Moonlight (8 page)

He never went back to Grenalde. The thought of watching his
son grow old and die was too painful.

He spent the next two hundred years on a small tropical
island pretending to be an ancient god of war come back to life.

He dwelt in a temple hewn of red stone. It stood atop a lush
green hill, surrounded by trees and brightly colored wildflowers. The villagers
brought him live animal sacrifices to assuage his hunger, showered him with
finely wrought gifts of gold and silver, of fine-twined linen and costly furs.
They provided him with whatever he desired, and asked nothing in return, save
that he slake his horrible thirst on the blood of beasts and let the people of
the island live in peace.

When the burden of his existence grew too great, he slept
deep in the earth, rising when the people of the village called his name.

After two hundred years, he wearied of being an object of
worship. Gathering up the riches the villagers had bestowed upon him over the
centuries, he left the temple in the dead of night and caught passage on
another ship.

For a time, he wandered aimlessly, not caring where he was.
He kept aloof from the people around him, afraid they would look into his eyes
and see that he was not one of them, afraid he would be hunted and destroyed,
as those believed to be witches were hunted and destroyed.

And time passed, and the world changed.

He went to France. It was there, in a dark cafe, that he met
others of his kind. For the first time, he noted the very real differences
between vampires and mortals. Not only were the undead capable of moving with
great speed, but they all seemed to move with a sensuous grace foreign to mere
mortals. A vampire’s senses were sharper, keener, attuned to the slightest
change in the atmosphere. They had a keen awareness of others of their kind.
Navarre knew immediately when one of his kind was near. It manifested itself in
a sudden tensing of his muscles, a subtle tingling along his spine.

It was there that he learned that vampires had existed as
long as humankind. The world of the Undead was a world filled with mystery and
suspicion, a closed world where secrecy was essential to survival, where the
slightest whisper of the word “vampire” could incite mortals to rise up in
fear.

No vampire ever trusted another of his kind. The Undead
could be found in every city and clime throughout the world, each one jealously
guarding his hunting ground. Elders often destroyed their younger counterparts.
There was a vague sense of brotherhood, but no sense of loyalty except,
perhaps, between a master and his fledgling.

He learned that he could initiate a mortal and that, once
initiated, that mortal would serve him for as long as the mortal lived. If he
wished, the mortal would hunt for him, kill for him, dispose of the remains. He
learned that he had the power to pass the Dark Gift to others. With age, came
an increase in physical strength and mental abilities.

He thought of Shaylyn, who had lived for thousands of years.
Were there others even older than she? What powers did they possess?

It was in Paris that he saw his first revenant—a brute
neither human nor vampire, neither alive nor dead. It was little more than a
walking corpse, its putrid flesh rotting from its skeleton. It was by far the
most frightening, most foul-smelling creature Navarre had ever seen.

He heard of bizarre rituals that were believed to insure
that a body would stay dead. In the Balkans and Greece, stakes were hammered
into the chest of corpses to pin the body to the grave; nails were inserted in
the hands and feet and hair, symbolically attaching the corpse to the earth to
ensure eternal rest. In some parts of Eastern Europe, peasants would not speak
the word
owl
for fear the nocturnal bird might be a transformed vampire
hunting the night for blood.

He spent but a short time in France. The presence of the
other vampires made him uncomfortable. He was an interloper, an outsider, and
he found himself constantly looking over his shoulder, fearing that they might
try to destroy him. He left France without a word of farewell.

There followed long years of loneliness and darkness, a
sense of being lost. He had been close to only a few people in his life; all
those he had known had died long ago.

Filled with bitterness, he wandered the world, watching the
changes take place.

Rulers fought their way to power, and then were destroyed.

Boundaries changed. Gods changed.

People changed, while he remained the same.

There were endless wars.

There was poverty and hunger.

Plagues and floods and earthquakes decimated cities and
countries.

But sprinkled amid the ruin and destruction, were scattered
beacons of light.

He read the works of Shakespeare and Poe, Dickens and
Browning, Dumas and Disraeli.

Great composers influenced the masses with their music:
Brahms, Haydn, Beethoven, Handel, Paginini.

Great artists made their mark upon the world: Degas,
Whistler, Monet, Cezanne, Renoir, Picasso, Raphael. Rodin and Michelangelo
sculpted masterful works. Charles Garnier designed the Paris Opera and the
casino at Monte Carlo.

And Navarre was there to see and hear it all. He was at
Covent Garden to see Handel’s
Alcina
. He was in Vienna when Mozart’s
first opera was performed. He saw the first paved sidewalk laid in Westminster.
He walked the corridors of the
Louvre
when it was new, rode one of the
first velocipedes down the streets of Paris.

