Shades of Gray (15 page)

Marisa stared at him, seeing past the wounds that crisscrossed his body, past the pain in his eyes to the hunger growing within him. From somewhere deep inside came the urge to go to him, to offer him the sustenance he needed. The thought appalled her even as it beckoned.

"No." Grigori shook his head. "Not now, Marisa."

And before she could decipher that cryptic message, Ramsey was pulling her out of the apartment.

Clinging tightly to his self-control, Grigori watched them go, watched her go. She had wanted to help him, wanted to offer him her life's blood. And he had wanted to take it, would have taken it save for the awful fear that, once he touched her, tasted her, he wouldn't be able to stop.

But there was no need for self-control now, and he shed it like a snake shedding its skin, surrendering to the pain that hummed through every inch of his body, loosing the hunger that clawed at his vitals. He felt the sharp prick of his fangs against his tongue, knew his eyes burned red with the need pulsing through him.

Ripping off what was left of his shirt, he tossed it into the trash, then staggered into the bathroom and washed the blood from his face and chest and arms. He looked at himself in the mirror, lifted a hand to his cheek, feeling the ragged edges of charred skin. It would be weeks before the burn healed. But it would heal and there would be no scar.

Shirtless, he left the house. Resting had restored some of his strength. He masked his presence from those he passed until he found what he was looking for, a healthy young man walking alone down a deserted street. Ordinarily, he never hunted in the same city where he slept, but now need overruled caution.

He blanked the man's mind, then bent over him, taking what he needed, drinking long and deep. The temptation to take it all rose up strong within him, but he took no more than the man could safely spare. He ran his tongue over the wounds to seal them, wiping all memory of his presence from the man's mind.

He ghosted through the city streets, taking his prey unawares. How much simpler it would have been to take one mortal and drain him to the point of death, to drink not only his blood but his life as well, but he had vowed, a century ago, that he would never take a human life again unless his own life was at risk.

It was after midnight when he returned to Marisa's apartment. He had expected to find Ramsey and Marisa asleep, but they were in the living room. Dialogue from a movie they weren't watching filled the silence of the room.

He felt the censure in their eyes as they watched him close and lock the door. When he turned around, they were both looking elsewhere. It made him feel as if he didn't exist.

For stretched seconds, no one spoke. And then Ramsey stood up. "Your clothes are in a bag in the kitchen."

Grigori nodded.

"I'm going to bed."

"Hold on, Ramsey. Where were you this morning?"

Edward let out a long sigh, and Marisa had the feeling that he had been waiting all night for this one question. And even as he seemed to gather the courage to answer, she wondered if things would have turned out differently if he had been at the motel that morning.

"There was a five-car pile-up on the freeway," Ramsey said, meeting Grigori's eyes for the first time. "Two fatalities. I got hung up in traffic."

Grigori nodded. "Good night."

Edward glanced at Marisa, then left the room.

"Well," Marisa said, not meeting his eyes, "I think I'll go to bed, too."

"Marisa."

"What?" She kept her head lowered, her fingers toying with the cross dangling between her breasts.

"Look at me."

She couldn't, she thought, she couldn't face him now, knowing where he had been, what he'd been doing.

"Look at me."

It was impossible to resist the power in his voice. Slowly, she lifted her head and met his gaze. "Does it hurt?" she asked, gesturing at his cheek.

"Yes. Why? Do you think me incapable of feeling pain?"

"I don't know."

"It doesn't hurt as much as the distrust in your eyes."

She glanced away, then met his gaze again. "Will I read about more dead bodies in the morning paper?"

"Not of my doing."

She said nothing, but he knew she didn't believe him.

"I haven't killed anyone, except to preserve my own existence, in over a hundred years."

She regarded him for a long moment. The hideous knife wounds were already healing. Some were no more than faint red streaks against his pale flesh. Only the burn on his cheek seemed unimproved, the flesh charred and black.

