He woke with the coming of darkness. Woke to pain and a ravenous hunger that would not be denied. The touch of the sun had left him weak, and he knew he had to feed, and soon. It was the only way to ease the pain burning through him, the only way to rejuvenate his seared flesh.
He climbed carefully out of the box. Each movement brought torment; colorful curses hissed in six languages filled the air as he removed his singed clothing and changed into a pair of loose-fitting breeches and a shirt made of fine lawn.
Feeling every one of his 379 years, he climbed slowly, painfully, up the cellar stairs to stand in the doorway, his head hanging.
The hunger burned inside him, a relentless flame that would not be quenched.
He donned a greatcoat, turned up the thick fur collar, and left the cottage. In his weakened state, it took him more than an hour to reach the city. And all the while the ravenous wolf of his hunger clawed his insides until he was nearly mad with it, and with the throbbing pain of his seared flesh.
He turned down an alley reeking with filth, and waited...
The production was Sleeping Beauty, and Sara was dancing the role of Aurora.
He sank back in his chair, his gaze fixed on Sara as she danced with the four princes, holding an exciting and delicate balance on one foot as she was passed from one suitor to the next.
He watched with rapt attention during her solo, awed by her steps, which were light and quick, expressing her youth and joy, her hopes for the future. His throat convulsed as she pricked her finger on the spindle. It was only make-believe, but the thought of her blood, red and vital, made his mouth water as she collapsed into enchanted sleep.
He sat back, lost in his own thoughts, as the prince saw a vision of Aurora, but his full attention was aroused once more when the prince awakened Aurora with love's first kiss...
If only real life ended as happily as fairy tales, he mused ruefully. If only love's first kiss would restore him to the life he had lost...
Hardly aware of what he was doing, he left the theater, his thoughts turned back 379 years. He had been born in a small village outside Vallelunga, Italy. His mother, who had given birth to ten children, had been old before her time. His father, too, had been worn out with the burden of providing for such a large family.
Gabriel, who had been Giovanni Ognibene back then, had been the eldest son. He had hated the poverty in which they lived, hated the crowded house, the long hours in the fields, the constant struggle for survival. He had yearned for a different life, a better life, and the opportunity had come on a cool spring morning.
He had agreed to gentle a headstrong young stallion for one of their neighbors and he had been hard at work when a portly, gray-haired man stopped to watch him. The man had been impressed with the way Gabriel handled the horse, so impressed he had offered Gabriel a job working in his stables. For Gabriel, it was the opportunity of a lifetime. Salvatore Musso was a wealthy man who owned a large villa in Vallelunga.
Gabriel had readily accepted the position. He had bade his parents a cheerful good-bye, promising to send money home and to visit often.
He had worked hard during the next six months, earning Musso's respect, making friends with the man's son, Giuseppe.
He had been sixteen when he received word that his parents were ill. He had left for home immediately, but it had been too late. A mysterious fever had swept through the village, and he had watched his family die, one by one. First his mother, then his sisters, his brothers, and finally his father.
Only then, when all those he loved were dead, had he realized how much he had loved them. Deep inside, he had felt as if their deaths had been his fault.
At the urging of the village priest, Giuseppe's parents had taken Gabriel into their home. At first, mourning the loss of his family, he had kept to himself, but as time passed, he discovered a whole new world, a world of wealth and aristocracy, a world where people never went to bed hungry, where servants did the work, where everyone dressed in fine clothes.
It was a world he had never seen before, a world he wanted for his own.
Giuseppe's parents had been most generous. They had fed him and clothed him, but fine clothes could not disguise Giovanni's lack of social grace. Still, he had tried hard and learned quickly, and he'd had one thing in his favor: he was young and handsome and the women adored him. They were willing to make allowances for his cloddish manners, willing to teach him the dances of the day, to instruct him in etiquette and proper decorum. He had quickly learned the polite phrases, the art of dancing and fencing, the proper way to sit a horse, to greet royalty. But always, in the back of his mind, had been the knowledge that he was only pretending.
He had been nine and twenty when he accompanied Giuseppe to Venice. It had been a time of laughter, of parties that seemed never-ending. It was there he had met Antonina Insenna. She had beguiled him from the start, and he had quickly fallen prey to her dark beauty. She had been a woman of untold wealth and power. To others she had appeared coolly self-assured, aloof, but for Giovanni she had smiled, and when she smiled, he was lost.
Nina had been everything he had thought he wanted in a woman: beautiful, desirable, mysterious. The fact that she was older than he only added to her mystique, as did her refusal to see him during the day, and though they had spent every evening together, she had refused to let him stay the night. And because he had thought himself in love, because she had been a woman of the world, full of fire and mystery, he had seen only what he wanted to see.
