Bound by Night

Page 12

She ducked out of sight behind a tree when two disreputable-looking men strolled out of the shadows and approached Drake. She heard the taller of the two strangers demand his wallet and when he refused, the tall man and his companion both pulled knives hidden under their shirts. Moonlight glinted on the blades as the muggers lunged forward, their weapons driving toward Drake’s chest.
Only Drake wasn’t there. Miraculously, or so it appeared to Elena, he materialized behind the men, his hands curling around their necks, slamming their heads together with a sickening thud. The knives fell from their hands, clattering to the walkway as Drake dropped the bodies to the ground. She couldn’t tell if the muggers were unconscious, or dead, but there was no mistaking the dark stains that spread out on the cement.
Frozen in place, Elena could only stare as Drake bent over one of the men. It took her several moments to realize what he was doing and even then she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. She must have made a sound because he whirled about, his long black hair whipping about his face, his narrowed gaze piercing the darkness, zeroing in on where she stood.
Terrified, she stared at the blood dripping from his teeth—no, not teeth. Fangs. His eyes, once a deep, dark blue, had gone a hideous crimson red. Fear coiled like a viper in her belly and she braced a shaky hand against the tree beside her, her heart in her throat as the world spun out of focus. Black spots danced across her vision. With a fearful cry, she fell into the darkness that enveloped her like a cocoon and dragged her down, down, into oblivion.
Cussing softly, Drake summoned his preternatural power. Darting forward, he caught Elena in his arms before she hit the ground. What the hell was she doing here? He swore again. No mortal on earth knew what he was. He brushed a lock of hair from her forehead. What was he to do with her now? The answer came quickly to his mind—according to the laws of his kind, he should either wipe his memory from her mind, or take her life. Neither option appealed to him.
Turning away from the two bodies, he cradled Elena to his chest and transported the two of them to her room at Wolfram Castle. Holding her tight with one arm, he pulled down the covers on the bed, then lowered her onto the mattress. He undressed her down to her bra and panties, then pulled the blankets up to her chin. She was beautiful, so beautiful. Her hair flowed across the pillow like skeins of black silk. Her skin was smooth and clear and warm. So warm. So touchable.
He stroked the curve of her cheek. What was he going to do with her? He couldn’t kill her. He would give up his own life before he sacrificed hers, a very real possibility once Rodin learned that Drake had taken a mortal bride, and that she knew the truth of what he was.
He rarely thought of Rodin, hadn’t seen his sire in over three hundred years. He fervently wished he could put it off for another three centuries, but there was no chance of that now. An invitation to the Fortress was not an idle request. It was a command, one Drake dared not ignore.
Elena stirred, drawing his attention once again. Rodin wouldn’t expect him for another few weeks. Drake blew out an exasperated sigh. Perhaps, by then, he could come up with a valid reason for breaking one of their strictest laws. His only hope to preserve his own life and that of his bride was to somehow mollify his sire.
He didn’t want to think of the consequences should he fail.
Chapter 10
Elena awoke feeling groggy and disoriented and then, as the events of the previous night sprang to the front of her mind, she bolted out of bed. Only then did she realize she was no longer at the hotel but back in her room at the castle. How had she gotten here? And where was Drake?
It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but getting out of there just as fast as her feet would take her. The man she had married, the man she was falling in love with, was a . . . a . . . She couldn’t make herself say the word. It was impossible. Good grief, what if she had let him make love to her?
She pressed a hand to her heart; then, as a new thought rose to the fore, she lifted an exploratory hand to her throat. Had he bitten her? Was she going to become what he was? Fear sat like a lump of ice in her belly. Was that why he had married her? So he could turn her into the same kind of monster he was?
She had lived in the land of Dracula for almost half of her life. Most of the tourists who came to Transylvania wanted to see Dracula’s castle, which was, in reality, Bran Castle, located on the border between Transylvania and Wallachia. The castle had been used by Vlad the Impaler, said to be the inspiration for Stoker’s fictional vampire.
Suddenly chilled, she wrapped her arms around her middle. She had grown up on the myths and legends that surrounded vampires, but it had never occurred to her that Drake might be one of the Undead. Of course, no one believed such creatures actually existed. Sure, vampire books and movies were popular, and had been for years, but they were works of fiction, not reality.
But Drake was real, a man of flesh and blood. Vampire. She shuddered. It explained so much—why she never saw him during the day, the casket in the hidden chamber, the fact that he didn’t eat or drink. Odd, that the memory of his kisses didn’t repel her.