He wished suddenly that he had thought to stop at his resting place and put on a shirt, but he'd had other, more urgent matters on his mind. She was staring at his face. Seeing the revulsion in her eyes, he covered his injured cheek with his hand.

"Is there anything I can do for that?" she asked.

He shook his head. "The skin will rejuvenate, in time. Burns are always slow to heal."

"Oh."

"Marisa — "

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't look at me like that. Don't make me stay here."

"I'm not keeping you."

She drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, staring up at him through eyes that were wide and frightened, eyes filled with doubt and confusion. And a reluctant concern.

"Did you want to be a vampire?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I felt it was the only way I could avenge the deaths of my children."

"How old were they?"

"My daughter was five, my son a year younger."

"I'm sorry."

"It was a long time ago," he murmured, "and yet the pain remains." He sank down on the floor, his back against the wall, one knee bent. He looked up at her, his expression bleak. "All these years, and still I have not been able to destroy him. I hunted him for a hundred years, and then, when I found him, it was too late. Silvano's family had interred him in the bowels of a church and I could not reach him. Now, he is here, and still I cannot find his lair, cannot get close enough to destroy him!"

His hands clenched. "In the past, I have been able to sense the presence of other vampyres, have been able to track them to their resting places. Why can't I find Alexi?"

She had no answer for him, could only stare at him, watching with disbelieving eyes as the lacerations on his chest continued to heal before her eyes, the red scars fading and then disappearing, until nothing remained but the ugly wound on his cheek.

"What is it?" he asked. "What's wrong?"

She shook her head in wonder, then pointed at his chest, his arms. "They're gone. The wounds, as if they were never there at all."

Grigori glanced down, then shrugged. "I told you, we heal quickly."

"I know." But it was still an amazing thing to watch. "Isn't it lonely, being a vampire? Not being able to tell anyone who you are?" Sort of like being Superman, she thought, always pretending to be Clark Kent.

"It can be lonely, at times," he admitted. In the beginning, he had missed his home, his family, but, gradually, he had grown accustomed to his solitary life, had even come to enjoy it. He had never lacked female companionship. The Dark Gift carried an aura of power. Any woman he had desired had been his for the taking. He had seduced them, but he had loved none of them. He had traveled the world, watched the changes two centuries had wrought, seen things, done things, beyond the powers of mortal man.

"Eternity is such a long time. Doesn't life get… tiresome? How ever do you pass the time?"

He grinned at her. "Do you picture me lurking in the shadows, always on the outside looking in, wishing I could be part of humanity again?"

"Well, yeah, I guess so."

"It's not like that, Marisa. Think of people you know who work nights. What do they do?"

"I don't know. The same things I do, I guess."

He nodded. "I read. Books, newspapers, the classics, mysteries. I go to the movies. I've traveled the world. I stay at home and watch TV." He smiled at her. "All the good shows are on at night, you know?"

She couldn't help it, she smiled back.

"Not all of us are the evil monsters depicted in movies and novels."

"Like Kristov?"

Grigori nodded. "Like Kristov."

"Was he always like he is now?"

"I don't know. When I first met him, he seemed to be a fine gentleman. I couldn't understand why he wanted to spend time in our poor home."

But he knew now. It hadn't been his company Kristov had sought, but Antoinette's. And when she had refused him, he had lashed out in a rage, killing those she had held most dear. He could hear Alexi's voice screaming in his mind:…
she refused…
to
leave you or those brats… Well, she
doesn't refuse me anymore.
Pain clawed at him as he imagined Antoinette sharing a bed with Alexi, helpless to resist him, compelled to surrender to his every wish.

"Grigori?"

"What?"

"Where were you?"

"Remembering."

She nodded. Judging from the look on his face, they weren't pleasant memories.

"Have you ever made anyone else a vampire?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"No one has asked, and it is not something I would force on another."

"What's it like, to drink… to drink blood?"

"It is natural for me, Marisa. It is not repulsive. The taste can be — " he glanced fleetingly at the slender curve of her neck
— "sweet, especially when it is offered willingly."

