Embrace the Night (37 page)

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 drew
a
deep 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
he
was 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…