And then, on an afternoon in later summer, he had met Rosalia Baglio, a young woman of quiet, incomparable beauty. He had been smitten with her from the first, and she with him. He knew then that what he had felt for Antonina was not love, but lust.
He began to avoid Nina's company, preferring to spend all his time with Rosalia. They had met openly and in secret, pledging their love and devotion, even though he had feared she could never be his. Rosalia came from a wealthy family, while he had no money of his own, no lands, no title.
It had been inevitable that Antonina should discover that he had left her for another woman. Her wrath had been terrible to see. She had threatened to tell Rosalia of their affair, threatened to kill him, to kill Rosalia in front of his very eyes, but in the end she had done none of those things.
"You will regret this, Gianni," she had told him on what he had thought would be their last night together. "The time will come when you will beg me for that which only I can give, and the price will be dear."
He had not believed her. And then, after a wild night of carousing and drinking with Giuseppe and a few friends, he had taken sick with a fever. Giuseppe's parents had summoned the physicians. They had bled him to exorcise the bad humors from his body. They had forced vile concoctions down his throat, but to no avail. Two days later, the doctors went away, shaking their heads, and he had known he was going to die.
He had been trying to accept the fact that his life was over before it had begun when Antonina appeared in his room as if by magic.
"I can help you, Giovanni," she had promised in her soft, silky voice. "Only say you will be mine for one night, and all will be well. I will restore your health, Gianni, and give you riches beyond your wildest dreams."
"Too late," he had moaned, the fear of dying rising up within him. "Too late."
"Not too late, cara mio," she had said. "Only give me your promise."
And because he had been in excruciating pain, because he had been terrified of dying, because he had wanted so very badly to marry Rosalia, he had agreed to do whatever Antonina wished.
As soon as he had given Antonina his vow, a change had come over her. All softness seemed to vanish from her face, and her eyes had glowed with a fierce and terrible light.
She had sat down beside him on the bed and drawn him into her embrace and kissed him. Her lips had been as cold as the grave, and when he tried to pull away, her arms had tightened around him and she had laughed softly, a dry sound, like old bones rattling.
Fear had shot through him and he had struggled harder to escape her, but in vain. His strength was as nothing compared to hers.
With ease, she had held him down, her body covering his as she kissed his eyelids, his cheek, his mouth, her lips gradually burning a path to the side of his neck.
He had gasped when he felt her teeth prick the skin, the sensation one of mingled pain and sensual pleasure. And then he had felt himself drowning, suffocating in darkness and fear. Her skin had grown warmer as his own grew cold, and he had known he was on the brink of death. His heartbeat had slowed, his breathing had grown shallow and labored, and he had been swallowed up in darkness, smothered in terror unlike anything he had ever known or imagined.
He had looked at her blankly, not comprehending, as she bit her own wrist and pressed it to his mouth.
As if from far away, he had heard her voice. "Drink, Giovanni."
He had been too weak to resist when she pressed her bleeding wrist to his mouth. "Drink, Giovanni," she had urged. Again.
He had obeyed because he lacked the will to do otherwise. And like a river at flood tide, life had flowed back into him, filling him. He had closed his eyes, moaning with pleasure as he drank and drank and drank.
When she took her wrist from his mouth, he had opened his eyes, intending to ask for more. But then he had seen Antonina hovering over him, her lips stained with blood, and he had known it was his blood.
He had stared at her in horror. "What have you done?"
She had smiled at him, and he had seen her teeth, the canines long and sharp.
"I have fulfilled my promise," she said. "I have restored your health, and given you wealth and power. You are now immortal, Giovanni Ognibene, and with immortality comes power, and the ability to gather the wealth of the world."
Rising, she had pulled a white silk handkerchief from her pocket and delicately wiped the blood, his blood, from her lips. He had shuddered with revulsion when she used that same handkerchief to wipe her blood from his mouth.
She had remained at his side while his body sloughed off the last of his humanity. His senses, now sharper than before, were bewildering, frightening. Colors had been brighter, the candlelight had hurt his eyes, the slightest sound had bruised his ears.
She had told him, in a voice devoid of emotion, that he must have blood to live, that food would sicken him, but he had refused to believe her.
With amusement, she had left the room, returning a short time later with a handful of succulent grapes. To prove her wrong, he had eaten them all. A moment later, pain had knifed through him and he had dropped to his knees, his stomach retching violently.
