Twilight Hunger

Morgan walked warily down the curving wooden staircase hidden beneath her floorboards, placing her feet slowly, cautiously, shifting her weight gradually. The stairs groaned in protest as if they could give way at any moment. But they didn't, and she managed to make her way to the bottom. She found herself in a dank, dark room. A basement-one that didn't exist, according to every record on the place. God knew she had gone over blueprints and plans and age-old titles during the remodeling as she tried her damnedest to restore the house to its original appearance. She had learned the colors of the decor in several of the rooms. There had been a sketch of the chandelier, and an aging photo of the gardens in back.

But nowhere had there been mention of a cellar. In fact, the lack of one was mentioned more than once in those documents. Almost apologetically, as if it were an inexcusable oversight on the part of the builder. The builder-Daniel Taylor.

Daniel Taylor is one of many aliases the vampire Dante has used...

Oh, hell.

Taking a breath of stale air that had never seen sunlight, Morgan flicked her flashlight on, moved its beam around. Wooden beams crossed the low ceiling above her head. The walls were built of flat stones, piled on top of each other. She didn't know how the hell they stayed upright. An arching opening stood at the far end of the smallish room, and she went toward it, shining her light. No spiderwebs. She found it odd that there were no spiderwebs sticking to her face as she tiptoed, barely breathing, over the dirt floor.

She moved closer and finally stepped through the archway into the smaller, even darker room, this one made of concrete. The beam of her light arced around it to the left, falling on a small table, a kerosene lantern, a book of matches. She could smell the fuel. The lantern's globe was clean.

Blinking, she made her way to the lantern, and then, anchoring her flashlight under one arm to keep its beam where she wanted it, she found the lever that lifted the lantern's globe, struck a match and touched it to the wick. As she lowered the globe into place again and adjusted the flame, soft yellow light filled the room. It was such an incredible relief to have a more helpful source of light that she sighed as she turned to see what the place looked like now that she could see.

On the far side of the room, on a platform that kept it raised off the floor, was a box made of time-dulled wood so dark it seemed black, with tarnished silver handles on the sides.

She stood there staring at it, her mind refusing to process the information her eyes were sending for the drawn-out space between two heartbeats.

And then her mind whispered the truth to her. A coffin. And a scream ran in terror from her lungs, bouncing off the walls and diving back into her own ears to hide.

She bit her lip to silence herself and fought to catch her breath as her heart galloped. The coffin's lid was closed. It looked old. How long had this thing been here? God, what was inside? Her mind wanted to know. It told her body to move closer, touch the wood, open the lid and see...

Him. Dante.

The rest of her wanted to ran. Every cell, every muscle, tingled and twitched with the urge to turn and flee from this place. But her body refused to do either. Her legs were trembling so hard she could barely stand on them. Stress tended to do her in as quickly as physical overexertion, and today she had experienced both in levels beyond what she'd been capable of withstanding for over a year now.

It's not real. This is another of those vivid dreams. That's all.

But no. In her dreams she was always strong, vital, bursting with energy. And she never felt fear. In the dreams he loved her.

God, could that scarred man have been right? Could those journals be real? Could her Dante be lying right here in this casket? Perfectly preserved. Immortal? Undead?

"Maybe not," she muttered. "Maybe he just had himself secretly buried here. Maybe that's all this is. The hundred-year-old rotted corpse of a wealthy, eccentric lunatic is probably all that's in that box. Just bones by now. That's all." And when she saw it, when she saw the proof that Dante had been an ordinary man with a vivid imagination and a gift for writing, maybe that would be enough to break the spell he had cast on her. Maybe she could free herself of the sticky web her own obsession had spun to entrap her.

Catching her breath, she forced her feet to move closer. One step, then another. She wasn't even sure she could bring herself to open the lid when she got to it. Then again, it might be sealed. It should be sealed, shouldn't it? They didn't just toss bodies into boxes and leave them unlocked.

Then again, they didn't usually hide them underneath houses, either.

She was at the coffin now. She told her hands to rise, and they did, though she was almost surprised to see them obey. She lowered her hands gently to the coffin. It was cold to the touch, and a layer of grime lay between the smooth wood and her palms. Drawing a breath, she told herself to open the lid.

"Don't." The single word came in a deep, rich, hauntingly familiar voice from behind her.

Morgan froze at the command and closed her eyes. He had entered silently. She hadn't heard a sound, not a footstep. Nothing.

"Let it be, Morgan. There's nothing in there that you need to see."

Eyes still closed, she whispered, "Dante?"

"I... " The voice hesitated, and Morgan opened her eyes and knew that his next words would be lies. She knew it as surely as if she were the one about to speak them, making them up as she went along. She felt him groping, searching his mind for a convincing lie. "Yes, I am Dante, but not the one you think I am. He was my great-great-grandfather."

"And he is buried here." She said his next line for him.

"It was his last wish."

She nodded. "And why are you here?"

"To see you." He paused, breathed, and she felt him searching and spinning. "That film of yours is so like the old man's delusions that when I learned you were living in the house he had built, I knew you had learned of his fantasies somehow and used them to create the script."

