Shades of Gray (17 page)

"Where is he now?"

She stared past him, her brow furrowed in thought, her expression blank. "He's gone back."

"Alone?"

"No. He has the woman with him."

"Is he planning to come back for you?"

"No. After I destroyed you, I was to destroy myself, as well." She spoke the words without feeling, as if they meant nothing to her.

Grigori swore under his breath, and then he stood up, drawing her with him. "How do you feel?"

"I don't know." She looked up at him, her eyes filled with confusion. "Am I dead?"

"No." He wasn't sure what she was now. In taking her blood and giving her his, he had broken Alexi's
hold over her. She was bound to him now, until he died. Unless he brought her
across and made her as he was. And that, he thought, was the only real answer,
the only way she would ever be in control of her own destiny again. But not now…
not when he needed her help. "Sit down, Antoinette. Relax."

"What are we going to do?" she asked.

"Do you know where Ramsey is?"

"Ramsey?" She thought a moment, then shook her head.

"Was Alexi going to kill him?"

"I don't know."

With a sigh, he went to the window and stared out into the night. He stood there, unmoving, still as only one who is Vampyre can be still, his thoughts churning. Alexi had Marisa. Antoinette was still alive. Ramsey was missing. Alexi had Marisa….

Marisa.
When had she become so important to him? She was a mortal woman, cut off from him by centuries of blood and death. And yet she had cradled him in her arms, made him feel things he had not felt in two hundred years.

He heard the rustle of Antoinette's skirts as she shifted on the sofa and felt a sudden stab of guilt. She was his wife, but she was no longer the woman he had loved. She would never be that woman again. And he was no longer the man she had married… no longer a man at all.

But she was still his wife, and he was responsible for her.

He stood there for an hour, staring into the night, his thoughts turned inward. Antoinette was safe for now, but Marisa…

He turned slowly as the front door opened and Edward Ramsey burst inside.

"Is she here?" Ramsey asked breathlessly. "Tell me she's here."

"Alexi has her," Grigori replied quietly, and it took all his self-control to keep from reaching for the other man, to keep from ripping him to shreds. "What happened?"

Ramsey sneezed and blew his nose. "I fell asleep. When I woke up, I got the car and started downtown. Alexi was in the backseat. That's all I remember."

Grigori took a step forward and Edward scrambled backward, his hand clutching the cross. He yelped as Antoinette came up behind him, her arms wrapping around him, pinning his arms to his sides. He struggled to free himself, but she was too strong for him.

Grigori approached Edward. Holding Ramsey's jaw between his thumb and forefinger, he turned the man's head from side to side, checking his neck for bite marks.

"I already looked," Edward said.

Eyes narrowed, Grigori stared at Ramsey, listening to the thunderous beat of his heart. There were no bite marks on the man's neck, but that didn't mean anything.

Ramsey glared at him, a kitten spitting in the face of a tiger.

"Go on, bloodsucker, do it!" Edward taunted. "You're no better than he is."

Grigori grinned at Ramsey's bravado. "I cannot help admiring your courage, Ramsey." He nodded at Antoinette. "Let him go."

As soon as Antoinette released him, Ramsey bolted across the room. "What have you done to her?"

"She's mine, now."

"You did that to her? To your own wife?"

"Would you rather she was still Alexi's creature?"

"What do we do now?"

"I've spent the last hour trying to decide. Nothing Antoinette says makes
sense."

"What do you mean?"

"She says the reason we haven't been able to find Alexi is because he takes his rest in the wine cellar of our old house."

"What old house? Where?" Edward's eyes widened. "You don't mean in Italy?"

Grigori nodded. "But that's not possible. The house no longer exists. And yet…"

Edward held the cross in both hands, sliding it back and forth between his palms. "What? What are you thinking?"

"Time-travel," Grigori suggested.

"That's impossible!"

"Is it?" Grigori stared out into the dark of the night again. Khira had mentioned it once, saying that sometimes, when she grew sad or lonely, she went back to her old home. When he had asked her how she accomplished such a thing, she had shrugged and said she thought herself there. He frowned, remembering….
But you can only
go back so far,
she had warned,
only back to the time you were made. Beyond that you cannot go. Nor can you venture into the future.

