Deeper than the Night

Kara quickly grew bored with staying home. She was used to being on the go. As a consultant, she often traveled to nearby towns to advise large companies on redecorating their offices. She had been returning from just such an assignment when the accident happened. One minute she'd been driving on the highway listening to Billy Ray Cyrus; the next thing she remembered, she was in the hospital swathed in bandages with no memory of how she'd gotten there. She was lucky to be alive.



She flipped through the TV channels. Soap operas and talk shows, talk shows and soap operas. With a grimace, she clicked off the set and picked up Alexander's latest book. She had asked Nana to buy it for her. Unlike The Hunger, which had had a strong romance and, much to her delight, a happy ending, this book, titled Lord of Darkness, was strictly horror. It was a frightening story, and yet, when she tried to analyze it, she couldn't pinpoint exactly what it was that made it so scary. The horror wasn't lurid. The bloodletting wasn't so gory that it was disgusting. Perhaps it was the fact that it all seemed so plausible, so real.



Alexander had been right about one thing, though. She didn't read his books at night.



She put the book aside when Gail came home from school. "Hi, Pumpkin. Have a good day?"



"It was all right. I got a B on a math test."



"That's great. Nana baked cookies this morning. How about bringing me some, and a glass of milk?"



"Okay." Gail tossed her sweater and books on a chair and went into the kitchen. She returned moments later with two tall glasses of milk and a plate of oatmeal cookies. "Where's Nana?"



"She went over to Mrs. Zimmermann's to play canasta."



"Oh." Gail sat down on the end of the sofa. "How's the book?"



"It's good. He's a very talented writer."



"Why do you think people say a vampire lives in his house?"



"That should be obvious, even to a kid like you," Kara said with a grin. "The man writes about vampires and werewolves."



"I guess. His house was really dark inside when I went there."



"You didn't go inside, did you?"



"No. But I could see inside a little." Gail nibbled on a cookie, her expression thoughtful. "There weren't any lights on."



"Maybe he'd gone to bed."



"It wasn't that late."



"Some people do go to bed early, you know."



"Maybe. It's funny, though."



"What's funny?"



"Well, me and Stephanie and Cherise have gone out there lots of times during the day, and we've never seen anybody around."



"So? Maybe he sleeps late and writes at night."



"Vampires sleep during the day."



"Oh, for goodness sakes, Gail, will you please stop thinking every stranger you meet is a vampire or a werewolf."



"All right, all right. Are you going to eat that last cookie?"



"No, go ahead."



Gail polished off the last of the cookies, finished her milk, then stood up. "I'm going over to Cindy's. Do you want anything before I go?"



"No, I'm fine. Don't be late."



"I won't. See ya later."



"Bye."



Kara looked out the window, wishing she could go outside. It was a beautiful afternoon, bright and clear, a perfect day for a long walk through the park. She couldn't wait until her leg was better. She hated being waited on, hated being house-bound, hated lying on the sofa with her leg propped up on a pillow. And, as much as she loved her grandmother, she couldn't wait to go back to her own apartment. Nana had raised a fuss when Kara decided to move out of the house, but Kara had needed to be independent, to live on her own, even if her apartment was less than a mile away from home.



She wondered what Alexander Claybourne was doing, and if she would ever see him again, and if he thought about her as often as she thought about him.



Alexander prowled the woodland behind his house, battling his desire to see Kara again.



It had been six weeks since he'd last seen her. Six interminable weeks.



His writing had thrived. Tormented by his desire for Kara, he had spent long hours at his computer, pouring his frustration into his writing. Words came easily now. Dark angry words that spewed forth like lava, searing the pages. The anger and the loneliness of two hundred years flowed out of him, unleashed by his longing for a mortal woman with hair like a flame and eyes as blue as a midsummer sky. He could truly sympathize with his vampire now, he thought ruefully.



But he was not thinking of his work in progress tonight. He was one with the darkness as he moved through the woods, his footsteps making hardly a sound. He caught the faint odor of a skunk, the smell of decaying foliage, the stink of a dead animal, the acrid scent of smoke rising from a distant fireplace. He heard the franticscurrying of the nocturnal creatures who hunted the night, the beating of tiny wings, the death cry of a beast of prey who had not been fast enough to escape the hunter.



He paused when he reached the top of the hill, his gaze sweeping the darkness, searching for Kara. Oh, yes, he knew where her grandmother lived. He had passed by the small red brick residence every night for the past six weeks, tormenting himself with her nearness. Cloaked in the shadows outside Lena Corley's residence, he had listened to Kara's voice, breathed in her scent, read her thoughts.



It would be so easy to take her, to make her his. They were bonded now, eternally linked by the blood they shared. He closed his eyes, imagining thesimplicity of it all. He would wait until he had her alone, seduce her with a look, spirit her away to his house. He could spend hours making love to her, and then blot it all from her mind . . . .



A vile oath escaped his lips, and then he was running through the darkness, running away from smooth, suntanned skin and sky-blue eyes, from lips the color of summer roses. Running from the ancient curse that tainted his very soul.



But he could not outrun the memory of her smile, or the soft, sultry sound of her voice.



Back in his own house, he slumped in the chair in front of his computer, wondering why he suddenly felt compelled to write the story of his own life instead of the fiction that came so easily to him.



In all the centuries of his existence, he had refused to dwell on the past. Once he had resigned himself to his fate, he had embraced it. To do otherwise was unthinkable. It was the only way to hang onto his sanity. There was no way back, no point in wallowing in self-pity. No point in lamenting over that which had been forever lost to him.



There had been a short period of time when he had mourned his wife and daughter, when he had mourned his old life, and then he had put the memories behind him, refusing to acknowledge the grief and the pain.



So why, he wondered, why now?



The answer was ridiculously simple, and amazingly complex.



It was because of Kara. Something about her reminded him of AnnaMara, made him yearn for the life he had lost, made him achingly aware of the fact that he was not a mortal man in the true sense of the word.



As always, when he was troubled, he sought escape in whatever book he was working on.



Leaning forward, he switched on the computer. For a moment, he stared at the blank blue screen, and then he pulled up the document he wanted and began to read, starting at page one.