11

Life: It is about the gift not the package it comes in.

—Dennis P. Costea Jr.

 

The scent of death intermingled with exhaust fumes. The gush of blood through Luke’s lips slowed to a trickle, a signal the body he held had been bled dry. Blood went stale within a matter of seconds. He cradled the male’s neck and pulled away, closing his eyes as a wave of ecstasy rushed through him. He laid the tall, thin male next to his dead companion. Their glassy eyes, cold as the cobblestones beneath them, stared at the night sky blanketing the city. The moon shone bright, even over the lights of Rome.

Luke pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sides of his mouth. Crimson stained the pale yellow cotton. Tossing it on top of the shorter man’s barrel-like torso, he stood. Savannah’s attackers were dead.

He should have felt a greater sense of justice in their deaths and yet drinking them dry did nothing to alleviate the hollow ache in his stomach. A baser need within him hungered for more torture and destruction. Only the terror in their expressions as he’d exited the shadows gave him a small measure of satisfaction. Anger and waning control had made the attack messy, according to vampire standards. Both men wore puckered gashes along the side of their necks where his fangs had ripped through their skin. Neither man had made it difficult, their bodies paralyzed before they’d realized what struck them.

Luke left the bodies lying in the alleyway and returned to his apartment. Leaving them so visible was not a wise decision, but if he touched them again, he’d rip them to pieces. To do so would only confirm him a monster.

Savannah had not left her room, and he sighed with relief. Despite the satisfaction of his kills, his thoughts remained disturbed and unpredictable. She was not like others. Everything about her drove him crazy and yet he felt for her.

Reaching into the freezer, he removed a bottle of Grey Goose and poured himself a tumbler full of the clear liquid. He sat on a living room sofa and downed his drink, relishing the sting of ice-cold vodka as it numbed his lips, tongue and throat. He tipped the bottle and filled his glass again. Drowning himself in alcohol for the unforeseeable future held great appeal. After all, he hadn’t been tanked in decades.

“Cheers.” He lifted the glass in toast to the darkness. The comfort night brought was so enjoyable. Gone with his humanity were blurred images and the sentiment of being lost. Vampire eyes gave the night life...a whole new rhythm and familiarity. Walls seemed to breathe as they hugged his living room and kitchen. The surface of the coffee table gleamed, its curves encrusted in detailed designs. Like vampires themselves, these material luxuries were beautiful but without life.

Reclining, he rested his head on the sofa and pressed a remote control to open the blinds. Moonlight streamed in behind him, highlighting the rest of the living room furniture and the white marble tiles of the kitchen floor. The rag Savannah had used on her cut mouth lay on the granite island across the room. The faint scent of her blood tempted him. How had life gotten this complicated? Merely a kiss, some touching.

He did not need Broderick to confirm she was too good for him, although he would be having a serious talk about his investigations. No way was she the lady portrayed in Broderick’s file. Jumpy, high-strung, a sensitive wreck—definitely traits of a victim. And she was the most beautiful woman he had ever known.

He took a sip from his glass and froze as a door creaked down the hall. Savannah. He breathed the clean scent of her as she got closer. She had showered. His head swam and he sank back onto the couch. Coward.

Long, pale legs crossed several feet before him. A jagged scar ran the length of one thigh, slipping right beneath the hem of her silk shorts. Where had she found such seductive miniature shorts? Those certainly were not amongst the articles of clothing he’d purchased.

She wore a matching silk camisole, the dark waves of her hair loose down her back. Oblivious to his presence, she turned on a dim light near the sink, walked straight to the refrigerator and pulled out an apple. Next, from a drawer, a thick wooden cutting board and knife. Face flushed, she brushed her hair back and twisted it over one shoulder.

Sitting amongst the shadows, he waited for her to realize he was there. Then the moment she became aware of him flooded his senses. He regretted knowing he stole her calm. Her pulse heightened and the sweet scent of blood inundated the air as the knife she cut with slipped and sliced through her skin.

She snapped her emerald gaze up to his. “Luke.”

His sluggish mind did not heed logic or caution. Vaulting off the sofa, he strode toward her. Too fast. Slow down, you are scaring her.

Mouth open, she backed away. “What are you doing awake? In here?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” His words slurred slightly. One more bottle and he would surely be the veritable idiot he felt. “A bit early, is it not?”

“I couldn’t sleep.” Her gaze moved over him, pausing on the expanse of his chest showing beneath his open jacket. He had yet to put a shirt on after rescuing her earlier. “Are you drunk?”

“Bloody hell, woman, do not sound so incredulous. Unfortunately, I am not quite pissed. I should be there soon enough.”

“Have you been drinking here this entire time?”

Her tone reminded him of Victoria’s when he’d spent an extra hour hanging out with mates at gaming hells. He scowled. Christ, why the hell was he thinking about Victoria? “I have not. And if I had been, it would not be any of your business.”

She wrapped a white napkin around her thumb. Red seeped through.

“You are bleeding.” Again. He unleashed a stream of air, a force of habit rather than a need to breathe. Even with two recent kills sating his urge, she pushed him to the edge.

“So.” She stepped back. “I can take care of myself.”

This past night had proved her words a lie but he resisted pointing out the obvious. The blood stains spread, eating the white of her makeshift napkin bandage. He swallowed. “There is a first aid kit inside the cupboard to your left. I keep it on hand for mo—emergencies.” Christ, he had nearly said mortals. He shook his head at his carelessness.

