Shades of Gray

Grigori paused when he reached the sidewalk. He had been quite serious when he'd suggested that Alexi was playing games with them. No doubt the ancient vampyre found their helplessness amusing. And they were helpless against him, Grigori thought bleakly. Unless Alexi let his guard down, they had little chance of catching him. Kristov possessed the knowledge of untold centuries, the strength of a thousand years.



Grigori raked a hand through his hair. Maybe he was only kidding himself in thinking that he could keep Marisa safe. There was little he could do to protect her that she couldn't do herself. If she was careful to remain locked within her own house at night, Alexi could not reach her. But what kind of life was that, being imprisoned from dusk till dawn?



He laughed softly. What kind of life indeed, he mused. It was the life he lived, save that he was compelled to shun the light of day, to hide away in darkness when the sun was high in the sky.



The howl of a wolf interrupted his thoughts, and he spun around, his gaze probing the drifting shadows of the night.



"Still protecting the lady fair?"



Alexi's voice sounded behind him. Grigori whirled around, the fine hairs rising along the back of his neck, his hands curling into tight fists.



"Why don't you fight me, Alexi? Let us end it here and now."



"You don't think you could best me?" Alexi replied with unbridled amusement.



"Try me."



"Oh, I will, I will, have no doubt of that. But not now. I find your puny efforts to destroy me most amusing." Alexi crossed his arms over his chest and regarded Grigori through ancient gray eyes. "Tell Ramsey he need not change his sleeping place from night to night. All the locked doors and all the garlic and crosses in the world will not save him. In the end, he will be mine."



Grigori nodded. Ramsey had not stayed in the same hotel or motel since they'd arrived in the city, foolishly believing that Alexi would not be able to find him.



Alexi laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. "Tell him he is easy to follow. The stink of garlic trails behind him like the smoke from a funeral pyre."



"So, if you have not come to fight me, what do you want?"



"Why, just to say hello to an old friend."



Slowly, like a snake uncoiling, rage rose up within Grigori. "Friend! You dare call me friend after what you did!"



Alexi waved his hand in an elegant gesture of dismissal. "Don't tell me you're still angry because of the woman."



"She was my wife." Grigori bit off each word.



"How can you still be angry? You must admit, but for me, you would be nothing but a moldering corpse." He laughed softly. "I should think you would thank me. Because of your hatred, you have a gift thousands of mortals would kill for, yet you despise me for it."



"Thank you? You think I should thank you? You killed my children! My wife  -  "



"She is not dead."



"What?" Grigori froze, everything else forgotten. "What did you say?"



Alexi shrugged. "She is not dead." He smiled, a slow smile of such evil that it sent a shiver down Grigori's spine.



"Did you bring her over?"



Alexi shook his head, his expression one of boredom.



Grigori stared at the vampyre in horror. "You left her as she was all these years?"



"I have need of her from time to time."



"Where is she?"



"Where you cannot find her."



"Damn you, Kristov, where is she?"



"She is mine now, Grigori, as she was always meant to be."



"What are you saying? She was my wife. You never knew her until I made you welcome in my home."



"I loved her! I offered her the world, eternal youth, and she refused me. Me! I would have taken her away from that hovel, given her anything she desired! Made her a queen." Rage glittered in his eyes. "And she refused! Refused to leave you or those brats. Well, she doesn't refuse me anymore."



With a cry of rage, Grigori lunged forward, his hands turning to claws as he reached for Alexi's throat.



But his fingers closed on empty air. Alexi was gone.



Grigori swore under his breath. Antoinette wasn't dead. He stared blindly into the distance. All these years, he had thought her dead, grieved for her, mourned her, hated Alexi for destroying the woman he had loved, and she wasn't dead.



In the back of his mind, he heard Kristov's parting words: She is mine now... as she was always meant to be.



As if returning from a dark abyss, he gradually became aware of the world around him... the sound of a car passing by, the roar of a jet, the light rain that was beginning to fall.



Feeling numb, he slowly climbed the stairs to Marisa's apartment. A wave of his hand opened the door. He stood inside the entryway, his gaze sweeping the living room, seeing it all in a glance. Seeing nothing but Antoinette as he had seen her last... her face as pale as death, her eyes empty and vacant of life, the bright drops of blood that dripped down her neck like crimson tears.



