He was on the brink of awareness when he heard her voice.
Startled, he sat up, wondering if he had dreamed it. And then he heard it again, her voice, as loud and clear as if she stood beside him.
Hurry to me, beloved. Hurry to me.
Beloved...
He closed his eyes, basking in the sound of that single word. Beloved. If only it were true.
He dressed hurriedly, anxious to see her again, to see her smile, hear her voice caress his name.
He raced through the night, his preternatural speed carrying him quickly to where she waited for him.
She was sitting up in bed, an angel in a high-necked, long-sleeved gown. Her hair fell over her slender shoulders in endless waves of honey gold.
His heart quickened when he met her gaze and saw the way her eyes brightened at the sight of him.
Ah, Sara, he thought, if you only knew what manner of man stands before you, you would not be so glad to see me.
Her smile was brighter than the sun at noonday.
"So," he said quietly, "tell me about your day."
Pleased at his interest, she told him of how she'd spent the day reading to the younger children, of how she had envisioned herself as a nun, helping to teach the other orphans.
A nun! The word thundered through him. A nun! But what a waste that would be, to clothe her frail beauty in robes of somber black, to cut away that wealth of gold-colored hair, to bury her forever behind these walls where she would doubtless receive the love of numerous children but never know the love of a man, or give birth to a child of her own.
A nun. He nearly choked on the word, on the idea. And then jealousy rose up within him, coiling around his heart. Better she should be a nun than find happiness in the arms of another man. A mortal man.
Right or wrong, he knew he would destroy any man who dared to touch her.
"Gabriel?" She was looking up at him, her head tilted slightly to one side, her eyes filled with concern. "Are you all right?"
"Of course."
"Did you hear what I said?"
"Yes." He sat down on the stool beside her bed. "I'm sure you would make a fine nun, cara, if that is your desire."
"It isn't, really." She lowered her gaze to her hands. "I want what every girl wants," she said, though her voice lacked conviction. "A husband. A home of my own. Children."
He grunted softly, neither agreeing or disagreeing, and she looked up at him again, her eyes aglow.
"I do want those things," she said, "but what I really want is to dance! Oh, Gabriel, if only I could dance."
"I'm afraid I cannot transform you into a ballerina," he said with regret, "but you could dance with me, if you like."
"With you? How?"
"Like this."
Effortlessly, he lifted her from the bed and held her in his arms so that her feet were mere inches above the floor. And then, to her utter surprise, he began to sing, his voice soft and clear as he waltzed her around the room.
For a moment, she could only stare at him, mesmerized by the sound of his voice, and then, as he whirled her around and around, pleasure bubbled up inside her like a wellspring, erupting in peals of happy laughter. Ah, the wonder of it, she thought as he twirled her around with all the innate grace of a dancing master. She felt light and free, with her hair floating about her shoulders and Gabriel's voice wrapping around her, making her forget that it was his feet, and not hers, gliding smoothly over the polished floorboards.
He held her so lightly, so easily, as if she weighed nothing at all. His arm, curled around her waist, strong yet gentle. His hand held hers, warm, callused, a man's hand.
The laughter died in her throat as she gazed into his eyes, those fathomless gray eyes that held all the sadness of the world.
She hardly realized he had stopped dancing, stopped singing, so lost was she in the depths of his gaze. He held her body to his with both arms now, and she could feel every inch of his hard masculine form pressed against hers. The sadness in his eyes was burned away by a sudden blaze of emotion that she did not recognize. She felt the heat of it spiral through her, making her aware of him in ways she had noticed only in passing before. He was tall and muscular. His shoulders and chest were broad. She could feel the heat of his body, the maleness of it, where it touched hers.
How well they fit together, she mused, and even as the thought crossed her mind, she became acutely aware of her own body, of a sudden restlessness. She wanted him to hold her closer, tighter. She wanted him to kiss her, the way the prince kissed the princess in the fairy tale.
"Gabriel..." She leaned toward him, until all she saw was his face, his eyes.
"No." With a choked cry, he carried her back to the bed, dropping her onto the mattress as if her skin burned his hands.
"What is it?" she asked, confused. "What's the matter?"
"What's the matter?" He laughed, a harsh sound devoid of humor. "Ah, Sara, you foolish child. If you only knew..."
"Knew what?"
He clenched his hands at his sides in an effort to still the monster rising within him. Not for centuries had he satisfied his unholy desire with a girl as young, as pure, as Sara. Not since he'd first been made vampire had he quenched his thirst with the blood of an innocent.
"Gabriel?"
Ah, the sweet, trusting sound of her voice as she whispered his name, the unconscious yearning, the untapped passion. He could hear every beat of her heart, hear the thrumming of her blood as it pulsed through her veins, thick with desire. It was almost more than he could bear.
He closed his eyes and drew in a deep, calming breath. This was Sara, his Sara. He could not violate her. He would not take her blood, though to do so would be ecstasy.
"Gabriel, are you ill?"
