Night's Mistress (Children of The Night 5)

There was a moment of pain, and then there was pleasure beyond anything she had ever known. She felt weightless, as if her spirit had left her body far behind and was now floating effortlessly in the air. She had no fears, no worries. There was only a deep, sensual pleasure she hoped would last forever.

And then he was gone, and she was alone in her cell, confused by what had happened. Had she imagined him? Had it all been a dream? She lifted a hand to her neck, shivered with revulsion when she felt two tiny puncture wounds. When she licked her fingertips, she tasted blood. Was it hers?

Near dawn, pain unlike anything she had ever known engulfed her body. Moaning softly, she writhed in agony on the cold stone floor until, after what seemed like an eternity, she pitched headlong into a chasm deeper and blacker than anything she had ever known or imagined. Her last conscious thought was that, at last, death had found her.

When next she opened her eyes, she was lying naked on a slab, about to be mummified, no doubt to be put into Shakir’s burial chamber where, upon his death, she would serve him throughout all eternity. She didn’t know who was more surprised to find that she was alive—herself, or the handful of men who ran screaming out of the chamber when she sat up. She had looked around, confused, her senses reeling under a visual and aural assault unlike anything she had ever known. Heedless of her nudity, she had leaped lightly from the slab, hungry in a way she had never been hungry before. The frantic beating of many hearts drummed against her ears.

She hadn’t known what she wanted until, in his haste, one of the fleeing men tripped and cut his hand on a sharp stone.

The warm, coppery scent of fresh blood wafted through the air, sweet, tantalizing. She had pounced on the luckless creature before he’d had time to scream.

Other men had come, armed with daggers and spears. Impervious to their puny weapons, she had effortlessly swatted them all aside and left the building.

Filled with power, she had gone to Shakir’s residence. She had found him reclining on a pile of furs, a woman at his side. He had stared up at her, eyes wide, mouth open in a silent scream for mercy. She had advanced on him slowly, eyes burning, fangs bared. The woman had run screaming from the room, but Mara had no interest in the female. She had pinned Shakir to the floor, buried her fangs in his throat, and slowly drained him dry. After she had avenged herself on him, she had freed his slaves, and then she had burned his house to the ground.

She had found the vampire who had turned her against her will the next night. Still in the throes of acclimating to her new life, nearly mad with her hunger for blood, she had attacked Dendar without mercy.

Mara shook her head at the memory. She had prayed for death and the Fates had granted it to her, only not quite in the way she had imagined.

“Be careful what you wish for,” she murmured to the man in the moon, “lest you get it.”

Thinking of Dendar now, she regretted destroying him. But, back then, angry and confused, afraid of the changes his bite had wrought, her only thought had been to kill him. Had she known how much she would glory in being a vampire, she might have kissed him instead.

Chapter Two

Kyle Bowden stood in front of the canvas, the paint drying on the brush in his hand as he looked at the portraits of the woman he had drawn from memory. The first canvas, painted in the first blush of new love, depicted Mara as she had looked when he’d met her—beautiful, exquisite, almost ethereal, with her glossy black hair and flawless, alabaster skin.

The second canvas, the paint still wet, showed her as she truly was—a beautiful monster with bloodred eyes, and sharp white fangs.

Mara, the vampire.

Even now, months after she had told him the truth of what she was, he found it hard to believe that the woman he had adored, the exquisite, sensual creature he had taken to his bed, wasn’t a woman at all, but a soulless creature like the one who had killed his father and left his mother barely alive. His mother, may she rest in peace, had lingered between this world and the next for almost a month before death carried her away. He had been a week shy of his thirteenth birthday when she breathed her last. There followed one foster home after another until he turned sixteen and took off on his own.

For a time, Kyle had tried to find the vampire who had killed his father during the War, but by then, it was too late. The War for supremacy that had raged between the Vampires and the Werewolves was over and finding one particular vampire had been virtually impossible.

Kyle blew out a sigh. He had tried to put Mara out of his mind, tried to forget the halcyon nights they had spent in each other’s arms, but to no avail. He imagined he could still smell her scent on his clothing, on his sheets, his pillows. He told himself it was impossible and yet, each night when he climbed into bed, her essence seemed to surround him. The merry sound of her laughter echoed in his mind; his skin tingled from the memory of her touch. She had been an incredible lover, unlike any woman he had ever known. He grunted softly. A foolish statement, that, when she wasn’t really a woman at all.

This morning he had risen early and put brush to canvas, hoping that by painting her as the monster she truly was, he could somehow excise her memory from his mind and heart, but to no avail.

Vampire or temptress, her portrait only made him yearn for her all the more. He moved to stand in front of the first painting. He had captured her likeness, but not her spirit, nor the true look in her eyes. She had often seemed older than she looked, wise beyond her years; now he knew why. Her physical appearance had belied her age, but the truth had lurked in the depths of her eyes, those incredible emerald green eyes that had watched centuries come and go.

He swore a vile oath. If he lived to be a hundred, he would never forget her. He laughed humorlessly. If he lived to be a hundred, he would still be an infant compared to her. Little wonder she had known so much about Egypt’s history, he mused glumly. She had lived it.

As for being an incredible lover, he thought bitterly, that was to be expected. She’d had hundreds of years of practice.

And probably hundreds of lovers, as well.

The thought of her with other men tied his insides in knots.

Dammit! How was he ever going to forget her?

Chapter Three

Needing a change of scenery, Mara decided to return to Southern California and mingle with the Hollywood crowd. In days past, she had met a movie producer or two, a star or two. It had been easy enough to charm the rich and the famous, to finagle an invite to a cocktail party here, an opening night there. Not only was she a beautiful woman, but she possessed the innate charisma of a vampire, something few men, rich or poor, old or young, could resist. Movie star and star maker alike, they had showered her with gifts—jewels, stocks and bonds, automobiles, vacations in exotic locales. Thanks to their generosity through the years, she now owned a fabulous home in the Hollywood Hills, a house in the mountains, and a sumptuous villa in Italy. She had always enjoyed mingling with the famous and the infamous; on occasion, she had thrown a few lavish parties herself.