Twilight Hunger

Dante did not intend to creep up to her window tonight, as he had done in the past. He planned to stride right up the walk to the front door, ring the bell and introduce himself when she opened it. Yes, it would shock her. But though physically fragile, he sensed she had emotional strength she hadn't yet tapped. She would deal with the shock. And then she would answer to him for what she had done.

He climbed the sloping ground from the shore onto the grassy hilltop, then nearer, crossing the back lawn and circling the house. But when he got close his skin prickled, not with the attraction he always felt as he drew close to her, but with warning.

Alert now, he looked around, seeing the strange vehicle in her driveway. He didn't smell exhaust in the air. It must have been sitting there for at least a short time. Whoever was in the house with Morgan had been waiting for her when she had finally returned to the house.

Closing his eyes, Dante attuned his senses. As always, Morgan's essence was clear and easy to locate. The other one was far more difficult to perceive. It took effort, almost as if the man-yes, it was a man-had constructed a wall around his mind. There was something about the stranger Dante didn't like. He felt... dangerous.

Dante went up to the house, walked slowly around it, drawing one palm over the wood as he stepped around and between the plants and shrubs. They had not gone into the study. He didn't know why, but he felt like congratulating her on that.

And then he did. Without even quite meaning to, he sent the message. Good thinking, Morgan. He doesn't need to go in there.

It stunned him to the marrow when he heard her mind's reply. That room is my special place. Mine... and Dante's. No one goes in there.

She spoke to him and thought she was speaking to herself. Carrying on that internal dialogue that people tended to have with themselves. Never knowing that one side of the conversation was coming from someone else.

I don't like this man, she was thinking.

He's dangerous, Dante warned, quickly focusing on what was important. Be careful of him.

He knew she was nodding to herself, to him, even though he couldn't see her. And then he reached the outer wall of the sitting room and felt the hum of her energy right through the wall. He stopped there, turning to face the side of the house, pressing both palms flat and probing his way deeper into her mind. And still deeper. When he felt resistance, he whispered in her brain, Open to me, Morgan. It's only me. Let me come inside. You know I won't hurt you.

And she did. With a shuddering sigh, she relaxed and let him in, all the way in. He found himself seeing through her eyes. Hearing with her ears. He didn't take control. Wasn't even certain he could if he tried, but it didn't matter. That wasn't the purpose of his being this close to her.

Protecting her was. Which was odd, considering he had come here furious enough to kill her himself. At least, he had convinced himself he was furious enough to do her harm. Now he wondered.

The man, the stranger, was standing with his back to Morgan, studying the layout of the house in false admiration, nodding in false approval. "Very nice, what you've done with the old place."

"I like it," she replied. "But you said you were here to interview me about my work, Mr. Stiles."

"Please, call me Frank. I realize I should get moving on this. I'd never have bothered you at four a.m. if I hadn't seen you coming in. I don't doubt you're tired. It was awfully good of you to let me come in at all."

"Well, you did say you had driven six hours to get here in time to meet your deadline. But as I said, it's going to have to be brief. Will you have a seat?"

She didn't offer him refreshment. He didn't ask. Instead, he turned as he took his seat in a massive hardwood chair with lions' feet and a velvet cushion. Dante saw his face through Morgan's eyes and felt his heart skip. Or was that Morgan's heart?

The left side of the man's face was mottled with pink flesh that looked like a melted rubber doll. The eyelid drooped, the cheek sagged, the lips twisted, and the ear was a misshapen lump. He wore a hairpiece on that side. Dante hadn't spotted it at first, but now he could see that the hair was a slightly different shade and a bit less coarse on one side of his head than on the other. It was a good job. Good enough to fool a mortal.

The scarred man smiled at her. To her credit, Morgan smiled back. But she, too, was sensing something off about the man, and it wasn't due just to his appearance. She kept thinking it might be, chiding herself for being nervous because of a scar. The man couldn't help that. But she kept sensing something wrong beyond the surface.

"You must be very excited about your award nomination," he said. "I think it's well deserved."

"Thank you. Yes, I am quite overwhelmed that the film has been so well received."

"It's a good film." He pulled out a notepad from a pocket, and then a pen. It looked exactly like the notepad you would expect a reporter to carry. Which was another red flag, as far as Dante was concerned. "But then again, so were the first two. Why do you think this one was so much more well-received?"

