"But… It's important."
"The police will never catch him."
"You sound very sure of that."
He nodded. "Surer than you can imagine." His hand slid down her arm, his fingers entwining with hers. His skin was cool, yet at the touch of his hand, frissons of sexual awareness sizzled up her arm.
Nothing like that had ever happened to her before. Feeling suddenly breathless, she looked up at him. Had she imagined that unexpected jolt of sensual heat, or had he felt it, too?
He was watching her in return, his eyes dark and hot.
It took her a moment to realize they had stopped walking, and another moment to realize that he was going to kiss her. Before she could decide whether she wanted him to or not, his mouth was on hers. His skin might have been cool, but there was nothing cool about his kiss! At the first touch of his lips on hers, heat engulfed her, a conflagration that threatened to consume her. His arms imprisoned her, drawing her body up against his. She shivered as she felt his hand slide up the back of her neck to delve into her hair.
He deepened the kiss, his tongue plundering her mouth, his arms tightening around her until she could scarcely move, scarcely breathe. Her heart was beating rapidly, pounding in her ears so loudly she wondered that he didn't hear it, too.
Or perhaps he did. He drew back, his gaze lingering on the pulse beating in the hollow of her throat. He placed his forefinger there, ever so lightly, and her heart beat even faster.
He lowered his head to her neck and took a deep breath, giving her the oddest impression that he was inhaling the scent of her blood.
The thought, though far-fetched, made her uncomfortable and she stepped away from him. "I think we'd better go."
"Yes," he said quietly. "I think that would be wise."
He took her by the hand and they resumed walking. She had to hurry to keep up with him, making her wonder if he was suddenly anxious to get her home and be rid of her.
They reached her house a short time later. It was a large two-story clapboard house with a tall chimney and a wraparound porch. During the spring and summer, roses and daisies grew in wild profusion behind the white picket fence. An enormous pepper tree shaded one side of the front yard.
Vicki opened the gate and he followed her up the red brick path to the porch. She opened the front door, then turned to face him.
"Thank you for walking me home," she said.
He nodded. "Keep your doors locked, Victoria Cavendish."
She frowned. She never locked her front door, or the back one either, for that matter.
"Humor me in this," he said. "At least for a time."
"On one condition," she said.
He lifted one dark brow in question. It reminded her of a bat taking flight.
"Tell me your name."
"Ah." What might have passed for an amused smile tugged at his lips.
"You do have a name, don't you?"
"Of course. Even the devil has a name."
The tone of his voice sent a shiver of unease down her spine. "And do you know it?"
she asked hoarsely. "The devil's name?"
His expression turned hard and cold. "I do, indeed. It is a name you do not wish to know." He made a graceful, old-fashioned bow. "But my name is Antonio Battista."
She took a step backward, one hand clutching the edge of the door. "Good night, Mr.
Battista."
"Buona notte."
Vicki glanced over her shoulder. The inside of the house was dark and quiet. She had entered that same dark house after work countless times before. Why was she afraid now?
"Would you do me a favor?" she asked.
"If I can."
"Would you wait here while I check the house?"
He nodded.
Taking a step back, she motioned him inside.
He glanced at the threshold that separated them. "Are you inviting me in?"
"Yes, of course. Come on."
With a nod, he crossed the threshold and stepped into the small entryway. "Do you often invite strangers into your home?"
"No. I'll just be a minute." Hurrying through the house, she turned on all the lights, then returned to the front door.
"Thank you." She grinned self-consciously. "I'm not usually such a 'fraidy cat, but the murders… "
"You are right to be cautious," he replied. "Remember what I said. Lock your doors. And bid no stranger to enter."
He was a stranger. Even as the thought crossed her mind, he had descended the stairs and disappeared into the night.
Vicki stared into the darkness. How could he have vanished so quickly? And how could he walk on the brick pathway without making a sound?
She closed the door and turned the lock, then hurried into the kitchen to lock the back door as well. Filled with a sudden anxiety, she moved through the house again, closing and locking all the windows and drawing the curtains, both upstairs and down.
She paused in the middle of her room, one hand pressed to her heart. What was she doing? Why had she let him frighten her like that? She had lived in Pear Blossom Creek her whole life and never worried about locking her doors.
