Embrace the Night

It was late morning when she woke. Filled with a sense of well-being, she stretched, then sat up, wondering where Gabriel was.



Rising, she took a quick shower, and then, wrapped in a fluffy white towel, she padded downstairs.



"Gabriel?"



She frowned, her confusion growing as she went from room to room. Except for the bedroom they had shared and the front parlor, none of the rooms were furnished. There was no table in the kitchen, no chairs, though there was food in the fridge.



But her curiosity was stronger than her appetite. She retraced her steps, staring, perplexed, into each room. He'd said he'd lived here for a few months. Surely a man who drove a $70,000 sports car could afford to buy a few pieces of furniture.



She couldn't shake off the feeling that the only room that had ever been lived in was the parlor. Nor could she shake the feeling that Gabriel was here, somewhere in the house. But if that was true, why didn't he answer her?



"Gabriel?" She stood in the hallway, her hands clutching the towel. "Gabriel! This isn't funny."



With a sigh of exasperation, she went upstairs. She was about to put on the clothes she'd worn the day before when her gaze fell on the wardrobe.



You'll find clothes in the armoire, he'd said.



She hesitated a moment, then opened the doors, her eyes widening with wonder. There were dresses, blouses and sweaters, jeans and slacks, pumps and sandals, all obviously selected with her likes and dislikes in mind. She shook her head in amazement. She'd never owned this many clothes in her whole life.



It took her twenty minutes to decide on a pair of black pants and a lavender sweater. Barefoot, she went back down to the kitchen and fixed herself a cup of coffee.



Where was he?



It was then she noticed the narrow door. Painted the same color as the kitchen and tucked into a corner, it was almost invisible.



Setting her coffee cup on the sink top, she crossed the room and opened the door to discover a short flight of stairs, and another door at the bottom.



"Curiouser and curiouser," she murmured. And feeling like Alice in Wonderland, she made her way down the steps, her hand reaching for the doorknob.



It was locked. She looked around for a key, ran her hand along the top of the lintel. Nothing.



Sarah exhaled softly. Did the door lead to the garage? A basement? Into the garden?



She rested her hand on the door for a moment. The wood, a dark oak, felt smooth and cool beneath her fingertips.



Images flashed through her mind, images of a small cottage, of a broken window, of narrow stone steps, of another door also made of oak. A door that led to a damp cellar.



And she heard Gabriel's voice, filled with warning. Be gone!



With a start, she jerked her hand from the door and took a step backward. She hadn't imagined that voice. It had been real. Gabriel's voice.



Overcome with a sudden sense of foreboding, she turned on her heel and ran up the stairs, slamming the kitchen door behind her.



She ran through the kitchen, down the hall, through the parlor, and didn't stop running until she was outside in the driveway. Only then did she remember that her car was parked in the garage at home.



Breathing heavily, she ran down the long, winding driveway to the main gate. Tears of frustration welled in her eyes when she realized it was locked, and then, as if by magic, the iron gate swung open and she ran outside. She heard the gate slam shut behind her, but she didn't turn around, just kept running, driven by sheer terror.



He rose at dusk, his steps heavy as he climbed the stairs.



She was gone, and it was just as well.



He repeated those words over and over again in the next few nights - nights spent staring into the fireplace, or riding Necromancer. Sometimes he sat in the bedroom remembering, until his need for her became too painful. At those limes, he went out into the night to walk the lonely streets. No one saw him. Moving with preternatural speed, he moved from one end of the city to the other, his presence no more than a breath of cool air to those he passed by.



Anger aroused the urge to hunt, to kill, but he refused to do so. He fed only when absolutely necessary, taking only enough to sustain his existence but never enough to quench his thirst, punishing himself with the hunger because it was easier to be tormented by the lust for blood than by his constant need for Sarah.



A week passed, and his anger grew, and with it the knowledge that he could take her at any time.



He was a vampire, after all. He could hypnotize her so that he could make love to her whenever he pleased. Then he would have only to summon her with the power of his mind, and she would be compelled to come to him from wherever she might be, warm and willing, unable to resist.



He could initiate her, and in that state she would do anything he wished. Anything. She would be miserable when they were apart. She would find prey for him, kill for him, worship him if he so desired.



