Dark Salvation Part 23

He stopped, so suddenly she ran into him, and turned to face the east. The first tender fingers of rosy pink were stretching out, tinting the gray sky around them a soft baby blue. Was that really what it looked like? It had been so long since he'd seen a sunrise.

He felt the warmth of Rebecca's presence beside him, and pulled her close. He wanted her to share this beautiful sunrise with him.

"Desmond?" she whispered. "Hon? You're crus.h.i.+ng my hand."

He loosed his grip on her fingers, and whispered back, "Isn't it amazing?"

A golden glow edged the buildings, sliding up into the sky. The rays of sunlight slid from pink, to peach, to orange, to gold, and the sky deepened from a cold pale blue to a brilliant robin's egg blue.

Fluffy white clouds drifted across the sky, blocking the sun from his sight. But he could see the light,burning, lighting the entire sky.

Rebecca tugged on his hand, and he forced his gaze away from the beautiful sunny sky. Her gray eyes were dark in her pale face.

"What is it? You're frightening me."

"Wasn't that sunrise beautiful?"

"It's just a trick. Special effects. Lights and mirrors." She reached up and touched his cheek. "My G.o.d, are you crying?"

"No, of course not." He blinked, and struggled to get his feelings under control. Normal human beings didn't react this way. "I was staring at the light for too long."

"Yeah, I noticed." She tilted her head and studied him, not quite mollified. "But why were you staring at it?"

"I'd never seen anything like it before."

"Oh." She chuckled, and turned the same soft rose as the sunrise. "You just seemed so blase about the other sights of the city. I forgot you've seen them before."

He returned her smile, even though he didn't feel like smiling. A cold knot of fear was growing in his stomach. When he'd seen the sunrise, he'd been inspired. She was so close to him, almost a part of him, that he'd instinctively tried to share the experience with her. Thank G.o.d her mental s.h.i.+elds had been up.

Without that mental communion, she hadn't understood the meaning behind his comments. Which was a relief. If she had, it all might have been over. If she found out what he was before they were married, she might run back to New York and leave him forever.

No, he had to keep his secret hidden. He couldn't tell her until he was sure the knowledge wouldn't drive her away from him. He only hoped the day would come when he could tell her. And that the day did not come too late.

Chapter 15.

REBECCA KNEW she'd remember this moment forever. Desmond, handsome as the devil in a black tuxedo, framed against a backdrop of scarlet and pink lilies and the delicate white wedding bells of lilies-of-the-valley, taking her hand in his strong, warm fingers. Sliding the cold metal of the ring onto her finger, and clasping his hand around hers until the gold heated beneath his touch. Staring deep into her eyes as he intoned his vow.

"With this ring, I pledge my love to you. I will honor and cherish you, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health. We shall be as one, all the days of our lives."

The minister turned to her, and prompted, "Miss Morgan?"

She was drowning in the emerald sea of Desmond's eyes, sparkling jewels that shone with his love for her. She could lose herself in those eyes, drown and never come back up for air. And she wouldn't mind in the least. United, heart and soul, for eternity.

The minister coughed, and Desmond gave her fingers a quick squeeze. She blinked, and felt a hot flush cover her cheeks. Taking the ring from the minister, she lifted Desmond's hand. Following the minister's prompting, she repeated the vow.

"With this ring, I pledge my love to you. I will honor and cherish you, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health. We shall be as one, all the days of our lives."

The gold band slid on smoothly, nestling at the base of his finger. She wrapped her fingers around his hand, needing to feel the ring's solid weight. It was real. They were married.

The minister continued speaking, but she ignored him, watching Desmond. The rosy light from the stained gla.s.s panel gilded his features, highlighting the rich fullness of his lips. Lips which smiled, and parted, as he bent his head toward her. Closing her eyes, she lifted her face to his and received his lips in a kiss that was as much promise as offering.

He pulled back, smiling down at her. She smiled back, deliriously happy. Everything was perfect.

"Congratulations," the minister interrupted. She smiled at him, too. She'd smile at the whole world, but the chapel held only the witnesses needed to make the ceremony legal. So she smiled at them. "Thank you," Desmond answered, his voice soft and husky. Their wedding had affected him as deeply as it had her.

