It is an old story

But one that can still be told

About a man who loved And lost....

Shannon took copious notes, swearing at the inefficiency of a penlight for writing in the middle of a pitch-dark theater. She swore again at the narrow arms on the seats, which were no good at all for holding a notepad. Especially when the jerks on either side of her seemed to think they owned exclusive rights to them. She growled a sigh, shoved the meaty arm to her left out of the way and whispered loudly,

"Hey, do you mind? I'm trying to work here."

Anger was good. Anger would keep her mind away from the images burned into it. Tawny, with hair and eyes that matched her name, and a porcelain-doll face, and a smile that lit up a room. Her dreams of becoming a star, her overly dramatic way of expressing herself. Her fearlessness. Her stubbornness. Shannon wanted to remember the vibrant upstart actress by day, call girl by night, best friend forever. Not the pale, naked body sprawled on the rumpled sheets, with its vacant-eyed stare. Not the twin gossamer strands of scarlet meandering over her paper-white neck. God, not that.

The guy in the next seat grumbled and shifted as far away from her as possible. Shannon wrote, only vaguely aware of the spreading applause. The gradual quieting. The sense of expectation in the crowd. The deep, melodic voice of the man at center stage announcing that he would need a volunteer from the audience. A sudden burst of movement and loudly voiced offers from the female spectators distracted her only for a moment before she adjusted the dim penlight and continued writing.

"The women here are practically drooling. It would be easy for him to lure one anywhere he wanted. Still no one who can tell me where he was last Wednesday night between..."

Her pen stopped on the pad and a cloud of frigid air seemed to envelop her. She glanced up, toward the aisle three seats away. He stood there, a tall, shadowy form draped in black satin. An instant later the spotlight caught up with him, illuminating his hair, until it gleamed blue, and making his ivory skin seem even paler. His arm was outstretched, his hand reaching toward her. And his eyes, huge and round like an owl's, seemingly holding the wisdom of the gods and the pain of a thousand hells, focused on her, keeping her prisoner.

"You, miss."

She wished her heart would stop racing. There was still no shred of evidence that the man was a twisted murderer. Only a matter of circumstance and her own suspicions. "Me, what?"

His lips curved upward. His gaze fell to the notepad, the penlight and the pen she'd been juggling all evening, then jumped back to hers again. "What's your name?"

"Sh-Shannon ... but, I--"

"A round of applause for the lovely Shannon, our courageous volunteer."

He said it loudly, waving toward her with a flourish and a ripple of that shimmering cloak. The spotlight obeyed him, instantly dousing her in a pool of hot white brilliance that did nothing to chase away her ominous chill. She squinted as the applause swelled. His hand closed on hers, big, warm, hard. He pulled, none too gently. The notepad, penlight, purse, everything, avalanched to the floor as she was jerked to her feet.

She gave her hand a tug, but his grip was as good as any pair of handcuffs ever invented. He pulled her along at his side. Her protests went unheard beneath the noise of the crowd and the accompanying music. He dragged her up the steps far to the right and onto the stage. She could either fight him and look like an idiot, or accept this fiasco with a modicum of grace. She decided on the latter, though she thought the vain bastard could use a good kick in his oversize ego.

He looked into her eyes, and again, his lips curved. It didn't go far enough to qualify as a smile. More like an "I know what you're thinking and find it amusing" kind of a look.

She glared at him, her mind exchanging his black eyes for Tawny's light brown ones wide open, glazed, forever blind.

His grip on her wrist eased. He frowned down at her and his hand slid down to clasp hers. They stopped center stage. Behind them, a red velvet curtain rose as silently as a ghost. Shannon glanced over her shoulder, saw a clear pane of glass balanced across the backs of two chairs.

"The lovely Shhannnon--" he drew the consonants in her name out until it sounded like an incantation "--is about to assist me in defying the very laws of nature... of Mother Earth..."

She told herself not to lose her anger to the ever-growing tide of uneasiness that could easily become fear. Killer or not, he couldn't very well hurt her right in front of thousands of onlookers. She stiffened her spine.

"If you think I'm letting you saw me in half, forget it," she rasped, teeth grated, mouth barely moving. She glanced sideways at him, saw the twitch in his lips, felt his hand tighten on hers.

"Of gravity itself," he went on.

He had a way of speaking that was utterly mesmerizing, each word enunciated slowly, his mouth seeming to caress every syllable before releasing it. It made you focus on his lips as he spoke, against your own will.

"This way. Shannon." Mist shot up from the floor, encircling their legs to twist and writhe in time with the erotic music, if music could be that.

Slow, sexy, with an urgent beat. He led her to the makeshift table, waved an arm over it, then, took her hand and guided her up a pair of wooden steps as the silken music swelled, his every movement in perfect synchronization with the beat.

"Lie down. Shannon. And prepare to be swept away."

