Twilight Phantasies. Maggie Shayne
so might clear his mind. Rising before sunset produced an effect in him not unlike what humans feel after a night of heavy drinking. Bracing one hand upon the smooth mahogany, his fingertips brushing the satin lining within, he focused on Tamara. He wanted only to comfort her. If he could ease the torment of her subconscious mind, though she might not be fully aware of it, she’d feel better. She might even be more able to sleep. He couldn’t be sure, though. Her situation was unique, after all.
He focused on her mind, still hearing her whispered pleas. Where are you, Eric? Why won’t you come to me? I’m lost. I need you.
He swallowed once, and concentrated every ounce of his power into a single invisible beam of thought, shooting through time and space, directed at her. I am here, Tamara.
I can’t see you!
The immediate response shocked him. He hadn’t been certain he could make her aware of his thoughts. Again he focused. I am near. I will come to you soon, love. Now you must rest. You needn’t call to me in your dreams anymore. I have heard—I will come.
He awaited a response, but felt none. The emotions that reached him, though, were tense, uncertain. He wanted to ease her mind, but he’d done all he could for the moment. The sun far above, though unseen by him, was not unfelt. It sapped his strength. He took a moment to be certain of his balance and crossed slowly to the hearth, bending to rekindle the sparks of this morning’s fire. That done, he used a long wooden match to ignite the three oil lamps posted around the room. With fragrant cherry logs emitting aromatic warmth, and the golden lamplight, the Oriental rugs over the concrete floor and the paintings he’d hung, the place seemed a bit less like a tomb in the bowels of the earth. He sat himself carefully in the oversize antique oak rocking chair, and allowed his muscles to relax. His head fell heavily back against the cushion, and he reached, without looking, for the remote control on the pedestal table beside him. He thumbed a button. His heavy lids fell closed as music surrounded him.
A smile touched his lips as the bittersweet notes brought a memory. He’d seen young Amadeus perform in Paris. 1775, had it been? So many years. He’d been enthralled—an ordinary boy of seventeen, awestruck by the gift of another, only two years older. The sublime feeling had remained with him for days after that performance, he recalled. He’d talked about it until his poor mother’s ears were sore. He’d had Jaqueline on the brink of declaring she’d fallen in love with a man she’d never met, and she’d teased and cajoled until he’d managed to get her a seat at his side for the next night’s performance. His sister had failed to see what caused him to be so impressed. “He is good,” she’d declared, fanning herself in the hot, crowded hall. “But I’ve seen better.” He smiled at the memory. She hadn’t been referring to the young man’s talents, but to his appearance. He’d caught her peering over her fan’s lacy edge at a skinny dandy she considered “better.”
He sighed. He’d thought it tragic that a man of such genius had died at thirty-five. Lately he’d wondered if it was so tragic, after all. Eric, too, had died at thirty-five, but in a far different manner. His was a living death. All things considered, he hadn’t convinced himself that Mozart had suffered the less desirable fate. Of the two of them, Mozart must be the most serene. He couldn’t possibly be the most alone. There were times when he wished the guillotine had got to him before Roland had.
Such maudlin thoughts on such a delightfully snowy night? I don’t recall you were all that eager to meet the blade, at the time.
Roland! Eric’s head snapped up, buzzing with energy now that the sun had set. He rose and hurriedly released the locks, to run through the hall and take the stairs two at a time. He yanked the front door open just as his dearest friend mounted the front steps. The two embraced violently, and Eric drew Roland inside.
Roland paused in the center of the room, cocking his head and listening to Mozart’s music. “What’s this? Not a recording, surely! It sounds as if the orchestra were right here, in this very room!”
Eric shook his head, having forgotten that the last time he’d seen Roland he hadn’t yet installed the state-of-the-art stereo system, with speakers in every room. “Come, I’ll show you.” He drew his friend toward the equipment, stacked near the far wall, and withdrew a CD from its case. Roland turned the disc in his hand, watching the light dance in vivid rainbows of green, blue and yellow.
“They had no such inventions where I have been.” He returned the disc to its case, and replaced it on the shelf.
“Where have you been, you recluse? It’s been twenty years.” Roland had not aged a day. He still had the swarthy good looks he’d had as a thirty-two-year-old mortal and the build of an athlete.
“Ahh, paradise. A tiny island in the South Pacific, Eric. No meddling humans to contend with. Just simple villagers who accept what they see instead of feeling the need to explain it. I tell you, Eric, it’s a haven for our kind. The palms, the sweet smell of the night—”
“How did you live?” Eric knew he sounded doubtful. He’d always despised the loneliness of this existence. Roland embraced it. “Don’t tell me you’ve taken to tapping the veins of innocent natives.”
Roland’s brows drew together. “You know better. The animals there keep me in good stead. The wild boar are particularly—”
“Pigs’ blood!” Eric shouted. “I think the sun must have penetrated your coffin! Pigs’ blood! Ach!”
“Wild boars, not pigs.”
“Great difference, I’ll wager.” Eric urged Roland toward the velvet-covered antique settee. “Sit. I’ll get refreshment to restore your senses.”
Roland watched suspiciously as Eric moved behind the bar, to the small built-in refrigerator. “What have you, a half dozen freshly killed virgins stored in that thing?”
Eric threw back his head and laughed, realizing just how long it had been since he’d done so. He withdrew a plastic bag from the refrigerator, and rummaged beneath the bar for glasses. When he handed the drink to Roland, he felt himself thoroughly perused.
“Is it the girl’s nightly cries that trouble you so?”
Eric blinked. “You’ve heard her, too?”
“I hear her cries when I look inside your mind, Eric. They are what brought me to you. Tell me what this is about.”
Eric sighed, and took a seat in a claw-footed, brocade cushioned chair near the fireplace. Few coals glowed in this hearth. He really ought to kindle it. Should some nosy human manage to scale the gate and breach the security systems, they might well notice that smoke spiraled from the chimney, but no fire warmed the grate.
Reading his thoughts, Roland set his glass aside. “I’ll do that. You simply talk.”
Eric sighed again. Where to begin? “I came to know of a child, right after you left last time. A beautiful girl, with raven curls and cherub’s cheeks and eyes like glossy bits of coal.”
“One of the Chosen?” Roland sat forward.
“Yes. She was one of those rare humans with a slight psychic connection to the undead, although, like most, she was completely unaware of it. I’ve found that there are ways of detecting the Chosen, aside from our natural awareness of them, you know.”
Roland looked around from where he’d hunkered before the hearth. “Really?”
Eric nodded. “All those humans who can be transformed, those we call Chosen, share a common ancestor. Prince Vlad the Impaler.” He glanced sharply at Roland. “Was he the first?”
Roland shook his head. “I know your love of science, Eric, but some things are better left alone. Go on with your story.”
Eric felt a ripple of exasperation at Roland’s tight-lipped stance on the subject. He swallowed his irritation and continued. “They also share a rare blood antigen. We all had it, as humans. It’s known as Belladonna. Only those with both these unlikely traits can become vampires. They are the Chosen.”
“Doesn’t