Dante's heart seemed to stop beating. The first two?

"The first two films were much lower budget," Morgan said. "But even so, they gained a cult following that was beyond all our expectations. That, of course, led to our being able to release the third in a much bigger way."

The man nodded. "Is there a fourth in the works?"

"Of course."

The man nodded and scribbled and smiled, while Dante's heart twisted itself into knots. "I think these films have a realism about them that other vampire films-indeed, nearly all horror films-tend to lack. The Dante character... he's completely believable. Very real."

Morgan swallowed uncomfortably. He is real-to me, her mind whispered. Aloud she said, "Well, that's the key to good fiction, you know. Making it believable."

"Indeed," the reporter said. "But this is beyond believable. It's... well, it's almost as if it's a true story. And when I stumbled on the fact that your home was once owned by a man named Dante, well, I have to admit, I got curious."

Every nerve in Morgan's body went taut. "What are you talking about, Mr. Stiles?"

"Oh, come on. It's a matter of public record."

She shook her head slowly. "No," she said. "It's not." Then she seemed to catch herself. "I don't know where you got that information, but it's incorrect. This place was abandoned by its former owner, a Mr. Daniel Taylor. The state claimed it when he died without an heir, and my uncle David bought it from them."

"Daniel Taylor was one of many aliases the vampire Dante has used over the years."

She made a face. Dante couldn't see it, but he could feel her twisting her lips and bending her brows, as if she thought the man were speaking of something too stupid to even contemplate. "My goodness, you have a big imagination."

"It's fact, Morgan. Just as the things in those films of yours are fact."

She got slowly to her feet. "You're insane if you think vampires are factual, Mr. Stiles. And I don't like entertaining insane strangers in my house in the dead of night. I think it's time for you to leave."

"And I think it's time for you to tell the truth. Vampires are real, Ms. De Silva. You know it, and I know it. Dante is real, and he's going to be mad as hell when he finds out you've been making major motion pictures out of his deep dark secrets."

She strode across the room, even as a cold shiver worked through her body. Across the foyer, toward the front door. She reached for the handle.

The man was close behind her all the way, and he put his hand over hers on the door knob. "I'm not a reporter," he told her. "I work for the government. I've spent my life studying creatures like Dante, Ms. De Silva, and I know enough about them to know that you are in serious danger. If he finds you-"

"Get out." She jerked the door open despite his hand on hers. "Now, Stiles!"

"How did you learn all that information about him? Tell me."

She glared at him. "If you don't leave, I'm going to call the police."

"I'm not going to let you do that."

Her hand moved, quick as a heartbeat, to the little numbered panel on the wall, fingers dancing over the security system's buttons before he could reach to stop her. "There. The police will be here in five minutes."

"I'm trying to help you. He's a monster, Ms. De Silva. He'll find you, and trust me, he'll kill you unless you let me help."

She leaned toward him. "There are no such things as vampires," she whispered. Then she smiled as a siren sounded in the distance. "Hmm, quicker than I expected."

The man sighed his frustration, turned and ran out of the house, his gait uneven. She saw his car as he drove away and made a note of the license plate quickly before she closed the door, turned the locks. Then slowly, very slowly, she went still and silent as her mind replayed the words the man had said. That Dante was real. That he would be furious with her for sharing his secrets with the world. That he would kill her.

But he couldn't kill her, she thought in an unfocused and vague way. He loved her. No, no, she corrected herself. She loved him. If he were real, he would love her, too, because there was no denying the power of that bond. But he wasn't real. He didn't exist. So he didn't love her. And he certainly couldn't hurt her.

Closing his senses, Dante retreated from her mind, slowly feeling his own flesh again. He opened his eyes, blinking his vision into focus. He moved his hands, clenching and releasing his fists a few times. The sirens were getting closer. Stiles was long gone. But now the police were on their way. So was the dawn, in a few more hours. And yet he didn't go to Sarafina, or the house she had no doubt made ready and waiting. He didn't go very far at all.

"He said he was a reporter," Morgan told the police officer who'd shown up. The way his siren had wailed, she'd half expected a small cop army to come crashing in on her. Instead, there was just the one fellow, a rather innocuous looking grandpa type. If he'd had a hair on his head or face, he could have played a convincing Santa. As it was, though, he had only the ready smile, the twinkling eyes and the belly. His uniform was midnight blue, almost black. He didn't wear a hat, and his head was as shiny and pink as his cheeks. He'd introduced himself as Sandy Gray, which sounded more like a color than a name, she thought.