He released her hand long enough to shake hands with the minister, and receive the payment envelope.

While Desmond filled the envelope, the minister shook her hand, too, and kissed her cheek. Then Desmond was leading her down the aisle, between the ribbon-festooned benches, and out to the car.

He kissed her again before settling her into her seat, and again before starting the ignition. They stopped at the light by the mall, and he took the opportunity for a long, lingering kiss that left her breathless. Sliding his hand up her new white stockings, he pushed aside the layered white chiffon skirt of the dress they'd bought just a few hours ago. The heat of his hand burned her thigh, sending a flash fire skittering across her skin. He pulled his hand back to s.h.i.+ft the car, and his absence chilled her like a January midnight. Then he was back, sliding his palm even higher, cupping her in heat and touching off a firestorm of need.

She s.h.i.+fted in her seat, pressing against him. "Are we there yet?"

"Almost." He sounded as breathless as she did.

He jerked the wheel, making a one-handed turn that got them into the hotel's driveway, but almost clipped one of the fir trees pillaring the drive. Slamming on the brake, he threw the car out of gear as soon as it stopped. He cut the ignition, opened the door, and was helping her out of the car before the valet had closed half the distance to their car. They abandoned it, trusting that the valet would know what to do with it, and hurried through the hotel doors.

The clinking and blinking machines sounded like an angelic choir, come to serenade them on their special day. Holding hands, they hurried to the elevators, not quite breaking into a run. When the elevator came, Desmond took advantage of their privacy to lean her against the mirrored wall and kiss her senseless.

The elevator chimed. Desmond stepped away, leaving her dazed with pa.s.sion. She had a brief vision of how she must appear to him, her gray eyes glittering with desire beneath half-closed lids, her lips swollen and dark red from the force of their kisses. His strong fingers twisted in the silk of her hair, pulling her closer, and then the doors slid open.

They ran from the elevator, pelting down the hall to their room. Desmond fumbled to work the lock as she wrapped her arms around his waist and rubbed herself against him.

"Hurry," she whispered, her breath steaming against his ear. She slid her hands lower, and felt his trembling reaction to her touch.

The door opened and they fell inside, stumbling toward the bed. She unzipped her dress and pulled it over her head, and he pulled off his topcoat, tie and c.u.mmerbund. He unb.u.t.toned his s.h.i.+rt, while she stripped off her slip. She reached for her bra strap just as he unb.u.t.toned his pants. Then they stopped.

And looked at each other.

"Curtains," she said, just as he said, "Condoms."

They rushed to the far sides of the room, he to wrench closed the drapes, and she to retrieve the box of protection they'd purchased with her stockings. Coming together again, they finished undressing each other, trembling hands slowing them down and adding to their urgency. Finally, they both stood naked in the center of the room. He was so handsome, she could die from looking at him. And he was ready for her, too.

She slid the condom over him, making him groan at the agony of her whisper soft touch. Grabbing her shoulders, he threw her to the bed and tumbled on top of her.

The past week of denial had only inspired her longing, and now she arched and writhed against him, unable to get enough of him. Wrapping her arms around him, she clawed at his back, trying to draw him even closer. They branded each other with kisses, scorching marks across shoulders, chests and necks.

He plunged inside her, and she screamed in need. His hands were behind her, pulling her closer, and she raked his back, striving to be closer still. He bent his head to kiss her neck, hot, liquid kisses that fueled her pa.s.sion to an intensity she'd never dreamed of. She couldn't see. She couldn't think. She was consumed by need, a wildfire blazing out of control. And only one thing would satisfy her. Opening her mouth wide, she pressed a heated kiss to the pounding vein in his throat. And then drove her teeththrough the skin.

Hot, salty blood spilled out of him as he collapsed on top of her, his seed bloating the condom. She kissed and nuzzled, transported by their communion, even as he kissed and nuzzled her. She no longer knew where she stopped and he began. They were truly united as one.

Then the rhythmic stroking of his tongue faltered. A shudder ripped through him, shaking them apart, and he pulled back to stare at her in wide-eyed horror. She blinked, not understanding, and reached for him, only to have him recoil away from her.

