A Darker Dream

Chapter Seventeen

Rayven stood at the window in the east tower, staring at the sky. He could sense the dawn approaching, feel the deathlike sleep waiting to overtake him, feel the encroaching darkness that would soon envelop him like a shroud.
He ran his hands over his cloak, felt the material curl more tightly around him, enfolding him like a cocoon spun of silk and velvet.
Rhianna had seen him in wolf form in the field, his hackles raised, his fangs bared and bloody. The image of her horror, her revulsion, had branded itself in his mind so that he saw it every time he closed his eyes.
Well, he mused, turning away from the window, that was that. She would not want to marry him now.
No doubt she would leave the castle as soon as she woke, and he would not stop her.
Knowing he would never see her again, he left the tower and made his way to her chamber.
Bevins rose to his feet as his master stepped into the room.
"How is she?" Rayven asked.
"Sleeping peacefully, my lord."
Rayven nodded. "When she asks to leave here today, I want you to help her pack her things, then take her home, back where she belongs."
"My lord?"
"I was a fool to think there could be anything between us."
"She loves you, my lord, I'm sure of it."
Rayven shook his head. "She has a tender heart. I fear it is only pity she feels for me, and I cannot live with that. I would not have her marry me because she feels sorry for me, because she's afraid of hurting me." He shook his head again. "It's time to move on. I'm leaving here next week."
"Leaving?"
"I've been here too long already. Start packing your things, and mine, too."
"As you wish, my lord, but..."
Rayven's head jerked up, his gaze darting toward the window. " 'Tis dawn," he said, his voice tight. "We will discuss it later."
Bevins sighed as he watched his master leave the room. It was a pity that one so horribly cursed should be denied the one thing he yearned for, the one thing that might bring him happiness. And yet, there had been no happiness for his master or himself. Nor, he mused ruefully, were they likely to find any.
"I didn't mean to hurt him."
Bevins whirled around. "I thought you were asleep, miss."
"Ifelt his presence and I woke up. Why did he... The wolf, it was him, wasn't it? He told me he could change into a wolf, but I didn't really believe it."
"Aye, miss, 'tis true enough."
Rhianna sat up and tucked the covers under her arms. "Why did he do it? Kill that sheep, I mean?"
"It's his way when what he is becomes too painful to endure. There was a time when he took his anger out on mortals, but he's not killed anyone since I've been with him."
"I didn't mean to hurt him," Rhianna said again. "I'd forgotten he could read my mind."
"It's natural for you to be repulsed by what he is."
"I suppose so."
"Will you be leaving this morning?"
"I don't know." She stared out the window. The curtains were open, and she could see the beginning of a new day. The sky was pale blue, splashed with vivid hues of gold and pink and crimson.
He hadn't seen the sun in over four hundred years...
"Bevins, I want you to go into town for me. I need some new brushes."
He woke as he always did, coming instantly awake, his senses reaching out to explore the castle. Bevins was in the kitchen preparing dinner. A stew of some kind, heavily flavored with onions and thyme.
Was she gone? Sitting up, he probed for her presence. Her life force beckoned him like a candle shining in the darkness. For a moment, he closed his eyes, his relief at knowing she was still there almost painful in its intensity. Perversely, he wondered why she hadn't left when she'd had the chance.
Rising, he dressed quickly, then hurried down the winding staircase, his passing no more than a blur of movement on the darkened stairway.
When he reached the bottom landing, he paused and took a deep breath.
She was in the dining room.
He took hold of his cloak, rubbing the soft velvet between his thumb and forefinger, wondering how he could face her after last night. She had not yet seen him at his worst, when the blood lust was on him, when his eyes were sunken and burning with need. She had not seen him then, when he looked more monster than man, when his skin was stretched paper thin and the hunger clawed at his vitals, demanding to be fed.
But what she had seen last night was bad enough. With his emotions raw with hurt and longing, he had taken on the wolf form and killed one of the sheep. He had ripped out the animal's throat, hoping to alleviate his frustration in a burst of violence and bloodshed. Until last night, no one, save Bevins, had ever seen him like that.
