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"What does any of this have to do with me?"
Santiago leaned back in his chair, wondering what she would say, what she would do, if he told her the truth.
Chapter 9
In spite of Santiago's suggestion that she wait until dusk, Regan put on her shoes, dropped her gun into her handbag, and after thanking him for letting her spend the night, she headed for home, one eye on the rearview mirror the whole way. Thankfully, there was no sign of a silver-gray Mercedes.
She breathed an audible sigh of relief when she was safe inside her own apartment. After the glaring white and sparse furnishings of Santiago's condo, her home seemed even more colorful and cluttered than usual, but that was the way she liked it, thank you very much. She liked the living room's dark green walls, the off-white sofa, the flowered red and orange sling-back chair. Modern art decorated the walls; a tall hand-blown vase held a bouquet of dried red, orange, and gold flowers. The kitchen was painted a cheerful yellow, her bedroom was a bold lilac. She knew her decor was out of fashion. The trend today was earth tones or high-contrast colors, like black and white, but she didn't care. She had never been one to follow trends in either furniture or fashion.
She went into the bedroom and changed her clothes, combed her hair and brushed her teeth, and felt a hundred percent better.
Going into the kitchen, she checked her messages. There was one from her mother, another from her older brother, Kevin, and two from Flynn, one 'just to say hello' and one inviting her out to dinner that night.
After calling Flynn to accept his offer, she threw a load of clothes in the washer, then went into her bedroom and turned on her computer. She spent two hours reading about werewolf mythology before weariness overcame her. Kicking off her shoes, she stretched out on the bed and was instantly asleep.
Santiago paced the living-room floor, a distant part of his mind wishing he was in his lair in the Byways. He rarely stayed at the condo in the park. Perhaps it was time to redecorate the place so that it would be more to his liking. The white walls made him feel like he was living in a padded cell. A few paintings would relieve the monotony. He glanced disdainfully at the brown furniture, left over from the previous tenant. Perhaps it was time to get rid of that, as well.
Pausing in front of the door, he swore softly. He didn't give a damn about the condo's furnishings. The whole place could burn down, for all he cared. The only reason redecorating the place had even occurred to him was because Regan didn't like it as it was. Ah, Regan, he couldn't help worrying about her. It had been years since his inability to walk in the sun had bothered him, but Regan's life hadn't been in danger before. She was home now, alone and vulnerable—and Vasile was somewhere in the city.
Santiago resumed his useless pacing. Regan had insisted she would be safe enough, that Vasile only killed after dark, but Santiago knew better. Marishka had been killed while the sun was high in the sky. He closed his eyes and his mind filled with horrific images…
He had awakened to the sound of Marishka's terrified cry. Fighting the Dark Sleep, Santiago had lifted up on his elbows and looked toward her resting place. Vasile loomed over her casket, his lips drawn back in a feral snarl as he drove a wooden stake into her heart and gave it a cruel twist.
Horror, anger, grief, and disbelief had spiraled through Santiago. With a murderous roar, he had leapt from his resting place and flown toward Marishka's attacker. Santiago would have torn Vasile limb from limb had he been able, but Vasile had escaped into the sun's light. Santiago had yearned to give chase but he dared not leave the protection of his lair while the sun was high in the sky. After closing the door to the crypt, he had gathered Marishka into his arms. He had withdrawn the stake from her limp body and tried to revive her. He had gashed his arm and forced his blood past her lips, but it was too late. Everlastingly too late. Perhaps she would have responded had she been older in the life, or had he been able to get to her sooner.
At dusk, he had found a new lair. Clutching Marishka close, he had surrendered to the Dark Sleep, all the while wishing that he had let Vasile destroy him, as well. He woke several nights later, his physical wounds healed, though his pain at Marishka's death burned as bright and clear as the night she had been destroyed. Lost in his grief, he had remained in his lair, Marishka's body cradled in his arms. He had lost count of how many nights he had held her wasted, mutilated body and wished for oblivion.
Reluctant to put her outside and let the sun destroy her remains, he had kept her with him until the stench of her decomposing body became unbearable. When he could put it off no longer, he had carried her out into the woods, covered her body with flowers, and left her where the dawn's light would find her.
It had taken Santiago over a year to find Vasile. No words were needed between them. They had fought a long and bloody battle and in the midst of it, Vasile had shifted. Santiago's fangs had pierced the werewolf's neck. The werewolf had savaged Santiago's throat. The resulting wounds had left both of them too sick and weak to continue the fight.
It wasn't until months later, when his grief at Marishka's death had begun to pale, that he realized the full implication of the change Vasile's bite had wrought: he was no longer rendered powerless by the rising of the sun.
Thinking perhaps the sun's light no longer had any effect on him, he had decided to put it to the test. That was a mistake he never made again. It had taken almost a year for the burns caused by the sun's light to heal.
And now, after all this time, Marishka's killer was here, in the city. His presence begged the question: Was Vasile here by design or coincidence? Santiago had counted Vasile as his enemy for centuries, always plagued by the mystery of why Vasile had killed Marishka. Had it been a random act? If Santiago hadn't awakened when Vasile attacked Marishka, he would likely have been the werewolf's next victim. But the question remained. Why had Vasile attacked Marishka? It was a question that had haunted him from the day of her death, and remained a mystery to this day. He had searched the world over for Vasile, his need for answers and his lust for vengeance driving him onward until, after more than three centuries, he had decided the werewolf was dead. Convinced that revenge would forever be beyond him, he had returned here, to the country where he had been born, and forged a new existence.
And now Vasile was here. Santiago smiled, his fangs lengthening in anticipation. Sooner or later, they would meet again and he would have his revenge at last.
Regan woke from a troubled sleep. Her dreams had been peppered with fangs and claws and hideously deformed bodies—and awash in blood. It had poured from wounds and water faucets and dripped from the sky like crimson rain.
