"Well, I'm beat," Ramsey muttered. "I think I'll turn in."
"Good night, Edward."
"Don't fail me tomorrow, Ramsey."
"Don't worry. I'll take care of it."
Grigori nodded.
"See you tomorrow," Edward said. He started out of the room, then paused and glanced over his shoulder at Marisa. "Which room do you want to sleep in?"
Marisa thought of trying to sleep in one of the children's beds and knew she couldn't do it, couldn't sleep in a bed where someone had died. Nor could she bring herself to sleep in the bed Grigori had shared with Antoinette. "I think I'll sleep out here on the bench."
"Okay. Good night."
"Night."
Grigori went to the tiny window in the front of the house and stared out into the darkness. As clearly as if it were day, he could see the fields beyond, the weeds that grew in the furrows where he had once planted the crops that had sustained his family. He heard the beat of mighty wings as an owl plummeted earthward, talons outstretched, heard the terrified shriek of the bird's prey. The hunter and the hunted. Predator and prey. The endless cycle of life and death.
All these years he had thought Antoinette dead. In his mind, he had buried her and grieved for her when she hadn't been dead at all. She had lived as Alexi's creature for two hundred years, and now, because of him, she would have to be destroyed. He wished that he had the right to pray, wished he could go into the village chapel where their children had been baptized and light a candle for Antoinette's immortal soul. But he had no right, no hope of being heard.
"Grigori?"
Slowly, he turned around to face Marisa. What a rare and wonderful creature she was. Such a fragile being, wrapped in her humanity. And yet her life, her warmth, drew him like a hearth fire on a winter night, beckoning to him, inviting him to come in from the dark and the cold.
"I'm sorry about Antoinette."
"It's not your fault."
"It's not yours, either."
"Isn't it?" Grief and guilt settled over him, entangling him in a web of regret from which there was no escape. He had given her the Dark Gift. He should be the one to destroy her, yet he dared not go into the crypt at night, not when he might encounter Alexi again. He was not strong enough to withstand another attack by the vampyre. And, deep in his heart, he feared he lacked the courage to do what must be done. How could he cut out her heart, take her head? How could he desecrate the body of the woman who had shared his bed, borne his children?
"You should get some rest," Marisa said quietly.
"I'm fine."
"Sure you are."
"Marisa - "
"I'm here." She held out her arms. He looked at her a moment, and then, unable to resist the comfort she offered, he crossed the floor, felt the burden of his guilt ease a little as Marisa wrapped her arms around him.
They stood there for a long while, his forehead resting on the top of her head, her hand lightly stroking his back.
"I've got to go out," he said at length.
"Why?"
He lifted his head and gazed into her eyes.
"Oh, but I thought - " She lifted a hand to her neck.
"It was sweet, cara, but it wasn't enough."
"I don't think you should go out there. Can't you wait until tomorrow night when we're back home?"
"I am home."
"You know what I mean."
Grigori shook his head. "I can't wait."
"Why not?" She looked up at him, not understanding.
"I need to feed," he said, wondering how to explain it to her. "It isn't like the hunger mortals feel. It's... it's a need that won't be denied. Especially now. I need it, Marisa, in ways you can't begin to understand."
"Does it hurt, when you don't... drink?"
"You have no idea." Hurt didn't begin to describe it. He doubted if there were any words that could fully portray the agony that came with abstinence. The hunger was a craving that could not be denied, a need that went beyond mere physical agony, especially now, when he had been badly hurt, when his strength was at a low ebb.
"Then drink from me."
"No."
"Then take some of Ramsey's blood."
Grigori grunted softly. "Yes, I'm sure he'd like that."
"Well, this is an emergency. I don't want you going out there, not tonight. You're too weak."
He raised one dark brow. "You sound like my mother."
"You wait here. I'll go talk to Edward."
She didn't wait for Grigori's assent, but hurried out of the room.
Ramsey woke the minute she opened the door to the bedroom, his hand clutching his cross. "What's wrong?"
"I need your help."