He took a deep breath, chiding himself for his cowardice. He had to face her sometime.
She looked up as he entered the room. Her smile was forced, and her eyes reflected a myriad of emotions: fear, pity, compassion, anxiety.
"Good evening, my lord," Bevins said, breaking the heavy silence.
Rayven nodded curtly, and Bevins left the room. He returned a few moments later bearing a heavy silver decanter and a crystal goblet.
Rhianna's gaze was drawn to the thick red liquid as Bevins filled the goblet and placed it in front of his master.
Rayven met Rhianna's gaze as he lifted the glass. Slowly, deliberately, he took a long swallow, savoring the thick, slightly salty taste of the warm liquid.
Try as she might, Rhianna could not suppress a shudder of revulsion as he drained the goblet, then placed the glass on the table.
Wordlessly, Bevins lifted the decanter and refilled the goblet.
Rayven lifted his glass, his gaze capturing Rhianna's as he stared at her over the finely cut crystal. "Why are you still here?" he demanded brusquely.
"Because I wish to be here, my lord," she replied, her voice barely audible. "Because you need me."
"I don't need you, or your pity," he said, his voice razor sharp. "I don't need anyone."
"Don't you?"
He lifted the goblet and consumed the contents in one long swallow. "Get out," he said brusquely. "Out of my sight. Out of my house!"
Rhianna stared at him a moment, stunned by the harshness in his voice, by the barely suppressed rage blazing in the ebony depths of his eyes. She didn't stop to wonder if his anger was directed at her or himself. Frightened and confused, she lurched to her feet and ran out of the room.
The sound of her footsteps flying up the stone stairs echoed like thunder in his ears.
"What have I done?" he whispered brokenly. "What have I done?"
"My lord, the wedding is to take place tomorrow night."
Rayven stared into his empty goblet. A few bright drops of liquid clung to the crystal, reminding him of crimson tears. "I cannot marry her," he said heavily. "I cannot let her marry me."
"Her family is coming this evening."
"See that she leaves with them."
"As you wish, my lord."
Slowly, Rayven rose to his feet and walked to the window. Pushing the heavy drapes aside, he peered into the darkness beyond. Never had the night seemed so dark, so empty.
"I cannot go on without her." In response to the grief in his voice, his cloak wrapped more tightly around him, but, for once, the garment's gentle caress failed to soothe him. "Bevins, what am I to do?"
"Survive, my lord, as always."
Slowly, Rayven shook his head. "I cannot." The memory of the one day she had slept at his side rose up to torment him. He remembered how he had awakened, how her face, beautiful in repose, had been the first thing he had seen. He could not abide the thought of never knowing such happiness again.
He whirled around. His cloak swirled around him, then pressed against him once more.
"I cannot," he whispered hoarsely, and fled the room.
Blending into the shadows, he sought shelter in the darkness of the night, and knew he would never find refuge in the shadows again.
Traveling with preternatural speed, he left Millbrae Valley far behind, his destination the city. He prowled the darkness for hours. Wandering through the fog-shrouded streets of London, he tortured himself by watching the couples strolling by. He listened to their laughter, stopped outside a cozy home to watch a mother nurse her babe, watched a father comfort a sobbing child.
Moving on, he saw a young couple embrace in the moonlight. The scent of their blood, their rising passion, teased his senses.
He moved down a quiet residential street, pausing in front of house after house to listen to the conversations of the inhabitants. He listened to children laughing, a husband arguing with his wife about the cost of a new bonnet, heard a mother crooning a lullaby to her newborn daughter.
Mundane sounds.
Ordinary sounds.
Human sounds.
And over all and through all, he saw Rhianna's face, heard the soft music of her voice.
Never before had he yearned for mortality as he did that night. Never had his existence seemed so empty.
He stalked the streets of the East End, his nostrils filling with the scent of humankind - the cloying perfume of a harlot, the stink of unwashed bodies near the wharf, the fragrance of powder and soap and fine tobacco as he returned to the wealthy part of the city.
