was.
God, it was all he could do not to climb the wall and go to her.
Always before, he’d been prepared to resist his own urges. Always before, he’d had time to steel himself before getting within range of her energy. But this had been entirely unexpected. He hadn’t come here for this, for her. He’d come for the ring. His plans beyond that were uncertain. Without the scroll, the ring was useless.
Why was Tempest here? Had she come for the ring, as well? Why? How could she know?
He couldn’t let her obtain it, if that was her goal. For her to possess it would be far too dangerous.
As he stood there, staring up at the room, Tempest stepped out onto the balcony, leaned on the railing and gazed out into the night.
He couldn’t take his eyes from her. And his preternatural vision didn’t fail him. He managed to drink in every detail of her face in a way he hadn’t been close enough to do in far, far too long.
The blush of youth had faded from the body of the woman in which his love lay sleeping. In its place were the angles of a female in the prime of her life. Her face was thinner, her eyes harder, than they had been before. Her hair was still blond but not as pale; still short but less severe. Its softness framed her face and moved with every touch of the breeze. She still bore a striking resemblance to Elisabeta, her ancestor. He longed to bury his fingers in those sunlight-and-honey strands, to bury himself inside her; to feel her shiver under the power of his touch.
She wanted him.
God, he could feel her wanting him. Yearning for him. And she knew he was close. She sensed him, perhaps not as powerfully and clearly as he sensed her,
