Shades of Gray (14 page)

With a low growl, he had grabbed the boy from her grasp.
No!
Clutching the frightened child to his chest, he screamed the word at her, and in that terrible moment, when he saw his own death reflected in her bloodred eyes, he remembered why he had wanted to become a vampire.

That very night, after returning the boy to his home, he had gone in search of Alexi….

The past fell away as a scent he had carried with him through the centuries wafted toward him on a vagrant wisp of air.

Rising, he watched the door swing open, felt his heart turn cold at what he saw there.

She was as beautiful as he remembered. Slender as a willow, her olive-hued skin clear and unblemished. Hair as soft as eiderdown fell past her waist like a river of black silk. Her eyes, as blue-green as the sea, stared at him without recognition.

"Antoinette." Pain slashed through his heart and gouged his soul. Had he been a living man, he thought he might have died of it.

He waited, hoping that the love they had once shared would somehow bring her back to herself.

"Antoinette, it's me, Grigori. Remember me, love," he begged. "Please remember."

She stared at him for a long moment while he hoped, prayed, for some glimpse of humanity. And then she raised her arm, and he saw the long, slender blade of the knife she held. A ray of sunlight crept through the open door, glinting off the finely honed silver blade, illuminating the large crucifix that nestled between her breasts, shimmering like moonlight on the silver. She wore wide silver bracelets on her wrists; a thick silver collar protected her throat.

Summoning all his power, Grigori caught her gaze, but he could not touch her mind, could not influence her thoughts, for she had none of her own. Mindless, soulless, she belonged to Alexi, heard no voice but his.

She took a step toward him and he looked past her, wondering if he could make it out the door before she struck him down. The sunlight seared his eyes, momentarily blinding him.

A thin, humorless smile pulled at her lips as, seeing his distress, she kicked the door wider.

Grigori swore under his breath. What the hell was keeping Ramsey? He felt the sun's heat penetrate his clothing and he took a step backward, seeking the darkest corner of the room.

Wondering which would be worse, the shock of silver slicing into his heart or the burning rays of the sun igniting his skin and turning him to ashes, he stared at her, watching, waiting.

She moved with a quickness that startled him, lunging across the floor, her lips peeled back in a horrible grin as she struck out at him with the knife. He jerked to the side, and the blade, meant for his heart, pierced his right shoulder, then sliced across his chest, leaving a long, bloody furrow that oozed dark blood. She struck out at him again and again, and each time the blade found its mark.

In desperation, he grabbed for her knife hand, his fingers burning as they closed over the silver bracelet on her wrist. Grimacing with pain, he tried to wrest the blade from her grasp.

With a feral growl, she grabbed the crucifix and thrust it into his face. The silver burned through his left cheek like the fires of hell, and he stumbled backward, his nostrils filling with the scent of his own burning flesh.

She was on him again, the knife flashing in the sunlight. He had not expected her to be so fierce, or so strong. They toppled backward onto the bed, and his mind filled with a sudden image of the two of them lying in each other's arms on a wintry morning long ago, and then he looked into her eyes and knew that the woman he had held and loved no longer existed.

She thrashed wildly beneath him, upsetting the lamp on the bedside table, as she stabbed him again and yet again.

Teeth clenched against the pain that engulfed him, he drew back his fist and drove it into her face. Blood spurted from her nose, spraying over him like drops of crimson rain.

With a
cry
that could only be called a snarl, she lashed out at him with the knife, and he struck her again, and then again, until she lay still beneath him, her clothing and the bedding awash in his blood.

It was an effort to stand up. He could feel the sun climbing in the sky, feel the darkness probing at the edges of his consciousness as he stared down at the woman who had been his wife. He needed blood, but could not bring himself to take hers, knew he should kill her now and knew, just as surely, that he could not do it.

Going to the closet, he reached for the blankets folded on the shelf. With hands that trembled, he shrouded himself in the smothering folds of the thick wool, then staggered outside. It took every ounce of his rapidly waning strength to propel himself across town. Had the sun been higher in the sky, he knew he never would have made it. Even so, he could feel the sunlight seeking his flesh through the heavy cloth. In spite of the heat that engulfed him, fear that he would not reach her house in time chilled him to the core of his being.