"Grigori? Grigori!"



He looked at Marisa, not seeing her, and then he shook his head as if to clear it.



"What's wrong?" Marisa stared up at him, thinking she had never seen such anguish in anyone's eyes in her whole life. He looked as if he had just escaped from hell, as if he had seen into the heart of the devil himself. "Are you all right?"



He gazed down at her. "Of course."



"Of course," she repeated, her tone skeptical. "What happened out there?"



"Nothing. We... talked."



"It must have been some conversation. You look like you've just seen a ghost." She stilled the tide of hysterical laughter that bubbled in her throat. Vampires. Ghosts. What next? The Loch Ness Monster? Little green men from Mars?



"It's late," Grigori remarked. "Why don't you go to bed?"



"It's not late, and I don't want to go to bed."



With a nod, he brushed past her. For a moment, he stood at the window, staring out, and then he began to pace the floor. His footsteps seemed to beat a tattoo to the words pounding in his mind: She's not dead, not dead, not dead



Marisa sat on the arm of the sofa, watching him, wondering what Alexi had said or done to cause Grigori such distress. She watched him pace, his movements fluid, as graceful as a dancer's. His feet hardly seemed to touch the floor. Nothing stirred at his passing, almost as if he wasn't there.



Vampire. The word whispered down the corridors of her mind.



Sitting there, she felt herself grow tense, felt the heavy silence press in on her. Once, she heard him groan, a heart-wrenching sound that was almost a growl.



And still he paced. She imagined that she could see his footsteps wearing a path in the carpet. His anger radiated from him like heat from a campfire.



She blew out a sigh and he whirled around, his dark eyes ablaze with such hatred she felt scorched by the heat. His lips curled back, revealing sharp white fangs.



Terror drove through her heart. With a low cry, her fingers closed around the cross Ramsey had given her. It felt warm in her palm, soothing.



Grigori muttered a vile oath as he stopped his restless pacing. Taking a deep breath, he willed himself to be calm, felt the tension flow out of him.



"I'm sorry," he said curtly. "I didn't mean to frighten you."



She stared at him, wary and silent.



"Alexi gave me some disturbing news."



Marisa nodded, waiting for him to go on.



"I told you of my wife and children."



"Yes."



"It was only part of the truth. My children are dead, as I said. Alexi killed them. I had thought he killed my wife, as well, but it seems  -  " His hands clenched at his sides. "It seems he did not kill Antoinette, after all."



"What do you mean?"



"She's still alive." He took a deep breath. "That is, she's not dead."



Feeling suddenly chilled to the bone, Marisa crossed her arms over her breasts. "I don't understand."



"She's a revenant, a creature totally in Alexi's power. She has no mind, no will of her own. She exists in a world between life and death. He can summon her at any time he wishes, and she is helpless to resist him."



"But... if she's not a vampire, how can she still be alive?"



"She's not alive!" He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes again blazing with hatred. "She can't die. Won't die, so long as Alexi lives."



"And if you kill him?"



"She'll die, too."



"I'm sorry." She knew the words were inadequate, but she didn't know what else to say.



He looked at her for a long moment. "I have to go out." His voice was raw, scraping over her senses like sandpaper.



She didn't ask why, didn't want to know why.



Moments later, he was gone.



Grigori stalked the dark streets of a small town up the coast, his mind in turmoil as he thought of Antoinette. The knowledge that she was still alive filled him with hope and dread. Where was she? Where had she been during the century that Alexi had been imprisoned by Silvano's family? Had she roamed the countryside, lost and alone, at the mercy of superstitious villagers who would have hated and feared her? Or had she slept the same deathlike sleep as her master...?



Impotent rage rose up within him as he imagined the hell she must have endured these past centuries. All this time, he had thought her dead, and she had been Alexi's creature.



He sought the shadows of the night, but found no solace there. He threw back his head and loosed his rage and anger in a long howl that echoed and re-echoed through the stillness of the sleeping town.