She shivered a little, wondering if he spoke in those slow, measured tones all the time or only on stage. She lay back on the cool glass, her gaze never leaving his face. Even his breaths and the blinking of his eyes were grace epitomized, as if they, too, had been choreographed. He circled her once, one arm extended, cloak swirling as he moved. Then, with a flick of his fingers at his throat, he whipped the cloak from his shoulders, swung it outward, draped it over her. He drew it up from her feet, covering her right up to her chin.

The fabric was heaven, satin inside and out. She wanted to rub it against her cheek. The scent that invaded her mind was dusky and potent. Like nothing she'd smelled before.

His hand touched her forehead, sweeping downward. His fingertips closed her eyes. She stiffened, again thinking of Tawny.

"Relax, Shannon. Don't move. Let your muscles melt at my command. Break the bounds of earth. Free yourself from the constraints of gravity."

She sighed hard, blinking away the angry tears the image of her friend had brought to her eyes. Damien Namtar knew how to put on a show, if nothing more. Of course, he wouldn't be the hottest magician in the world if he didn't. Damien the Eternal. She'd have rolled her eyes if they'd been open. More like Damien the Master of Optical Illusion. But maybe she'd learn something about him if she paid attention. Maybe she'd manage to stop thinking about Tawny long enough to find a hint of who'd killed her.

And how? For the love of God, how?

She focused her mind, lying still as he'd instructed. She didn't want to break this contraption and get dumped on the stage.

Nothing happened. Shannon heard a collective gasp from the audience and opened one eye. Damien stood near her feet, holding a chair in one outstretched hand. She frowned a little. The chair that had been propping up that end of the glass? But her body was still horizontal.

He set the chair down and walked to her head, pausing to lay that feather-light hand over her eyes again, closing them once more. She popped them right open again, though. She'd paid to see the damned show. She certainly couldn't see it with her eyes closed, and she wasn't about to miss what might turn out to be a clue.

He was standing at the head of the makeshift bed now, looking down at her face. He pursed his lips when he saw that her eyes were open, but she didn't close them again. His gaze grew intense, probing, piercing. He bent, and she knew he was pulling the other chair from beneath the sheet of glass. When he straightened he held the chair, whirled around and threw it off stage right.

When she could see him again he had a plastic hoop in one hand. He ran it over and under her, then around her body, back and forth to demonstrate no strings held her aloft.

The hoop was tossed aside, as well. He leaned over her face. "Concentrate with me now. Shannon. There is nothing to fear."

With a look of glee, he pulled the cloak over her head. That would teach her for not keeping her eyes closed, she imagined he was thinking.

She heard him mutter words in a language she didn't recognize. Then there was a strange sort of vibration. She felt the glass under her back move. It slid to one side. She instinctively began to clutch it with her left hand, but his caught hers and held it still. Her chilled fingers, surrounded by his graceful, warm hand. She almost squeezed it, almost turned her palm to his and laced fingers with him. Weird notion. Luckily, he released her before she had time to follow through.

She felt the glass slip out from beneath her. The music faded as the beat of drums grew louder, faster. She remained where she was, lying in midair above the stage. How the hell-The cloak was moving now, satin rasping against the denim of her jeans as it slipped down her body. Damien stood there, stark-white shirt opened at the collar to reveal a muscled column of throat. Gleaming dark curls showed on his chest. He stood a few feet behind her, arms outstretched, palms up, eyes closed as if in concentration. He had incredible lashes for a man.

In fact, everything about him was pretty incredible. Shannon knew Tawny better than anyone, and she had a feeling Tawny wouldn't have left the theater that night without at least offering. As he lifted his hands and the drums pounded frantically, Shannon seemed to rise on a cushion of air. She caught her breath. Higher and higher she floated, until she had to close her eyes to keep from getting dizzy.

Then she just stopped, far above his head. She dared a peek downward. He was staring up at her. He stepped forward. "To me. Shannon," he called loudly, firmly, in a deep voice that would be tough to argue with. Then he bent his elbows, snapped both fingers. The music stopped all at once... and she fell. It lasted an instant, the sensation of plummeting full-speed through space, the certainty that the landing was going to hurt like hell, the urge to scream out loud. She bit her lip... and landed in his arms.

She blinked in shock. He stared down at her, and his smile was just a bit fuller. His banded arms cradled her tight to his chest, and the sensation was alien to her. She thought she might be just a little closer to understanding Tawny's alley-cat morals after tonight. He lowered his head, touched her forehead with his lips. She was sure he'd burned a brand into her skin by the touch of his mouth. But that was stupid. It was the music, and the mist and the magic making her feel ripples of pleasure race up and down her spine. Not the touch of a man. Never the touch of a man.

The crowd's roar almost deafened her. He looked away from her, out toward the audience, and she followed his gaze. They were on their feet... every last one of them, and their cheers went on and on, vibrating right to the rafters.

