Linda Nightingale: Black Swan

Tristan spoke softly, perhaps to himself. “I was running from myself when I came to Seattle. I found you and truly believed I could become the man I desperately wished to be.”

“You couldn't be any better than you are.” Holly winced at the stupid confession but he stroked her back, comforting her like a child.

“God knows, I never meant for this to happen again.” He held her away from him, his arms rigid. The lyrical Irish accent grew more pronounced. “I’m sorry you saw what you saw. I promise I wasn't cheating on you.” He rubbed his forehead as if he could erase a memory then embraced her tightly again. “But unfortunately I can't tell you what was really happening.”

She gasped. Tristan had literally disappeared from her arms, reappeared by the window. In profile, he looked like an angry ancient god. From the apartment next door, Ravel's sensual Bolero and the sounds of lovemaking wove through the utter stillness.

“Love. . . is rare in my life. I didn’t wish to lose it yet again.” His voice was part of the throbbing melody. “But I am what I am.”

Holly hated to be the one left behind. At any faint sign of goodbye, she jumped to shore, waved bon voyage before the boat sailed from dock. This time, her heart screamed, “Stay,” but Tristan spoke in past tense. Whatever it had been, it was over.

His last four words penetrated her misery. For a couple of stuttering heartbeats, she stared at him in shock. Fear invaded her fantasy world. The image of a pale motionless figure, blood oozing from her throat, blinded Holly and a hard shudder rolled over her.

“What you are? What are you, Tristan? What did you do to that woman besides—”

He whirled, his eyes glowing in the dark. “You don't want to know what I am.” A muscle in his sculpted jaw twitched. “But perhaps you should.”

No doubt about it, he'd made a critical decision. Dread, fear, her non-existent sixth sense—something whispered a warning.

Holly leapt to her feet.

Fangs dented the bottom lip of the most beautiful, evil smile she’d ever seen.

She clamped her hands to her face, covering her eyes. “God, no, you can't be. There's no such thing.”

“There is. I am. And this vampire is bloody tired of pretending I’m not, hiding my desire for you. Ah, the nights I've resisted the fever. Now I shall kiss you as I’ve longed to do.”

Strong hands locked on her arms. Her eyes snapped open. His eyes flamed hellish red. She opened her mouth to scream but his gaze seared into her, every thought shriveling. Fear thudded in her veins but she was powerless to move or look away. She watched his mouth coming slowly to rest on hers.

“You needn't fear.” His tongue took a delicious wet journey down the jugular, his breath sending lusty shivers through her. “I've fed already tonight. A taste will satisfy the ungodly craving I've battled—I want your blood.”

His mouth closed on her neck. A little sting as the needle sharp incisors pierced her skin, the vein.

Moaning, he sucked, the sensation making the sensual tension within her hotter and hotter. Her nipples hardened beneath her blouse. A drum beat between her legs, echoing throughout her entire body. She wrapped her fingers around his pulsing erection, sliding her hand up and down the thick length of his smooth cock. Tristan’s arms tightened around her, guiding her to lie back on the sofa. His mouth left her flesh wanting, and she felt the trickle of blood on her neck. He appeared above her. Braced on the columns of his arms he bent over her, one thigh between her legs. His cool satin tongue licked the trail of blood from her throat and the curve of her collarbone. Once again, his mouth fastened to the vein, sucking harder. The silken thread of her life’s blood unraveled into him, the union more intimate than sex. Her hands strayed to the long hair curled at his neck. She leaned into him, eager to be absorbed to the core. Holly’s eyes grew heavy, and her body moved to the rhythm of the soft moans breathed against her neck as Tristan suckled. Lost in the ecstasy of the vampire kiss, the steady brush of thigh against her sex enticed her to shamelessly ride him.

Bliss .

A soft sigh.

In silence, her world exploded into shards of white light.

She came… And fainted.

Holly sat bolt upright in bed. The scream that woke her—her scream—echoed in her bedroom. She kicked free of the sheets tangled around her ankles. When her heart rate slowed, she ran a hand through her hair, yawning. “What the hell did I dream?”

Rain beat against the windows. Her bedroom oozed dead-of-night silence, chilled with cold. Shivering, she tucked the covers up to her chin and closed her eyes. An image of a pale, motionless woman with bite wounds on her neck flickered across Holly's eyelids. She jumped to her feet, spilling the goose down comforter to the floor, but a wave of dizziness washed her flat on the bed again. The dull thud of her heart echoed in her veins, and her head throbbed to the rhythm. Her limbs felt heavy, knees weak. She ran a dry tongue over parched lips. The headache was the worst she'd ever had.

“Feel like hell. What did I drink last night?” She massaged her temples. “And what the hell did I dream? It came back for a moment. Oh well.” It seemed the sharp pain in her head had erased the memory before it took hold. “Thank the powers that be I don't have a shoot today. I'll grab Tylenol, a glass of water, and go back to sleep.”

She staggered to the bathroom, rinsed her mouth and rubbed her eyes, but still the face in the mirror blurred. “I look like death on a saltine.”

Grimacing, she swallowed the painkiller, wandered downstairs for water but decided on coffee. As she scooped an organic blend into the coffeemaker, memory struck her. The scoop bounced to the floor, spilling coffee on the black-and-white tile.

“Oh God, Tristan and I argued last night.” She had to talk to him.

Why had she accused him of cheating on her? Dread raised every hair on her body.

Leaving the spill, Holly strode to the living room, drew aside the curtains as dawn crept over the horizon. Damn and double damn. Tristan had made it clear never to phone during the day, that he wouldn't answer. Once she'd tried. His voice mail greeting was terse. “Unavailable. Incommunicado . Don't bother to leave a message. Ring after sundown.”

She didn't care. She had to speak to him, apologize. The sense that something was horribly wrong resonated in her with each ring of the phone. Seven rings.

No answer.

Tears clogged her throat. Gripping the phone, she paced to the kitchen, returned to the living room, totally unconscious of where she was. Hand trembling, she hit redial. Ten rings. Voice mail should have answered.

Bright spots danced in her peripheral vision. Feeling faint, she clung to the door. When her vision cleared, she realized that there was a tall shrouded figure in the darkest corner of her living room. She dropped the phone clattering, shattering. Ignoring the mess, one step at the time, she crossed into shadow, lifted a trembling hand and tugged the green-and-white Ralph Lauren comforter off a bronze of a man and woman entwined―the lovers, Holly and Tristan.

“God no!” Holly dashed for the door, bumping into a table, a brass candlestick crashing and rolling across the old wooden floor.

She bolted into the hall and tripped over the Monday morning news. A weird shiver passed through her, giving her goose bumps. She bent to pick up the paper.

On the front page a color photo and headline, Real Vampires , announced a new exhibit of rare artifacts at the museum. The curator held a nasty looking knife to the camera, but it was the woman’s face that stopped Holly's heart. She knew her―maybe from a film, a model on a shoot, a face on the street—a face on a flyer on a circular table inlaid with mother of pearl.