Or he could force the Dark Gift upon her, and keep her by his side for eternity.



But he could not make her love him.



And that knowledge filled him with rage.



And it was that rage, finally, that drove him to her door.



Sarah sat in a corner of the couch, comfortably wrapped in a blanket, watching an old rerun of the Dick Van Dyke show. She'd seen this particular episode at least a half-dozen times, but for some reason she never tired of it.



When it was over, she turned to the country music channel, her thoughts drifting toward Gabriel. Always Gabriel, she thought, annoyed. She hardly knew the man, yet she couldn't forget him. He was ever in her thoughts, her dreams. Her nightmares. Deep down, she had the feeling that she was going slowly insane. Surely that was the only explanation for the dreams she'd been having. Sometimes she dreamed she was in England, other times in France. She spoke French in those dreams. She danced. She made love to Gabriel. Only it wasn't really her, but another woman, one with blond hair and blue eyes.



But it was the nightmares that truly frightened her, that made her sleep with all the lights on. There was nothing pleasant about those dreams, and she often woke with a start, images of bloody fangs and inhuman eyes imprinted in her memory.



Last night she had dreamed of being buried alive.



Closing her eyes, she took a deep, calming breath. They were just dreams, after all. And dreams couldn't hurt you...



"Sarah."



His voice was low, resonant.



She opened her eyes and he was there, standing in the doorway across the room. He was tall and dark, like an image from one of her nightmares, and she wondered why she wasn't afraid, or at least surprised. And then she knew. She had been waiting for this moment ever since she ran out of the mansion a week ago.



"What are you doing here?"



His dark gray eyes seemed to burn into her own. "I've come for you."



"What do you mean?"



"Can't you guess?"



She clutched the blanket tighter, her eyes widening in fearful understanding. Slowly, she shook her head, refusing to believe what she saw in his eyes.



And then he was lifting her off the sofa, though she had no recollection of seeing him move.



His arms were hard and unyielding as he carried her out of the house, blanket and all. And then they were moving through the night with blinding speed. Tears stung her eyes. Stores and houses and people blurred together in a mass of color.



And suddenly they were at the mansion, in the parlor, and she was sitting in the chair in front of the fireplace with no recollection of how she'd gotten there.



She saw Gabriel glance over his shoulder; there was a soft whooshing sound, and a fire appeared in the hearth.



Magic, she thought. It was some kind of magic.



"Look at me," he said, and his voice seemed to echo off the walls of the room, of her mind, her heart.



Hands clasped to keep them from shaking, she met his gaze.



"I've thought of nothing but you this past week," he said, not sounding very happy about it. "Only you."



"I... I've thought of you, too."



"Have you?"



Did she detect a note of hope in his voice? "Yes."



"Do you dream, Sarah?"



"Of course. Everyone dreams."



"Not everyone," he murmured. "Tell me of your dreams."



"Is that why you brought me here?" she asked, her voice tinged with sarcasm. "To listen to my dreams?"



"Tell me."



She tried to look away, but she couldn't draw her gaze from his.



"Tell me." It was a command.



"Mostly I dream about you," she said. "About..." She shrugged. "About the other night."



"Is that all?"



"No. Sometimes I have nightmares, horrible nightmares."



He didn't move, but she had the feeling he was leaning toward her. "Tell me," he said again.



"They don't make any sense. The girl in the dreams is me. I see what she sees, I hear what she hears. But she's not me."



She stared up at him, hoping he could help, hoping he would assure her that she wasn't going crazy. "Sometimes I speak French." She lifted one hand and let it fall in a gesture of helplessness. "I don't know how to speak French. But in my dreams I know the words, what they mean. And there's" - she swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry - "there's blood and death and you, all mixed up together. And last night" - her fingernails dug into her palms - "last night I dreamed that I had been buried alive. And you came to save me."



"Sarah." His voice was a harsh rasp, filled with agony. And he knew, knew without doubt, that it was Sara Jayne sitting before him.



"What does it all mean?" she asked.



He turned away, not wanting her to see the yearning, the hunger, that he knew must surely be plain on his face. "Are you sure you want to know?"



"Am I going mad?" she asked anxiously. "Is that what it means?"



"No."



"Why did you bring me here? What do you want from me?"



"I was going to offer you a choice."