He stalked Park Lane, hating the wealthy inhabitants who ate and slept in their fancy houses, those members of the ton who spent their days fox hunting and shopping on Bond Street. Despising himself for it, he envied the rich young men who rose early in the morning to go riding in Hyde Park, who went on to spend the afternoon at their clubs, who spent their nights at the opera in the company of other equally rich and spoiled young men and women.
And always the blood called to him, thick and rich and hot with life. But he refused to hunt, refused to give in to the need roaring through him. He welcomed the pain, using it to remind him of what he was, to remind him that he had long ago lost any right to love a mortal woman.
And then he smelled the dawn.
He swore under his breath, cursing his foolishness, the anger that had kept him away from home too long.
The sun chased him through the streets, its heat taunting him, filling with him terror as he contemplated what would happen if he didn't reach shelter before the light found him.
For a moment, he considered surrendering to the dawn. If he couldn't have Rhianna, what point was there in living? But then a bright ray of warm golden light scorched his left cheek, singed the skin of his left hand. The pain, the acrid stench of his own burning flesh, spurred him on.
He felt the searing heat of the sun on his back as he burst through the castle door and slammed it behind him, then raced up the stairs to the east tower.
He was breathing heavily by the time he reached his sanctuary. The left side of his face and the back of his left hand felt as though they were on fire.
Grimacing with pain, he closed the door behind him. And then he saw it - the sun rising over a mountain lake. Bright ribbons of color were splashed against a dawn sky - brilliant shades of orange and ocher and scarlet. The lake, its surface as smooth as a mirror, reflected the colors back to the sky. Flowers blossomed near the edge of the water. Red and yellow, pink and lavender, and pure clean white. A blue bird perched on the limb of a willow tree, its dark eyes so bright they seemed alive.
He stared at the painting, the agony of his seared flesh forgotten. She had given him a sunrise, one he could enjoy without fear.
Rhianna... He lifted his hand to his cheek, surprised when his fingertips encountered wetness. He stared at the single red tear on his finger. Rhianna...
"My lord?"
Had he conjured her presence with his tears? He covered the left side of his face with his right hand, hid his left hand in the deep folds of his cloak. "Did I not tell you to go?"
"I cannot leave you, my lord," she replied quietly. "I promised to stay with you a year, and you..." She moved toward him. "You have promised to marry me."
He whirled around, his hand still covering his face. "Are you mad? Why did you not leave?"
"What has happened to your face?"
"Nothing." He turned his back to her. "Go away, Rhianna."
"I will not leave you."
"Go. Now." His left hand clenched beneath the folds of his cloak. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The pain of his wounds increased his hunger. He needed blood to heal, and the blood of sheep would not suffice. Rhianna. "Go!"
He flinched at the touch of her hand on his back. He could feel the darkness gathering around him.
Soon, he would succumb to the dreamless sleep of the undead.
"You're in pain!" she exclaimed. She pressed her hand against his back. "I can feel it." She took hold of his shoulder, trying to turn him toward her. It was like trying to move a mountain. "What has happened to you?"
"Nothing. Go away, Rhianna. The dawn... I must rest."
Determined to find out what was wrong, she moved around to stand in front of him. His eyes burned into hers, but he didn't resist as she drew his hand away from his face.
"Rayven!" One side of his face had been horribly burned. The skin was red and raw and oozing. "What happened?"
He loosed a long sigh that seemed to carry all the sorrow of the world. "I was careless."
"Careless?" She curled her fingers into her palm to keep from touching him.
"I was late getting home. The sun..." His words trailed off and he shrugged.
"The sun did this to you?"
He nodded once, wearily.
"What can I do?"
"Leave it alone, Rhianna. It will heal by itself."
"It will?" She looked at him dubiously.
He nodded again. Reaching up, he unfastened his cloak and tossed it on the mattress. "Go away, Rhianna." He lurched toward the bed, his strength ebbing as the sun rose higher in the sky. He fell back on the mattress and closed his eyes. "Tell Bevins I need him."