But there had never been a murder before, either.
The thought sobered her. She would be foolish indeed not to take precautions, at least until the murderer was caught.
And what if Antonio Battista is the murderer?
The words moved through her mind. She didn't know a thing about him, yet she had let him walk her home. Of course, there was no harm in that. He already knew where she lived. Hadn't he said he had been watching her house? Still, he was a stranger. It had no doubt been the height of stupidity to let him into the house. She pressed a hand to her breast. She wouldn't make that mistake again! Although if he had intended to do her harm, he had just passed up the perfect opportunity.
Shaking off her worrisome thoughts, she went into the kitchen in search of her favorite comfort food. Something deep and dark and rich. It took her a moment to decide between a bowl of chocolate ice cream or a candy bar. Thinking of Sharlene, she decided life was too short not to indulge herself once in a while and with that in mind, she ate a big bowl of ice cream topped with hot fudge and whipped cream, with a Milky Way on the side, and went up to bed.
Later, when she was snuggled under the covers in the big old four-poster bed that had belonged to her grandmother, it was hard to believe that there was anything to be afraid of. She had always felt safe within these walls. Sometimes she thought she could feel her grandmother's spirit nearby, watching out for her.
With that comforting thought in mind, Vicki closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep, and in sleeping, began to dream.
She was walking through a dark wood. A brilliant silver moon hung low in the heavens, yet it did not penetrate the darkness beneath the trees. A voice warned her not to enter the woods but something deep within her compelled her to continue, and so she moved deeper and deeper into the forest. Deeper and deeper into the darkness. And then, far ahead, she saw a faint light that grew brighter as she moved toward it. As she drew closer, she saw that the light came from a single candle burning in the window of a small wooden cottage. The door opened of its own volition. She hesitated at the threshold, knowing that if she crossed it her life would be forever changed. And then she saw Battista. He was standing in front of an enormous fireplace. The flames rose behind him, casting eerie red and orange shadows on the walls and the floor, touching his long black hair with streaks of crimson. He held a goblet made of hammered gold in his hands. He offered it to her, but she backed away, afraid to look at the contents, afraid to look at him. Frightened now, she turned to leave, but the door was no longer open. She glanced over her shoulder, looking for another way out. But there was none.
She looked at Battista, an appeal for help rising in her throat, but one look at his face told her he would not help her. Eyes burning like fire, he tossed the goblet aside and moved toward her. His long black duster flared behind him like some ominous shadow.
She tried to run, but her legs refused to move. And then he was there, bending over her, his fangs bared. She cried out in fear as he lowered his head toward her neck, screamed in terror when she felt the sharp sting of his fangs at her throat…
Battista prowled the shadows around Victoria 's house, his preternatural senses probing the night. He had no proof that Dimitri Falco was in the area, or even in the country, but there was obviously a vampire hunting in the area and some deep, preternatural instinct told him that it was either Falco or another like him.
There were two types of vampires in the world: those who had shed all of their humanity and those who clung to an illusion of their old life. The first type no longer considered themselves to be a part of the human race. Seeing themselves as superior beings, they preyed on humans the way any predator preyed on the weak and the helpless, killing without mercy. The second type held on to the illusion of their old life, their old ways.
They took blood because there was no life without it, because the pain of abstaining was beyond bearing.
Dimitri Falco was the first type. Strong, powerful, arrogant. He had been made by Khira, who had been made by Alexi Kristov, an ancient vampire who had been one of the most powerful of their kind. Battista could hardly credit the fact that Khira had been destroyed. She had been defeated, not by another vampire, not by a hunter, but by a mortal woman. It was something worth remembering and only proved that no matter how old or how strong a vampire might be, they were all vulnerable. To the amusement of the Undead around the world, Edward Ramsey had been turned the night Khira was destroyed. The hunter had become the hunted.
Battista was about to find a place to settle down for the night when he heard Victoria scream.
He was in the house and at her bedside almost before the thought crossed his mind.
Vicki woke with the sound of her own cries ringing in her ears, screamed again as a dark shape materialized out of the shadows in a corner of her room.
"Do not be afraid," admonished a deep voice. "It is only me."
Hoping she was still dreaming, Vicki bolted upright, the blankets clutched to her chest.