He sat in the sacred silences of the great cathedrals, absorbing
the scent of incense and candles. It was here that he was most aware of the
vast gulf that stretched between himself and the rest of humanity. It was here,
amid the silent statues of the saints, that he felt the weight of eternity, the
bitterness of damnation.

He indulged himself in the world of opera, went to the
ballet in France and England and Italy. He toured the Paris Opera House, knelt
in Notre Dame, admired the ceiling in the Sistine Chapel.

In the dark of night, he wandered through the museums and
art galleries of the world, his keen eyesight making it possible to view the
ancient wonders, the works of art.

He saw the invention of miraculous machines. Gas lights
replaced candles; electric lights replaced the softer, more romantic gas
lights; automobiles replaced the horse and buggy, washing machines replaced
scrub boards.

Silent movies became the rage, only to be replaced by movies
with sound and brilliant color. Minstrels were replaced by radios. The printed
page replaced handwritten manuscripts and scrolls, making it possible for the
written word to be available to everyone and not just the rich. He had always
loved to read, and now he devoured books and plays and the dissertations of
great men, but the deep, inner loneliness never left him.

And always the question, why me? Why had the Dark Gift been
bequeathed to one such as he? He had no great wisdom to pass on to the world,
no God-given gift of music or poetry or art. Better that the gift of eternal
life had been bestowed on one such as Mozart or Aristotle or a hundred other
more deserving men than he.

And when the questions became too many, when the loneliness
grew overwhelming, he went to ground, sleeping deep in the bowels of the earth.
But even in sleep, he was not completely unaware of the changes going on around
him.

Voices seeped into his mind, their faint whispers telling
him of the latest invention, the latest war, the latest plague. He was aware of
new fads, new countries, new kings and new presidents.

Cocooned in the bosom of the earth, he slept through the
wars and the plagues, emerging during times of peace to discover, firsthand,
the changes that had come to pass while he rested.

“Time,” Thoreau had said, “is but the stream I go fishing
in.”

For Navarre, no truer words had ever been spoken.

Moreno Bay

The Present

Adrianna let out a sigh of exasperation as she stared at the
sign on the front door.

V. Navarre, Proprietor

the neatly lettered sign read.

Six p.m. to Nine p.m.

Peculiar hours, she thought as she gazed at the huge old
house, which sat alone near the edge of a windswept cliff overlooking the sea.
The building was said to be at least a hundred years old, and looked it. The
paint, which had once been dark green, had faded long ago. White shutters
covered the windows. The grass was in need of cutting; a profusion of brightly
colored wildflowers bloomed in scattered patches along the circular driveway.

A wide veranda ran the length of the front of the house;
there was a narrow, iron-railed balcony on the second floor. All the windows
appeared to be curtained and closed up tight.

Adrianna heaved a sigh as she turned back toward the street.
For weeks, she had been searching for an antique oak armoire. She had mentioned
her lack of success to one of her customers the day before and the woman had
remarked that she’d seen just such a piece on display at the antique store out
on Old Piney Branch Road.

Adrianna glanced over her shoulder, reading the shop’s
operating hours again before she opened the car door and slipped behind the
wheel.

“I’ll be back,” she muttered, turning the key in the
ignition, “though I’ve never heard of any antique store that kept such
ridiculous hours, or was located in such a desolate place.”

She stared at the house again, thinking it looked like a
monstrous beast poised to dive off the cliff. Then, with a sigh, she put the
car in gear and headed back to town, annoyed that she had wasted the morning
driving out here, only to return home empty-handed.

* * * * *

Navarre stood at the second-story window, watching the woman
as she slid behind the wheel of a light green Honda Accord. He could have gone
downstairs and let her in, but he made it a habit to avoid visitors during the
afternoon.

With the passage of time, his need to sleep during the day,
to avoid the sun, had altered somewhat, and while he was still forced to sleep
through the hours of the afternoon, when the sun was high in the sky, he was
able to move about during the early hours of the morning.

Occasionally, he even ventured outside, though it was
necessary to wear dark glasses to protect his eyes, and a heavy coat or jacket
to avoid exposing his sensitive skin to the sun.

Ah, but the wonder of being able to watch a sunrise after almost
two thousand years! He didn’t know what had wrought the miraculous change that
allowed him to endure the sun’s light. Perhaps it was merely the passage of so
many years, perhaps it was some internal change, but whatever it was, he didn’t
care. The joy of being able to feel the sun’s warmth on his skin, even through
layers of cloth, to inhale the fragrance of a bright spring morning, was still
new and exciting, and still filled him with awe.