"So you let him in," Sandy said. "Did he show you any ID?"

She shook her head. She and Officer Sandy were standing in the foyer, face-to-face, he a hair shorter, she feeling less than reassured, and more tired by the minute. "Do you mind coming in where we can sit down?" she asked.

"Of course not." He followed as she led him through to the same sitting room where the man had been.

"I went for a long walk today. It made me realize how out of shape I am. It really wiped me out." She sat in her favorite chair. The cop remained standing, and she figured she could understand that. At last he was taller that way. She didn't even mind.

"You said the man gave you his name," he prompted, drawing her back to the subject.

"Yes. Stiles. Frank Stiles. It didn't seem like a made-up name at the time."

He jotted it down.

"He had a notepad, like yours there. A pen, instead of a pencil. Said he'd been waiting for the chance to interview me about the award nomination, and that he'd driven six straight hours just to interview me in time for a morning deadline."

The man nodded. He knew about the nomination. Since seeing the theater marquees, Morgan realized that everyone in town knew about it by now.

"Then what happened?"

She drew a breath. "I brought him in here. He sat over there." She pointed. "Asked me a couple of questions. I started getting the feeling he wasn't really a reporter at all."

"Really? What did he say to make you suspicious?"

She blinked. "I don't know. Nothing, really, it was just a feeling." She shrugged and moved quickly past the topic. "I asked him to leave, and he refused. He seemed vaguely menacing, and so I hit the security panel's alarm button. As soon as he realized what I had done, he ran off."

He nodded. "So he didn't harm you in any way?"

"No."

"And he didn't take anything?"

"No."

He folded his notebook. "I don't really see that a crime has been committed here."

She tipped her head to one side and stared at him.

"Well, not leaving right away when told to isn't exactly criminal behavior."

She sighed. "I suppose not. But this is not your everyday situation, Officer. I mean, I'm not trying to be a bitch here, but I am something of a celebrity. I think he wants something, and I think he'll be back."

He studied her face. "Obsessed fan? That sort of thing?"

"Sure. It's possible, isn't it?"

That, more than anything else she had said, seemed to work. The officer turned it over in his mind and nodded.

"Why don't you give me a description, ma'am? We'll have everyone keep an eye out for this character."

She nodded and proceeded to describe Frank Stiles in exquisite detail, from the scarred face to the clothes he was wearing. But she never once mentioned that he claimed to work for the government, or vampires or the accusations of plagiarism the man had made.

Even so, the cop looked more and more skeptical as she concluded her description. "I, um... I got the license plate number as he drove away."

"Did you?"

She nodded, pulled the slip of paper on which she had jotted the plate number from her pocket and handed it to him. He looked it over, then looked at her. "Maine plates?"

"No. New York."

"Hmm." He tucked the scrap into his own pocket. "You gonna be okay here alone for the rest of the night, ma'am?"

Oddly, the thought popped into her head that she wasn't alone. But that made so little sense that she wasn't even sure where it had come from. "I'll be fine. I'll set the security system, and this time I won't let any strangers inside."

"That's a good plan," the cop said. "We'll have a patrol car drive past a few times tonight, okay? If anything looks off, he'll stop."

"Off?" She gave her head a shake. "You mean, like body parts strewn on the lawn, the doors and windows smashed in, that sort of thing?"

He pursed his lips. "It's not gonna come to that, ma'am. You sure you're all right? I could drive you into town, put you in a room somewhere if-"

"No. No, I'm fine. That was my twisted sense of humor there." He still didn't crack a smile. "Thank you, Officer Gray." She walked him to the door and locked it behind him, resetting her security systems.

Then she went upstairs, took a quick shower, put on a cool nightgown and curled up in bed with another of Dante's journals.

But she couldn't lose herself tonight, not even in the spellbinding words of her phantom lover. The words of that other man, the scarred man, kept coming back to her again and again. Vampires are real... Dante is real, and he's going to be mad as hell when he finds out...

She sighed, pushing the covers back, forgetting for a moment the precious book that lay there in her lap. It hit the floor with a thud, and dust rose from it. It had landed on its back, open wide, and when she lovingly bent to pick it up again, some of the words from the time-yellowed pages caught her eye.

