Embrace the Night

Shrouded in the shadows, Maurice watched Gabriel leave Sara Jayne's apartment and then, as he had before, he followed the man to the deserted cottage.



At last, the time had come. He had spent most of the night preparing for what he intended to see accomplished before the sun set on the morrow.



He prayed that he had the courage to see it through.



He hoped that Sara Jayne would forgive him.



Hidden in the darkness, he watched Gabriel unlock the door to the house and step inside.



And then he waited.



Not until the sun was well above the horizon did he approach the dwelling, pulling the small wagon he had hidden in the trees the day before.



He walked around the house, peering in each window, assuring himself that Gabriel was nowhere to be seen. And then he lifted the first cross from the back of the wagon.



Two hours later, the cottage was surrounded by wooden crosses. They were placed against the walls of the house, in front of the windows, on the roof, over the chimney. Holy water, stolen from several church fonts, had been brushed around the door frame and each window, and then he had poured a narrow stream of holy water around the cottage itself. As an extra measure, he had strewn garlic around the foundation. He only hoped he had correctly interpreted the signs, and that Gabriel was indeed a vampire, and not some other form of night creature.



Maurice shuddered. As a young man, he had enjoyed reading novels about vampires: Wake Not the Deadby Tieck, The Pale Faced Ladyby Alexandre Dumas, La Morte Amoureuseby Gautier.



In literature, the preferred method of destroying a vampire was a wooden stake through the heart, but, at least for the moment, Maurice lacked the courage to face Gabriel in his lair. According to legend, a vampire could not cross an unbroken circle made of holy water. If he could not leave the house, he could not feed. If he could not feed, he would weaken. And then Maurice would break down the cellar door and do what had to be done.



He walked around the house three times, studying his handiwork, wondering how long it would take for Gabriel to weaken to the point that he would no longer be a threat.



She read the note four times. Her cheeks were wet with tears, the paper stained with her sorrow, when she finally put the note aside.



He was gone.



"... for your own good," the note said, "I want you to get on with your life. Marry Maurice. Have children..."



But she didn't want to marry Maurice, didn't want to have his children. She wanted Gabriel. She had wanted him ever since the first night he had come to her in the orphanage. He had been her solace, her hope, her joy. He had made her feel beautiful.



And now he was gone.



She was tempted to go to the cottage, to see for herself, but she couldn't face the pain that would bring.



Maurice came to call on her later that afternoon, his brown eyes warm with caring as he invited her to lunch.



"Not today, Maurice," she said. "I want to take a nap before I go to rehearsal."



"All right. Shall I come by for you later?"



Sara shrugged. "If you wish."



"Till later, then," he said. He gave her hand a squeeze, planted a kiss on her cheek, and took his leave.



Sara stared at the closed door, overwhelmed by a sense of emptiness, of loss.



She was going to leave Paris. There were too many memories here. Perhaps she'd go to Italy... but no, Gabriel had a villa there. Spain, then? She shook her head. Gabriel owned a castle in Salamanca. Back home, to England? But, no, there were too many memories there, as well.



She sighed in exasperation. She might just as well stay where she was, she thought bitterly. She'd take his memory with her wherever she went.



Maybe she wouldmarry Maurice. He loved her, adored her, would never leave her. But she would never love him as he deserved.



Her steps were like lead as she went into her bedroom and crawled into bed. Sleep was the answer, she mused as she crawled under the covers. Sleep was forgetfulness.



He woke with the setting sun, his decision to leave Paris weighing heavily upon him. This morning, before sleep enveloped him, he had decided to go home to Italy, to go to ground and sleep for a hundred years. Perhaps, after such a long rest, he would be able to forget her.



With a low oath, he acknowledged it for the lie it was. He would never forget her. Not if he survived another 350 years.



Rising, he changed his clothes, his mind and his heart warring within him. Go. Stay.



Crossing the room, he unlocked the door, his nose wrinkling against the overpowering smell of... garlic?



He took the stairs two at a time, then came to an abrupt halt as his gaze settled on the large wooden cross visible through the kitchen window.



He walked from room to room, his anger growing with each step. In the bedroom, he placed his hand on the sill where Maurice had broken the window. And quickly jerked it away. Muttering an oath, he glanced at his hand. The skin was burned as though he'd touched a living flame.



