to help and yet you argue. Can it be you are eager to have your head in a basket?” Eric moved the candle away, and Roland lowered the hand and faced him again. “In your fourth year you fell into the Channel. Nearly drowned, Eric. Have you no memory of the man who pulled you, dripping, from the cold water? The eve of your tenth birthday celebration you were nearly flattened by a runaway carriage. Do you not recall the man who yanked you from the path of those hooves?”
The truth of the man’s words hit Eric like a blow, and he flinched. The face so white it appeared chalked, the eyes so black one couldn’t see where the iris ended and the pupil began—it was the face of the man who’d been there at both those times, he realized, though he wished to deny it. Something about the man struck him afraid.
“You mustn’t fear me, Eric Marquand. I am your friend. You must believe that.”
The dark gaze bored into Eric as the man spoke in a tone that was oddly hypnotic. Eric felt himself relax. “I believe, and I am grateful. But a friend is of little use to me now. I know not even the number of hours left me. Is it full dark yet?”
“It is, lad, else I could not be here. But time is short, dawn comes soon. It took longer than I anticipated to bribe the guards to allow me this visit. If you want to live, you must trust me and do as I say without question.” He paused, arching his brows and awaiting a response.
Eric only nodded, unable to think for the confusion in his brain.
“Good, then,” Roland said. “Now, remove the cravat.”
Eric worked at the ragged, dirty linen with leaden fingers. “Tell me what you plan, monsieur.”
“I plan to see to it that you do not die,” he said simply, as if it were already done.
“I fear no one can prevent tomorrow’s fate.” Eric finally loosed the knot and slid the cravat from his neck.
“You will not die, Eric. Tomorrow, or any other day. Come here.”
Eric’s feet seemed to become one with the floor. He couldn’t have stepped forward had he wanted to. His eyes widened and he felt his throat tighten.
“I know your fear, man, but think! Am I more fearsome than the guillotine?” He shouted it, and Eric stiffened and looked around him, but not one body stirred.
“Why—why don’t they wake?” Roland came forward then, gripping his shoulders. “I don’t understand. Why don’t they wake?” Eric asked again.
The guard pounded on the door. “Time’s up!”
“Five minutes more!” Roland’s voice boomed, nearly, Eric thought, rattling the walls. “I’ll make it worth your while, man! Now go!”
Eric heard the guard grumble, and then his footsteps shuffle away from the door as he called, “Two minutes, then. No more.”
“Blast it, lad. It has to be done. Forgive me for not finding a way to make it less frightening!” With those words Roland pulled Eric to him with unnatural strength. He pressed Eric’s head back with the flat of one hand, and even as Eric struggled to free himself Roland’s teeth sank into his throat.
When he opened his mouth to release a scream of unbridled horror, something wet sealed his lips. It sickened him when he understood that it was a wrist, gashed open and pulsing blood. Roland forced the severed vein to him and Eric had no choice but to swallow the vile fluid that filled his mouth.
Vile? No. But warm and salty. With the first swallow came the shocking realization that he wanted more. What was happening to him? Had he lost his sanity? Yes! He must have, for here he was, allowing another man’s blood to assuage his painful hunger, his endless thirst. He didn’t even cower when the word rushed through his brain like a chilling breeze. Vampire. Fear filled his heart even as Roland’s blood filled his body. He felt himself weakening, sinking into a dark abyss from which he wanted no escape. It was a far better death than the one the dawn would bring. The blood drugged him, and Roland stepped away.
Eric couldn’t stand upright. He felt emptied of everything in him, and he sank to the floor. He didn’t feel the impact. His head floated somewhere above him and his skin pricked with a million invisible needles. “Wh-what have you d-done to me?” He had to force the words out, and they slurred together as if he were drunk. He couldn’t feel his tongue anymore.
“Sleep, my son. When next you wake you will be free of this cell. I promise you that. Sleep.”
Eric fought to keep his eyes from closing, but they did. Vaguely he felt cold hands replacing his soiled cravat. Then he heard Roland pound on the door and call for the guard.
“He’ll not live long enough for his execution, I fear.” Roland’s voice seemed to come from far away.
“The hell, you say! He was fine—”
“Look for yourself, man. See how he lies there? Dead before the dawn, I’ll wager. I’ll send a coach for the body. See to it, will you?”
“For a price, sir.”
“Here, then. And there will be more to follow, if you do it precisely as I say.”
“Well, now, if he dies, like you say, I’ll see he gets in your coach. But if not, I’ll be here to see he keeps his other appointment. Either way he ends up the same. In the ground, eh, mister?” Harsh laughter filled the cell and the door slammed.
1
In the dream she was running. From something, toward something. Someone. She plunged through dense forest woven with vines and brambles that clawed at her legs, snared her, pulled her back. Swirls of smoky mist writhed, serpentlike, around her calves. She couldn’t even see where her feet touched the ground. All the while she kept calling for him, but, as always, when she woke she couldn’t re member his name.
Jet hair stuck to her face, glued there by tears and perspiration. Her lungs swelled like those of a marathon runner after a race. She dragged in breath after ragged breath. Her heart felt ready to explode. Her head spun in ever-tightening circles and she had to close her eyes tightly against the horrible dizziness. She sat up quickly, pushing the damp hair from her forehead, and glanced at the clock beside the bed and then at the fading light beyond the window.
She needn’t have done so. The dream assaulted her at the same time each day, just one part of her increasingly irregular sleep patterns. Nighttime insomnia, daytime lethargy and vivid nightmares that were always the same had become a predictable part of her existence. She’d made a habit of rushing to her room for a nap the second she got home from work, knowing it would be the only sleep she was likely to get. She’d sleep like the dead until just before dusk, only to be wakened by that frightening, lingering dream.
The effects slowly faded, and Tamara got to her feet, pulled on her satin robe and padded to the adjoining bathroom, leaving tracks in the deep, silvery pile of the carpet. She twisted the knob on the oversize tub and sprinkled a handful of bath oil beads into the rising water. As the stream of water bubbled and spurted she heard an urgent knock, and she went to the door.
Daniel’s silver brows bunched together over pale blue, concern-filled eyes. “Tam? Are you all right?”
She closed her eyes slowly and sighed. She must have cried out again. It was bad enough to be certain
