Night's Pleasure (Children of The Night 4)

Knowing her nearness was making him uncomfortable, she backed up and sat on the edge of the bed. “What are we going to do about the body?”

“I’ll take care of it,” he said, his voice terse.

“Should I call the police? I could tell them he attacked me and I shot him in self-defense.”

Rane shook his head. “No. I’ll take care of it.”

She nodded, thinking it was too bad that Werewolves didn’t just vanish in a puff of smoke and ash, the way old Vampires did.

“The sun,” she said. “You could have died out there.” Had the day been brighter, had there been no cover over the patio…It sickened her to think about what could have happened to him, and all because she had made one stupid mistake. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

“Stop worrying.” He glanced at the bed. “I need to rest until dark, and then I’ll be going out for a while.”

His words pierced her heart like a dagger. She knew why he was going out. He needed to feed. She knew it was necessary, knew it was foolish to envy whoever he chose to drink from, but she couldn’t help it, and with that jealousy came concern for his prey. Rane needed blood, a lot of blood, and he couldn’t take any more from her. Would he take all he needed from one unsuspecting mortal, which would most likely leave his prey dead, or would he drink from many?

With a sigh, she went upstairs, familiar thoughts tugging at her mind. It still amazed her that her life had changed so dramatically, that in only a few short weeks, her world had turned upside down and her once ordinary life was now anything but ordinary. The world as she had known it no longer existed; the cocoon her father had wrapped her in had burst with the knowledge that her mother and father had been Vampire hunters. Even more earth-shattering was the fact that she had fallen head-over-heels in love with a Vampire.

Could her life get any more bizarre?

Clad in black from head to foot, his wounds aching with every move he made, Rane hunted the outskirts of the town for prey. Hunger and pain made him impatient; the fact that the streets were virtually empty increased his anger. He understood why Mara made her lair in this quiet part of the world, but at the moment he wished they were in her home in the Hollywood Hills. There was no end of vagrants and winos on the back streets of Los Angeles. Had he been stronger, he would have transported himself to a city, but the loss of blood, combined with the weakening effects of being out in the sun, had undermined his strength. Hauling the Werewolf’s body out of the backyard and carrying it up to the top of the mountains hadn’t helped any. He had dumped the Werewolf’s remains in a deep ravine where it was unlikely to be found, and if it was discovered at some future time, so be it. There was nothing on the body to connect it to Savanah or himself.

Cursing softly, Rane made his way toward the nightclub on the corner of the town’s main street. He had hoped to find a transient, someone who wouldn’t be missed should he be unable to stifle the urge to kill, but the streets were empty, and he was tired of looking, tired of hurting.

The club was dark inside. A lone couple danced in a far corner, their bodies pressed so closely together, it was hard to tell where one ended and the other began. Three middle-aged men sat at the end of the bar, bragging about their love lives. Two women shared a table near the front window.

At the bar, Rane ordered a glass of wine, hoping it would help to ease his thirst though he knew it was a vain hope. Only blood, and lots of it, would satisfy his hunger and ease his pain this night.

Turning, with his back resting against the edge of the counter, he eavesdropped on the women’s conversation. Both schoolteachers, they appeared to be in their early thirties. They had come to the mountains on vacation. The redhead was single; the brunette recently divorced. Both were childless. Rane grunted softly. That was good. There would be no husbands or children to miss or mourn them.

Opening his senses, he sent his thoughts to the two women, the redhead first and then the brunette. When they looked in his direction, he pushed away from the bar and headed for the door, confident that they would follow.

Outside, he linked his arms with theirs and walked down the street until he came to an alley that dead-ended between two windowless buildings.

Certain that no one would intrude, he admonished the brunette to sit down and close her eyes. After she had complied, he took the redhead in his arms, felt his fangs lengthen in anticipation. He hadn’t made a kill in decades; the thought of doing so now filled him with exhilaration. The first taste was like ambrosia on his tongue. This was what he was, what he had always been. Why had he denied himself for so long?

Closing his eyes, he drank, eager to take it all—her hopes, her dreams, her memories. Her heartbeat slowed, and in that instant, he imagined Savanah was there, watching him, her eyes filled with sorrow as he surrendered to the darkness within him.

With a cry of despair, he put the redhead away from him. After taking several deep breaths, he commanded her to sit down and rest her head on her knees and then, with more force than necessary, he grabbed hold of the brunette and yanked her to her feet.

He drank quickly, his enjoyment gone as guilt rose up in its place. He drank as much as he dared, then escorted both women back into the nightclub. At the bar, he ordered them each a large glass of orange juice and bid them drink it, and then he spoke to their minds, telling them to go home and get something to eat, preferably a steak. When he was certain they understood, he stalked out of the club and into the night.

Outside, his hands clenched against his sides, he drew in a deep breath. Eager for a fight, needing an outlet for his anger, he turned into the wind, hoping to catch the scent of a Werewolf or some other predator, animal or human, even though it was doubtful that, in his current condition, he would survive such an encounter. But the air carried only the smells of earth and pine, and although he knew it was little more than wishful thinking on his part, he imagined he detected the warm womanly fragrance that was Savanah’s.

She was sitting in front of the hearth when he returned to Mara’s place. She didn’t move, didn’t say a word, but the question was there, unspoken, in the air between them.

It stoked the fires of his anger.

He held her gaze for several taut moments before he said, “Dammit, stop looking at me like that! I didn’t kill anyone.”

Her relief was patently obvious and only served to make him angrier. Muttering an oath, he stalked out of the room and took refuge in Mara’s lair.

With a sigh, he sank down on the edge of the bed. In spite of the blood he had taken, he was still weak, his wounds still painful.