"No. Oh dear G.o.d, no." All the color drained from his face, and she saw for the first time the ragged cut on his neck, and the blood smeared across his shoulder and chest. He leapt from the bed and ran into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. But she still had time to see the ma.s.s of fresh red welts scarring his back.

She sat up in the bed, and looked at her hands. One of her nails was broken, and a thin layer of sticky crimson covered her fingertips. She brought it closer, fascinated by the gleaming red surface. Then she popped the tip of one finger into her mouth, drawing off the sweet warmth.

She yanked her finger from her mouth and started s.h.i.+vering. What was wrong with her? What had she done?

Closing her eyes, she let a brokenhearted moan escape her before plunging her head into the pillow, and m.u.f.fling her sobs beneath another pillow. She'd ruined everything. Desmond thought she was some sort of psychopath, a deranged Black Widow who literally wanted to devour him. If he wanted an immediate divorce, no judge would refuse him after seeing the injuries she'd inflicted on him. The one man she'd ever love, and she'd chased him away in horror. But why? Why?

Stifling a sob, she let the tears course down her cheeks and wash away the blood staining her face. If only she could as easily wash away the memory of what she'd done.

DESMOND CROUCHED on the floor of the bathroom, the cool tile wall soothing against his back. He was probably staining it with blood. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except Rebecca, and what he'd done to her.

He'd lived with the blood thirst for so long, he'd ceased paying attention to it, much as normal human beings drink water as a matter of course, and only think about it on long trips or after exerting themselves. But she'd been unprepared for the fierce craving.

They'd wanted to be close to each other. Whether he'd lowered his s.h.i.+elds too far, or she'd mastered her telepathic powers enough to break through them, didn't matter. The result was the same in either case. A complete merging of thought, so that they truly had been united in body and mind. And while he could control his cursed needs, she could not.

He buried his face in his hands. And to think he'd been worried about protecting her from accidental infection. Instead, she'd chosen the most direct source of contamination, by drinking his blood. The memory of her hot tongue, lapping at his neck, flooded him with desire. He wanted nothing more than to go back out there and rip open a vein, filling her with his essence. And he would no longer confine himself to tasting her sweetness. No, he would plunder her spirit, and absorb her into himself. They'd share each other so deeply, they'd be transformed by the experience.

He'd already stood and walked halfway to the door, but that phrase stopped him cold. Transformed.

Clutching the marble sink top, he bent his head. No. He couldn't risk it. He could control his own urges, but it was a control won after decades of effort. She couldn't afford that kind of time to master her desires, not when one mistake could mean her death. The only solution was complete and total abstinence. Not only couldn't he touch her, he couldn't even open his mind to her. He didn't dare risk anything less comprehensive. This was one error he couldn't repeat.

A sudden cold chilled him from the inside out, as he realized it might already be too late. She could have already become infected. What if she was dying now?

He threw open the bathroom door. She lay face down on the bed, naked and still, a pillow over her head. A brief fear that she'd smothered herself slashed through his heart. But no, she was breathing, and her heart beat steadily. Her mind held only the blank fog of a dreamless sleep. Not daring to touch her, or even go any nearer to the bed, he pulled on the clothes he'd worn earlier, before changing into the tuxedo. Grabbing one of his medicine bottles, he left the room. He needed to think, and he couldn't do it near her. With any luck, the shopping arcade was still open, even if the stores were closed. He'd like to see the sunrise again.

He was forced to settle for a secluded back booth in the 24-hour cafe. After ordering a cheeseburger, rare, and a pot of coffee, he opened the medicine bottle and took a swig. It had warmed to room temperature. He drained the rest of the bottle, feeling the kick of renewal as his body started converting the liquid.

He set the empty bottle on the table and stared at it. Plain black gla.s.s, nothing to reveal the dark secret it contained. Modernized, sanitized, it was as far removed from a living, breathing human being as his coming cheeseburger was removed from a steer. But it hadn't always been that way.

In the early days of their curse, he and Philippe wore masks and robes to drink sacrificial blood at Voodoo ceremonies, restoring the strength sapped daily by the sun. Then one day, after too many hours riding under the harsh summer sun, they killed a man.