“Elena, get a grip!”
She had to get out of there before it was too late. Before he rose from the coffin hidden in the wall behind the tapestry in the main hall.
Her mouth went dry as she pictured him lying on the smooth white satin, his arms folded across his chest, his body cold and unmoving.
She pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweater, clumsy in her haste, then sat on the edge of the bed to put on her socks and shoes, only then noticing that the valise she had taken to Brasov the night before was on the floor beside the bed, and that the mirror Drake had bought her stood in the corner. She stared at it a moment, remembering how happy she had been only a few hours ago, but there was no time to dwell on that now.
Grabbing her handbag, another gift from Drake, she hurried down the stairs, her only thought to get out of the castle before nightfall. She was safe until then. If only he had a phone so she could call for a cab. Not that she had any money to pay for one. He had given her many gifts but never any cash. Maybe she could find the keys to the Porsche. She spent a few minutes searching for them downstairs, and then upstairs, but to no avail.
Conscious of time passing, she ran down the stairs again.
When she reached the front door, Smoke was sitting in front of it. The cat stared up at her, its head cocked to one side.
Murmuring, “Good-bye, kitty,” Elena put her hand on the latch and pulled, but nothing happened. She tugged on the latch with both hands, but the door refused to budge. She frowned. The crossbar wasn’t in place. The door wasn’t locked. Why wouldn’t it open?
Heart pounding, Elena spun around and ran downstairs to the kitchen, only to find that the back door wouldn’t open, either. What was going on? It wasn’t locked. Why wouldn’t the darn thing open? And what if it had? She willed herself to stop and think. Even if she could get into the garden, what good would it do her? There was no exit, no way over the high wall.
She had to get away, but how? The windows in the main hall were too high, too narrow. The doors wouldn’t open. She was trapped inside the castle. With a vampire.
Feeling as though her feet were made of lead, she returned to the main hall and sank down on one of the sofas, hugging her handbag to her chest. What was he going to do to her? Images of Drake bending over the neck of one of the muggers flashed through her mind. Was that to be her fate, as well? Was that why he had let her stay here? Why he had agreed to marry her?
Smoke hopped up beside her, a low purr rumbling in his throat as he nudged her hand.
“Stupid beast,” she muttered, and then, with a sigh, she dropped her handbag on the floor and stroked the cat’s head. Smoke purred loudly, the noise soothing somehow. As she continued to pet the cat, her panic was swallowed up by a sense of well-being. She was safe here. There was nothing to be afraid of. If Drake had intended to kill her, he would likely have done so by now.
Suddenly weary, Elena stretched out on the sofa and Smoke curled up beside her. The cat’s purring, softer now, lulled her to sleep.
The sun was setting when Elena awoke. She bolted upright. He would be here soon. What should she do? What would he do? She was alone in the castle with a monster. Even the cat had abandoned her.
Springing to her feet, Elena ran to the front door. Maybe it would open this time. It had to open now, before it was too late.
Eternally too late.
But time had already run out.
She didn’t have to turn around to know that Drake was there. Though he made no sound, she could feel his presence looming behind her like a dark cloud. She swallowed hard, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. There was a moment out of time, as if someone had suddenly removed blinders from her eyes and her heart, and she knew him for what he was, almost as if she could see into his very soul. How had she not sensed his preternatural power before? She felt it now. It crawled over her skin, making the fine hairs on her arms stand at attention.
“Good evening, wife,” he said quietly.
She couldn’t speak, couldn’t form the words to ask the questions that pounded in her mind, demanding answers.
“Have you nothing to say?” he asked in that same quiet tone. “No questions to ask me?”
Her silence, combined with her continued refusal to look at him, aroused his anger. She could feel the weight of it pressing down on her like a giant hand.
“Elena, look at me.” It wasn’t a request but a command.
Afraid to provoke him further, afraid of what she would see, she slowly turned to face him, her gaze not quite meeting his. She had expected to find the monster staring back at her, but it was just Drake.
“You have nothing to fear from me, wife.”
She licked her lips, but remained silent. Dozens of questions clamored in her mind: How long had he been a vampire ? When and how had it happened? Was he the only one? How many other men—and women—had he killed? How often did he have to . . .
She shut the door on that train of thought, and all the others. Asking questions, hearing his answers, would make it all too real.
“Elena.” He took a step toward her, but stopped when she recoiled. “Dammit, woman, I am not going to hurt you.”