"It's almost dawn," she had said, her gaze darting to the window and back. "You can sleep with me today. Tomorrow night, you will fulfill your promise, and then you must find a place to rest. You must line your bed with the earth of your homeland, should you ever decide to leave Italy."
He had stared at her, uncomprehending.
"You are a creature of the night now," Antonina had explained. "You cannot die. Exposure to the sun will kill you. Holy water will burn your flesh. You cannot procreate, but you will live forever." She paused, her hand on a small wooden chest. "I promised you wealth, Giovanni, and here it is. Use it wisely."
Two nights later, frightened and confused, he had gone to Rosalia and told her everything. Looking back, he wondered why he had been so thoroughly unprepared for the stark expression of revulsion that rose in her eyes, for the terror that had sent her stumbling away from him. He could still hear her screams as she fell down the winding staircase to land with a sickening thud on the floor below. He had known even before he reached her side that she was dead. He had left Italy the next night.
He had thought it would be an easy thing, living by night and sleeping by day. He had assumed he would be able to walk among mortals, to dance and laugh and make love as before, but it was not to be. The hunger, new and untamed, roared to life whenever he allowed himself to mingle with humanity. In the beginning, unable to help himself, he had satisfied his thirst nightly, often at the expense of some poor mortal's life. Only after many decades had he learned to control his beastly appetite, to take a few drops instead of a life.
He had learned, to his dismay, that while he looked human, he was an outcast, a creature who would never again belong to the family of mankind.
He had learned, over the centuries, what true loneliness was...
And now he stood in the shadows of the cafe, watching Sara. Dressed in a gown of palest pink, she looked as fresh and natural as a wild rose. Her young man sat beside her, his hand holding hers, his gaze rapt upon her face, and who could blame him? She was a vision, an angel, fair of face and form, with a laugh as soft as a sigh, and a smile more radiant than the sun.
Envy rose within Gabriel, and his hands clenched into fists. It took every ounce of his self-control to keep from crossing the room and breaking the young man's neck. One quick twist would do it. Just one.
Sara, my sweet Sara, why did I ever let you go?
She looked up then, her head turning in his direction, her gaze probing the shadows.
Had she heard his thoughts? Did she know he was there? But that was impossible.
And yet she was rising, walking away from the table. He stood in the shadowed corner, his body trembling as she drew near. He could feel her gaze searching the darkness. But for the terrible weakness that plagued him, he would have dissolved into mist and disappeared.
"Gabriel?"
"Go away."
"Gabriel! Is it you?"
"Don't come any closer, Sara."
She stopped, confused. "What's wrong?"
"Go away."
She licked her lips nervously, wishing she could see him more clearly, but he seemed one with the shadows. "I'll go," she said, "but only if you promise to come to me later."
"I cannot."
"I've missed you, Gabriel."
"Have you?"
"Yes." She took a step forward. "You're in pain, aren't you?"
"How do you know that?" he asked sharply.
"I felt it when it happened. I feel it now."
"Go, Sara, please go."
"You'll come to me later tonight?"
"Yes." The word was torn from his lips.
Two hours later, he knocked at the door of her apartment. Like a callow youth courting his first girl, he stood in the shadows, uncertain and a little afraid.
He heard Sara's voice telling someone named Babette she was dismissed for the night. A moment later, Sara opened the door, and he was overcome with a rush of wild emotion.
"Gabriel! I'm so glad to see you. Come in, come in."
"The lights," he said, hugging the shadows. "Put out the lights."
She frowned at him a moment, then went to do as bidden. Only then did he enter the room, quietly closing the door behind him.
For a moment, he stood there, guilt rising up to meet him. She had no idea what she had invited into her home.
"Gabriel?"
"How are you, Sara?"
"Fine. And you?" He heard the underlying note of concern in her voice. "Won't you sit down?"
With a nod, he sat down on the damask-covered settee.
"Can I take your cloak?" she asked.
He shook his head, retreating into the concealing folds of the hooded garment.
She stood in front of the sofa, her hands toying with the wide blue sash of her dress. "I'm glad you're here. I've missed you."
"You were wonderful tonight," he said.
She flushed with pleasure. "You were there, at the opera house?"
"Indeed. I've never seen anything more beautiful, cara. Truly, you were born to dance."
"I do love it so."
He took a deep breath, his hands clenching beneath the voluminous folds of his cloak.
"And the young man who was with you at the cafe? Do you also love him?"
"Maurice?" She laughed softly. "He is just a friend."
"But he would like to be more?"
"Yes."
"Do you love him?" The words were harsher this time, demanding an answer.
"Perhaps, a little."
"Has he asked you to marry him?"
