Sitting there, with hours yet until dawn, he pulled up some of his older files. He skimmed through the years, reliving the confusion he had felt in the beginning, when every sunrise had filled him with dread and the niggling fear that he might not rise again. Vampire hunters had been everywhere in those dark times. Vampires had been more numerous in those days, and though he had called none of them friend, he had met with others of his kind to exchange information. In those days, every night brought reports of new deaths. The most fearsome hunter of them all had been Stuart Ramsey. He had destroyed more than fifty vampires before he died sometime in the seventeenth century. The name Ramsey had been feared through the ages as the descendents of Stuart Ramsey followed in his bloody footsteps. Today, the name Edward Ramsey was enough to send vampires scurrying for cover, though Roshan had recently heard a rumor that Ramsey was no longer a hunter but had become one of the hunted. An amusing irony, if it was true.

In the early 1800s, Roshan had taken a ship to America. It had been the worst journey of his entire existence. He had been trapped inside a coffin down in the hold of the ship by day and had prowled the deck by night, feeding off rats and an occasional crew member.

He had loved America at first sight The crowded cities, the diversity of its people. A veritable smorgasbord. Italians and Mexicans, Russians and Slavs, Poles and Germans, Danes and Swedes. And Indians. He had spent some time in the West, intrigued by the way the Indians lived. He had moved among the tribes, Sioux and Cheyenne, Crow and Arapaho, Apache and Comanche, studying their ways and their religions.

He had found it interesting that no matter the culture, whether the people were red, white, brown, or yellow, the mythology of every civilization included vampires, from the vampir of Hungary and the upior of Poland to the vyrkolakas of Greece. He supposed that accounted for the fact that vampires were the most popular monsters of all, and that vampire tales had been told and retold for thousands of years. He remembered reading his first vampire novel, Varney the Vampyre, which had been published back in 1847. Hundreds of books and movies had been made about the undead since then. He had read all the books, seen all the movies.

But none of those fictionalized works came close to the reality that he had lived for the last two hundred and eighty-six years.

Never, in all that time, had he felt the way he did now. For the first time in his long existence, he had hope, and that hope was embodied in the red-haired woman sleeping in his bed.

CHAPTER 11

Brenna slept late the following morning. Lying in bed, the blankets pulled up to her chin, she stared at the ceiling, thinking about her life and how drastically it had changed in such a very short time. Who would ever have thought that poor Brenna Flanagan, who had barely had the means to keep body and soul together, would ever be living in a house as grand as this one? She had more than enough food to eat, not to mention enough raiment to clothe a dozen women. She had seen wonders and inventions that no one in her time had ever imagined and would never believe possible. If she was dreaming, she wasn't sure she wanted to wake up.

She smiled as Morgana slid under her arm, begging for her attention.

"Good morrow," Brenna said. Rolling onto her side, she scratched the cat's ears, smiling as the cat began to purr.

Brenna's eyes widened suddenly. Roshan had promised to unlock the gates before he went to bed. Today, for the first time, she would be on her own, able to go anywhere she wished. Independent, she thought, just like the women of the time.

Rising, she went into the bathroom and filled the bathtub with water. Pinning her hair on top of her head, she stepped into the tub. Morgana sat on the lid of the toilet, tidily washing her paws while her mistress luxuriated in a hot bubble bath.

Lying there, Brenna marveled anew at how wonderful it was to have hot and cold running water inside the house. The soap she used to wash with smelled like lavender.

Thirty minutes later she stepped out of the tub and dried off with a large fluffy blue towel. Dropping the towel into the hamper, she shook out her hair, then went into the bedroom. Opening the top drawer of the dresser, she pulled out a pair of pretty pink panties and a matching bra (a truly strange and slightly uncomfortable contraption). Clad in her underwear, she opened the closet, frowning while she tried to decide what to wear. Never, in all her life, had she had so many choices! Dresses, skirts, pants, blouses, sweaters, shirts, shoes, sandals, and boots, not to mention a wide variety of undergarments, nylons, and socks.

Finally, she slipped into a pair of blue jeans, a fluffy white sweater, and a pair of soft leather boots that laced up the side.

Going downstairs, she filled Morgana's dish with cat food, and then fixed herself a big breakfast— oatmeal smothered in brown sugar, scrambled eggs, buttered toast, and a glass of buttermilk.