It seemed as though hours passed before he reached Marisa's apartment. Barely able to stand, lacking the strength to break down the door and unable to summon the concentration needed to open it with the power of his mind, he threw a flower pot through the window, then leaned forward and let himself go limp so that he fell across the sill onto the floor, hardly aware of the shards of broken glass that nicked his skin.

He lay there a long moment, while the pure white heat of the sun burned through his clothing and scorched the preternatural flesh of his back and legs. He lay there for a long moment, watching his blood seep onto the carpet, leaving a dark, ugly stain on the blue rug.

The instinct to survive, the need to see Marisa one last time, provided one last burst of energy. Dragging himself across the floor, he made his way into her bedroom. It was an effort to open the closet door, to crawl inside, to close the door behind him.

Racked with pain, he huddled under the blankets, wondering, in a distant part of his mind, if there would be anything left for Marisa to find when she got home.

Ramsey felt the hair rise along the back of his neck as he stood in the doorway and surveyed the motel room. She hadn't made any effort to clean up this time. The sheets on the bed were soaked with blood. A broken lamp lay on the floor.

Moving cautiously, he entered the room and stared down at the sheets. So much blood. Was it hers?

He went into the bathroom, and then returned to the main room. Pulling his handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped off everything Grigori might have touched, and then left the room. He locked the door behind him, wiping off the doorknob.

Where was Grigori?

Getting into his car, he drove to Marisa's apartment.

He swore under his breath when he saw the broken window. Had Antoinette come here looking for him? He swore again as he opened the door with the key Marisa had given him.

Holding his cross tightly in his hand, he studied the broken window. Dirt and shards of crockery lay scattered over the carpet, but it was the crimson trail leading across the floor that held his attention.

Taking a deep breath, he followed the bloody path. It led into Marisa's bedroom, disappearing inside the closet.

He stood there for several minutes, his heart pounding like thunder in his ears as he contemplated who, or what, waited behind the portal.

He flicked on the light and then, taking a deep breath, he opened the door.

At first, he didn't notice anything unusual, and then he saw the blankets. Not certain he wanted to see what lay beneath, he lifted the bedding with a trembling hand, shuddered at what he saw. Grigori lay curled up on the floor, as still as death. Dried blood stained his shirt and pants, made a dark pool beneath him. His left cheek had been badly burned.

Ramsey regarded Grigori for a long moment, wondering if the vampire was capable of feeling pain when he was lost in his deathlike sleep.

For one fleeting moment, he was tempted to drive a stake through the creature's black heart, to cut off his head, then burn the body, thereby assuring that this vampire, at least, would never rise to drink human blood again.

Muttering an oath, Edward shook his head. Though he hated to admit it, he needed Chiavari's help. It was a bitter thing to admit. He had hunted vampires all over the world. None had ever eluded him, or frightened him, as did Alexi Kristov.

With a last look at the vampire, Edward replaced the covers, and closed the door.

Needing to keep busy, he went to a lumberyard and bought a sheet of plywood to cover the broken window. When that was done, he set to work scrubbing the blood out of the carpet, an impossible task, but it gave him something to do.

Time and again he considered going in search of Antoinette and Alexi, but it didn't seem wise to leave Grigori alone and unprotected. He didn't know what had happened to Antoinette, didn't know if she would strike again.

When he was finished, he sat back and surveyed the results. He didn't think Marisa would be pleased when she saw the faint brown stains. Maybe a professional carpet cleaner could get them out.

At three, he called Marisa at work.

"Yes, hello?"

"Marisa, this is Edward."

There was a moment of silence: then he heard her take a deep breath. "What's wrong?"

"Is there any chance you can leave work early? I don't think we should be out after dark."

"What's happened?"

"Grigori was attacked."

"Attacked! By who? Is he…?"