Trapdoor...

Beneath the house...

Coffin...

Shivering, she picked the book up. It was the eighth volume, and this was a section she hadn't read before. As she scanned the yellowed pages, a cold chill worked through her body. At last, something that could be verified. Proven. If she had the nerve.

Closing the book, sliding it carefully beneath the pillows, she turned and walked back downstairs, pausing at the double doors of her sanctuary, the room that had been Dante's study. His favorite place, and hers, as well. Swallowing hard, she stepped inside and moved toward the fireplace. She peeled away the oriental rug, rolling it back, baring the hardwood floor underneath.

It was unmarred. Unbroken. No hinges, no outline of a trapdoor where one had been described in the book. But the floor might have been covered over many times since those pages had been written. She recalled the sensation that had rinsed through her, the feeling that Dante was close to her, touching her, inside her mind-how many times in the past few weeks? Often when she was right here in this room.

Reaching for the iron poker, she walked across the floor again, from one wall to the other, tapping the floor with the poker as she did. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, thud.

She stopped, frozen in place, wondering if she had heard a difference or only imagined one. Again she tapped, and again the sound changed near the place where the trap door was supposed to have been. As if it were hollow underneath.

Licking her lips, Morgan knelt down. She jammed the tip of the fire poker between the floorboards, then tipped it back to pry them up. The boards resisted the effort, of course. She jabbed the thing harder, deeper, pried again, leaning into the effort with all her weight. And again and again. Until finally a single floorboard came free, breaking jaggedly in the middle.

Breathless, sweating, Morgan stood there, leaning on the poker, staring down. Underneath the floorboard was an older, rotting board, and a single tap of the poker stabbed a hole straight through it into the dark void underneath the house. Still unable to catch her breath, Morgan raced to her desk for a flashlight and returned to the hole she had made. Flicking it on, she shone its beam down through the opening. An old curving staircase was directly below her. Leading from the very floor on which she knelt down into the bowels of the earth.

Straightening away, her heart pounding with so much force she thought it would explode at any moment, she stared at the floor. "My God, could it be true? Could he be... real? Dante?" she whispered.

Then she snatched up the poker again and pried up another floorboard; and then another. She bashed in the rotted trap door-and yes, that was what the boards underneath had been. It was clear now-she could see the rusted hinges-and finally she made an opening big enough to fit through.

Swallowing hard, nodding firmly, she clutched the poker in one hand, gripped her flashlight in the other, and lowered herself through the hole and down to the stairway.

Morgan was not in her bedroom when Dante peered in from the balcony. He had changed his mind about striding up to the front door and confronting her. After the scare she'd had tonight with the scarred man, it would be too much.

She wasn't working with him. Wasn't feeding him information-at least not consciously. He was furious with her, yes, eager to confront her and rage at her for what she had done. Equally eager, though, to visit her in her dreams as he had done before. To make love to her with his mind, even though it was sheer hell on his body. It was release, of a sort. He was hungry for her, craving her, even as he wanted to throttle her until she was silenced forever.

But she wasn't in the bed awaiting his phantom touch or his vampiric rage. And she wasn't in her bathroom showering or bathing so that he could watch the water beading on her alabaster skin or possibly drown her in it. In fact, his senses told him she was far from this area of the house-and agitated in the extreme.

He thought of her earlier encounter with the scarred man, and worry gnawed at his gut. Idiot that he was, he felt every cell in his body aching to go to her, protect her, save her. He didn't sense the man's presence. But he knew that Stiles, as he called himself, was trouble. It was he who had been hunting Dante and his kind for months now. It had to be the film that had led him to Morgan. Stiles would use her to get to him if he had to.

Something was wrong, terribly wrong, with Morgan. Dante felt a twisting pain in his gut that wasn't his own, a hitch in his breathing, a chill of fear-no, terror.

No time now for caution. He responded to irresistible instinct, lunging through her room, into the hallway, following the magnetic pull of her being on his. He raced down the stairs. The study doors were open this time, and when he surged through them, ready to defend her from whatever was the matter, he was brought up short by the sight of broken boards lying on the floor beside the bunched-up rug and the gaping black opening beyond.

"Oh, sweet Jesus, no... "

Dante didn't know what the hell to do. He stood there frozen in time for an instant. And then he heard her scream.