A Darker Dream

Chapter Ten

As usual, Rayven was nowhere to be found in the morning.
Bevins smiled cheerfully as he moved around the dining room, serving her favorite breakfast, pouring her a cup of cocoa. "I trust you slept well, miss?"
"Yes, thank you." Rhianna glanced out the window. Gray clouds hung low in the sky, broken by an occasional flash of lightning. She had always loved storms - the thunder, the lightning, the soothing sound of the rain pounding on the roof, pattering against the windowpanes. "Will Lord Rayven be coming down for breakfast?"
Bevins shook his head. "My lord has offered you the shelter of his house," he said, following her gaze,
"until the storm passes."
"Did he?" Odd, she mused, when he had seemed so anxious for her to be gone.
"He would not have you catch a chill, miss. There's a cozy fire in the library, should you wish to read, and also in the conservatory, should you wish to play."
"Thank you, Bevins." She sipped the hot chocolate he had placed before her, relishing the smooth rich taste. "I thought you told me Lord Rayven wasn't here."
"Did I?"
"You know you did. Why did you lie to me?"
A guilty flush climbed into the old man's cheeks.
"The last time I came here, you said he had left the castle shortly after he sent me to Paris."
Bevins shifted uncomfortably. "I only told you what I was instructed to say, miss," he replied quietly. "It would have been better for all concerned if you had believed me."
"Better? What do you mean?"
Bevins glanced at the door; then, heaving a sigh, he sat down at the table across from her. Rhianna stared at him in surprise. Never before had he sat at table with her, or crossed the fine line between servant and friend.
"Miss Rhianna, I know you think yourself in love with Lord Rayven," he said, speaking quickly, as though he feared being caught speaking to her so candidly. " 'Tis true my lord has a certain appeal that most women find hard to resist."
"I didn't realize my feelings were so transparent," Rhianna muttered dryly.
Bevins leaned across the table, his voice somber. "You must believe me when I tell you it isn't safe for you to stay here."
Rhianna frowned. Rayven had said practically the same thing the night before. "I don't understand."
"Lord Rayven is a man compelled by dark appetites, miss. Appetites he cannot always control. You would be wise to leave this place and never come back."
"Dark appetites?" Rhianna shook her head. "Whatever are you talking about?"
Bevins glanced at the door again, his expression wary. "I cannot explain, miss, except to say that Lord Rayven is not like other men. He is driven by forces you cannot comprehend. It is why he lives in solitude."
"I don't believe you. If he's such a monster, why has he never harmed me? Why did he send me to school and provide for my family?"
Bevins took a deep breath. "I've said too much already, miss." Rising, he placed a fatherly hand on her shoulder. "Go home, Miss Rhianna. As soon as the storm passes, go home."
Smothered in darkness, Rayven felt his anger bubble to the surface. How dare Bevins interfere in his personal life! What right did the man have to warn Rhianna away from him?
Muttering an oath, he took a deep breath, the anger washing out of him between one breath and the next. Bevins had said nothing that he, Rayven, had not said himself. If Rhianna were wise, she would leave his house and never return.
He had no illusions about what he was. He reeked of evil, of death. He had done things, horrible things, atrocious things, committed acts that had damned his soul forever. No matter that he had not chosen this life for himself. Once the deed had been done, he could have ended it. He could have walked into the sunlight and destroyed the creature he had become.
He gazed into the darkness that shrouded him, a distant memory rising up in his mind...
"I don't want it!"
He screamed the words as he struggled against her, but his puny mortal strength was as nothing compared to hers.
"But you will take it," she said, her black eyes wise with knowledge beyond his understanding. "You are a warrior, Rayven of Millbrae. You will not submit. You will not surrender. You will fight with every ounce of strength you possess to survive. " She laughed softly, confidently. "You would drink me dry if I let you."
"No! Never!"
"But you will." The certainty in her voice, the red glow in her eyes, had filled him with terror.
Effortlessly, she had held him close while she raked one bloodred nail across his cheek. "I have marked you," she said, "so that you will always remember me."
And then she pressed him back on the couch, holding him effortlessly in spite of his violent struggle to escape. He cried out as he felt the sharp bite of her teeth at his throat. Revulsion rose within him as he realized she was drinking his blood.
He wanted desperately to fight her, but he had no strength left. There was a buzzing in his ears, his heart was beating frantically, a hazy red mist rose up in front of his eyes.
"No, don't..." Weakness engulfed him, his heartbeat slowed and grew heavy, and he felt the blackness of oblivion descending. And with it a nameless fear, worse than the fear of death.
"Please..." He formed the word but no sound emerged from his lips.
"You want to live?" Her breath was hot against his ear. "Then drink."
He was too weak to move, to obey. He tried to see her face, but saw nothing at all. "Drink!"
He didn't want to submit, but the will to live rose strong within him. He was, after all, a warrior, born to fight, to conquer.
He opened his mouth, and she pressed her wrist to his lips. "Drink."
His mouth closed over her flesh. A rush of liquid flowed over his tongue, warm and slightly salty. It slid down his throat like liquid fire, and suddenly he was clinging to her arm, drawing the blood into his mouth, revulsion and delight warring within him. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, growing ever stronger, beating in rhythm with hers. Power surged within him, igniting a craving for more.
"Enough!" She wrenched her arm from his grasp. "Enough, I say!"