"What kind of choice?"



"I was going to ask if you would be mine willingly, and if you said no, I was going to offer you the choice of being my slave or my equal."



She couldn't help it - she laughed. His slave or his equal? Who did he think he was? And then she felt the power of his gaze, and the laughter died in her throat.



"You're not kidding, are you?"



"No."



"How did you start that fire?"



He lifted one black brow. "An odd question at such a moment."



"How did we travel here so fast?"



"I have many talents," he said with a shrug.



"Are you a magician of some kind?" She shrank away from the word sorcerer, it conjured up too many dark images.



"Do you believe in reincarnation?"



"Don't tell me you think you're Harry Houdini?"



"Answer me!"



"No, I don't believe in reincarnation. Or ghosts. Or werewolves."



He crossed the room, parted the drapes, and stared out into the night. He should end this now, he thought, one way or the other. As he had so long ago, he told himself to let her go, to exit her life and never return. But, as with his other Sara, he could not do it. He could not cut himself off from the only woman who had ever loved him. Selfish to the end, he mused, determined to have what he wanted at all costs.



He stood there for a long time, absorbing the sounds of the night, A drunk was lying in a gutter less than a mile away, snoring loudly. He heard the near-silent sweep of an owl's wings as it hunted in the night. In the distance, he could hear people talking, fighting, loving.



He drewadeep breath, and Sarah's scent filled his nostrils. Her perfume. The soap she had bathed with. The fragrance of her hair. The sharp odor of fear. The intoxicating scent of the blood flowing warm and sweet through her veins.



He clenched his hands at his sides. Sara Jayne, remember me, cara, come to me.



"Sara Jayne." A shiver went through Sarah as she repeated the name. "She's the girl in my dreams."



"I know."



"How could you?"



"Because they're her dreams you're having, her nightmares."



"You mean she really exists?"



"She did."



"Did?" A coldness seemed to fill the room as she waited for his explanation.



"She was born in England in 1865. She had hair the color of yours, but her eyes were blue, like the sky on a summer day. She grew up in an orphanage. For a time, she was a prima ballerina in the Paris Opera. She gave up a brilliant career and all hopes of a family for the man she loved." He paused a moment. "She died in 1940."



"You sound as though you knew her."



He seemed to move in slow motion as he turned around to face her. "I did."



"That's impossible."



A tight smile played over his lips. "Is it?"



"So," Sarah said, deciding to humor him. "Was she your slave or your equal?"



"She was my wife."



Sarah frowned. "But she died more than fifty years ago."



"Yes," he said, and his eyes were bleak, as gray as a winter sky. "In Salamanca."



Sarah shook her head. Maybe hewas the one who was crazy.



"I'm tired," she said. "I want to go home."



The coldness had penetrated her skin now, making her shiver in spite of the flames. She knew he was hiding something, something she didn't want to know.



Gabriel took a deep breath, held it, then let it out in a weary sigh. "You are home."



She was truly frightened now. She searched her mind, trying to remember how one was supposed to deal with a lunatic.



"I'm not insane, Sarah, and neither are you. Search your mind. Let yourself remember."



"Remember what?"



"Who you are."



"I know who I am. What I don't know is who you are."



"You know me, Sarah. You've always known me."



"No," she said, tears of fright stinging her eyes. "Please, just let me go home."



"I can't. I can't lose you again."



"I'm not her! My name is Sarah Lynn Johnson. My eyes are brown, not blue. And I've never been to England or France or Spain."



"You were born crippled," he said. "I came to you at the orphanage. I read to you. I held you in my arms and we danced around the room. I took you to the opera..."



"To see Giselle." She shivered as the words whispered past her lips, as though someone had walked over her grave.



Gabriel nodded.



Sarah stared up at him, her expression one of disbelief and astonishment. "You took me riding on your horse. You sent me to France to be a ballerina. You saved my life when I was burned..."



He nodded again, his heart pounding as her memories surfaced.



"It was me. I was the one buried alive."



He saw the horror in her eyes as she recalled that night. Thinking to comfort her, he took a step forward, his hand outstretched.



"No!" She recoiled from his touch. "You're... you're a..." She shook her head, refusing to believe. "No, no, it can't be. This is all a dream, a nightmare."