"Sure." He sat up, wiping the sleep from his eyes. "What is it?"
"I want you to give Grigori some of your blood."
"Are you out of your mind? I'm not feeding that ghoul."
"Please, Edward. I don't want him to go out tonight. He's too weak. He'd never be able to fight off Alexi."
"That's not my problem."
"Oh, yes, it is. Have you forgotten he's our ticket back to the twentieth century?"
"Yes, I guess I did." He ran a hand through his hair, then shook his head. "I can't do it. I've spent my whole life destroying his kind. I'm not about to start feeding them."
"Please, Edward," she implored softly.
"You still care for him, don't you? How could you? You know what he is."
"I know," she replied miserably. "But I can't help it. He's so alone."
"Marisa - "
"Please, Edward."
He swore under his breath. "All right, all right, I'll do it. For you." Rising, he tucked his shirt into his pants, ran a hand over his hair. And then, grabbing a stake from the foot of the bed, he followed Marisa out of the room.
Grigori grunted softly as Ramsey emerged from the bedroom. Even if he hadn't been able to hear the conversation in the bedroom, the look on Ramsey's face would have said it all. He was doing this for Marisa, and for no other reason.
"Are you planning to use that?" Grigori asked, gesturing at the stake clutched in Ramsey's hand.
"If I have to. I don't mind being an appetizer, but I'm not willing to be the whole banquet."
Grigori laughed in spite of himself.
"It's not funny," Edward retorted. He sat down on the bench, his body quivering with tension, his eyes wary. "Go on, get it over with." Ramsey flinched as Grigori sat down beside him.
"You don't have to do this," Grigori said curtly.
Edward glanced up at Marisa, and then back at the vampire. "Yeah, I think I do."
"Give me your left arm."
Ramsey grunted. "Sure you don't want to go for my throat?"
Grigori shook his head. Nuzzling Ramsey's neck was the last thing he wanted to do.
Ramsey took a deep breath, and then held out his arm.
Grigori rolled up Ramsey's shirtsleeve. He stared at the man's wrist, despising himself for his need, for the fierce hunger that could not be denied.
"It's not too late to change your mind," Grigori said, his voice gruff with the need churning through him. The fact that Ramsey knew what he was feeling only made it worse.
"Just do it." Edward hissed the words between tightly clenched teeth.
"Make a fist."
Edward did as bidden, watching, in morbid fascination, as the vampire bent over his wrist. Never, in a million years, had he imagined he would be nourishing one of the undead.
Grigori swore under his breath as he lifted Ramsey's arm. He could hear the rapid beat of Ramsey's heart. The scent of the man's blood, the fear he was trying to control, filled his nostrils.
He felt his fangs lengthen as he bent over Ramsey's arm.
Edward's right hand tightened around the stake until his knuckles went white with the strain.
Marisa stood across the room, her hand at her throat, feeling as though she were trapped in a living nightmare that had no end. Edward looked up, grimacing as he met her gaze. She tried to smile; instead, she felt tears well in her eyes. Tears of gratitude for Edward's sacrifice, tears of pity for Grigori.
After what seemed like an eternity but was probably less than a minute, Grigori released Ramsey's arm and stood up.
"Thank you. I know how difficult that was for you," Grigori said stiffly. "You should get something to drink."
Edward rolled his shirtsleeve down. "Does this mean you'll be able to read my mind now?"
"I could always read your mind, Ramsey."
Edward stood up. He looked at Marisa, then at Grigori. "I'm going back to bed."
"Ramsey."
Edward turned around. "What do you want now, vampire?"
"Tomorrow," Grigori said, his voice ragged with pain. "Be swift. And merciful."
With a curt nod, Edward left the room.
"She won't feel it, will she?" Marisa asked, horrified to think that Antoinette might be aware of what was happening to her.
"I don't know. I hope not."
"Where will you sleep tomorrow?"
Grigori shrugged. "I don't know. I'll find a place, don't worry."
She went to sit beside him on the bench. "Have you ever regretted becoming a vampire?"