She didn't turn to face him. She couldn't Not yet. "You're saying they're not real?"

He forced a laugh, just a breath, really. It was the most false thing she had ever heard. "Of course they're not real."

"And you came inside my house without knocking?"

"I... was about to knock when I heard you scream."

"From outside."

"Of course."

"And yet you set off no alarms when you came in?"

He didn't speak. Morgan swallowed hard, and in one swift act of will, pushed upward on the lid. The coffin lay empty, white satin lining beginning to yellow with age. The lid stayed up when she let it go and turned slowly to look on the face of her fantasy lover for the first time.

He stood there dressed in black trousers and a black silk shirt buttoned all the way to the collar, no jacket, no tie. He was dark. Everything about him... dark. Empty. Hollow. His face just as sculpted as she had imagined it, the hollows of his cheeks, the endlessly deep wells of his ebony eyes.

He took her breath away. Because she loved him. Because she was bound to him in ways she didn't even understand. Because he was so exactly as she had known he would be. Familiar. Beloved. He was hers.

"You're real," she whispered.

He stared back at her in silence. She felt him then, stealing into her mind. Felt him planting the certainty that this was just another of her dreams, willing her to believe it. She opened her eyes wide, shook her head hard. "Stop it. You're not a dream. I won't believe you are."

"How can you be so sure?"

"It's no use, Dante. Even if you could do whatever it is you do to my mind, the broken floorboards, this room... they'll all still be here when I wake. Even you couldn't make it all go away in the time left before sunrise."

He studied her, his eyes probing and narrow. "You're either very brave or very foolish, Morgan. Don't you know how angry you've made me? I should kill you for what you've done."

"Then do it."

She saw the shock ripple through him. She didn't let it stop her. Her hands went to the high collar of her nightgown, and she ripped it open, popping buttons all the way to her waist. She tipped her head back, closed her eyes. "Do it, Dante."

Her pulse beat in reaction to the touch of his eyes on her throat. She felt him shiver, felt her own heat rise. She wanted something she couldn't name, as little sense as it made. She knew she was dying anyway, and soon, judging by her symptoms of late. If she had to die, why not in the way he had described so erotically in his journals? The way she had experienced so vividly, if only slightly? Why couldn't she die in utter ecstasy as her essence flowed into him?

And suddenly he was there, his arms tight around her, pulling her body hard against his as he bent over her. His mouth closed on her throat, and she whispered, "Yes... " He bit down without breaking through and suckled her skin. She arched her hips against him, felt the arousal pressing back. Morgan had never felt such fire burn in her body as she did then. Her hands tangled in his hair as she twisted and writhed in his powerful arms, pressing her body closer, arching her throat to his hungry mouth. She felt his lips, warm and wet on her skin. His tongue, stroking and tasting. The delicious pinch of his teeth biting down, just a little.

And then suddenly he wrenched himself away from her so violently that she stumbled and fell to the packed earth floor. Breathless, she remained there, knees bent awkwardly, arms braced on the floor behind her as she stared at him. At his eyes, gleaming now with an odd luminescence that didn't seem to come from the glow of the kerosene lamp. At his face, drawn tight in some kind of unnamed anguish.

"You have no idea what the hell you're playing with, Morgan," he said, his voice coarse and unsteady.

"I know," she said. Her words came less forcefully than she would have liked. Her chest moved rapidly as she fought for breath in between. "I know you... better than anyone ever has, Dante... Or ever will."

He went very still, his eyes narrowing on her. "How?"

She closed her eyes, let her head fall backward. Then her arms bent, and she was lying flat on the floor. God, she was so weak suddenly. It was all too much.

He swore softly and bent to gather her up into his arms. He carried her out of the place, up the rickety stairs, and managed to get up through the jagged hole in the floor. "Are you hurt?" He asked the question almost reluctantly as he took her through the house, obviously knowing his way around.

"No."

"But you are ill," he said unnecessarily.

She nodded, resting her head against his chest. "You're changing the subject."

"Ami?"

They were in the hall now, where he turned and carried her unerringly to her bedroom. To the bed. Then he lowered her onto it, but when he would have straightened away, she locked her arms around his neck and held on. "You want to know how I know about you?"

Leaning over her, one knee on the bed, his face only inches from hers, he nodded. "I have to know."

"Then make love to me, Dante, and I'll tell you."

His eyes flared hotter as he stared into hers. "I cannot do that, Morgan. You're too weak."

"Not for that. Never for that." She lifted her head from the pillows, using him as leverage, and pressed her lips to his. "Please."

Groaning softly, he returned the kiss, folding his arms beneath her and lifting her upper body to his chest. His tongue traced her lips and, when she parted mem, slipped inside to taste her. His breaths came harder, faster, and he slid his mouth from hers to trace her jawline down to her neck and kiss her there, where he had before.

He let her go, let her fall. "I can't... "

"You have before. You have. I know it was real. It wasn't a dream. Dammit, Dante, you've been with me, night after night."

"It wasn't real. It was in your mind, in my mind. It wasn't real."

"Then make it real!"