Holy water! Crosses. Garlic.



Maurice.



Like a lion in a cage, he prowled from room to room. He was trapped within this place, caught like a fish in a net by that pretty-faced boy.



He loosed his rage in a long, anguished cry. And then, refusing to believe what he knew to be true, he put his hand on the door latch and wrenched it open. But in spite of his determination, he could not step through the door, nor bear to face the heavy wooden cross which burned his eyes with a greater intensity than the sun at noon-day.



With a cry of frustration, he slammed the door, his anger rising with his hunger.



Muttering curses in a dozen languages, he paced the floor until the rising sun drove him below.



Three weeks passed, and he was in agony. Hunger clawed at him, relentless, merciless in its intensity. And as the hunger grew, so did his weakness, until he could barely climb out of the shallow wooden box where he took his rest. Rest! He had not truly rested in the last seven days. His skin was shrinking, stretched taut over his frame. His eyes burned. And always, the hunger screamed through him, clawing at his vitals until he thought he would go mad with the pain.



Three weeks without nourishment, save for the blood of one small rat that had foolishly crossed his path. The thought filled him with revulsion, yet he would gladly have drained the blood from a dozen rodents if he but had the chance...



A low moan rose in his parched throat. Had he truly sunk so low? He stared at his hands. With their shrunken flesh, the fingers looked almost skeletal.



He cursed himself for being foolish enough to stay in the cottage after Maurice had learned the location of his lair. He cursed himself for not disposing of the troublesome young man when he had the chance, for not summoning Delacroix to his side when he still had the power to do so.



Sara...



On legs that would barely support him, he walked slowly from one end of the cellar to the other.



Sara, Sara.



If he could only see her one last time...



Sara...



She woke with a start, the sound of Gabriel's voice ringing in her ears. He was in pain, crying her name.



Had it been a dream? She sat up, her gaze sweeping the room. Was he here? But that was impossible. He'd left town weeks ago.



"Gabriel?"



Sara... Sara...



He needed her. In minutes, she was dressed and out the door. She fretted as she waited for a hack, tapped her foot impatiently as the carriage made its way toward the cottage. He was there. She knew it, just as she knew that he needed her.



She told the driver to stop the carriage before the cottage came in sight. She thrust the fare into his hand and began to run, her feet flying over the ground.



She was light-headed and out of breath by the time she reached her destination. Eyes wide, she stared at the cottage. There were wooden crosses everywhere, even on the roof. The heavy odor of garlic assailed her nostrils.



She tried the door, but it was locked. Lifting her skirts, she went around to the back of the house and climbed through the broken window.



"Gabriel?"



Go away!



"Gabriel, where are you?"



Go away!



Taking a deep, calming breath, she went into the kitchen and down the stairs that led to the cellar door. She was surprised to find the door unlocked, and more surprised by the sudden and total terror that engulfed her as she lifted the latch and crossed the threshold into darkness so thick it was almost palpable.



"Gabriel?" Her voice was soft and low and shaky.



"Go away!"



She peered into the darkness, trying to see him. "Gabriel, where are you?"



"Sara, for the love of heaven, get out of here while you can!"



"I'm not leaving. You called me, and I'm here."



Tears stung his eyes. She had heard his anguished cries, and she had come to him.



He pressed his forehead against the cold stone wall and closed his eyes, striving for control.



"Please, Sara, go away."



"What's wrong, Gabriel? Won't you tell me?"



"I'm... not well."



"I'll help you. Only tell me what to do."



"No." He placed his hands on the wall on either side of his head, his fingernails raking the cold stones. "Please... go. Please... I don't want to hurt you."



"Tell me what you need, and I'll get it for you."



"What I need?" His voice was shrill, edged with pain and despair. "What I need! Ah, Sara," he murmured brokenly. "If you only knew."



"I'll get it, Gabriel, I promise, whatever it is. Only tell me."



She took another step into the room. Her eyes had become accustomed to the darkness and she could see him now, a black shape huddled against the opposite wall.



She took another step, and he whirled away, his cloak swirling around him as he stumbled toward the far corner.