Sometimes, when the sun was high in the sky, he yearned to
shed all his clothes and run naked along the beach, to throw back his head and
feel the sunlight on his face, but he knew to do so would be instantly fatal.
He was not completely immune to the sun’s rays, and only able to endure it for
short periods of time.

But the fact that it was necessary to be cautious when he
went outdoors was not worth lamenting. The fact that he could be active during
the day was a blessing he had never expected to obtain.

He had learned long ago to live within the boundaries
imposed by his peculiar lifestyle. Here, in this quiet place, he had found
contentment for the first time in centuries. He spent his days in lonely
isolation, sleeping away the hours of the afternoon, walking the cliffs in the
light of the moon. And during the evening, from six to nine, he opened the door
to his house and took on the guise of an antique dealer.

In centuries of travel, he had accumulated a wealth of
antiques. He would stay here for another ten or twenty years, until people
began to talk about the fact that he never seemed to age, and then he would
move on and find another house located in a remote place. Perhaps he’d be an
antique dealer again. Perhaps not.

He felt the heaviness descend on him as the sun climbed
toward its zenith. Turning away from the window, he ascended the narrow
stairway that led to the attic. It was a large room with a sloped ceiling and
an oak floor. A small, oval window was set high in the far wall. He had boarded
it up long ago.

Stepping into the room, he bolted the door and sat down on
the edge of the big brass bed located in the far corner of the room. No damp
cellars for him, he mused as he removed his shoes and socks, shrugged out of
his shirt and pants. No morbidly confining silk-lined casket. He much preferred
a firm mattress and clean sheets that smelled of soap and sunshine…

Naked, he slid under the covers. With a sigh, he closed his
eyes and felt the lethargy of his death-like sleep steal over him. Just once,
he thought, just once he would like to know what it was like to fall asleep in
the arms of a woman.

* * * * *

The sound of someone pounding on the front door roused him
from a dreamless sleep.

Rising, Navarre pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweater and
made his way downstairs. A glance out the window told him it was a few minutes
after six.

He raked a hand through his hair before opening the door.

The woman stood on the porch. He had not seen her face that
morning; now, in a single sweeping glance, he saw that her eyes were a vibrant
shade of blue, her nose was small and straight, her mouth full and sensuous.
She wore her dark blonde hair in a loose roll at the nape of her neck.

Adrianna couldn’t help staring at the man standing in the
doorway. She had expected an older man, someone in his late sixties, perhaps,
but the man standing before her was in the prime of life. Handsome, virile, and
so tall she had to tilt her head back to see his face.

And what a face! His eyes were a clear gray beneath straight
black brows. His mouth was wide, his nose sharp as a blade, his jaw square and
firm. He wore a black sweater that emphasized his pale complexion. A pair of
faded blue jeans hugged his long, muscular legs. His feet were bare. He had
hair any woman would die for; thick and black, it fell past his shoulders.

“Mr. Navarre?”

“Yes.”

“I…” She swallowed, flustered by his intense gaze. She had
the fleeting impression that if she looked into those fathomless gray eyes too
long, she would lose her very soul. “May I… That is, are you open?”

He nodded. Taking a step backward, he motioned for her to
enter. She noted his hands were large, the fingers long, the nails short and
square.

Adrianna hesitated a moment before she stepped inside,
wondering if she was making a mistake. The house, which had appeared old and
romantic in the bright light of early morning, now seemed fraught with menace
when viewed in the shifting shadows of twilight.

Or perhaps it was the man who intimidated her, with his
sober mien and cool gray gaze. Such a deserted stretch of land suddenly seemed
an unlikely location for an antique store. Was it merely a front for something
more sinister? Had she stumbled on a Mafia hideout? A meth lab?

“Everything on the first two floors is for sale,” Navarre
said. “Feel free to wander around. I’ll be in the kitchen if you have any
questions.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked away.

Adrianna stared after him until he was out of sight, the
sound of his voice echoing in her mind. Never had she heard such a voice, so
soft, so deep, so compelling. And his eyes… She shuddered. Was it her
imagination, or was there something otherworldly about those eyes?

One thing was certain, there was something decidedly
mysterious about Mr. V. Navarre and she stood there for a moment, trying to
decide what it was. Shaking off her fanciful thoughts, she turned to close the
door behind her, and then decided it was best left open.

It was a beautiful old place, obviously well cared for. The
woodwork and floors were of dark oak. The walls were covered with
Victorian-looking wallpaper. Heavy, dark-red draperies hung at the windows.

But it was the furniture that held her attention. There were
a few pieces she was certain dated back to the thirteenth century. She ran her
hands lovingly over a fragile Queen Anne sofa, admired the graceful lines of a
Sheraton table, stared in awe at an ancient Greek urn.