But her attention strayed back to the man who held her. His strong profile, the elegant line of his jaw, the aquiline nose. And the light gathering brilliance somewhere deep within those jet eyes. He loved this. He absorbed the adoration of the crowd the way the desert absorbs the rain. He was in sheer ecstasy. He almost glowed.

The curtain lowered in front of them and he set her on her feet. His hands caught her shoulders, turned her to one side and pushed gently. "Offstage, Shannon. Watch from there." A stagehand hustled toward her and Damien leaned over, whispering close to her ear, "You were wonderful." Then the short redhead gripped her arm and led her offstage. He pointed to a folding chair and ran out of sight, a clipboard clutched in one hand.

Shannon glanced back to see the heavy, rippling curtain rise as if weightless. Damien stood center stage, fastening the ties that held the cloak at his throat. When the curtain stopped its spectral ascent, the crowd beyond it still stood, still cheered.

Sketching an elegant bow, he held his hands up for silence. "Thank you. Thank you all. I'm afraid the fair Shannon won't be rejoining you. I've decided to have her for dinner."

Laughter rippled through the theater.

Damien opened his arms to his sides, the edges of the cloak held in his hands. "Farewell, my friends."

A drum roll pattered across her heart. The crowd went utterly still. He lowered one arm and swept the other over his face in typical Dracula style. He whirled in a circle, once, twice, faster, three times.

Cymbals smashed. The cloak fell, a satin puddle. He'd vanished. Shannon came to her feet, squinting, searching that shimmering black mound. She saw movement and frowned harder. What the hell was that little. The bat launched itself from its satin nest, fluttering wildly, swooping in crazy patterns before soaring out over the crowd. It dove low, eliciting shrieks of delighted horror, gasps of surprise. Then it turned and headed back to the stage. It angled left and flitted right past Shannon's face and out of sight.

The curtain fell again and the theater shook with applause.

The noise went on and on before it slowly died. She heard people in the crowd shifting, moving. The activity backstage increased. Shannon shook away the spell the magician had briefly cast over her, and looked around her. She had a mission, despite that his mystical illusions had made her lose track of it for a few minutes. She crossed her fingers and started off in what she hoped was the right direction. She wasn't finished with Damien Namtar yet. She had questions and she wasn't leaving here until she got some answers.

A tap on her shoulder made her spin around, half expecting to see the magic man himself smirking at her. Instead it was the same red-haired man who'd led her offstage. Her purse dangled from one pudgy, freckle-smattered hand. "Damien said I should give this to you. Said all your stuffs inside."

"Thanks." She took it, her gaze busy looking beyond the man. "Where is he? I need to talk to him."

"No chance of that. He's gone already."

"He's... gone?" She felt exactly like a balloon being slowly deflated.

"Long drive to that palace of his in Tigris. And it's raining."

"Palace?"

The redhead looked at the floor, shaking his head slow. "Like somethin' outta 'Life-styles of the Richer-Than-I'll-Ever-Be.' Know what I mean?"

She did. She'd seen the photos in the entertainment magazines, which couldn't get enough of the world-renowned, millionaire magician. Nor could his legion female fans. She tilted her head. "I heard he was a recluse. You'd think he would keep where he lives secret, keep the fans from hounding him."

"Everybody knows about that place, but there's no danger of him bein' hounded. He's got a security system like Fort Knox. Nobody could get in there."

"Nobody, huh?" She thumbed the strap of her bag over her shoulder and turned to go.

Damien,

Once again, I write you and hope for a response. And this time, I'll make an effort to explain my motives more completely, and perhaps ease your misgivings about me. I am a vampire, like you, and a scientist. I devote my time, over two centuries now, to the study of our kind, in an effort to better understand the peculiarities of our existence. Why are we here? To what purpose? And also, in the hope of easing some of the less pleasant aspects of our lives. I study the Chosen, as well, those humans with whom we share an inexplicable psychic link. Those we're drawn to, and whom we instinctively try to protect. Those who can be transformed, and who have the same elusive antigen in their blood as all of us had at one time. My studies have yielded a great deal of information. But I crave more.

You, Damien, I've been told, are the most powerful, the most ancient of us still in existence. You're said to have abilities beyond those of younger immortals, and I've no doubt your wisdom exceeds ours, as well. I wish only to meet with you, talk to you, learn from your vast aeons of immortality. Your wisdom could benefit us all, Damien. I should like, very much, to be your friend.

Yours in darkness,

Eric Marquand

Damien crumpled the letter with its formally patterned sentences that, in his opinion, made it clear to anyone who cared that the author wasn't from this time, and tossed it into the cold ashes of his modern, marble hearth. This Marquand ought to learn to sound as if he belonged here and now. Damien had always thought that was the most important part of fitting into any culture--sounding as if you belonged. No sense drawing attention to yourself.