"No. He's hurt pretty bad, but I don't know what to do for him." He grunted softly. "As for who attacked him, my guess is it was Antoinette. One of the reasons vampires make revenants is because of their ability to move about during the day. How soon can you get away?"

"In about half an hour."

"Okay, I'll pick you up."

"No. I don't think you should leave him alone. I'll take a cab. I'll be home about four-thirty."

"Be careful."

"You too."

Marisa hung up the receiver, and then sat staring at the phone. Grigori was hurt. What did that mean, exactly? She knew he could be injured. She had seen the scratches inflicted by Alexi. But she'd also seen how rapidly he healed….

She turned off her computer, called for a cab, then gathered her things together and went to tell Mr. Salazar that there was an emergency at home and she had to leave. She had told Grigori, in jest, that her boss was an ogre, but it wasn't entirely true. Salazar might be a tyrant where work was concerned, but he was extremely lenient with his employees.

"Sure, Marisa," he said, "take tomorrow off, too, if you need to. Donna can fill in for you."

"Thank you, Mr. Salazar."

"Sure, sure, no problem. Did you get the Wendall deposition typed up?"

"Yes, it's on my desk, ready to go."

"Good, good. Let me know if there's anything I can do."

"I will, thank you."

The cab was waiting when she left the building. She gave the driver her address, and then climbed into the backseat, fidgeting nervously as the taxi threaded its way through the heavy traffic on the freeway. She watched the sky turn from blue to gray and wished for summer and daylight saving time.

She felt like screaming by the time they reached her apartment. She paid the driver, then ran up the stairs, her eyes widening when she saw the plywood that covered the front window.

Her heart was pounding as she opened the door. "Edward?"

"Yeah?" He stepped out of the kitchen. "I thought I'd make dinner. Hope you don't mind."

"No, I don't mind," Marisa replied. "You'll make some woman a wonderful wife." She dropped her handbag on the sofa, muttering, "What the hell?" when she saw the faint brown stains on the carpet. "Where's Grigori?"

"In the closet in your bedroom."

"What's he doing in the closet?" she asked, the answer occurring to her
before she had finished asking the question.

"I don't know if you want to see him."

"Why not?"

"He's pretty badly cut up." Edward shook his head. "He looks like somebody
chewed him up and spit him out."

"That's how I feel, too."

Marisa looked up to see Grigori leaning against the doorjamb. She had often heard people say someone looked like death warmed over. In this case, it was the truth. His face was beyond pale, the skin dry and brittle-looking, like scorched paper. His shirt was in shreds, the cloth stained with so much blood she couldn't tell what color the material was supposed to be. The skin on his left cheek had been badly burned.

Nausea roiled in her stomach, making her feel faint. Her first instinct was to turn and run away as fast and as far as her legs could carry her. And he knew it. She read the knowledge in his eyes, dark black eyes filled with anguish, burning with rage and agony that was far deeper than physical pain.

"Come and sit down," Marisa said. She started toward him, one hand outstretched to help him.

"Stay away from me."

His voice slammed into her, halting her in mid-stride. She glanced over at Edward, who was standing near the front door, his crucifix clutched in both hands.

"Ramsey, take Marisa and get out of here."

"You said it wasn't safe for us to be out at night," she reminded him.

"You're not safe here, either."

"What do you mean?"

"Look at him, Marisa," Edward said, coming to stand beside her. "Come on, let's go."

"Are you crazy? He needs help."

"Ramsey, get her out of here! Take her someplace crowded and well lit. The mall. Buy me a change of clothes." He didn't need a new shirt or pants, he had an extensive wardrobe at home, but he needed to get them out of the house. He hoped that the errand would give them something else to think about.

With a nod, Edward reached for Marisa's hand. "Come on, let's go."

"No." She shook off his hand. "He needs help."

"He doesn't need our help," Ramsey said. "He needs blood."

She didn't want to believe it, but the truth was staring her in the face.

"He's right," Grigori said tersely. He clenched his hands; the scent of their blood,
her
blood, fanning the hunger that was roaring through him, demanding to be fed, demanding that he replace what had been lost so his body could heal itself.