Pausing at the edge of the ocean, he stared out at the gently lapping waves. Moonlight reflected off the water like candlelight off a mirror. He stood there for a long time, listening to the water as it whispered up to kiss the sand at his feet. Seeking some semblance of inner peace, he closed his eyes and took several slow, deep breaths. Unbidden, Marisa's image came to his mind, and he knew a sudden longing to be held in her arms, to feel the warmth of her hands stroking his back, to hear her voice speaking soft words of comfort.



But he dared not go to her now, when anger and hatred for Kristov burned through him like acid, kindling the urge for violence, awakening a thirst for blood that could be satisfied but never quenched.



He sped through the dark streets, his senses searching for prey, leading him to a seedy bar located a few blocks from the ocean.



Cloaked in the shadows of midnight, he waited.



The woman was laughing when she left the bar, weaving slightly as she made her way to the parking lot. On silent feet, Grigori slipped up beside her. She would have run from him then, but he stayed her with a touch of his hand on her arm.



"Who... who are you?" she asked. "What do you want?"



He searched her mind and found her name. "It's all right, Michelle. I'm not going to hurt you."



He gazed deep into her eyes, hypnotizing her with a glance, and then he walked her to her car. Slipping into the seat beside her, he drew her into his arms. She smelled of strong whiskey and stronger perfume. For a moment, he thought of Marisa, who smelled always of soap and flowers.



Wrenching his thoughts from Marisa, he turned the woman's face away from him, brushed her tousled hair aside, his lips sliding over the warm, tender flesh of her neck. How many times had he done this? How many women had he called to him in two hundred years, taking from them that which he needed to survive, then leaving them behind?



The woman moaned softly and he whispered to her, assuring her that she had nothing to fear as his teeth pierced her skin. He drank quickly, stilling the urge to drink it all, to consume not only her blood, but her thoughts and memories, the very essence of her life. She was recently divorced. She drank to forget, to ease the pain of a faithless husband, shattered vows, a broken home.



When he started to release her, she clung to him, staring up at him out of dazed blue eyes.



"Don't leave me," she begged, and he heard the raw edge of loneliness in her voice. "Please don't leave me. I don't want to be alone."



"Go to sleep, Michelle," he said quietly. "You're tired, and you must sleep." He looked deep into her eyes. "When you wake, you will remember nothing."



"Nothing..."



He ran his tongue over the tiny wounds in her neck, licking away the last of the blood, sealing the wounds. They would be gone by morning.



"Nothing," he repeated, but she was already asleep.



Leaving the car, he locked the doors. He looked at the woman a moment, knowing he would never see her again. She had satisfied his demon thirst, but his soul remained dry and empty.



"Marisa." He shared her name with the night, felt his need to hold her, to be held by her, grow strong within him. What would it be like, he wondered, to share the Dark Gift with her, to spend an eternity at her side?



A thought willed him across the miles to Marisa's apartment. A wave of his hand opened the door, and then he was there, at her bedside, watching her sleep. Though the room was dark, he could see her clearly, hear the quiet sound of her breathing.



"Marisa."



She stirred at the sound of his voice.



"Marisa."



Her eyelids fluttered open. For a moment, she stared up at him, uncomprehending, and then, in quick succession, came recognition and fear. Her eyes widened. Her hand delved beneath her nightgown and reappeared fisted around the cross Ramsey had given her.



Grigori loosed a sigh. Much as he might wish it, he would not take her by force. "You don't need that."



"Don't I?" Suddenly wide awake, she sat up, still clasping the crucifix. "What do you want?"



He shook his head. "Never mind."



Something in his voice tugged at her heart. "What is it? What's wrong?"



"Nothing."



"I'm awake now, so you may as well tell me what you want, unless you just came in hoping to find a midnight snack."



He grinned faintly, surprised by her ability to joke about something that terrified her. "No doubt you'll laugh."



"I don't think so. I haven't felt much like laughing since  -  "



"Since you met me?"



She didn't say anything, just continued to look at him, waiting for an explanation.



"I wanted to ask you to do something for me."



Unconsciously, she lifted a hand to her throat.



"Not that," he said quickly, but the thought of holding her, of drinking from her, burned within him like a bright flame.



Suddenly aware of what she was doing, she lowered her hand to her lap.



"Never mind," he said. "Go back to sleep."



