A cruel joke, to offer him a moment’s respite. He wanted to scream his agony, but again, no sound rose in his throat.
Time passed; how much, he didn’t know. Time had ceased to exist in the thick darkness that held him fast. It was unlike anything he had ever known, this blackness. It oppressed him in ways that the Dark Sleep did not. It weighed him down, smothering him. Perhaps he really was dead, caught in some hellish limbo from which there was no return.
And then he heard Mara’s voice, felt her presence there, beside him. Hope fought its way through the darkness. Mara. The queen of their kind. Surely her ancient blood would revive him. He drank greedily, and like Rafe’s blood, it eased the pain for the moment, but it didn’t draw him out of the darkness. Only Savanah could do that.
Ah, Savanah, with hair like spun moonlight and eyes as blue as the sky. Savanah, who should have taken his head and had given him her love instead. It was her blood he craved, her voice he longed to hear, her touch he ached for.
Savanah. Only her blood, thick and warm and filled with life, could rescue him from the darkness.
Savanah stared at the place where the two Vampires had stood, thinking there were some things she would never get used to, like Vampires who could appear and disappear in the blink of an eye. But at the moment, she was only interested in the Vampire resting in her father’s bed.
Going into the kitchen, she filled a pan with warm water and then, with some trepidation, she went into her father’s room, put the pan on the bedside table, and turned on the light. Rane lay as before, eyes closed, barely breathing, unmoving. He was a big man; undressing him was no easy task. When it was done, she could only stare at him. His wounds still hadn’t healed, but at least they didn’t look any worse.
Expelling a sigh, she went into the bathroom for a washcloth, a towel, and a bar of soap. Returning to Rane’s side, she washed him from head to foot, wondering, as she did so, why neither Rafe nor Mara had suggested it. Of course, they’d both had other things on their minds, or maybe they had just assumed that Savanah would do it.
When she finished washing Rane, she changed the sheets. Again, no easy task, rolling an inert body from one side of the bed to the other. She was sweating and breathing heavily by the time she finished, but he looked more comfortable, and she felt better because of it.
After pulling the covers up over his chest, she smoothed a lock of hair from his brow, then bent and kissed his cheek.
“If this was a fairy tale and I was a princess, maybe you’d wake up,” she murmured.
But it wasn’t a fairy tale, she wasn’t a princess, and he didn’t wake up.
With a sigh, she dumped the pan of bloody water down the toilet, then turned out the lights and closed the door behind her. She carried the pan into the kitchen and rinsed it out, then went upstairs where she took a quick shower, slipped into her nightgown, and brushed her teeth. She stood there a minute, staring at herself in the mirror over the sink as the night’s events replayed in her mind. If she called Jolie and told her what had happened, Jolie would never believe it in a million years. If Mr. Van Black printed the story in the paper, people would assume it was fiction.
Staring at her reflection in the mirror, she, too, found it hard to believe.
With a sigh, she went to bed and pulled the covers up to her chin, only to lie there, staring up at the ceiling, while the house settled around her. She heard the wind rustling the leaves of the tree outside her window, the tick-tick of the clock on the nightstand, a distant siren, the howling of a dog.
But it was thoughts of Rane that kept her awake as one hour slipped into the next. Rafe and Mara had assured her that Rane would recover, but what if they were wrong?
Rising, Savanah pulled on her robe, then padded barefooted down the stairs. She paused at the foot of the banister, wondering if Rafe and Mara had returned, but she had no sense of their presence as she moved quickly down the hallway to her father’s room and opened the door.
Rane lay on the bed as before, unmoving.
Savanah stood in the doorway for a moment, watching him, wondering if she was doing the right thing. Rafe and Mara had both given Rane their blood and it hadn’t wrought any visible change in his condition. What made her think that her blood, her weak, mortal blood, would make a difference when the blood of the Queen of the Vampires had failed to heal him?
And yet she had to try.
Moving into the room, she sat on the edge of the bed. Murmuring Rane’s name, she stroked his brow, and then lifted his head into her lap. Too late, she realized she should have stopped in the kitchen for a knife with which to make an incision in her flesh since she was pretty sure she couldn’t do it with her thumbnail.
She started to get up, then remembered that her father had always kept a pocketknife in his nightstand, a keep-sake from his childhood scouting days. Opening the drawer, she picked up the knife. The blade was small and very sharp.
Taking a deep breath, she made a shallow cut in her left wrist.
Recalling what Rafe had done, she held her wrist to Rane’s lips and murmured, “Drink, Rane.”
The scent of her blood cut through the pain as cleanly as a surgeon’s scalpel. Like a blind pup, he followed the smell, then latched on to the source. The warmth slid down his throat—living blood, pure and fresh, as rich and smooth as the finest wine. The beat of her heart was like music to his ears. This was what he needed, what he had yearned for. The pain fled, leaving him weak. And grateful.
He murmured her name, then sank down into blessed, healing, oblivion.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Savanah woke late the following afternoon. She had spent the night at Rane’s side, wanting to be there if he regained consciousness. It was a strange experience, sleeping beside a Vampire, wondering if he knew she was there. Wondering what her parents would think if they knew she was in love with one of the Undead. Of course, she knew what they would think. They would be appalled.
Vampires had killed her parents; she had sworn to follow in her mother’s footsteps and yet, instead of taking Rane’s head, she had given him her blood, and would do so again and as often as needed to prolong his existence.
After she showered and dressed, she went into the kitchen to fix a late breakfast, surprised at how hungry and thirsty she was. No doubt her increased appetite was due to the fact that she had given Rane her blood the night before. She didn’t know how much he had taken, but she had been light-headed and unsteady on her feet when it was over, and terribly thirsty, so much so that she had downed almost a quart of orange juice.