She didn't answer immediately. He could hear the sudden, nervous hammering of her heart, hear the blood rushing through her veins, heating her cheeks.
"Has he?" Gabriel prompted.
"Yes. He said we should marry and start our own ballet company." The thought made her smile. "He said we would tour the world."
He felt the rage building within him as he imagined her married to her young man, walking with him in the sunlight, giving him children...
Summoning centuries of self-control, he fought down the urge to strike out. He had no right to intrude in her life, no right at all. Maurice was the kind of man she deserved. Young, handsome, ambitious. Someone who shared her love of the dance, someone who could share the days and nights of her life.
Someone mortal.
He wanted to kill him.
"If you wish to marry him, I shall see that you're well taken care of. I have a rather large apartment in Marseilles. It shall be yours on the day you wed, as well as a generous monthly allowance."
"I couldn't - "
He held up a hand, silencing her arguments. "You have no parents to provide for you, and I would not see you totally dependent on whoever you decide to wed."
Hurt and confused because he seemed anxious to see her wed to another, Sara took a step forward, then sat down on the opposite end of the settee.
"Is that why you came here, to marry me off to someone else?"
"What do you mean?"
She lowered her gaze. "I've never stopped thinking of you, Gabriel. Every night, I hoped you would come to see me, that you were missing me, longing for me, as I have been longing for you."
She looked up at him, her gaze quietly pleading. "I know you thought I was just a child, that I was too young to know my own mind, my own heart, but I love you, Gabriel. I loved you then, and I love you now."
"Don't!"
"Why? Why can't I love you?"
She reached out to him, and he jerked away. The movement dislodged the hood, allowing her to see his face for the first time.
"Gabriel! What has happened?"
"Nothing," he said, replacing the hood. "An accident."
Before he could stop her, she sprang to her feet and lit the lamp.
"No!" He covered his face with his hands, only then realizing what a mistake it had been to come here.
He cowered before her as she lowered the hood, then pulled his hands away so she could see his face.
"Oh, Gabriel," she murmured, her throat constricting with horror. "My poor angel."
He turned away, not wanting her to see the ruin of his face, not wanting to see the pity he knew would be reflected in her eyes.
A low groan, half pleasure, half pain, rumbled in his throat as Sara drew him into her arms, rocking him gently, as a mother would comfort a wounded child.
"Tell me what happened," she urged.
"I was burned..." His voice was low, muffled against her breasts.
"Burned!" A vivid image of the fire at the orphanage flashed through her mind, and with it, the memory of pain, horrible, excruciating pain. "Oh, Gabriel," she murmured, "I thought it was only a dream."
"A dream? What are you saying?"
"I dreamed of you, dreamed that you had been badly hurt. It was so real. I felt the heat burn my skin..."
She was examining his hands and arms as she spoke, her eyes filling with tears as she saw his burned flesh. "How did it happen?"
He closed his eyes for a moment, her touch soothing him as nothing else could. "It doesn't matter. I was careless. It's not as bad as it looks."
"Does it hurt dreadfully?"
"Not now."
Sara drew him into her arms again as if she knew that her touch brought him solace. "How long will you be here?"
"I... I don't know." He had planned to see her dance, to assure himself that she was well and happy, and then leave. But now... how could he leave her now? Her very nearness was like a soothing balm to his troubled soul; her touch brought surcease from the pain of his wounds.
"Stay," she entreated. "Please stay."
"I don't want to complicate your life."
"How could you do that? You're my guardian angel, remember?"
"I remember, cara." With an effort, he withdrew from her arms. "I must go now."
"You'll come tomorrow night?"
"If you wish."
"I do, very much. Will you meet me outside the opera house? We could go to dinner."
"No. I shall come to you here. At midnight."
She rose with him, her eyes shining with happiness because she would see him again. "You won't change your mind?"
"No, but your maid, Babette, must not be here."
Sara nodded. She supposed it was natural that he wouldn't want anyone else to see him. "Won't you... will you... ?"
Gabriel frowned at her. "What is it you wish, cara? You have only to name it, and it's yours."
"Won't you kiss me good night?"
He nodded slightly, intending to do no more than brush his lips across hers. As if suspecting as much, she stood on her tiptoes, her hands gently cupping his ravaged face as she pressed her mouth to his.
Light exploded through him, brighter than the glow of a thousand candles. It flowed through him, clean and pure, filling his mind with images of warm summer days and sun-kissed mornings bright with dew.
Stunned, he stumbled backward, and after murmuring a hasty farewell, he took his leave before she could see the blood-stained tears that dampened his cheeks, before he fell to his knees at her feet and begged her to see past the monster he had become and love the man who no longer existed.