"Oh, I hate it when people do that." She flounced back against the headboard, her arms crossed over her breasts, and glared up at him. "It's so annoying when someone starts to tell you something and then changes his mind."



Her anger amused him. "Yes, I suppose it is."



"Of course, you can read minds, so I don't suppose that's a problem for you, is it?"



"No."



She was wide awake now. Grabbing her robe from the foot of the bed, she slipped it on, then threw back the covers and got up.



"What are you doing?"



"I'm going to get some hot chocolate. Do you  -  " She grinned at him, her anger vanishing as quickly as it had surfaced. "Never mind."



He took a deep breath as she swept past him, inhaling the fragrance of her hair and skin, the siren call of the blood running through her veins.



Swearing softly, he followed her into the kitchen, watching while she filled a pan with milk, added cocoa, stirred it with a spoon.



Marisa tried to concentrate on what she was doing, but she was acutely aware of the man standing in the doorway, watching her. She could see him out of the corner of her eye. He stood there, unmoving, unblinking. She wondered if he was breathing, if he needed to breathe. It was quite disconcerting. As surreptitiously as she could, she touched the cross dangling between her breasts, wondering, as she did so, if it would really protect her.



When the milk was warm enough, she poured it into a coffee mug, then sat down at the kitchen table. And still he stood there, as still as a stone, silent as the grave.



He knew her thoughts. She read it in the slight smile that curved his lips, in the knowing look in his eye.



With hands that trembled, she put the cup on the table as he closed the distance between them.



Moving slowly so as not to startle her, Grigori took hold of her hands and lifted her to her feet, then folded her into his arms.



"Hold me, Marisa," he whispered in a voice taut with emotion. "I need you to hold me."



It was the last thing she had expected him to say. She gazed up at him, felt her heart wrench at the pain she saw reflected in his eyes.



There was nothing frightening or otherworldly about him now. He was just a man who was hurting, and hurting deeply. She wondered how he had endured for so long, living only in the darkness, afraid to let anyone know what he was.



Wordlessly, she wrapped her arms around him and held him close. He lowered his head until it was resting on her shoulder, his face turned away from her neck. She stroked his back, her hands gentle. She was surprised at how good it felt to hold him close, at the inexplicable urge to soothe and comfort him.



Time lost all meaning as they stood there, cocooned in silence. His hair was warm against her cheek; she was aware of how tall he was, of the hard-muscled body pressed against her own. She dragged her fingers over his back, across his shoulders. Broad, powerful shoulders.



And then she felt him stiffen in her arms. His head jerked up and he glanced at the kitchen window. She followed his gaze, surprised to see that the sky was turning gray.



"I must go." He took her hands in his and gazed down at her. "Thank you."



"I didn't do anything."



The faintest of smiles hovered over his lips. "You did more than you'll ever know," he replied quietly, and then, like a shadow running from the sun, he was gone.



Grigori raced the sun back to his lair, grateful for the preternatural speed that allowed him to move so swiftly, thinking ironically that he would have no need to fear the sun if he were mortal.



Safe inside, he paced the floor of his bedroom, his every thought focused on Marisa. What a rare creature she was! And how wondrous it had felt to stand within her embrace, to feel her arms around him, her hand stroking his back. Was there anything to equal a woman's gentle touch, any solace more complete?



He had made love to many women in two hundred years. Most had been bought for a price  -  a sum of money, a piece of expensive jewelry, a costly fur. Others had come to him out of nothing more than lust, drawn by the dark promise of his preternatural power. He had found satisfaction in their arms, but never pleasure. Passion, but never love. They had met the needs of his body, but none had ever touched his heart.



Until tonight. Marisa's sweet acceptance of his need, that basic human need to be held, to be loved, had arrowed straight to his soul. Before tonight, Antoinette had been the only woman who had held him and soothed him with such tenderness. Antoinette, who had loved him heart and soul, mind and body.



Antoinette. Her name seared his soul, shattering the fragile peace he had found in Marisa's arms.



"Damn you, Alexi," he murmured. "Damn you to hell."



And in the back of his mind, like the rustle of dead leaves, he heard the brittle sound of Alexi's laughter, and the words that continued to haunt him: She is mine now... as she was always meant to be...