He clenched his hands into tight fists as he felt his anger and his hatred rise within him.
Vampires. They had been the bane of mankind since time began. The Undead could be found in every civilization known to man as far back as recorded time. Every culture had its own account of vampires, whether they were the tales of the vukodlak in Croatia or the lupi manari of Italy.
And just as there had always been vampires, there had always been vampire hunters.
For centuries, all the firstborn males in Duncan 's family had been hunters. Duncan knew his family was something of a rarity. Most hunters never married. Wives and children could all too easily become victims, pawns in a never-ending war between good and evil. He knew that being a hunter wasn't something that was passed from father to son in other parts of the world. Being a vampire hunter wasn't inherited.
Rather, it was a calling that might come to anyone, like being a priest.
Edward Ramsey was the only hunter Duncan had ever known who had been turned into the very thing he had once hated and hunted. He tried to imagine what it would be like if he, himself, were suddenly turned. How had Ramsey reconciled what he had been to what he had become? What was it like to hunt mortals instead of vampires? Did it have the same kick?
He thrust the thought away and concentrated on his reason for being in Pear Blossom Creek. Three women had been killed and drained of blood. All had been red-heads. All had been young and single and lived alone. It sounded like the work of Dimitri Falco, yet Henry Adams claimed that he had destroyed Falco inSouth America. Of course, it was always possible that Falco was dead and it was just a coincidence that the three murdered women had all been young with red hair.
Tom grunted softly. He had never believed in coincidence, which meant that either Falco was still alive or another vampire was copying his M.O. Either way, Vicki Cavendish was in danger. And she wasn't the only woman in town who fit the description of the vampire's victims. There were Suzie Collins, who worked at the post office, and Rhonda McGee, a nurse who worked the night shift at the hospital.
Stretching his arms and shoulders, Duncan decided it was time to call it a night. He had done all he could do tonight. Tomorrow, he would continue his search for Dimitri Falco.
Chapter 8
Antonio Battista roamed the dark streets, his preternatural senses probing the drifting shadows of the evening for some sense of the other. Lifting his head, he sniffed the wind, his nostrils taking in the scent of cool damp earth and the underlying stink of decay, the wood smoke rising from a chimney, trees and flowers and the myriad other smells and odors associated with mankind, but nothing out of the ordinary. He listened to the sounds of the night— crickets and tree frogs, the rustle of the wind through the leaves, the barking of a dog and, farther away, the faint howl of a wolf.
He turned toward the sound. Was it a wolf? Or one of the Undead?
With preternatural speed, he moved through the town, pausing in front of the houses where the other redheaded women lived, his vampire senses telling him that both were safely asleep inside.
Moving on, he turned down the street where Victoria lived. Her house was dark. A thought took him to her bedroom window. The sound of her breathing, low and even, told him that she, too, was asleep. He felt the prick of his fangs against his tongue as he listened to the steady beat of her heart, the thrum of blood moving through her veins. It aroused a hunger in him like none he had ever known before. Even the hunger he had felt that first night when he awoke as a newly made vampire paled in comparison. How many centuries ago had that been? Five? Six? After the first century or two, time had lost its meaning. He had no need for clocks or calendars. He woke with the setting of the sun, slept when it rose in the morning. The affairs of the world no longer held any importance for him. His whole world had narrowed to only two things— the need for blood and the necessity of keeping his true identity a secret from mankind. Which reminded him that there was a vampire hunter in town. Whether by coincidence or design, he didn't know. He had seen the man, Duncan, in the diner earlier that night and had felt a rare stab of jealousy when he saw the hunter and Victoria laughing together. It had taken all his considerable self-restraint to keep from storming into the diner and ripping the man's heart out.
He grinned in wry amusement. He hadn't been plagued by a foolish human emotion like jealousy in centuries. But now it rose in him again as he imagined Victoria with another man, and not just any man, but his sworn enemy. He should have killed the man long ago. To this day, he didn't understand why he had not dispatched the vampire hunter when he had the chance, but there had been something about Tom Duncan, some innate trace of courage and honor that Battista had found himself admiring in spite of himself. And now Duncan was here, on the hunt. The question was, who was he hunting?
Battista settled down outside Victoria 's bedroom window, prepared to keep watch until sunrise. Sitting there, his back to the wall, he gazed into the darkness, remembering…
He had been born inItaly. The memory of those long-ago carefree days was sweet indeed. He had been born the youngest son and little had been expected of him. His oldest brother, Joseph, had been given to the church. His other brother, James, would inherit the family vineyards. His five sisters were expected to marry well, but Battista had no expectations to fulfill. He spent his youth in the pursuit of reckless pleasure and he found it in abundance in the fruit of the vine and the arms of gorgeous women.