His muscles were so tense he was shaking, and his jaw was rigid. Then he glanced toward the window, and she followed his gaze and realized the dawn was at hand. "Tell no one what you've seen tonight. I swear to you, Morgan, if you breathe a word, you'll die. Do you understand? I'll have no choice in the matter."

"Do you really think I would betray you? My God, Dante, I would never-"

"You already have."

She blinked and realized he was referring to the film. "It's not the way you think it is."

"You've told my secrets to the world, Morgan. Some of my dearest friends have died because of what you revealed about me and my kind in your films. I'm being hunted because of you, my every step hounded by that man you met earlier tonight."

She felt her eyes widen. "I didn't know. I never would have told your stories, Dante, if I had known they were real. You have to believe that!"

He got to his feet, went to the window. "I have to leave."

She surged from the bed, weak, nearly exhausted, and clutched at the back of his shirt. "Then come back. Dante, promise you'll come to me tonight. I'll tell you everything, I swear."

He glanced back at her. "Or maybe you'll have the scarred man here waiting when I arrive?"

"I would let him kill me first... "

She dropped to her knees, suddenly too weak to stand. Her head falling forward, she drew a shallow breath. "I would die, Dante, before I would betray you." It was a string of words floating on a breath, a mere exhalation, not even a whisper.

"Words I've heard before, Morgan." Dante knelt, clutched her shoulders, lifted her chin to search her face. Then he folded her to his chest, held her there with one hand, and took something from his pocket with the other. She saw it shine as it flicked open. A small pointed blade, like a leather punch. He drew it to his own throat and jabbed it in, grunting in pain as he did.

Morgan gasped, her eyes fixed on his corded neck as he drew the blade away and a scarlet strand of blood unwound from the puncture wound, trailing over his skin. She licked her lips. The scent of it touched her nostrils, and a feral lust twisted in her gut. His hand was in her hair, at the back of her head, pulling her closer, but she didn't need it She knew what she needed.

She buried her face in the crook of his neck, closed her mouth over the wound and sucked the blood from his body. She drew on the opening, her tongue darting to catch any drops that escaped her hungry lips. She lapped at him there until he pulled her away, pressing one hand to the wound in his throat. For one insane moment she fought him, pressing closer, clawing at his hand, trying to steal more of this drug she craved. She could have ripped his throat open with her own teeth in that moment, like a wolf. She could have killed him.

He held her off easily enough. But when she looked into his face, she saw the same bared teeth, the same breathless hunger, the same feral gleam lit his eyes. My God, he wanted to devour her in exactly the same way. Like an animal. Like a predator.

He flung her toward the bed, lunged out onto the balcony and vanished over the side. Morgan lay where she had landed, half on the bed, half off, panting. Her body was alive, tingling, her heart beating loudly and strongly. She didn't feel weak anymore. She felt alive, more alive than she had in years.

This, she realized, must be a glimmer of what it felt like to be... to be what Dante was. To be a vampire.

She wanted it. Suddenly she wanted it with everything in her. She wanted to be a vampire. And she wondered if she would be, now? If drinking his blood would make her what he was.

Dante made his way to the house Sarafina had told Mm about with all due haste. He found her there, pacing, waiting for him, but he only muttered a terse greeting before moving past her into the basement. She had tossed some blankets into a pair of crates to make do.

She was on his heels instantly, of course. "Where have you been? What's kept you, Dante? Jesus, is that your blood I smell?"

"A minor accident."

"There's no such thing!" She gripped his shoulder to stop him, but he kept moving anyway, climbing into the box she'd prepared for him, pulling the lid over himself. She caught the lid in her hands to prevent him covering himself fully and ranted on. "You know how easily we can bleed out, Dante. What the hell happened to make you so careless?"

"I had a run-in with our scar-faced vampire hunter," he told her. Because if she ever knew the truth, she would explode. And nothing, not even her bond to their kind, would protect Morgan from Sarafina's wrath. She was incredibly possessive. Not only of the slaves she kept, but of him. He was her only family. That meant a great deal to Sarafina.

"The scarred man? He's in town?"

"Yes. So be careful." Dante gave the cover another tug. "The sooner I sleep, the sooner the rejuvenation process can heal my wound, 'fina."

Sighing, obviously still filled with questions, Sarafina secured the lid over him. He found the latches that had been affixed to hook from the inside, and he hooked them. Then he listened while Sarafina made her bedtime preparations and climbed into her own box.

He lay very still, closed his eyes. Waiting. Sleep was a long time in coming, though. Even when it did finally sweep over him, he couldn't stop the images from playing through his mind. Images of him-and Morgan. Naked, entwined. His body buried to the hilt in hers. His teeth sinking into her flesh. Her blood flowing into his body. God, he wanted her. He wanted to possess every part of her. Her soul. Her flesh. Her blood.

And he knew it would be worse now. She had drank from him not once, but twice. He had tasted her, and he knew damned well that he would do it again if he wasn't careful. If he made love to her, he would drink from her. Drain her, maybe. He wouldn't be able to stop himself. And in her weakened state, he would kill her. He would kill her.

God, he didn't want to kill Morgan De Silva. He wanted... he wanted to love her.

Too bad he was incapable of loving anyone at all.