"No." He had enjoyed being a vampyre. He was never tired, never sick. He didn't suffer from the usual aches and pains that plagued mankind. He could move with preternatural speed. He had watched nations rise and fall, seen man leave the earth behind and take to the stars. And yet... His gaze moved over Marisa in a long, heated caress. "I've never regretted it," he said heavily. "Until now."
"Would you be mortal again, if you could?"
"I don't know, but it isn't possible, even if I wished it."
"Oh." Suddenly weary, she leaned back and closed her eyes, wishing, with all her heart, that she had never ventured out of her house on that rainy Halloween night.
Several minutes passed, and then she felt Grigori's arm slip around her shoulders. Grateful for his nearness, she snuggled against him, felt his hand stroke her cheek.
He was still holding her when she fell asleep.
She woke to the smell of coffee brewing. With a frown, she sat up. For a moment, she had almost imagined herself at home. Brushing the hair from her face, she stood up. It was then that she saw the dress lying across the foot of the bed. It was a pretty thing. The bodice was a rich, lustrous green silk with long, full sleeves and a square neckline edged in delicate rows of white lace; the full skirt was made of varying shades of light and dark green silk and satin. There was a note lying beside it. Curious, she picked it up. The message was brief: You shouldn't have to wear another woman's clothes. I hope the shoes fit.
Grigori's name was scrawled across the bottom of the paper.
How had he known it made her uncomfortable to wear Antoinette's clothes?
Slipping out of her borrowed apparel, she drew the gown over her head, smoothed it over her hips. The skirt fell to the floor in a whisper of silk. She found the shoes at the foot of the bed. They were half boots, actually, made of kidskin.
"A little fancy for every day," she remarked. But the silk felt heavenly against her skin. The boots, she discovered, fit perfectly.
Feeling a little like Juliet, she went into the kitchen.
"Hey," Edward said.
"Hey yourself," Marisa replied with a grin. "I see you got a new wardrobe, too."
Ramsey grunted as he regarded his outfit. The shirt was stiff white linen with a fall of lace down the front. The trousers were mustard-colored, tighter than he normally wore. Grigori had provided a coat, as well. Made of dark brown wool, it was hanging over the back of a chair.
"Not exactly my style," he muttered.
"You look quite dashing."
"And you look like a princess."
Marisa stared at him, startled by the compliment. "Thank you." She glanced at the food on the table. "If I didn't know better, I'd think we had a fairy godmother."
Ramsey grimaced. "Grigori hardly qualifies for that position. Here," Edward said, handing her a cup of coffee.
"Thanks." She took a drink, feeling the warmth steal through her. She jerked her chin toward the pan on the stove. "You want me to do that?"
"No, sit down and take it easy. I'm almost done."
Marisa glanced out the window, trying to judge the time. It felt early. Sitting down at the table, she sipped her coffee.
"I hope you're hungry," Edward said.
Marisa stared at the plate he put in front of her. It was piled high with scrambled eggs, sausage, and sweet rolls. Edward sat down across from her, a cup of coffee cradled in his hands.
"Aren't you eating?" Marisa asked.
"No." A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "I made enough for the two of us, but I don't have much of an appetite."
"Did you... did you do it?"
"Not yet. I don't think it's something I want to do on a full stomach."
"I don't envy you."
He shrugged. "I've done it before. This is just the first time it's been a woman."
Marisa glanced out the window. The sky was blue. She could hear birds singing. "It's still so hard to believe," she murmured.
Edward nodded. It was difficult to accept. Even now, after hunting the creatures for almost thirty years, it seemed unreal. He had seen things no one should see, done things no human being should have to do. He stared down at his hands, wondering that they weren't stained crimson with the blood he had shed. He thought of Antoinette, of the life that had been stolen from her, the torment she must have suffered while being enslaved to Alexi. It was so unfair, and yet no one had ever said life was fair.
"Edward? Do you want me to go with you?"
"No." He drained his cup, then stood up. "Well..."
She looked up at him, wishing she knew what to say. Good luck seemed too flippant. "Be careful."
