"Damn it, Jeff, let's get her and get the hell out of here," Wallace snarled, the need to teach her who was in charge riding him hard. •
Emerald eyes slid over Smith, fastened on his mesmerized gaze. She could feel his desire, and she fed it, fed his fantasies of her welcoming his attentions. She had learned at a very young age that she could get into people's minds, manipulate their thoughts. Initially it had terrified her to wield that kind of power, but it was a useful tool in the O.K., and it was useful now, when she was threatened.
"Don, why don't they just turn human women? That would make sense. And why did the vampire just quit helping us? We left the area in a big hurry, and you never did tell me what went wrong," Smith said suspiciously.
"Are you trying to say one of these male vampires actually helped you in your campaign to kill others and that's how you were so successful?" Shea asked, a little sneer of disbelief in her voice.
"He was nasty, vengeful. He hated the kid, but he particularly despised this one here." Smith tapped the photograph of the man with the long black hair. "He wanted him tortured, burned, to feel it."
"Shut up," Wallace snapped. "Let's get it over. She's worth a hundred thousand dollars to the society. They want to study her."
Shea laughed softly. "If I truly was one of your mythical vampires, I should be worth far more than that to your'research' committee. I think your partner is holding out on you, Mr. Smith."
The truth was there to read on Wallace's face. When Smith turned to confront him, Shea made her move: she leapt out the window, landed on her feet like a cat, and ran for her life. She had no personal items she was concerned about, no favorite memento. Her one regret was the loss of her books.
When he felt her fear, Jacques experienced the need to protect her. The urge was as strong as his desire to revenge himself. Whatever he had done, and he was the first to admit he couldn't remember, he couldn't possibly deserve such a horrendous punishment. Once again sleep overtook him, but it was the first time in months he had not filled her body with his pain or possessed her mind for a few seconds, ensuring that she felt his dark anger and promise of retribution. This time he hadn't punished her. Only he had the right to put fear into her mind, into her fragile, trembling body. She had looked upon his image with a mixture of puzzlement and regret. Did she think he was dead and it was his damned soul haunting her? What went on in the head of a treacherous woman?
Time continued endlessly. Wake when a creature strayed near. Scratch and claw at the decaying wood. Eventually the cloth over his eyes rotted until it fell away from him. He had no idea how long he had been there. It made no difference to him. Dark was dark. Isolation, isolation. His only companion was the woman in his mind. The woman who had betrayed him, forsaken him. At times he called to her, ordered her to come to him. Threatened her. Pleaded. Perverse as it was, he needed her. He was already deranged; he accepted that. But this total isolation was making him completely mad. Without her touch, he would be lost to the world, not even his will keeping him going.
And he had a need to live: retribution. He needed her as much as he loathed and despised her. As twisted as their relationship was, he needed the moments of companionship.
She was physically closer to him now, not an ocean away. She had been so far away from him, he could barely make it across the distance. But now she was much closer. He renewed his efforts, calling her at all hours, striving to keep her from sleep.
When he could manage to get past the pain and hunger and simply remain quiet, a shadow in her mind, she intrigued him. She was obviously intelligent, brilliant even. Her method of thinking was like that of a machine, processing information at incredible speed. She seemed to be able to push aside all emotion; perhaps she wasn't capable of feeling emotion. He found himself admiring her brain, her thinking patterns, the way she focused wholly on her work. She was researching a disease, seemed obsessed with finding a cure. Perhaps that was why he often found her in the dimly lit room, covered in blood, her hands buried deep within a body. She was conducting experiments. It didn't excuse the abomination of what she was, but he could admire her single-minded purpose. She was able to put aside her need for sleep, for sustenance, for long periods. He felt her need, but she concentrated so wholly on what she was doing, she didn't seem to recognize her body's cries for normal care.