She reached up with her good hand, opened the cupboard and took out a white box. “Thank you, again. You can go back to your drinking now. I’ll use one of these Band-Aids.” She waved the sticky strip. “It’ll make me good as new. You needn’t worry. As I said before, I can take care of myself.”

She was angry. “Sarcasm?” He moved forward. “Because I am not quite sure you can take care of yourself?”

Savannah frowned as the Band-Aid slipped along her finger. “I’ve done fine on my own, until yesterday.”

“For Christ sakes. Please be careful. You cannot even put on a Band-Aid.” Luke wrapped his hand around her wrist.

“Hey, stop.” She tugged on it but he did not let go.

“Wash it off.” He opened the kitchen sink faucet and thrust her thumb in the running water. Blood and water swirled down the drain. “See.” He met her gaze. “Not so bad now, right? I swear, you behave like Victoria. Always without a care. I told her many times to be careful but she never...” He let go of her wrist, stunned that he’d spoken openly of his late wife. “Wipe your thumb dry. The bandage should not slip.”

“What were you going to say?” She stepped toward him. “She never what?”

Fuck. “Nevermind.” He turned, strode to a nearby shelf and grabbed an empty tumbler. Blast his ridiculous mouth. Taking another bottle of vodka from the freezer, he filled his glass. At this rate, he did not really need a glass but it seemed barbaric to do otherwise. “Want any?” He offered her the bottle without facing her.

“No thanks. I’m not a vodka fan.”

She did not like vodka. At least he understood why she’d nursed her drink the other night. “Why did you have me order Grey Goose at Blood Bar the other night if you do not like vodka?”

“Force of habit,” she said. “Ben used to buy it for me.”

Luke snorted. He would think any memories of Ben would be motivation to refuse the drink.

“Your turn to answer my question,” Savannah said. “Who are you? Who is Victoria?”

He released a long sigh and crossed the room to sit on a sofa. “Victoria was my wife.”

“Was?” She neared and sat cross-legged in a chair next to him.

“She passed many years ago.” More than two hundred years, and the words to describe the night of his late wife’s death stuck on his tongue, Victoria’s screams for help were still so vivid. “I prefer not to discuss this.”

“Okay.” She bit her bottom lip as if in thought. Her breasts weighed heavily against the thin, silky camisole.

He wanted her. The knowledge broke him as he thought about Victoria. “It is late.”

“What was she like?”

“Savannah.” His tone held a note of warning. And yet, he yearned to confide in her. Damn drink made him delusional.

“Please, Luke. I’m not tired.”

Sipping, he stared at the ash-strewn fireplace. He could barely recall Victoria’s face and her voice had faded over time but he remembered loving her smile. “She was happy and beautiful, like a sunny day in Bath. When she would laugh or smile, her whole face would light up.” His lips curved at the memory and he was surprised to see a similar expression on Savannah’s face. Why had he never noticed a dimple to the left of her mouth?

“Are you telling me she never got angry at you?”

Luke laughed. “Do not be daft. Of course she did. Quite a good portion of the time, in fact.” He sometimes wondered how she’d ever put up with him, or his mother.

“Not a surprise,” she said without a hint of sarcasm. Still, her eyes twinkled as she pursed her lips slightly. She teased him, and it felt surprisingly light within his chest.

“Victoria hated it when I would go wandering with my mates and detested imposed dances and society parties.”

Savannah rolled her eyes. “Who wouldn’t? Women’s evening wear is rarely comfortable. A nip here, a tuck there, a pinch everywhere. Not to mention, high society can be so boring, at least it was for me.”

“Yes. She often expressed frustration with the propriety of our, ahem...” Christ, what was he doing? He could not discuss late eighteenth-century society with her. She would think him mad.

“Propriety of what? Your social class?”

He tilted his head, hiding his relief at having caught himself before he’d revealed too much. “Yes, one could refer to it as such.” He leaned forward to stand. “Enough talk for tonight.”

“Why? I want to hear more.” She smiled wide, her dimple peeking through again. “Your wife sounds wonderful. Or sounded.”

Luke paused, his thoughts muddled over the strangeness of their conversation. “She was.”

“I think she and I would have gotten along.” Savannah’s words were almost a whisper. A sense of loss and confusion washed over him.

“What’s wrong?” She frowned. “Have I said something offensive?”

“No.” Through the daze, Luke knew she spoke the truth. Victoria would have enjoyed Savannah’s passion and sense of humor. Savannah behaved more a rebel than Victoria ever had and yet he imagined they would have made great friends.

“I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“No, please.” Luke stood and rubbed a hand over his face. He grew tired—no, exhausted. And unfortunately, more sober than he’d hoped to be. “You have done nothing wrong.”

“Why do you look so upset?” she asked.

“I have not talked about Victoria in a long time.”

“Okay.” She scooted to the edge of her chair. “Maybe you needed to talk about it, get it off your chest.”

Such human naivety. Perhaps she had a point, but where did these moments of closeness leave them? She remained his victim and until he spoke with Broderick about getting her back on a plane to Boston, nothing had changed. Even still, he was not sure returning her was an option. Head bowed, he said, “Thank you for this discussion, but I find myself tired and suddenly very sober. If you will excuse me, I bid you goodnight.”