the oversize antique oak rocking chair, and allowed his muscles to relax. His head fell heavily back against the cushion, and he reached, without looking, for the remote control on the pedestal table beside him. He thumbed a button. His heavy lids fell closed as music surrounded him.
A smile touched his lips as the bittersweet notes brought a memory. He’d seen young Amadeus perform in Paris. 1775, had it been? So many years. He’d been enthralled—an ordinary boy of seventeen, awestruck by the gift of another, only two years older. The sublime feeling had remained with him for days after that performance, he recalled. He’d talked about it until his poor mother’s ears were sore. He’d had Jaqueline on the brink of declaring she’d fallen in love with a man she’d never met, and she’d teased and cajoled until he’d managed to get her a seat at his side for the next night’s performance. His sister had failed to see what caused him to be so impressed. “He is good,” she’d declared, fanning herself in the hot, crowded hall. “But I’ve seen better.” He smiled at the memory. She hadn’t been referring to the young man’s talents, but to his appearance. He’d caught her peering over her fan’s lacy edge at a skinny dandy she considered “better.”
He sighed. He’d thought it tragic that a man of such genius had died at thirty-five. Lately he’d wondered if it was so tragic, after all. Eric, too, had died at thirty-five, but in a far different manner. His was a living death. All things considered, he hadn’t convinced himself that Mozart had suffered the less desirable fate. Of the two of them, Mozart must be the most serene. He couldn’t possibly be the most alone. There were times when he wished the guillotine had got to him before Roland had.
Such maudlin thoughts on such a delightfully snowy night? I don’t recall you were all that eager to meet the blade, at the time.
Roland! Eric’s head snapped up, buzzing with energy now that the sun had set. He rose and hurriedly released the locks, to run through the hall and take the stairs two at a time. He yanked the front door open just as his dearest friend mounted the front steps. The two embraced violently, and Eric drew Roland inside.
Roland paused in the center of the room, cocking his head and listening to Mozart’s music. “What’s this? Not a recording, surely! It sounds as if the orchestra were right here, in this very room!”
Eric shook his head, having forgotten that the last time he’d seen Roland he hadn’t yet installed the state-of-the-art stereo system, with speakers in every room. “Come, I’ll show you.” He drew his friend toward the equipment, stacked near the far wall, and withdrew a CD from its case. Roland turned the disc in his hand, watching the light dance in vivid rainbows of green, blue and yellow.
“They had no such inventions where I have been.” He returned the disc to its case, and replaced it on the shelf.
“Where have you been, you recluse? It’s been twenty years.” Roland had not aged a day. He still had the swarthy good looks he’d had as a thirty-two-year-old mortal and the build of an athlete.
“Ahh, paradise. A tiny island in the South Pacific, Eric. No meddling humans to contend with. Just simple villagers who accept what they see instead of feeling the need to explain it. I tell you, Eric, it’s a haven for our kind. The palms, the sweet smell of the night—”
“How did you live?” Eric knew he sounded doubtful. He’d always despised the loneliness of this existence. Roland embraced it. “Don’t tell me you’ve taken to tapping the veins of innocent natives.”
Roland’s brows drew together. “You know better. The animals there keep me in good stead. The wild boar are particularly—”
“Pigs’ blood!” Eric shouted. “I think the sun must have penetrated your coffin! Pigs’ blood! Ach!”
“Wild boars, not pigs.”
“Great difference, I’ll wager.” Eric urged Roland toward the velvet-covered antique settee. “Sit. I’ll get refreshment to restore your senses.”
Roland watched suspiciously as Eric moved behind the bar, to the small built-in refrigerator. “What have you, a half dozen freshly killed virgins stored in that thing?”
Eric threw back his head and laughed, realizing just how long it had been since he’d done so. He withdrew a plastic bag from the refrigerator, and rummaged beneath the bar for glasses. When he handed the drink to Roland, he felt himself thoroughly perused.
“Is it the girl’s nightly cries that trouble you so?”
Eric blinked. “You’ve heard her, too?”
“I hear her cries when I look inside your mind, Eric. They are what brought me to you. Tell me what this is about.”
Eric sighed, and took a seat in a claw-footed, brocade cushioned chair near the fireplace. Few coals glowed in this hearth. He really ought to kindle it. Should some nosy human manage to scale the gate and breach the security systems, they might well notice that smoke spiraled from the chimney, but no fire warmed the grate.
Reading his thoughts, Roland set his glass aside. “I’ll do that. You simply talk.”
Eric sighed again. Where to begin? “I came to know of a child, right after you left last time. A beautiful girl, with raven curls and cherub’s cheeks and eyes like glossy bits of coal.”
“One of the Chosen?” Roland sat forward.
“Yes. She was one of those rare humans with a slight psychic connection to the undead, although, like most, she was completely unaware of it. I’ve found that there are ways of detecting the Chosen, aside from our natural awareness of them, you know.”
Roland looked around from where he’d hunkered before the hearth. “Really?”
Eric nodded. “All those humans who can be transformed, those we call Chosen, share a common ancestor. Prince Vlad the Impaler.” He glanced sharply at Roland. “Was he the first?”
Roland shook his head. “I know your love of science, Eric, but some things are better left alone. Go on with your story.”
Eric felt a ripple of exasperation at Roland’s tight-lipped stance on the subject. He swallowed his irritation and continued. “They also share a rare blood antigen. We all had it, as humans. It’s known as Belladonna. Only those with both these unlikely traits can become vampires. They are the Chosen.”
“Doesn’t seem like an earth-shattering discovery to me, Eric. We’ve always been able to sense the Chosen ones, instinctively.”
“But other humans haven’t. Some of them have now discovered the same things I have. DPI knows about it. They can pinpoint Chosen humans, and then watch them, and wait for one of us to approach. I believe that is precisely what has happened with Tamara.”
“Perhaps you need to back up a bit, old friend,” Roland said gently.
Eric pushed one hand through his black hair, lifting it from his shoulders and clenching a fist in the tangles. “I couldn’t stay away from her, Roland. God help me, I tried, but I couldn’t. Something in her tugged at me. I used to look in on her as she slept. You should’ve seen her then. Sooty lashes on her rosy cheeks, lips like a small pink bow.” He looked up, feeling absurdly defensive. “I never meant her harm, you know. How could I? I adored the child.”
Roland frowned. “This should not trouble you. It happens all the time, this unseen bond between