There seemed to be no laughter in her life, no real closeness to anyone. That was odd to him. Jacques was unsure when that began to bother him, but he found it did. She had no one. She concentrated only on what she was doing. Of course, he would not have tolerated another male's presence in her life; he would have sought to destroy any other that came near her. He told himself it was because whatever male came near her must be in on the conspiracy to make him suffer. He often resented wanting to talk to her, but she had an interesting mind. And she was everything to him. His Savior. His tormentor. Without her presence, without touching her mind, he would have been completely insane, and he knew it. She unwittingly shared her strange life with him, gave him something to concentrate on, a companionship of sorts. In a way it was ironic. She thought him locked underground. She thought herself safe from his vengeance. But she had created the monster, and now she was keeping him going, his strength growing with his every touch to her mind.
He found her again a month later, perhaps a year later, he didn't know, didn't care. Her heart was pounding in fear. So was his. Perhaps the overwhelming intensity of her emotion woke him. The pain was excruciating, the hunger engulfing him, yet his heartbeat was frantically matching hers, and he could not find enough lung power to breathe. She feared for her life. Someone was hunting her. Perhaps the others who had helped betray him had now turned on her. He gathered himself, waited, blocking out pain and hunger as he had learned over the years to do. No one would harm her. She belonged to him. Only he could decide whether she lived or died, no one else. If he could manage to "see" the enemy through her eyes, he could destroy them. He felt his power swelling in him, his rage so intense, so potent at the idea that someone might take her from him that it astonished him.
The picture was clear. She was in a shelter of some kind, clothing and furniture overturned all around her as if there had been a fight or someone had searched her belongings. She was running through the rooms, grabbing a few things along the way. He caught glimpses of wild red hair, silky soft, vibrant. He wanted to touch that hair. To sink his fingers into its thickness. To wrap it around her neck and strangle her with it. To bury his face in it. Then the image was gone, his strength drained, and he slumped impotently in his prison, unable to reach her, to help her, to see that she was safe. That added to his torment of agony and hunger. That added to the debt she already owed him.
He remained quiet and slowed his heart until it barely beat, only enough to allow him to think, to gather himself for one last try. If she survived, he was going to bring her to him. He would not allow any more attempts on her life. If she lived or died, it was to be his decision alone.
Come to me, come here to me. The Carpathian Mountains. The remote, wild regions where you should be, where your home is, your people are. Come to me.
He sent the call, filled her mind with the compulsion. It was strong. The strongest he had been able to accomplish. It was done. It was all he could do without further endangering his own life. So close to his goal, he would not take any foolish risks.
They had found her again. And again Shea O'Halloran ran for her life. She had been more careful this time, now that she was aware she was being hunted. She had plenty of cash hidden in various locations; her truck, a four-wheel drive, had a camper shell, so she could live in it if necessary. She kept essentials | packed so all she had to do was grab a bag and run. Where this I time? Where could she go to lose them? She was driving fast, | racing from those who would dissect her like an insect, those who looked upon her as something less than human.
She knew she had little time to live. Her strength was already wearing down. The terrible disease was taking its toll, and she was no closer to finding a cure than when she'd started. She had most likely inherited the illness from her father. The father she had never met, never knew, the father who had abandoned her mother before Shea was even born. She had read her mother's diary so many times. The father who had stolen her mother's love, her very life, so that she was a mere shadow, not a real person anymore. The father who didn't care in the least for her mother or herself.
She was already driving in the general direction of the Carpathian Mountains, her father's birthplace. The land of superstition and myth. The rare blood disorder she suffered from could very well have originated there. Suddenly she was excited, focusing her mind completely on the data so that she pushed aside fear. This had to be the origin. So many vampire myths had begun there. She easily recalled every detail of every story she had ever read or heard. She could be on the right trail at last. The evidence had been in her mother's diary all along. Shea was disgusted with herself for not recognizing it sooner. She had developed such an aversion to the idea of her father or any of his family, she hadn't stopped to consider tracking her own roots to find the answers she was seeking. Her mother's diary. She knew every tragic entry by heart.
I met him tonight. The moment I saw him I knew he was the one. Tall, handsome, with mesmerizing eyes. His voice is the most beautiful thing I have ever heard. He feels the same way about me. I know he does. It is wrong, of course—he is a married man—but there is no way out for us. We cannot be apart. Rand. That is his name—foreign, like him, like his accent. The Carpathian Mountains are his home. How could I have ever existed without him?