He stared up at her, dazed, his gaze lingering on the redness around her mouth, the blood oozing from the gash in her wrist. A gash that was closing, healing, even as he watched.
Horror descended slowly. Lifting his hand, he wiped his mouth, then stared at the scarlet wetness on his fingertips. Her blood. He had been drinking her blood.
Slowly, seductively, she licked the redness from her lips. "You are mine now, "she said, "always and forever mine."
"No." He shook his head, numb with the horror of what he had done, what he would become.
"You died tonight," she told him, her voice calm and detached, as if the words were of no significance.
"When you wake tomorrow night, you will be as I am."
He had not wanted to believe. Had refused to believe. Even when the violent tremors wracked his body, even when, with the sun's rising, darkness the likes of which he had never experienced enveloped him.
Even when he woke the next night and saw the world through new eyes, he had not wanted to believe.
But it was true.
He had become a vampyre, damned to spend his life in darkness, to be forever at the mercy of the Dark Gift, forced to live in the shadows, to exist on the blood of others, or perish...
Vampyre... the word echoed and re-echoed through the corridors of his mind as the familiar darkness encompassed him once more.
She was still in the house when he awoke. He felt her presence with his first conscious breath. Why hadn't she left?
Rising, Rayven bathed and donned fresh clothing. Leaving the tower, he hurried downstairs, only dimly aware that it was still raining.
Rhianna was sitting in the library, her feet curled underneath her. For a moment, he stood in the doorway, watching her. She wore a gown of pale green velvet tied with a dark green sash. Her slippers were of the same dark green. Her hair fell over her shoulders, shimmering like fine gold silk in the firelight.
A slender gold chain circled her throat. The rain falling against the windows made a pleasant counterpoint to the crackling flames.
As though suddenly aware of his presence, she looked up, her cheeks turning rosy when she saw him watching her.
"Good evening, my lord." She put the book she had been reading aside, pleased that her hand didn't tremble, that her voice was calm.
"Good evening, sweet Rhianna." He entered the room on silent feet and sat down in the chair opposite hers. His cloak settled lovingly around him, enfolding him like the wings of a great black bird.
"I meant to leave," Rhianna said, his nearness making her suddenly nervous, "but Bevins said I should wait out the storm."
Rayven nodded. His whole being seemed to be reaching for her, yearning for her. Hungering for her. Did he really want her to go? Why not let her stay? She could live comfortably here. His wealth could buy her whatever she desired. He would make sure she lacked for nothing...
He clenched his jaw. He could never give her the things every young woman wanted. He could provide for her and protect her, but he could never give her children. He could stay by her side, but he could never share her whole life. He could care for her when age and disease took their toll, but he would not grow old with her. And in the end, he would stand by her grave, looking exactly as he did now.
"You can send me away if you want," Rhianna said, unnerved by his silence, by the fierce glitter in the depths of his hell-black eyes. "You can send me away, or you can leave, but I'll always be here when you come back."
"You're not afraid of me, are you?" he asked, his voice touched with wonder.
"Afraid? Of you?" She shook her head. Sometimes he made her feel apprehensive, but she had never been truly afraid. She knew, in the deepest part of her being, that he would never intentionally harm her.
"You should be." He spoke the words calmly, as if commenting on the inclement weather.
"Do you want me to be afraid?"
"It would be better if you were."
"Better for whom? You speak in riddles, my lord."
"Pray you never understand them."
He turned the full force of his gaze upon her, and in spite of her brave words to the contrary, she felt a sudden chill of unease. Clasping her hands in her lap, she took a deep breath. "Shall I leave?"
"You are welcome to stay," he said, one hand idly stroking the rich velvet of his cloak, "until the storm ends." He would offer her a bribe, he thought, offer to grant her anything she desired, anything that would take her away from this place. From his presence.
He regarded her through narrowed eyes. "I am going to grant you a boon, Rhianna. One wish. Ask for whatsoever your heart desires above all else, and it shall be yours."
"You can do such a thing?"
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "You would be surprised at what I can do."
Rhianna frowned, certain she was imagining things, yet she would have sworn his cloak wrapped itself more tightly around his broad shoulders, that it soothed him in some way.
"Anything?" she asked.
"Only name your heart's desire."
"And you will grant it to me? You promise?"
Rayven nodded. "What will it be?" he asked curiously. "Riches? A fine house staffed with servants? A return to Paris? A large dowry for yourself and your sisters? Only name it, and it's yours."
"I wish to stay here with you," she replied quietly, "for as long as it pleases me to do so. I wish to live in your house and spend time with you each night."
Rayven stared at her. Of all the things he had imagined she might ask for, the most obvious had never occurred to him. "Ask for something else."
"No. You gave me your word." Her gaze met his. "Is it your intention to break it?"
"No." His voice was choked, hoarse, as though it were an effort to speak. "One year. I will give you one year."
Her smile was radiant. Triumphant. "Thank you. Would you ask Bevins to pick up my things in the morning? Oh! I must write a note to my mother and let her know I shall be staying here. Would you ask him to come for it before he goes?" Rayven nodded curtly. Then, feeling like a spider caught in its own web, he stood up, his expression bleak, his eyes as cold as the rain pummeling the windowpanes.
"I pray you do not regret your choice," he said, and swept out of the room, his cloak swirling around his ankles as though blown by an angry wind.