Was it possible? Could he do it? Could he go back in time? And if he could, what would be the point? Kristov had possessed the Dark Gift far longer than he. If what Khira had said was true, Alexi could go back in time over a thousand years, while Grigori could go back but two hundred years.

And yet what Antoinette said must be true, for he had built their house himself, built it the year they were married. Alexi must have taken perverse pleasure in taking his rest there, in keeping Antoinette imprisoned there all these years.

"You're not really considering it, are you?" Ramsey asked.

Grigori nodded. For Marisa's sake, he had to try.

"I'm going with you."

"Indeed?"

Edward stuck his chin out. "We're in this together, remember? If you're thinking of zapping yourself into the past, I'm going with you."

Grigori lifted one brow. "Are you? I don't even know if I can get myself there."

Ramsey grinned. "I've got faith in you, Chiavari. Hatred is a powerful motivator, and between us, we've got enough hate to accomplish a miracle."

"Perhaps." Grigori held out his hand. "Antoinette, come to me."

Like a sleepwalker, she went to his side and placed her hand in his.

"Ramsey, take her hand." Grigori smiled faintly. "If you know any prayers, this might be a good time to say them."

Edward held Antoinette's hand in one of his, his free hand clutching his cross.

"Scared, vampire hunter?" Grigori asked.

"Damn right."

Grigori laughed softly and then, taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes.

He thought of Alexi.

He thought of Marisa.

And then he focused all his thoughts, all his energy, on his home in Italy as it had been two hundred years ago in November of seventeen ninety-eight.

Blackness swirled around him, drawing him down, down, into an abyss deeper than the darkness that shrouded him while he slept. He had no sense of movement, yet he knew he was moving through time and space.

And then, inexplicably, he had a sense of time slowing.

He opened his eyes, knowing, even before he saw the house, that he had been transported into the past.

"Damn! It worked!" Ramsey was grinning like a fool as he glanced around.

Grigori swore under his breath. "He's not here."

"We'll find him."

"Will we? We don't even know if he came here." But he wasn't thinking of Alexi now. He was staring at the house, remembering. Memories rushed toward him, memories of his parents, of the day he had married Antoinette, of the laughter they had shared in the quiet of the night. He remembered how her body had changed, her belly swelling with the new life she carried beneath her heart, the wonder of holding his tiny newborn daughter in his arms, and then, a year later, his son. In his mind, he saw their smiles, heard the sound of their youthful voices calling, "Papa, Papa," and his heart, long dead within him, ached with renewed pain and grief.

"Chiavari, you okay?"

He swallowed the lump in his throat as he turned to face Ramsey. "Fine."

"So, where do we start?"

Grigori took a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scents of home — garlic and olive oil and oregano, the smell of sheep and goats and manure, the fresh, clean scent of the earth itself.

"Let's go inside," he said. "Maybe we can tell if he's been here tonight."

The house was as he remembered it: four small rooms sparsely filled with furniture, most of which he had made with his own hands.

He walked into the bedroom he had once shared with Antoinette. There was no sign of Alexi.

Turning on his heel, he left the room and went outside. The wine cellar was located behind the house. Lifting the wooden door, he descended the stairs. The cellar reeked of dust and stale air, of cork and grapes and old wine.

Of Alexi.

The vampyre had been there. He could see the outline of Kristov's resting place in the dirt. Grigori grunted softly. Alexi was an old-world vampyre, one who took his rest within a coffin.

But the coffin was gone. And so was Kristov.

"Find anything?" Ramsey asked when Grigori returned to the house.

"He's been here, but he's gone. I doubt he'll be back."

"He must have known we were coming."

Grigori glanced at Antoinette, who was standing in the middle of the parlor, her expression blank. How pretty she was, dressed in a red blouse and white ruffled skirt. Red. It had always been her favorite color.

"So how do we find him?"