"It sounds as if you
like
being a vampire." She shook her head, unable to accept the idea. "I can't believe you don't miss being able to go out during the day, or eating a good meal, or… or
— "

"For me, becoming Vampyre was a blessing. I was born in a poor village in Tuscany. I couldn't read or write, and had no hope of learning to do so, nothing to look forward to but a life of hard work and an early death. When I became Vampyre, it opened up a whole new world for me. Literally, a whole new world. The vampyre who made me taught me how to hunt, how to survive. And when she'd taught me all I needed to know to survive, she taught me to read and write. She taught me how to behave as a gentleman, to appreciate art and literature. When I realized I couldn't reach Alexi, I traveled to the far corners of the world, saw places and people I had never dreamed existed."

"How did you find her, the vampire who made you?"

"She found me." His lips twitched in what might have been a smile. "I used to go to my children's graves at night because I didn't like to think of them being there, alone, in the dark." The sadness of two hundred years flickered in his eyes. "My little boy was afraid of the dark."

"Grigori, I'm so sorry." Without realizing she had moved, she was off the sofa, kneeling beside him, drawing him into her arms. "So sorry…"

She held him close, one hand sliding up and down his bare back until, gradually, she was no longer comforting him, but caressing him. His skin was cool and firm beneath her fingertips; the muscles in his back and shoulders were corded and sharply defined.

He remained unmoving in her arms, quiescent as her hands slid down his arms, over his belly, threaded through his hair. He felt the first stirring of desire unfurl within her, heard the sudden catch in her breath as she realized that his body was reacting to her touch. Did she think him incapable of desire? Her blood warmed; a flush stained her cheeks.

When she would have pulled away, he slid his arm around her waist to keep her close. "Don't stop."

"I can't — "

"Because I am Vampyre." he said caustically.

"No… because… because I hardly know you.

Because I — " The flush in her cheeks grew hotter and her gaze slid away from his. "I'm not, I don't
— "

"You have nothing to fear from me. I don't have any diseases, Marisa," he said, reading the thoughts she couldn't put into words. "I can no longer father a child."

"Oh." She looked up at him then, and he saw the fear in her eyes.

Slowly, reluctantly, he released her. "I would not take you against your will,
cara."

"You must have known a lot of women in two hundred years."

"Many," he admitted. "But when I'm with you, I can remember none of them."

"Except Antoinette."

"Yes," he said heavily. "Antoinette."

"She's still your wife, isn't she?"

He drew a deep, painful breath and let it out in a long, slow sigh. "The girl I married is dead. Nothing remains but an empty shell, a shadow of the woman I loved."

He looked past her to the window. "I must go. Be careful tomorrow. Have Ramsey drive you to work and pick you up. Don't go anywhere alone."

"Are you going to stay here again?"

"No."

"Where do you… sleep?"

"It's better if you don't know." He caressed her cheek with the back of his hand, his knuckles sliding over her skin, making her shiver with pleasure. "Be careful."

"You too."

"Always." He rose smoothly to his feet, then offered her his hand, pulling her up beside him. "Remember what I said. Don't go
anywhere
alone."

"I'll be all right." She smiled at him, then went into the kitchen, returning moments later with a brown shopping bag. "Don't forget your clothes."

He hefted the bag, certain he would not care for Ramsey's taste in clothing, which ran to dull browns and obnoxious plaids, "Thank Ramsey for me."

"I will. Would it have made any difference this morning, if he'd been there?"

She felt him tense as he considered her question. And then he nodded. "He would have killed her without a qualm."

"And you couldn't, could you?"

"No. Even knowing it was the only way to put her soul to rest, I couldn't do it."

"I'm glad."

"Are you? Why?"

"I just am."

"Does it make me less a monster in your eyes?"

"You're not a monster."

"You thought so not so very long ago."

She had no answer for that.

He placed his forefinger under her chin, tilted her head up, and brushed his lips across hers.

"Till tonight,
cara,"
he whispered tenderly, and then he was gone.