His wife, Noelle, gave birth two months ago to a boy. I know he was bitterly disappointed. For some reason, it is important he have a female child. He is with me all the time, even though I am often alone. He is in my mind, talking to me, whispering how much he loves me. He has a strange blood disorder and cannot go out into the sun.
He has such strange habits. When we make love, and you can't imagine how glorious it is, he is in my mind as well as my heart and body. He says it is because I am psychic and so is he, but I know it is more. It has something to do with his need to drink my blood. There. I wrote it where I could not say it aloud. It sounds awful, terrible, but it is so erotic, the feel of his mouth on me, my blood in his body. How I love him. There is rarely a mark unless he wishes to brand me as his. His tongue heals wounds quickly. I have seen it, like a miracle. He is a miracle.
His wife, Noelle, knows of me. He has told me she will not allow him to leave her, that she is dangerous. I know this is true because she threatened me, threatened to kill me. I was so afraid. Her eyes glowed red, and her teeth gleamed at me like an animal's, but Rand arrived before she could hurt me. He was furious, so protective of me. I know that he tells the truth when he says he loves me; I could tell by the way he spoke to her, commanding her to leave. How she hates me!
I am so happy! I am pregnant. He doesn't know yet. I haven't seen him in two nights, but I'm certain he would never leave me. His wife must be protesting his leaving her. I hope the child is female. I know he wants a daughter desperately. I will give him the one thing he has always wished for, and Noelle will be in his past. I know I should feel guilt, but I cannot when it is obvious to both of us that he belongs with me. Where is he? Why doesn't he come to me when I need him so desperately? Why has he gone from my mind?
Shea cries constantly. The doctors are excited over her strange blood results. She needs transfusions daily. God, I hate her; she keeps me tied to this empty world. I know he is dead. The day Noelle came to see me, he returned alone for a few wonderful hours. He told me he was going to leave her. I believe he tried. He simply vanished, out of my mind, out of my life. My parents thought he left me because I was pregnant, that he used me, but I know he is dead. I felt his terrible agony, his grief. He would come to me if he could. And he never knew of the child. I would have joined him, but I had to give his daughter life. If his wife murdered him, and I am certain she is capable, he will live on through me, through our child.
I have brought her to Ireland. My parents are dead, and I have inherited their properties. I would have given her to them, but it's too late now. I cannot join him. I can't possibly leave her when so many ask questions about her. I'm afraid they will try to kill her. She is like him. The sun burns her easily. She needs blood as he did. The doctors whispered so much about her and stared at me in such a way, I was afraid. I knew I had to disappear with her. I won't allow anyone to harm your daughter, Rand. God help me, I cannot feel anything. I am dead inside without you. Where are you? Did Noelle murder you as she swore she would? How can I live without you? Only your daughter keeps me from joining you. Soon, my darling, very soon I will be with you.
Shea let her breath out slowly. Of course. It was there in front of her.
She needs blood as he did.
She had inherited the blood disorder from her father. Her mother had written that Rand actually took her blood when they were making love. How many people had been persecuted and had a stake driven through their heart just because no one had found the cure for their terrible disease? She knew what it was like to suffer such a thing, to loathe oneself and fear discovery. She had to find the cure; even if it was too late for her, she had to find the cure.
Jacques slept for a long time, determined to renew his strength. He woke only to feed briefly, to assure himself that she was alive and nearby. He contained his elation so that he would lose no more blood. He needed his strength now. She was so close, he could feel her. She was within a few miles of him. Twice he "saw" her cabin through her eyes. She was fixing it up, doing the things women did to make a rundown shelter a home. Later, Jacques began to awaken at regular intervals, testing his strength, drawing animals to him to give him much-needed blood. He haunted her dreams, called her continually, kept her awake when her body desperately needed sleep. She was already fragile, half-starved, weak from lack of feeding. She worked day and night, her mind filled with problems and solutions. He ignored all that to keep at her so that she would be so tired, he could easily hold her under compulsion to do his bidding.