"Gabriel, my angel, please let me help you."



"Angel... angel..." He laughed then, a horrible sound that bordered on hysteria. "Devil, you mean. Go away from me, my sweet Sara. Go away before I destroy you as I destroyed Rosalia."



"I'm not leaving," Sara said firmly. And before she could change her mind, before her imagination could frighten her away, she crossed the room and gathered him into her arms.



She felt his whole body tense at her touch.



"Gabriel..."



For a moment, he closed his eyes, absorbing her nearness, her warmth. Ah, how he had craved her touch, yearned to hold her, to be held by her. He shuddered as the hunger rose up within him, hot and swift, the need, the pain, more than he could bear.



The heat of her hands penetrated his clothing. He could hear the soft whisper of blood stirring through her veins, smell it, taste it...



"Gabriel, please tell me what to do."



With an inhuman growl of despair, he whirled around to face her. "Go away!"



Sara stared up at him, at eyes that blazed in the darkness like hell's own fires, and knew she was looking into the face of death.



"What has happened to you?" she asked, her voice quivering with barely suppressed terror.



"Nothing has happened to me. This is what I am."



He bared his teeth, and Sara took a step backward. Even in the darkness, she could see his fangs, sharp and white and deadly. And the unearthly red glow in his eyes.



"Now will you go?"



His voice was ragged, his hands clenched at his sides as he struggled to control the hunger that burned through him.



Sara took a deep breath, fighting down the urge to run away as fast and as far as she could.



"No, Gabriel," she said with quiet determination. "I'll not leave you again."



The room was growing lighter, and she realized the sun had come up, that its light was slowly creeping down the stairs.



With a low cry, Gabriel spun away, his cloak swirling around his ankles like black smoke. Taking refuge in a corner untouched by the sun's searing brightness, he dropped into a crouch, his head lowered, his arms shielding his face.



Vampire.



The word echoed in her mind.



"Yes, Sara." Gabriel's voice, taut with pain, spoke to her from the shadows. "Vampire. That is what I am."



She shook her head. Vampires were creatures of fantasy and illusion, like Santa Claus. "I don't believe it."



"It's true nonetheless. Go now."



"You need blood."



He made a harsh sound that hovered somewhere between laughter and despair. "I thought you didn't believe."



"If you need blood, take mine." Were those her words? Sara wondered, unable to draw her gaze from his bowed head. Was that her voice, calmly urging him to take her blood?



"No!"



"Will it help you?"



She took his silence for assent. "Then take it, my angel. Take as much as you need."



"No!" He screamed the word, but, ah, the mere thought of it, to taste the very essence of her life... "No, I won't. I can't. Please, go away."



Relief washed through him as he heard her footsteps cross the floor and climb the stairs. She was leaving. Had he the right, he would have given thanks to the Almighty.



A moment later, his head jerked up and a feral growl rumbled in his throat as the scent of blood, tantalizing and sweetly fresh, reached his nostrils.



He whirled around to find Sara standing before him, her left arm extended. His gaze was instantly drawn to the small pool of blood welling from the shallow cut she had inflicted in her wrist.



Blood. Warm. Fresh. The essence of life. An end to the horrible agony knifing through him, a pain that grew ever worse now that the promise of relief was near.



Sara's blood.



Hands clenched at his sides, he shook his head. "No," he gasped. "Sara... no."



He shook his head as she walked toward him, helpless to resist when she pressed her bleeding flesh to his lips.



With a low cry of despair, his mouth locked on her arm, tasting her sweetness, feeling the life-giving fluid flow through him, easing the awful hunger that plagued him like the fires of hell.



Time lost all meaning as he gave himself over to the pleasure of satisfying a craving over which he no longer had control.



Sara... the essence of life, of light...



Sara!



He released her immediately, his heart pounding with fear as he gazedinto her eyes. Had he taken too much?



" Cara mia, how do you feel?"



She blinked up at him. "I don't know. A little faint." Her gaze moved over his face, amazed to see that he already looked better. The deadly pallor was fading. "Do you need more? Is it enough?"



Was that her voice, sounding so calm as she asked him if he had taken enough of her blood? Had she finally gone mad? She should have been repulsed by what had just happened, sickened to think that he needed blood to survive, horrified that she had given him hers. But she wasn't repulsed or sickened or horrified. She was, in fact, sorry he hadn't taken more.