"Always." He put on his coat and stood there a moment more, looking unsure. Then he bent down and kissed her. It was a remarkably gentle kiss, filled with tenderness and uncertainty.
Marisa blinked up at him when he drew away, wondering if she looked as surprised as she felt.
Edward looked embarrassed. "I'm... I'm sorry."
"It's all right."
"Marisa, I - " He shoved his hands into his pants pockets. "I guess I'd better be going."
"Hurry back," Marisa said. She stared after him as he left the room, her thoughts chaotic. She pressed her fingertips to her lips. Edward Ramsey had kissed her. She shook her head in amazement, wondering what ever had possessed him to do such a thing.
Ramsey called himself ten kinds of a fool as he gathered up his supplies and left the house. She probably thought him an old fool, and she was right. He was forty-two years old and he had never been in love. Never had time for love. He'd been hunting vampires since he was a teenager, traveling the world over, going wherever he was needed. He had seen most of the world, but he was abysmally ignorant when it came to women.
Ramsey couldn't help grinning when he saw the horse tethered to a bush outside the front door. Grigori was quite the fairy godmother after all, he mused. First he'd provided breakfast, now a ride.
Taking up the reins, he hauled himself into the saddle. He dropped the bag containing the stake, mallet, and cleaver over the saddle horn, and turned the horse south, toward the graveyard. Two miles, Grigori had said.
It was surprisingly pleasant, riding across the countryside in the early morning light. The horse seemed a tractable beast, plodding .along at a fairly good clip. He had gone about a quarter of a mile when he passed a farmer walking along the road. The man waved at him, and Edward waved back. Farther on, he passed a woman drawing water from a well. She looked up at him and smiled. He saw a small herd of sheep, another of goats.
The church loomed in the distance, the tall wooden cross on the roof rising like a prayer to the heavens.
Edward rode to the rear of the small whitewashed chapel. Dismounting, he tethered the horse to the fence. Lifting his bag from the saddle horn, he made his way through the wrought-iron gates and into the cemetery beyond. A heavy stillness lay over the graveyard, broken only by the sound of his own footsteps.
He felt the hair prickle along the back of his neck as he went on, searching for the sepulcher that held Antoinette's body.
The crypt was located in the far corner of the cemetery, overgrown with vines. Taking a deep breath, he slung his bag over his shoulder, and then put his hand on the latch.
The door opened with a rusty creak, and he smiled in spite of himself. Perfect, he thought.
Standing in the open doorway, he saw Antoinette. She was lying on the floor. A wooden stake had been plunged into her heart. He knew, somehow, that it was the same one she had used on Alexi.
He stared at her for a long time, glad that half of his job had already been done. Left as she was, she would not rise again, but should someone come upon the body and remove the stake... He could not let that happen.
Taking-a deep, calming breath, he withdrew the cleaver from his bag. One swift blow would do it. She was a newly made vampire. Unlike older vampires, who did not sleep so deeply, who sometimes awoke when they sensed his presence, she was helpless, vulnerable. Totally immersed in the dark sleep, she would be unfeeling, unaware.
Bowing his head, he pressed his crucifix to his lips and uttered the ritual prayers that his father had taught him. The ancient words filled him with a sense of power, of peace. He felt the rightness of what he was about to do flow through him, strengthening him.
Crossing the floor, he stared down at her for a moment, and then he covered her face with a piece of cloth.
"May your soul find peace," he murmured, and lifted the cleaver.
Grigori came awake with a strangled cry of pain and grief and knew, in his heart, that Antoinette had been destroyed. As though it were happening to him, he felt the blade sever her jugular. He felt her soul depart her body, glimpsed the joy that would be forever denied him as her spirit was welcomed into paradise, where she would be reunited with their children. Unlike him, Antoinette had not sought the Dark Gift. She had not traded her soul for vengeance. Ever a loyal and devoted wife and mother, she would now reap the eternal blessings of having lived a righteous life.
With a sigh, he stared into the darkness that surrounded him. Tonight, he would go to her grave and bid her and his children a final farewell.