"No." The word was one of harsh denial. "But I must go."
"So soon?"
"Yes." He opened his eyes and forced a smile. "I'll see you tomorrow night."
"Tomorrow night." She repeated the words, holding them close to her heart.
"Good night, cara," he said, his voice thick, and then he was gone, running as if he, himself, were being pursued by demons.
He ran for hours, unable to outrun his loneliness, his longing, and then, filled with self-loathing, he entered the monastery. He had no need of a light as he made his way down the long, winding staircase that led to the underground catacombs where the monks had buried their dead. It was a dark place, musty with age and decay.
To punish himself, he climbed into the coffin he rarely used. Grasping the lid, he brought it down with a resounding thud, burying himself in the smothering darkness he hated.
"Monster," he murmured, and the word echoed off the sides of the oak casket. "Demon. Ghoul. Fiend. You will not touch her, you misbegotten spawn of the devil," he declared, his voice growing thick as the heavy sleep of the undead dragged him down, down, into the deep abyss of oblivion.
"You... will... not..."
He woke the following evening, a moment of panic rising within him as he opened his eyes to eternal darkness. And then he remembered where he was.
Muttering an oath, he climbed out of the coffin. He had not used it in more years than he could remember, preferring to take his rest in the big throne-like chair upstairs.
He stared at the burnished oak for a long time, reminding himself of what he was. Not a man, but a monster, fit for nothing but death and darkness.
His steps were heavy as he climbed the stairs. Deep in thought, he changed his clothes, combed his hair, donned his cloak.
As if to further punish himself for wanting what could never be his, he went out into the shadows, a bloodthirsty beast stalking its prey.
This is what you are. The words echoed and reechoed in his head as he bent over his hapless victim. Don't let her sweetness fool you into thinking you're still a man, capable of loving, of being loved. You're naught but a monster, every man's nightmare...
A short time later, he was walking toward the orphanage. And all the while, he tried to convince himself to stay away from her. His Sara, his angel of light, should not be contaminated by the darkness of his soul.
He was still trying to talk himself into staying away as he vaulted the orphanage's high stone wall.
She was waiting for him. He had expected to find her tucked into bed, but she was sitting in her chair, facing the veranda doors. Her goodness, her sweetness, reached out to him, washing over him like sunlight.
"A new dress," he remarked as he crossed the threshold.
She nodded shyly. "I made it."
"It's lovely," he murmured. And, indeed, it was. The deep blue darkened her eyes, the full sleeves reminded him of angel's wings. "You are lovely."
His words brought a flush to her cheeks. "Thank you."
"So lovely." He held out his hand. "Would you go out with me, coral"
"Out?" She looked puzzled. "Out where?"
"Wherever you like."
"I couldn't... shouldn't... anywhere I wish?"
"Anywhere."
"The ballet?"
"If you wish."
She smiled, radiant with happiness. For as long as she could remember, she had longed to go to the ballet, to see Swan Lake, Giselle, The Sleeping Beauty, Don Quixote. She had studied the lives of many of the great ballerinas, like Marie Taglioni, Fanny Elssler, Carlotta Grisi, Francesca Cerrito, and Marie Salle.
And now her dream was about to come true. Then she glanced down at her dress, and her happiness dissipated like dew beneath the sun.
"I can't go. I don't have anything suitable to wear."
"You will," he said cryptically, and before she could ask questions, he was gone.
"Gabriel!" Shoulders sagging, she stared into the darkness, wondering if he was gone for the night.
An hour later, he was back. "For you," he said, and with a flourish, he reached inside his cloak and withdrew a gown of ice-blue satin.
Sara glanced at the dress, at Gabriel, and back at the dress, unable to believe her eyes. "For me?"
"You don't like it?"
Not like it? It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She looked up at him, too dazed to speak.
"Can you... shall I..." He swore softly. "Will you let me help you change?"
She felt her cheeks flame as she nodded. Deftly, he helped her out of her dress and into the gown, lacing her up with such casual nonchalance that it eased her embarrassment. The satin was smooth and cool against her skin, a sharp contrast to the heat of his touch.
There were slippers and gloves to match. He pulled them from beneath his cloak, making her wonder if he was conjuring them from thin air.
She felt like the princess in a fairy tale. "How do I look?"
"See for yourself," he said, and lifting the mirror from the wall, he held it in front of her.
She did look like a princess, she thought. The gown was a study in simple elegance, the bodice fitted, the full skirt sweeping the floor. Fine white lace edged the scalloped neckline.
"It's the most exquisite thing I've ever seen," she said, mesmerized by the miracle the gown had wrought in her appearance. Her eyes seemed bluer; her cheeks were flushed with excitement. "Where did you get it?"
"Does it matter?" he asked as he replaced the mirror, careful to keep to one side so that she wouldn't notice that his form cast no reflection in the glass.
Sara shook her head.
"Ready?"
"Ready."
Effortlessly, he lifted her into his arms and carried her out onto the veranda.
