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.George had convinced her that the woman was driven enough to try to track down the truth—which was ugly indeed—and intelligent enough to succeed.Mother was a vampire living in London, not killed but turned by Madam Lucifer.She’d killed Father.Annaluisa had finally conceded to silence after talking it through, agreeing that Lillian seemed likely to pursue the facts to their inevitable deadly end.But, what was he to do about her? Why weren’t the police at the door right now if she intended to turn him in for killing her neighbor? Dimwitted, immoral, lazy…none of that fit her.So she was waiting for something, planning something beyond his understanding.But what? And could he allow it to happen?If he killed her, Phillip would recognize his hand in the murder.And I don’t want to kill her.Not yet.Why, I’d actually like to spend some time with her, he realized in wonder.When was the last time he felt that way about a mortal? Far past the decades when he longed for a normal life, it was something of an unwelcome anomaly.George brushed aside his thoughts and put down his pipe, knowing what he must do.But as he left the Orleans home, he wondered if he’d ever be welcome to enter again.If Phillip would speak to him again.His only ally.Well, he’d have to fix that and amass a following.If Marie de Bourbon had done so, he surely could.With his looks, charm, and hunger, he could have his own House in Baltimore, dull as the city was.Perhaps he’d start with the lovely Miss Holmes.Invigorated, George nodded to the usual characters who shared the night with him as he walked towards Federal Hill: a carriage driver hoping for a final customer; a young man hurrying home on unsteady legs, no doubt after some raucous outing; a few servants playing dice and drinking.Soon he stood in the alleyway beneath the house where his last “murder” occurred and peered up at Lillian Holmes’s balcony.There was no God to intervene on his behalf, and so he would have to kill her or turn her.His fervor cooled now that he was close to his goal, he half wished the situation were reversed.But tired, so tired of his life, he nonetheless found the energy to leap to her window.George peered into the room carefully, lest she be up and about.But no, even in the dim light of the moon he saw her tall figure stretched out on the bed in filmy white as if she were on her funeral bier.The sight stirred so much in him: lust, for both the sexual beauty and her blood; sorrow, for what he would no doubt need to do to her; fear, for she made him loathe himself and he didn’t like that.He stepped across the sill into the room, still unsure of what exactly he would do but knowing he must act to save himself, to sate himself.Unlike Phillip, he wouldn’t indulge in longing for a normal life, for romance and companionship.But oh, wouldn’t she be a companion? So odd, this beauty.So strong and fragile at the same time.Annaluisa had said her mother was a beauty as well, and of course was one still.But George was certain the mother couldn’t have the spirit or intellect of Lillian Holmes.Damnation, this is cruel.I don’t want to kill her, he thought.If I don’t, I will have to flee Baltimore, for she might be wise enough to uncover the truth.And then he’d be alone again against Madam Lucifer.He knew what she’d been up to in the mud of his front lawn.He knew she had the strength and wit to do verbal battle with him, despite knowing him to be a murderer.What would she do if she knew the bitter truth? Revile him more, for certain.No, she would turn him in.She must be stopped.But perhaps he could leave her be, take Phillip’s suggestion and find a spot of boring solitude, hide away like the refugee he was.Alone, yes, but what else was new? Phillip had tried to love him for years and seemed nearly ready to give up.Perhaps those days of trying were finally over.They certainly would be if he learned of George slaying this beautiful girl in her bed.Lillian stirred a bit and rolled onto her side.George groaned as the play of moonlight on her long legs, hips and breasts made his body tingle in anticipation of all she might offer both man and vampire.He noticed perspiration gleaming on her pale skin as he got closer.The night wasn’t that hot; was she ill? No matter, even if she had the plague, it wouldn’t kill him.He’d learned that firsthand a few centuries earlier.He knelt beside her and lightly brushed her damp raven-dark hair away from her neck.The sound of her coursing blood screamed at him from her veins, but he watched her for a moment while his sadness for her—for himself—made him curse.Thank God no one can see me so weak.She moaned and threw her arm over her head.Ah, a dream.Did she dream of him? Or was it a nightmare of him? He leaned in close to her neck, the pounding through her arteries practically deafening, matching the beat of his own black heart.Had he ever felt such a bloodlust? Not since the early days.He would have her, every drop of her.To his shock, her eyes shot open, expressionless.As if he belonged there, she stared at him and let out a deep breath.Then she closed her eyes again, and he wondered if she were indeed ill, but her breathing steadied and she fell asleep again.His lust driving him insane, he inched his way onto the bed and lay alongside her, struggling against touching the swell of her breasts, her collarbone, her neck.He might murder, but he would not rape.She rolled to her side and moaned in her sleep, and he pressed himself along the soft length of her until his pulse beat in concert with hers.Here is my match, he heard himself think.Would she mind so much if he touched her before she died?She moaned when he ran his hand along her hip and then up her torso to brush against the soft underside of her bosom.Then she took in a quick breath and reopened her eyes [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]