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“I don’t know.”
Rising, she went to stand behind him; her arms slipping around his waist. “Is it Cara? Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“No.” He shook his head. “It’s probably nothing.”
“If it was nothing, you wouldn’t be so worried.”
Turning in her arms, he brushed a kiss across her cheek. “I’m going out for a while.”
“Where are you going?”
“Just out for a walk. I won’t be long.”
Grabbing his cloak, Roshan left the house. Standing in the shadows, he let his preternatural powers probe the night. Although he sensed nothing amiss, he couldn’t shake the feeling that danger lurked nearby.
Anton Loken Bouchard stood across the street from DeLongpre’s house. Hidden by the darkness, he watched the vampire walk down the long driveway and stop at the gate in the high fence that surrounded the property. Hatred rose up within Anton as he stared at the creature who had killed the father he had never known. Ever since Anton had been old enough to understand, his mother had told him stories of his father. Anthony Loken had been a great man, a wizard without equal. He had been on the verge of a fantastic discovery that would have benefited all mankind when Roshan DeLongpre killed him in a jealous rage.
Every year, on the anniversary of his father’s death, Anton accompanied his mother to the site of his father’s grave, where he lit a black candle and vowed to avenge his father’s death. As someone had once said, revenge was a dish best served cold. Over the years, Anton’s grief and anger had coalesced into a hard icy lump in the core of his being. Avenging his father’s death was the only thing that could melt that painful lump. Revenge. It was so near, so near he could almost taste it. It would be sweet, indeed.
Humming softly, he turned and headed for home. He would be at The Nocturne again tomorrow night. He had a feeling he would find Cara there. It wouldn’t take much to seduce her. She had been sheltered her whole life. A show of interest, a few chaste kisses, and she would be his for the taking.
Cara thought about Anton at work the following day. She couldn’t decide how she felt about him. He was polite and handsome, and yet there was something about him that bothered her. She wasn’t sure what it was that rubbed her the wrong way, but it made her wary and distrustful. Her father had told her to always trust her instincts, though in her sheltered life she’d had little need.
With a shake of her head, she laughed it off. She was just being silly and overly suspicious because she had so little experience with men. Instead of looking for questionable behavior where there was none, she should be flattered that a handsome man found her interesting and wanted to see her again.
He had seemed amused when she told him she worked in a library, but she loved her job—not that she had to work. After all, her father was a rich man, but if she didn’t work, what else would she do with her days? Besides, as far back as she could remember, she had loved books and loved to read; it didn’t matter what. If it had words, she read it. She was certain that a good part of her love of books had been inherited from her father. His library at home was enormous, with bookcases that reached from wall to wall and floor to ceiling. The shelves were filled with a variety of books, many of them rare first editions. Some were so old they were in danger of disintegrating. A few were truly ancient, like the medieval Psalter that dated back to the fourteenth century. It was Cara’s favorite book, a beautiful work of art, carefully written and illustrated by hand. Her father also owned a Bible handwritten by monks. Each page was in itself a work of art. He had other books and writings that were also truly unique. Some were written on tree bark, others on bamboo or cloth or silk. One had been engraved on metal plates. He had a folding book that came from Burma. It was called a parabaiks, and it told the life of Buddha in words and pictures.
Yes, she loved books. They were more than just words and pictures. When she had been a child, they had been her companions during the day when her schoolwork was done. They had taken her to faraway places and fueled her imagination. She had lost herself in the pages of her favorite stories. She had been Sleeping Beauty and Cinderella and Snow White. She had been the beautiful fairy princess, the valiant heroine who saved the prince, the benevolent queen who overcame the evil wizard and freed the slaves.
One of the reasons Cara loved working in the library was the hope that she could instill her love of books in the hearts and minds of the children.
She glanced up at the clock, then plucked one of her favorite books from the shelf. It was story time, the best part of the day. Taking her place, she smiled at the children sitting in a half-circle on the floor. They smiled back at her, their eyes alight with anticipation.
Cara opened the book and began to read. “Once upon a time, in a land far, far away…”
The library closed at nine. Cara bid good night to her coworkers and left by the side door. After getting into her car, she sat there a moment, trying to decide if she should go home or go to The Nocturne. She had told Anton the odds were good she would be there tonight, and she always kept her word. Of course, she hadn’t really given him her word…she tapped her fingertips on the steering wheel, puzzled by her ambivalent feelings about him. Last night, she had been excited by his attention, but now…
She shook off her doubts. What was she worrying about? She was just going to meet him for a drink after work, for goodness’ sake. What harm could there be in that? Besides, she had to see Anton again so she could decide how she really felt about him, and Frank the Hulk would be close by.
With her mind made up, she put the key in the ignition and drove to The Nocturne.
Chapter 4
Vince Cordova sat at a booth in a back corner of The Nocturne, idly sipping from a glass of what looked like red wine. He was new to this town, to this place. New to the nocturnal life. He looked at the wannabe vampires that filled the club. Men and women alike, they were all clad in black—black shirts or blouses, black pants or skirts, long black cloaks, some lined in white, some in blood-red satin. The women wore black eye shadow and eyeliner and wore matching lipstick. Here and there he caught a flash of fang—fake, of course.
Vince ran his tongue over his own teeth, felt the needle-sharp prick of his fangs. They were the real deal and he still wasn’t used to them. Or the ever-present yearning for blood.
He stared into the glass in his hand. The liquid soothed the craving but he found no real satisfaction in it. There was nothing like drinking from the source, inhaling the scent of it, feeling the warmth slide over your tongue and trickle down your throat. Damn! Just thinking about it stirred his hunger.
