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He swore softly, plagued by his unnatural hunger, the same unrelenting hunger that had been his downfall. Damn! How was he to have known that the pretty young woman whose maidenhead and blood he had taken had been the only daughter of a powerful wizard? Drunk with wrath, Vilnius had called down a horrible curse upon them both, on Rourke for defiling his daughter, and on his daughter for lying with a man who was not a man at all, though she'd had no idea, before or after, what manner of creature she had taken to her bed. Rourke had pleaded with Vilnius to relent. Ana Luisa had begged for mercy, but to no avail. Rourke had listened in horror as Vilnius had said the words that imprisoned him, watched helplessly as the wizard had pronounced the same horrible curse on his own daughter.
And now he was here, condemned to this hellish existence, denied the pleasures of the flesh, with no way to ease the awful hunger that burned through him with every waking moment. Three hundred years of torment for thirty minutes of pleasure! He slammed his hand on the rock. Dammit, where was the justice in that?
He cursed again, frustrated by his helplessness. He had been trapped in this nightmare for three centuries and only in the last few weeks had he regained strength enough to be able to move around within his pictorial prison.
Much had changed in the last three centuries. Though his view of the world was limited to what he could see from the inside of the art galleries or private homes where the painting had resided, he was well aware that life as he had once known it no longer existed. Automobiles had replaced the horse as a means of transportation. Electricity now provided power and lights, although candles were still used on various occasions. Men and women wore strange clothing, and far less of it! People worried about things that had been unheard of in his time, like the rising price of gasoline and global warming, swine flu, terrorists, and weapons of mass destruction. He had watched scenes of warfare in far-off lands, noting that mankind had learned to kill far more efficiently. In his time, a strong man armed with a good sword might kill half a dozen of his enemies in battle. Today, one terrorist with a car bomb could destroy a building along with every man, woman, and child in the vicinity.
Rourke placed his hands on the thick glass that enclosed his prison and stared into the darkness visible beyond the front window of the art gallery. The silent beauty of the night called to him, teasing him, tempting him. The hunger burned hot and deep in his belly, an insatiable hunger that had not been fed for three hundred years. Had he still possessed a soul, he would gladly have traded it for one drop of rich red blood, for one moment of relief from the constant pain. He curled his hands into tight fists as he wondered how much longer he could endure this existence before he went completely mad.
Pressing his forehead against the cool glass, he closed his eyes. And the image of the woman appeared in his mind. Tall and slender, she was, with hair like fine black silk, and the bluest eyes he had ever seen. She had come to the gallery every night since his painting arrived. And every night she stood in front of it, a bemused expression on her lovely heart-shaped face. He knew, of course, what it was that troubled her. Paintings were supposed to be immutable, unchanging, inert. It bothered her that he was rarely in the same place twice. He might have found her confusion amusing if not for the hunger that tormented him, the anger that plagued him, the never-ending desire for freedom that haunted his every waking moment.
Freedom! He craved it with every fiber of his being even as he yearned to taste the warm, crimson nectar of life on his tongue. He longed to draw a breath of free air again. To feel the wind on his face, to know the pleasure that came from a woman's touch, to feel a woman's body writhing in ecstasy beneath his own. He yearned to feel the earth beneath his feet, to run through the shifting shadows of the night in search of prey, to listen to the sweet symphony of a thousand beating hearts.
To be whole again, to have substance, to have depth and breadth, to indulge his senses, all of them. He was weary, so indescribably weary of his current state of being. He might have taken his own life had it been possible. He would certainly claim the life of the wizard who had cursed him should he ever have the chance!
Revenge. The thought of it was the only pleasure left to him in the unchanging hell of his existence.
Chapter 3
Friday night after work, Kari hurried down Third Street, her shoulders hunched against the rising wind. People rushed past her, eager to reach the shelter of their homes before the storm broke. Kari was eager to get home, too, but first she had to prove to herself once and for all that she hadn't seen what she thought she had seen. Otherwise, she was going to spend the rest of the weekend wondering if she really was losing her mind.
When she saw the painting again, she would prove to herself once and for all that she wasn't crazy. She would see that the figure of the man was walking in the moonlit woods, just as he had been the first time she had seen the painting, and then she would leave the gallery and never, ever return.
Opening the door, she stepped inside, grateful to be out of the cold and the wind. She nodded at the owner's brother, Felix Underwood, who smiled and nodded in return. Felix was looking after the shop while his sister, Janice, was on vacation. Every time Kari saw Felix, she was reminded of Walter Matthau. The two looked enough alike to be twins.
"I knew you would come again tonight," Felix Underwood said cheerfully. "You should buy the Vilnius. I'll make you a good deal."
"About that painting," Kari said, "have you ever noticed anything strange about it?"
"Strange?" Mr. Underwood looked up at the ceiling, as if he might find the answer to her question lurking there.
"Mr. Underwood?"
He shook his head. "Nothing strange comes to mind, but then, I don't really know anything about fine art," he admitted with an affable grin. "I'm a plumber by trade."
"Do you know where the painting came from?"
"I believe Janice bought it at an estate sale a few weeks ago. I seem to recall her telling me that the former owner, Mrs. Amelia Van Der Hyde, had kept it in the attic."
"In the attic? Do you know why she kept it there?"
Felix Underwood shrugged. "Perhaps she grew tired of it."
Or perhaps it had spooked Mrs. Van Der Hyde, too, Kari thought, though she didn't say so aloud.
"Shall I ring it up for you?"
"No, thank you." Kari glanced only briefly at the other works of art as she made her way toward the back corner of the gallery where the Vilnius sat on a large easel.
Taking a deep breath, she stopped in front of the painting, her gaze seeking the painted figure of the man who plagued her thoughts by day and haunted her dreams at night.
