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She was about to open the car door when she saw the silver-gray Mercedes turn the corner.
With a wordless cry, Regan started the engine. Tires screeching, she pulled away from the curb, her heart pounding a rapid tattoo in her chest, her palms damp on the steering wheel as panic gripped her. She couldn't see who was driving the silver Mercedes, didn't want to see who it was because she was afraid, so afraid she could taste it in the back of her throat. She told herself there was nothing to be afraid of. She had destroyed vampires before, she could do so again. She had a pistol loaded with six silver bullets that would stop a vampire cold. That knowledge did nothing to allay her fears.
She drove straight to You Bet Your life Park, certain that the only one who could help her, the only one who could save her from the unknown terror that stalked her, was the vampire Santiago.
Chapter 7
Santiago stood on the balcony of his apartment, enjoying the moonlight while savoring the sounds and smells of the night—the faint hum of a small white moth doing a dance of death with a streetlight, the rich earthy scent of dew-damp grass and flowering trees. Being a vampire had given him a keen appreciation for the beauty and mystery of the night. It was a different world after dark, one feared by mortals because their vision was limited, or perhaps because they were the predators by day, but at the setting of the sun, they were prey, like everything else.
So many things had changed since he was made, and yet much remained the same, like the age-old struggle between life and death, good and evil. Mankind had made great strides in some areas—the oceans and the air were clean again, cures had been found for most of the diseases that had plagued the world of men, cloning had never become as popular as scientists had predicted it would, nuclear weapons were no longer a threat. There were settlements on other planets now. Solar power had, for the most part, replaced electricity. And yet, in spite of all that, there were still wars and rumors of wars. Doing away with poverty had not done away with the urge to steal. Prejudice still reared its ugly head from time to time.
Santiago lifted his face to the sky. How many nights had he stood thus? After the first few hundred years, he had stopped counting. Mortal time no longer held any meaning for him. Indeed, there was little in his existence, other than the need for blood and a lingering need for vengeance, that held any appeal for him at all.
But now Vasile was here and all that had changed.
Santiago felt his fangs brush his tongue as an old and familiar hatred rose within him. But for Vasile, Marishka would be at his side, as she was meant to be. The Gypsy girl had been his first love, his only love, in all his long years of existence.
He closed his eyes and let her image rise to the surface—tall and slender, with deep brown eyes and ebony hair that fell in thick waves past her hips. Marishka had been his first and only fledgling. She had been but seventeen when, on a foolish whim, he had brought her across. He had immediately had second thoughts about what he had done. He had, however briefly, considered destroying her before she rose the next night, but there had been something about her, some intangible quality, that had stayed his hand, and then it was too late. The bond between them had grown stronger with each night they had spent together. He had loved her as he had loved no other, had planned to show her the world and all the wonders it contained. It had been a wonderful dream, one that had lasted less than a year. A dream that had died a violent and bloody death one bleak wintry afternoon…
The sound of screeching tires and the smell of fear on the wind chased the distant past from Santiago's mind and brought him back to the present.
He recognized the car and the woman's scent immediately. A heartbeat later, Vasile's stink was borne to him on the wings of an errant breeze.
A thought took Santiago to the edge of the park and the curb beyond.
He was waiting for her when the driver's side door flew open and Regan spilled out in a rush.
"Slow down, girl," Santiago admonished, capturing her in his embrace. "I have you."
She glanced over her shoulder. "Someone's following me! I'm sure of it."
"You are safe now." He tried to ignore the rapid beat of her heart, the scent of her blood, but it was impossible. Still, this was not the time to ponder what it would be like to drink of her sweetness, to carry her to his lair and possess her, fully and completely.
Using one hand, Santiago thrust Regan behind him, his gaze focused on the silver-gray Mercedes that was cruising slowly past the park. Due to the dark tint on the windows, Santiago knew Regan couldn't see the man behind the wheel, but Santiago saw the driver clearly enough. It was Vasile, just as he had known it would be.
Santiago's grip tightened on Regan's forearm, but his gaze never left Vasile's.
You will not have this one, Santiago vowed, and knew in that moment that Regan Delaney had come to mean far more to him than he had ever intended. But then, so had Marishka. Knowing her, loving her, he had planned to spend the rest of his existence with her. Until Vasile found their lair…
"Santiago, you're hurting me."
Regan's voice chased all thought of Marishka from his mind. He murmured an apology as he released her.
"Was that him?" Regan glanced at her arm. His grip had left a red imprint on her skin. There would be a bruise there tomorrow. "Was that the werewolf?"
He nodded curdy. "Vasile, yes."
"Why is he following me?"
Santiago's gaze rested on her face. "Believe me, you do not want to know."
She started to argue with him until she saw the taut line of his jaw, the feral expression in his eyes. Maybe he was right. Maybe she didn't want to know.
"I think you would be wise to spend the night here, with me," Santiago remarked.
Before she could protest, he was taking hold of her arm again, leading her across the sidewalk and into the park's silent shadows.
The hair prickled along Regan's nape as they entered the grounds. A number of men and women, most of them dressed in black from head to foot, strolled through the park or sat on the benches scattered along the walkways. It was like a scene from some bizarre dream, seeing the vampires moving through the park in the middle of the night. She reminded herself that no matter how odd it seemed to her, the night was their day. Sometimes, on summer evenings, mortals paused on the sidewalk, their eyes wide with curiosity or narrowed in morbid fascination as they watched the vampires.
Santiago's apartment was on the top floor of a five-story building. He opened the door with a wave of his hand and then stood aside so she could precede him.