"You can't carry me all the way to the opera house," she remarked as he started across the yard.
"No need." He gestured to the surrey waiting outside the gate. "We'll ride."
It was like a dream, a wonderful dream, the ride through the streets, the feel of the breeze in her hair, the warmth of his shoulder next to her own, the brush of his thigh against hers when he shifted on the leather seat.
The ballet had already started when they arrived. As if he did it every day, he lifted her from the seat and carried her into the theater, nodding at the doorman, climbing the stairs with ease, carrying her into a private box.
Gently, he placed her in one of the red velvet chairs, then sat down in the other one.
She couldn't believe she was there. Her gaze swept the theater, from the frescoes painted on the ceiling to the heavy drapes that framed the stage. Leaning forward, she stared at the people seated below - elegant women gowned in lustrous silks and satins, handsome men attired in black evening clothes. And she was a part of them. She lifted her chin, feeling as if she belonged, as if she were, indeed, a princess.
And then, very slowly, she faced the stage.
A sigh of wonder, of awe, escaped her lips as she saw the ballerina for the first time. The dancer moved like a feather on the wind, light, airy, graceful. Each movement was perfection, perfectly timed, flawlessly executed.
Mesmerized by the sinuous blending of music and dance, Sara forgot everything but the woman who seemed to float effortlessly across the stage, her tiny feet encased in white ballet slippers.
They were doing Giselle, created by Carlotta Grisi in Paris in 1841. The story was one of Sara's favorites. She watched, entranced, as the peasant girl, Giselle, fell in love with the handsome Albrecht, a nobleman disguised as a peasant boy. She wept softly when Hilarion, who also loved Giselle, told her the truth about Albrecht. Upon learning that her beloved was betrothed to another, Giselle died of a broken heart.
"So sad," Sara murmured as the curtain came down on the first act. "So sad, but so beautiful."
"Yes," Gabriel said, his hooded gaze locked on Sara's face, his voice husky. "So beautiful."
More than beautiful, he thought. Her cheeks were rosy with delight, her eyes were shining, her lips slightly parted. He could hear the excited beat of her heart, hear the blood humming through her veins, feel his own heart beating in cadence with hers.
Hands curled into tight fists, he shoved them into the pockets of his trousers, trying not to stare at the pulse throbbing in the hollow of her throat, trying to forget that she carried his blood in her veins. Trying not to think of what it would be like to savor the sweetness of her lifeblood.
With a supreme effort of will, he forced such thoughts away and concentrated on the music, on the look of delight on Sara's face.
Sara leaned forward as the curtain went up on Act Two, fascinated as Giselle was transformed into a Wili, a spirit who haunted the woods at night, enticing men to dance until they expired of exhaustion. Tears stung her eyes as Hilarion was killed by the Wilis and Myrtha, Queen of the Wilis, forced Giselle to attempt to destroy Albrecht in the same way. But Albrecht was spared, first by taking shelter under the cross on Giselle's grave, and then by dancing with Giselle until dawn, when Giselle returned to her grave.
When it was over, Sara sat back in her chair, a soft sigh escaping her lips. "Thank you, Gabriel," she said, her voice tinged with awe.
"You're welcome, cara."
"Wasn't she wonderful? I don't think Grisi could have done it better. Do you think Albrecht was really in love with Giselle? How could a nobleman make a whole village believe he was a peasant?"
Gabriel shrugged. "People believe what they want to believe," he said, and sat back in the seat, content to listen as Sara spoke enthusiastically of the costumes, the music, and always the ballerina.
When the theater was empty, he lifted her into his arms and carried her down the stairs and out to the surrey. Removing a robe from under the seat, he placed it over her lap, picked up the reins, and clucked to the horses.
It was a clear night, cool, with a slight breeze. A full moon hung low in the sky.
As they rode through the moon-dappled darkness, Sara was again aware of the man beside her. Inside the theater, she had been caught up in the magic of the music and the dancing, but here, in the quiet of a late summer night, alone with Gabriel, the ballet seemed far distant.
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, studying his profile, noting the way the moonlight turned his hair to silver. He was a handsome man, dark and mysterious. And lonely.
The thought struck her with the force of a blow, and she realized that loneliness surrounded him, that it was his aloneness that called out to her above all else.
Too soon, they reached the orphanage and he was carrying her into her room.
Gently, he placed her in her chair and suddenly the magic was gone. She was Sara again.
"The dress," she said, blinking back her tears. "I can't keep it."
He nodded his understanding. There was no way for her to explain to the nuns how she came to have such an expensive gown.
Keeping his face impassive, he carried her to the bed, quickly divested her of the elegant blue dress, and helped her into her night rail. Kneeling at her feet as if he played ladies' maid every day, he removed the satin slippers, drew the gloves from her hands.
"I had a wonderful time," Sara murmured. "Thank you."
"Until tomorrow night, then," he said. Taking her hand in his, he lifted it to his lips and kissed her palm. "Sleep well, cara."
She blinked back a tear, and he was gone.