She had never cared much for cooking, but here, with all the modern conveniences, it seemed less of a chore. She didn't have to make her own bread. She didn't have to milk a cow, or gather eggs. She didn't have to collect wood for the hearth, or worry that her skirts might catch fire when she reached into the hearth to stir a pot of soup. Of course, it had taken several days and a lot of trial and error to learn how to cook on the gas stove, but with the help of the cookbook Roshan had bought her, she was learning.

Of course, she had learned a lot of other things in the last few weeks, thanks to Roshan. He had patiently answered her endless questions, taken her into the city so she could get used to this strange new world, taught her to drive his car which, she now knew, cost a great deal of money. In spite of the fact that he was a vampire, she felt safe with him. Maybe he was right. Maybe she would get used to this time and this place.

After breakfast, she brushed her teeth, then ran a comb through her hair and pulled it back with a ribbon.

Roshan had left his car keys on the kitchen table, along with four hundred and fifty dollars. Feeling suddenly rich and carefree, she pocketed the cash, picked up the keys, and left the house. Moments later, she was driving toward the gates. Had Roshan remembered to remove the wards?

But yes, the gates swung open as she approached. Filled with excitement, she drove through the high arch, turned right, and headed for the city.

She drove up and down the streets, looking at the houses and the people. Until now, she had only seen her new world by night. Once again, she was struck by the noise of the city. The honking of horns, the rumble of trucks, the distant blast of a train's whistle, the quiet purr of the Ferrari's engine, the roar of an airplane overhead. She had never realized how quiet her own cottage had been until now. Roshan's home was never completely quiet. There was the hum of the refrigerator, the soft hiss of the forced air heating cycling on and off, the creak of the wood as the house settled.

Bypassing the mall, she parked on a narrow side street. Exiting the car, she locked the door, then strolled slowly down the street, pausing now and then to peer into one of the shop windows. The stores along the street were not so large or as crowded as the ones in the mall.

She passed a candy store, a video rental store, several dress shops, a shoe store, a toy store. There was an ice cream parlor on the corner. Seeing a picture of a malt in the window, she went inside, and after a moment's hesitation, she sat down at a small round table by the window.

She had no sooner taken her seat than a waitress came to take her order.

"Do you have chocolate malts?" Brenna asked, remembering the one Roshan had bought her at the mall.

"Sure thing," the girl said with a smile. "The best in town."

"May I have one, please?"

"Sure, honey. Anything else?"

"No, thank you."

When the waitress left the table, Brenna turned and looked out the window, watching the people pass by. Men in suits, women in shorts and halter tops, boys on skateboards, girls giggling together, they all seemed to be in a hurry to get somewhere.

Brenna smiled her thanks as the waitress placed the malt on the table. Brenna ate the whipped cream and the cherry, wishing she dared ask for more. As the waitress had promised, the malt was delicious. Brenna sipped it slowly, savoring the rich chocolate taste, thinking that this malt was even better than the one she'd had at the mall.

She felt quite proud of herself when she paid the check, even though it was Roshan's money. Although purchasing a malt was a relatively small accomplishment, it was the first thing she had bought and paid for herself. For the first time since arriving in this century, she had accomplished something entirely on her own. Perhaps she could find her way in this new world after all.

Leaving the ice cream shop, she crossed the street and continued down the other side. Three young men wearing baggy pants and black T-shirts were standing outside of a liquor store. They all looked her up and down as she approached. One of them whistled at her.

"Hey, pretty mama," another one called. "You're lookin' mighty fine today."

The third one nodded in agreement and then, as she drew closer, he reached for her arm.

Brenna murmured a quick incantation as his fingers closed over her arm. With a cry of pain, the young man jerked his hand away, yelping as if he had just touched a hot stove.

Grinning inwardly, Brenna kept walking.

When she reached the end of the block, she looked both ways and then crossed the street and started back the way she had come. And then she saw it, a large black sign in the shape of a pointy black hat. The words The Wiccan Way Coffee Shop and Bookstore were painted on the hat in neat white letters.

Quickening her step, Brenna hurried down the street. She hesitated at the entrance, then, taking a deep breath, she opened the door and stepped inside.

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the rather dim interior. The walls were a creamy white, the floor was done in square tiles of black, white, and gray. Looking to her right, she saw a wall of glass shelves that held an assortment of crystals, goblets, and dragons made of glass and pewter. Another shelf held small pots of herbs. To her left was a floor-to-ceiling shelf filled with books on witchcraft, paganism, folk magic and medicine, urban legends, Celtic traditions, astrology, tarot, spell casting, channeling, and psychic development, as well as a numbers of almanacs and calendars.