He grimaced, remembering the last line of the note: I should like, very much, to be your friend. Friend. The word disgusted him. He didn't want or need to be anyone's friend. He'd lived through that debilitating pain once, and didn't have the slightest urge to repeat it.

This Eric Marquand, this infant of an immortal, this vampire who called himself a scientist, wouldn't learn much from him, anyway. Marquand had probably gained more knowledge about the undead in his mere two hundred years of existence than Damien had in almost six thousand. Damien had existed in solitude. He wanted no contact with others of his kind, and most of all, no contact with the Chosen.

The Chosen. They scared the hell out of him. This irresistible instinct he knew all vampires felt, to watch over them, to care for them--it shook him to the bone. It threatened his solitary life. He didn't want to care for anyone. Not ever again. The only way to avoid the mental tug of those rare humans was to avoid them, and that was exactly what Damien had always managed to do.

That is, until tonight.

He'd sensed her presence in the audience from the second he'd stepped onto the stage. He'd felt her there, and there'd been that pull, magnetic, powerful. Some demon inside had urged him to see her, talk to her, touch her and feel the power snap between' them. He'd felt that urge before, when he'd chanced to cross paths with one of them. He'd always been able to resist it. Not this time, though. He'd wanted to touch her, and he had.

Maybe a little too much. Damien deliberately kept his mind closed, like pulling shutters tight over a window. He didn't want or need to open himself to the thoughts and feelings of others. He didn't care about them, wasn't the least bit curious. But tonight, in the brief moments of physical contact with the woman, he'd felt an avalanche of emotions pouring from her mind to his, emotions so powerful they'd shaken him. He'd felt her pain, her anger. Most of all, her grief. Anu, for a second he hadn't been sure if it was hers or his own, resurfacing to cripple him one more time. It was so similar. The ancient instinct to make things better for her had leapt to life, forced itself to the front of his mind. He'd doused that blazing urge with an act of will, and made a greater effort to shut her out. But it had been close. It had been too damned close.

He'd need to be more careful from now on. And he'd most definitely need to avoid any more contact with this particular woman, who affected him the way no one ever had.

* * * * *

She wore a black spandex body suit and leggings. A black nylon face mask, taken from a Cat Woman costume she'd bought one Halloween, covered her face. Only her eyes and mouth showed. The thin gloves that covered her hands were black, too, as were the lightweight tennis shoes on her feet. She even wore black nylons so her ankles wouldn't stand out in the darkness.

She'd given the man a chance. She'd phoned his house three times. He'd answered the first time, and as soon as she'd told him who was calling, he'd barked at her not to bother him and hung up on her. It had been busy ever since, and she suspected the hermit had taken it off the hook. Fine. He wanted to do this the hard way, then she'd oblige him. Hell, she had nothing to lose. His refusal to talk to her was a roadblock. She wanted to find out who'd killed her best friend and how. This guy was effectively stopping her in her tracks. Too much like being controlled. Too much like letting someone else pull the strings that ran her life. There wasn't much that could make her angrier, more defensive, more ready to do battle. The last time anyone had controlled her life, she'd been sixteen years old, and the results were not pretty. It hadn't happened again.

She scanned the big hulk of black that was his mansion, and wondered what was so great about this setup, anyway. No motion detector on the fence that surrounded the place. Just an alarm that would sound if the locked gate were tampered with, and a couple of surveillance cameras mounted up top. "Big, fat, hairy deal," she muttered.

She slipped the coiled rope from her shoulder, tossed the grappling hook to the tree limb that hung right over the fence--how could Mister Security have missed that? --and climbed up. Walking farther out on the sturdy limb, she attached the hook again, and lowered herself to the ground inside the fence. Simple. A kid could break into this place.

Two spotlights came on, aimed right at her. She hit the dirt facedown, her heart thudding in her chest like a jackhammer. Damn!

The lights remained on for several seconds before going out once more. So there were motion detectors. Anything moved within their range and those damned lights would come on again, giving her away if they hadn't already. Okay, think.

The sensor had to be aimed at the movement in order for it to work. She was assuming it wasn't aimed right at ground level or the lights would snap on with every rabbit or field mouse or stray leaf that blew past. Okay. It was worth a shot. She hadn't heard a sound from the house so far, so maybe magic man was asleep.

She slithered toward the house on her belly. She hadn't had much of a look at it yet, in this gloomy darkness. She knew only that it was huge, and utterly dark. Not a light glowing from a single window.

She'd try the door first not that she expected to find it unlocked, but there might be a doggy door or something she could crawl through. As long as there wasn't a doggy to go with it. She crossed her fingers and humped her way up the broad flagstone steps like an overgrown inchworm.

When the door was right in front of her face, it slowly opened, and her vision was filled with a pair of calf-hugging black boots.