"If you tell me what you need, I'll get it for you."
He groaned as if he was in pain, then shook his head. "Get Bevins."
"You need blood, don't you, to help you heal?" She didn't know what made her ask that, but she knew it was true.
"Rhianna... please. Get Tom."
It was the first time she had heard him use the other man's first name. Somehow, it made his need seem all the more urgent. He needed blood, and suddenly she needed to give it to him, to be the one who eased his suffering.
Going to the bed, she sat down on the edge of the mattress. Gently, she smoothed a lock of hair away from his brow, then stroked his uninjured cheek.
Rayven's eyelids fluttered open. For a moment, she thought he would send her away and then, with a sigh, he turned on his side and reached for her hand. His movements were sluggish, his eyes heavy-lidded, as he kissed her palm. His lips were cool and dry, sending shivers up her spine as his tongue teased the tender skin of her wrist. He looked up at her, his dark eyes alight with an inner fire, and then he drew her into his arms, arms that held her immobile, arms that were as hard and inescapable as steel bars.
She felt a sudden apprehension as his lips skimmed the length of her neck, shivered uncontrollably as his mouth closed over the tender flesh. There was a sudden, sharp pain, but before she could protest, the hurt was swallowed up in a wave of pleasure that was oddly sensual.
He was drinking her blood.She should have been sickened, shocked, disgusted. Instead, she felt a rush of satisfaction. He was in need, and she was answering that need in the most intimate way possible.
A strange languor settled over her. His mouth was warm, strangely erotic, and she pressed herself against him, wanting to be closer. His tongue stroked her skin, once, twice. She moaned softly as he drew he away.
"Rhianna? Rhianna!" He shook her slightly. "Answer me!"
"Don't stop," she murmured.
Fear for her life dispelled the lethargy that dragged him down toward darkness. With an effort, he sat up, one arm holding Rhianna against him. He stared in horror at the twin marks that marred the perfection of her throat. What had he done?
Bevins! His mind screamed the name.
Moments later, Bevins appeared in the doorway.
"Bring her something to drink. Hurry!"
Bevins left as quickly as he had arrived. Minutes later, he returned carrying a cup of hot tea heavily laced with brandy.
"Rhianna, drink this." Rayven held the delicate china cup to her lips, his brow furrowed as he watched her swallow the contents.
Rhianna gasped as she took a sip of the tea. She had never tasted spirits before, and the brandy burned a bright path down her throat to her stomach.
"All of it," Rayven urged.
Heat suffused her as she obediently drank the rest of it.
Rayven smiled as the color returned to Rhianna's cheeks. "Are you all right?" he asked anxiously.
She hiccupped, then grinned up at him. "What happened?"
"I fear I may have taken more than I should have."
Bevins glared at Rayven, his mild brown eyes glinting with anger as he realized why Rhianna had looked so pale when he first entered the room, why she appeared disoriented and weak.
"You didn't!" Bevins exclaimed. "Tell me you did not use this child to quench your fiendish thirst!"
Rayven looked away, unable to face the censure in his servant's face. For the first time in over four hundred years, he was embarrassed by what he had done.
"Why didn't you call me?" Bevins asked, his voice thick with accusation. He glanced at Rhianna's flushed cheeks. "It's one thing to take a little from time to time. That, I can understand. But this, to use her like one of your blasted sheep..."
Rayven's head snapped up, his dark eyes filled with warning. "You will be silent," he said curtly, "or I will silence you forever."
Bevins quickly swallowed the retort that rose to his lips.
"It was my idea," Rhianna said, unnerved by the tension that vibrated like a living entity between the two men. "He told me to call you, but I didn't."
"Look how pale she is." Bevins took a step forward, worry evident in his furrowed brow. "You've taken too much."
Rayven shook his head. He hadn't taken enough to put her in danger. It was just that it was the first time he had taken more than a thimbleful.
Muttering an oath, he fell back on the bed, unable to fight the darkness any longer. "Take care of her..."
he murmured, and then the blackness claimed him.