Grigori glanced at Ramsey. "He will find us."

"I don't think I like the sound of that."

"You didn't have to come."

"Yes, I did. I just wish I knew what he was up to."

"He's playing the same game as before."

"Hide-and-seek, you mean."

"Something like that."

"So what do we do now?"

"We wait," Grigori replied. "Wait for him to come to us."

Marisa blinked against the light. She felt disoriented, confused. And then she heard the sound of laughter. Soft laughter, tinged with evil. It was a voice she recognized.

"You'll get used to it," Alexi said. He moved into her field of vision, his arms crossed over his chest, his malevolent gray eyes regarding her with amusement.

"What happened?" She glanced around. "Where are we?"

"Italy."

"Italy! That's impossible."

"For me, my sweet Marisa, nothing is impossible."

She looked around the room again. There was a small four-drawer chest of drawers, a commode with a porcelain pitcher and bowl, the narrow bed she occupied. She could tell by the faded outline on the wallpaper that there had once been a crucifix above the door.

She sat up, hugging herself against the chill in the room. "Is this your house?"

"It is now."

Something in the tone of his voice told her that he had killed the former owner.

She cringed as he moved toward her, flinched as his hand stroked her cheek.

"Such a pretty creature," he murmured, "but then, Grigori always did have good taste in women. Good taste." He laughed as his fingers closed around her neck, tilting her head back to expose the pulse in her throat.

Terror rose up in Marisa as she stared into Alexi's eyes. "Don't," she said with a gasp. "Please don't."

"Just a taste," he promised.

"No! I don't want to be like Antoinette. Please!"

"Antoinette… I loved her, you know." He made a vague gesture with his free hand. "Loved her as much as I was able."

"Is that why you killed her children and turned her into a mindless zombie? Because you loved her?"

"I asked her to leave him, to come away with me, but she refused." His gaze grew hot. "I fear I have a rather bad temper." His hand tightened around her throat until she could hardly breathe. "You would be wise to remember that."

She tried to speak, but couldn't, could only stare at him as he lowered his head. His eyes were changing, the pupils growing larger, changing color, until his eyes were red and glowing. His lips parted, and she saw his fangs.

"No!" She screamed the word as she felt his breath sear her skin.
This can't be happening!
She clawed at the hand locked around her throat, raked her nails down his cheek, screamed in helpless terror as she felt his fangs pierce her flesh.

Darkness rose up in her mind, a writhing miasma of evil and death.

And then, abruptly, he let her go. Reeling backward, he glared at her. "He has marked you as his!"

"What? What are you talking about?"

"He has taken your blood."

Marisa stared up at him. "No."

"Yes!"

"It's impossible. He never…" The words died in her throat. She had imagined Grigori bending over her late one night. But it had been a dream. Hadn't it? "It's impossible," she said again. "If he'd taken my blood, wouldn't I be like Antoinette?"

Alexi shook his head. Hands clenched, he paced the room. "He didn't take enough for that, nor give you more than a drop of his in return. Just a drop of his!" He screamed the words. "Only enough so that I could taste him like poison in your blood."

Alexi whirled around, his eyes blazing with fury. "I would have taken you and let him keep Antoinette," he raged, "but not now! Not now! Call him, Marisa. Call him to your side."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Call his name." He caught her arm and twisted it behind her back. "Call him! He will hear you."

She shook her head, too frightened to speak, her whole body churning in revulsion at the thought of Grigori giving her his blood. How could he have done such a thing without her knowledge?

She cried out in pain and terror, everything else forgotten, as Alexi gave her arm another cruel twist.

"Call him." The vampire's gray eyes burned into her mind, obliterating her will to resist.

"Grigori."

"Louder."

"Grigori! Help me!"

Sobbing, she cried his name over and over again, until her throat was raw, until fear and exhaustion carried her away, into darkness.

Grigori's head jerked up, his eyes narrowing as he heard Marisa's voice screaming in his mind.

"What is it?" Ramsey asked.

"Marisa."

"What about her?"

"I
know where she is."