Maggie Shayne - Twilight Hunger

“Sarafina—” Dante began.

“Do it now,” she said.

Dante closed his eyes and swore under his breath. The driver turned and stepped out into the oncoming traffic. His body was hurled about a hundred feet when it was struck. By then, though, Sarafina was behind the wheel and driving away.

She never even looked back.

“I just don’t understand why you won’t move back to L.A., Morgan. You have everything you wanted. You could return in triumph now, just the way you always said you would.”

Morgan paced across the marble tiles of the great room, heels clicking with every step. She wore a loose-fitting teal blouse and matching pants in brushed silk that whispered over her skin when she moved. She loved the way it felt. “I like it here,” she said. “Come on, David, even you have to admit I’ve done wonders with this place in five years’ time.”

“I’m beginning to wish I’d never sold it to you,” he muttered, half under his breath. He eased his large frame into a claw-footed antique chair, looking around the great room as he did. She knew he had to admire what he saw. The plasterwork ceiling had been freshly redone, right down to the cherubic angels in the corners and filling the concave dome directly above them.

She took the seat across from him, handed him a glass of iced soda. Her own glass looked identical, but, despite the early-morning hour, there was vodka mixed with hers. She needed the strength. She loved David, but dammit, she wished he would just leave. She didn’t care about anything except getting back to her journals. To the fantasies and the man who had written them. God, to go a single waking hour, much less a day, without wallowing in his mind was nearly unbearable. She never left the house anymore. She never wanted to. And when she slept—oh, God, it was best when she slept. Because he was so much more real in dreams.

“I have to admit, I’m confused,” David said, taking the soda, sipping it. “I thought it was all decided. You were going to hide out here, lick your wounds, write your blockbuster, make your fortune and come home to reclaim everything you’d lost.”

“Ahh, yes. And restore honor to the De Silva family name.” She smiled just a little.

“If I’d known you could write the way you can, and as quickly as you can, I have to admit, I’d never have let you come out here in the first place.”

Morgan averted her eyes. “I couldn’t write like that. Not out there. I found my … inspiration, for want of a better word, here. In this house. I couldn’t work anywhere else. I can’t, David. I won’t.”

“That’s superstitious nonsense.”

No, she thought. It wasn’t. Dante was here. She felt him here. Her own beautiful madman. God, he—his diaries, at least—had given her back her life. And yet, they had stolen a part of it, too. The man who’d called himself Dante had captivated her mind, her soul, in some dark way she had yet to understand. He was real to her. He was more than a long-dead lunatic who had written down his insane delusions. He was real. He lived … inside her somehow. Inside this house.

But she couldn’t explain any of that to David. Instead she stared up at the crystal chandelier she’d had installed in the great room and wondered how close she had come to the one that was there originally. When Dante had lived here.

It hadn’t been easy to restore the house. And it hadn’t been cheap. But thanks to the box office success of the first two films in her vampire series, she had been able to afford to do exactly what she wanted. And that included hiring period experts to help her plan her restoration, to make it as accurate as possible. Although much, much more luxurious.

Her third film had been out for exactly eight weeks, and it had already made Morgan wealthy beyond her wildest dreams. David, as well. And now they waited to see what other dreams might be realized.

Morgan glanced at her watch. “Isn’t it time yet?”

“Close enough, I suppose. Come on.” David got to his feet, held a hand out to her. She took it and let him pull her up. “God, Morgan, you’ve got to put on some weight. You’re not an actress, you know.”

She smiled at him, hiding the weakness in her legs, the slight rush of dizziness that often hit her when she got up too quickly. “You can’t be too rich or too thin,” she quipped. “Besides, if all goes well, I’ll need to look good in some designer’s idea of a dress in a few weeks.”

Right. As if she would leave this place, even for that.

They walked across the tiles to the double doors that opened into her office. The fireplace had been converted to gas now, and the first thing Morgan did upon entering was turn it on. Lush oriental rugs covered the newly refinished hardwood floor. The desk was a reproduction, the computer state of the art. And the walls were filled with images of Dante. Charcoal sketches she’d done herself, rather than stills from the films. The actor who played him did a wonderful job, of course, but he wasn’t Dante. She knew Dante.

There was a sketch of him as a small boy with huge dark eyes, peering up at a beautiful Gypsy woman who danced beside a campfire. There was another of him sitting at this very desk, brooding over his journals.

“This is almost creepy,” David said, shivering a little as he crossed the large room, took a seat and picked up a remote control. “God, don’t you ever get sick of him?”

Morgan paused near another drawing, her eyes locked with the staring, sightless eyes of the subject. “I know every line and contour of his face,” she whispered. Then, as the silence drew out, she shook herself, forced a smile. “Of course that’s impossible. It’s all what my mind has created from the raw materials in the di—in the screenplays. But it seems real. I see him in my dreams as clearly as if he were real.” She smiled. “I even know the sound of his voice.”

“Writers,” David muttered. He pushed a button, and the antique replica cabinet’s doors slid open, revealing the big-screen television set behind them. He hit another button to flick it on, and one to set the channel. “I’d get sick of him,” he said. “Real or not.”

“I could drown in him and not get sick of him,” she said. “Sometimes I think maybe that’s what I’m doing. Drowning in him.”

When David didn’t answer, she glanced his way, saw him looking at her oddly. Morgan gave a little laugh to ease the worry from his eyes. “We creative types are supposed to be eccentric. Don’t scowl like that, you’ll wrinkle.”

He looked away with a sigh, but his gaze froze on the television screen, and he snatched up the remote, thumbing the volume up higher. “Here it is!”

The famous couple at the podium took turns reading from a list, and Morgan thought the brief spot took longer than any two-hour feature she had ever sat through. She slugged back her drink and waited until they got to the part that interested her.

“In the category of best original screenplay, the nominees are …”

A hum seemed to fill her head, the room, her ears. She couldn’t hear what they were saying any longer, but suddenly she saw her name on the screen along with four others. “Morgan De Silva, for Twilight Hunger. ”

David surged to his feet, hugging her hard against him, smiling and laughing and twisting from side to side as he held her. Morgan surrendered to the rush of darkness that swamped her brain and simply went limp in his arms.

She was lying on the chaise when she opened her eyes again. David sat close to her, patting her hand. “There you are. It’s all right. I guess this meant more to you than I realized.”

“It’s not that.” she began. Then she recalled what had just happened.