Had she imagined it, or had she actually felt a sense of pleasure that bordered on ecstasy when his mouth closed over her wrist? It was very strange, she thought. Very strange indeed.



"Sara." There was a wealth of misery in his voice as he ripped a strip of cloth from his shirt tail and wrapped it around the gash in her wrist, then turned away.



He could not face her. He felt naked and ashamed. She had seen him at his worst. Stripped of his dignity, of the thin mask of humanity, she had seen him for the monster he truly was, something no other mortal had ever witnessed and survived.



"Gabriel?"



"I'll be all right."



"You're sure? Perhaps you should..."



"I'm sure! Sara, please go now."



"No, I don't want to leave you."



He didn't think he'd taken enough blood to initiate her, but what if he had indeed taken too much? He didn't want to enslave her in that way, didn't want to strip her of her free will so that she would be forever bound to him, afraid to be without him. He didn't want to own her body and soul; he wanted her love, freely given.



Hands balled into tight fists, he turned to face her. "Please go," he said gently. "I need to be alone."



She didn't want to leave him. Didn't want to ever be away from him again, but the quiet pleading in his voice convinced her to go. "Very well. If that's what you want."



He felt a momentary surge of relief. If she was willing to leave him, even for a short time, all would be well.



She placed her hand on his arm, felt him tremble at her touch. "I'll be back later."



"No."



"I'll be back," she repeated in a voice that brooked no argument.



"Sara?"



"Yes?"



"The cross in front of the house. Remove it."



"All right."



"You must also wash the door frame."



"Anything else?"



"A circle made of holy water and garlic surrounds the house. Break it."



"I will."



He nodded, resenting the fact that he'd had to ask her for anything else when he'd already taken so much. "You know I can't stay here any longer."



Of course he couldn't stay here. It was no longer safe. Why hadn't she realized that before?"



"We've got to get you out of here," she said. "I'll be back inalittle while. You rest until then."



"It's morning. I can't go out."



"I'll think of something," she said, and hurried away before he could argue further.



Outside, she took a deep breath, wishing she had thought to ask the carriage to wait. But perhaps a good long walk was just what she needed. Ordinarily, she would have been afraid to be out walking on a lonely road at dawn, but not now. She concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, refusing to think of what he was as she made her way back to town.



When she reached the city, she hired a closed carriage, dismissed the driver, and drove to her apartment.



Inside, she walked through the house, closing all the drapes. In her bedroom, she covered the curtains with a heavy quilt, so that no light at all filtered into the room. Then, laden with every blanket she could find, she drove back to the cottage.



Not wanting Sara to see him in his deathlike sleep, Gabriel roused himself when he sensed her approaching. Moving sluggishly, he reached for his cloak. Sewn into the lining was a fine layer of earth from Vallelunga. His native soil, necessary to his survival when he was away from his homeland.



It took all his strength, all his willpower, to meet her at the door. Had the sun been any higher in the sky, it would have been impossible.



"Come," she said, and covering him with three layers of blankets, she led him out of the cottage and into the carriage.



He huddled on the floor of the conveyance, the blankets spread over him, while she drove back to the city. He could feel the sun searching for him, feel its insufferable heat, knew that he would die in unspeakable agony if Sara betrayed him now.



It was still too early for there to be many people about. When they reached her apartment, she quickly unlocked the door, then ran down the steps to help Gabriel inside, guiding him into the bedroom.



He shook off the blankets, then sighed as the darkness closed around him.



"Do you need anything?" she asked.



"I need to be left alone," he said, and his voice was low and heavy, as if he had been drugged.



"All right."



"Promise me you won't come in here until after dark."



"Why?" she asked, and then, before he could reply, she made an impatient gesture with her hand. "I know. No questions."



"I would think you had all the answers you needed by now."



"Go to sleep, Gabriel. I promise not to disturb your rest."



He waited until she left the room, and then, after spreading his cloak on top of the counterpane, he stretched out on her bed and closed his eyes, the taste of her blood still hot on his tongue, her scent surrounding him, as he fell into darkness.