Indeed, he might have spent the rest of his life in sweet decadence had it not been for a woman who had not been a woman at all. Mara. Mara, with hair like thick black silk and mesmerizing blue eyes. Mara, whose lips had promised an eternity of sensual pleasure but whose bite had damned him to an eternity of darkness. He had not seen her since the night she brought him across.
He had not realized how final the changes were that she bestowed upon him, or what the cost would be. In spite of his mother's pleas, his father had cast him out, calling him a soulless monster, the spawn of the devil. His sisters had looked on him in horror, his brothers had tried to kill him. Angry and confused, he had left home and never returned.
Since then, he had wandered the earth, selfishly taking what he required without regard for anyone's needs but his own. He had made love to countless women throughout the centuries but he had loved none of them. They had satisfied his hunger but found no place in his heart.
He turned his thoughts from his past to the present and the vampire who was preying on the people of Pear Blossom Creek. No real vampire had ever been as cruel and vicious as Count Vlad Dracula Tepes. Known as the Impaler, he'd had a fondness for having people skewered on long stakes, an excruciating death that often took days.
It was said that he once invited all the poor, sick, and aged to a banquet where he provided them with a lavish feast. When it was over, he asked if there was anything else they desired. Sated for the moment, they said no, at which point Count Dracula left the banquet hall, locked the doors, and set the hall on fire, killing all who were within. It was this infamous count on whom Bram Stoker had based his fictional Dracula.
But it wasn't a fictional vampire terrorizing Pear Blossom Creek. The community of vampires was small, the number who still killed their prey smaller still now that both Alexi and Khira had been destroyed. He could count them on one hand— Andrew Bullivant, who liked to prowl Dracula's castle and never left Romania; Eric Franciscus, who was among the youngest of their kind; Carl Matheson, who killed any and all who crossed his path; and Dimitri Falco, whose victims were always young red-haired women.
Like Victoria. A sound from within the house had Battista on his feet in an instant, ready to defend her to the death if necessary, but she was only sighing in her sleep. He watched her through the window for a moment, wondering what it was she dreamed of.
Judging from the smile on her face, it was pleasant indeed.
Dissolving into a fine silver mist, he slipped through the narrow crack under the window, then materialized at her side. He looked down at her, the urge to walk in her dreams almost overpowering. To do so would be an invasion of her mind, a betrayal of what little trust she had in him.
His gaze moved over her. How beautiful she was! Her hair was the red of autumn leaves, tempting his touch though he dared not succumb. Her skin was smooth and clear, her lashes thick where they rested on her cheeks. He watched the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the thin blanket and again felt the urge to reach out and touch her.
Again, he restrained himself. He would not violate her while she slept.
He felt his heart, that cold dead organ in his chest, beat for the first time in centuries when, with a sigh, she smiled and murmured his name.
Vicki woke feeling embarrassed without quite knowing why, and then she remembered her dream. The one she'd had Wednesday night had been awful, the worst sort of nightmare, but this one had been wonderful. She had been walking on the beach at night. Moonlight had glistened like streaks of liquid silver on the water. The sand had been warm and soft beneath her bare feet. The song of the ocean had been like a lullaby. She had walked for what seemed like miles with only the moon and the sea for company when suddenly he had been there. He had been dressed in black, as always, his hair gilded by the moonlight, his eyes as blue and deep as the depths of the ocean.
He had waited for her to draw near. As she approached, he had removed his cloak and spread it on the shore, then offered her his hand. She had taken it without fear, offered no resistance as he drew her down on his cloak. She had welcomed his kiss, her eyes closing in surrender, her body pliable in his knowing hands. He had made love to her all through the night, his hands caressing her, his voice joining with the lyrical ebb and flow of the waves, blending into a symphony that seduced her in both mind and body. She had given herself to him without restraint, became a part of him, wedded to him as the sea was bound to the sand and the moon to the tide, forever joined together, never to be parted…
Smiling, Vicki sat up and took a deep breath and in so doing, she breathed in his scent.
But it was no dream. Antonio had been here, in her bedroom, while she slept.
The thought sent a jolt of fear through her, chasing away the pleasant afterglow of her dream. How had he gotten into her room? All the doors and windows had been locked when she went to bed. She knew, because she had checked them all twice.