His hand fell to his side. "Sometimes I wish it were." He let out a long, shuddering sigh. "The word you can't say is vampire. And it's true. It's what I am."



She shook her head again. He could hear the thundering beat of her heart, smell the fear that rose from her skin.



"You weren't afraid of me before," he remarked quietly. "Once, you even gave me your blood."



All the color drained from her face as she stared down at her wrist. "I remember." She spoke the words as though they had been forced from her lips. "You were in the cellar of an abandoned cottage and couldn't get out."



She lifted her gaze to his, but he said nothing, only stood there, his face impassive. She had never seen such stillness in another human being... only he wasn't human.



Vampire.



The undead.



Every Dracula movie she had ever seen rushed to the forefront of her mind. Will you be my slave or my equal? Did she really have any choice? If there was any truth to the movies, to the books she'd read, he could hypnotize her into doing whatever he wished. And now, with her gaze caught in the web of his, she believed it.



"Sarah, I'm not going to hurt you." He turned away, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his trousers. "I admit I brought you here tonight to bring you over... to take you by force if you wouldn't come willingly."



"Bring me over?"



"Make you what I am." Even though he wasn't looking at her, he could see the horror reflected in her eyes, feel the increased rhythm of her heart as fear swept through her. "You needn't worry," he said wearily. "I've changed my mind."



"You loved her very much, didn't you?"



"Yes."



"Why didn't you make her a... a vampire?"



"She didn't want it."



He stared at her a moment, his gaze deep and mesmerizing, until she was hopelessly lost.



When she came to herself again, she was at home, sitting on the sofa with the blanket draped across her lap.



"Good-bye, Sarah," Gabriel said quietly. "I won't bother you again."



She blinked, and he was gone as if he'd never been there.



She sat there for a long while, their conversation replaying in her mind. She had lived before, had known him before. Memories crowded her mind, memories of Maurice and Antonina, of performing onstage at the Paris Opera, of living in the orphanage, of Sister Mary Josepha. She remembered sitting in a wheelchair, remembered the panic she'd felt as fire swept through her room. And she remembered Gabriel carrying her into the night, his dark eyes frightened. He had given her his blood, saved her life, restored strength to her legs so she could walk and dance.



He had loved her until the day she died...



It couldn't be true. She didn't believe in reincarnation. She didn't believe in vampires. The very thought was frightening. But fascinating.



Suddenly too agitated to sit still, she went into the kitchen and fixed herself a cup of hot chocolate, and all the while memories flooded her mind, memories of another life, and woven deep into the fabric of those memories was Gabriel: Gabriel reading to her, singing to her, holding her in his arms.



Gabriel begging her to go away that day she'd found him in the cellar...



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



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



"I'm not leaving," she had said, and she had crossed the room and taken him in her arms. "Gabriel, please tell me what to do," she had pleaded.



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



She had 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's happened to you?" she had asked.



"Nothing's happened to me," he had replied. "This is what I am."



He had bared his teeth and she had seen his fangs, sharp and white and deadly... And the unearthly red glow in his eyes.



"Now will you go?" he had growled, and she had replied, "No, Gabriel, I'll not leave you again."



He had been in pain, needing nourishment, needing blood, and she had offered him hers, but he had refused, begging her to go away. And she had, but only for a moment. She had gone upstairs, found a sliver of glass, and slit her wrist. He hadn't wanted to take it; she had seen the horror struggling against the hunger, and she had pressed her bleeding flesh to his lips. With a low growl of despair, his mouth had locked on her arm...



Sarah gasped as a sudden heat pooled in her right wrist, and with it, the sense of someone sucking her flesh, drinking her blood. It was a strangely sensual feeling.



"I must have loved him a great deal to do such a thing," Sarah murmured, unaware that she had said "I" instead of "she."



She sipped the chocolate, oblivious to the fact that it had grown cool.



Gabriel. He had been the loneliest man she had ever known, doomed to live in the shadows of life, to dwell on the edges of humanity, always alone, forever in darkness. And she had been his light...



She wandered aimlessly through the house, then went back into the parlor and sat down on the sofa again, the blanket wrapped around her, her mind in turmoil as she tried to accept the fact that she had lived before, that she had willingly given up all hope of motherhood, of a normal life, to be with a vampire.