Wandering from room to room, she saw chamber pots and bed
warmers, laces and cloths, fireplace screens and grandfather clocks, porcelain
dolls dressed in long gowns, roll-top desks, flat irons, old pictures and wall
hangings, dishes and glassware, silverware and cooking utensils made of silver
and gold, brass and pewter. A suit of armor stood in one corner.

She glimpsed hand-lettered signs from stores long gone,
posters advertising operas and ballets, circuses and lynchings.

One room contained pot-bellied stoves for heating, and
wood-burning stoves for cooking, ice boxes and vegetable bins. Another held a
long mahogany bar reminiscent of the kind seen in old Westerns. There were
shelves of all sizes filled with knick-knacks and bric-a-brac. Other shelves
held canister sets and cookies jars, sugar bowls, cream pitchers, and salt and
pepper shakers. A large wooden box held a variety of mismatched silverware.

She was unaware of the passing of time as she strolled from
room to room, her fingers caressing the back of a velvet-covered settee,
plinking out a tune on an old player piano, gently stroking the head of a china
doll.

She fell in love with a Queen Anne chair that dated back to
the 1730’s, admired an Empire cane-backed daybed that she knew had been made in
China in the 1840’s. Another room held a Federal square-backed sofa that dated
back even further than that.

She thought it odd that all the mirrors were covered.

The rooms upstairs held bedroom furniture. Here, too, the
mirrors on the highboys and chests were covered with cloths.

She examined a number of armoires, some of oak, some of dark
red mahogany, but none caught her fancy.

She paused to study a Chippendale canopy bed, then moved on
to a nineteenth-century sleigh bed. But it was a turn-of-the-century canopy bed
that made her heart skip a beat. Made of mahogany and pine, she was certain it
was well over a hundred years old.

“Find anything you like?”

His voice went through her like the rumble of distant
thunder, and she whirled around, startled to find him standing in the doorway
behind her.

“Everything.” She made a sweeping gesture with her hand. “I’ve
never seen such a treasure trove.”

“I’ve been collecting for a very long time,” he replied with
a shrug.

“Really?” She frowned. He didn’t look to be much older than
she was, but then, looks could be deceiving.

“Are you looking for anything in particular?”

“Well, I was hoping to find an armoire, but…” She smiled
self-consciously. “I really like this bed.”

“It’s a fine old piece,” he replied. And, indeed it was.
Long ago, it had been the bed he slept in. “The mattress is new, of course.”

“Of course,” she repeated, mesmerized by his gaze, by the
sound of his voice, the sheer masculinity of the man.

“Care to try it out?”

“What?”

“The bed. Would you like to try it out?”

A strange warmth unfurled in the pit of her stomach as she
thought of lying down on the bed while he was in the room. Slowly, she shook
her head. “I don’t think so.”

She was a pretty woman, Navarre thought. She wore a blue
silk dress that complemented the color of her hair and skin. The soft material
subtly emphasized the curve of her hips and the swell of her breasts.

He had been long without a woman and he felt a sudden
frisson of heat lance through him as he imagined her lying on the bed, her hair
spread on the pillow, her lips slightly swollen from his kisses…

He swore under his breath as he reined in his wayward
thoughts. In his time on earth, he had known many women. He had courted them
for a short time, and left them before the inevitable questions began, before
people began to wonder at his eternal youth. As time went on, he had chosen to
remain alone for longer and longer periods of time. It had been easier and less
painful to ease his desire with an occasional whore than to let himself care
for a woman he knew he would have to leave.

He had loved no woman since Katlaina. There had been many he
admired, many who had held his affection, but none who had claimed his heart.

“Mr. Navarre?”

He glanced over his shoulder to find her staring up at him.
She was young, he thought. So very young.

“I’d like to buy the bed.”

“For yourself?”

Adrianna frowned. “Does it matter who it’s for?”

“No, of course not.”

“How much is it?”

“For you?” He shrugged. “Four hundred dollars.”

“But it must be worth twice that!” Adrianna exclaimed.

“That’s my price. Do you want it or not?”

“Yes. I don’t have any way to pick it up, though. Do you
think…” She hesitated, hating to ask a favor when he was practically giving the
bed away.

“Is there a problem?” he asked.

“Could you possibly deliver it?”

“If you wish.”

“That’s great.” She reached into her handbag. “I guess you’ll
want a deposit.”

“No need. You can pay me when the bed is delivered.”

“Fine. Well…” She held out her hand. “Thank you.”

Navarre took her hand in his. It was small and delicate; her
skin soft and smooth, warm with life. His gaze held hers as he bowed over her
hand and kissed it.