That night, Desmond made a vow. He would never allow his need for blood to blind him to others'

humanity. He vowed to take only that which was freely offered, and no more. It was a vow he'd never broken in all the years that followed, no matter how desperate his situation had been.

His order arrived, recalling him to the present.

Not two hours ago, he'd made another vow. To Rebecca. He'd promised to love, honor and cherish her. Less than two hours, and he'd already failed her. Or maybe not. He didn't knew how the blood he drank made it into his bloodstream, but there was no similar route in normal human beings. It was possible that the infected blood Rebecca had swallowed hadn't been able to contaminate her system.

When Desmond stopped to consider it, the odds were fairly high against his cursed blood surviving intact in her system. But even a million-to-one chance was too much risk to ever take again.

He glanced at his watch. They'd never make it back to the Inst.i.tute before sunrise. Then he smiled grimly, remembering his earlier comment to Rebecca. The Lamborghini had a top cruising speed of 196 miles per hour. They'd make it.

REBECCA PULLED her head out from under the pillow and glanced sleepily around the room, wondering what had awakened her. The bathroom door was open, and the room beyond was empty and dark. Desmond. She sat up and searched the room. His clothing was gone. He was gone.

She threw off the sheets and climbed out of bed. The time for tears had pa.s.sed. It was time to take action. She wasn't sure exactly what she'd do, yet, but she'd start by taking a shower.

When she flipped on the bathroom light, she saw blood stains, smeared down the white tile wall. She looked at her hands, seeing the dark brown stains beneath her nails, and remembered the way she'd clawed at Desmond's back. Dear G.o.d.

She stepped closer to the wall, then screwed up her courage and touched the stain. Flakes of red-brown fell from the tile. Spinning around, she grabbed a wash cloth and doused it with hot water.

The stain yielded to her scrubbing, and in no time at all, the wall was clean. No trace remained of what she had done to Desmond.

Stepping into the shower, she blasted herself with scalding hot water, trying to erase all signs of what had happened. The dried blood washed away, even the stains beneath her nails. But no matter how hard she scrubbed, she couldn't remove her own horror at her actions.

She conceded defeat, and toweled off. She dressed in clean clothing, and put away the clothes she'd worn earlier. The wedding dress seemed to mock her, with it's virginal white. She'd been anything but timid and innocent.

Finished with her own clothing, she folded and put away Desmond's tuxedo. She traced the satin edging of the lapels with her fingers, and sighed. It was supposed to be so different. This should have been the happiest day of her life. But she'd ruined it. The script didn't call for her to attack her new husband and send him fleeing in horror.

She stuffed the tuxedo into a drawer, and turned her attention to the bed. The stains wouldn't comeout, but she could hide them. Struggling to make the bed, despite sheets that stuck to each other where the blood had matted, she tried to puzzle out the twist of her psychology that had made her react like this.

Since she'd made love to Desmond before without attacking him, the difference had to be that they were married now. And the only explanation she could think of that made any sense to her was that deep down, she was reinforcing her childhood image of marriage, by trying to kill her husband. When she got back to the Inst.i.tute, she'd look up a local psychiatrist, and make an appointment to try and work this all out. But in the meantime, it would be safest for both of them if she didn't get too close to Desmond.

The hotel room door opened, and Desmond walked in, a black medicine bottle in his hand. She winced. He suffered from a blood disorder. Maybe she'd remembered that, subconsciously, and attacked him at his weakest point.

Desmond glanced around the room, but didn't comment on her cleaning. Instead, he asked, "Are you packed? We're leaving."

"Now? In the middle of the night?"

For an answer, he just stared at her. His eyes, always so bright and glittering with emotion, were the flat green of antique bottle gla.s.s. She pulled her suitcase from the closet and started emptying the drawers into it.

She heard him making phone calls to the front desk, bell captain and valet parking. Apparently their guests did not usually check out at this hour, since he had to repeatedly a.s.sure them that he was not dissatisfied with their service. Rebecca finished packing her bag, and turned to where his suitcase sat on the folding luggage stand. The only thing he'd taken out had been the tuxedo, and she repacked that while he was arguing with the parking attendant.

He hung up the phone. After a long moment of silence, he turned to face her.

"The bellman will be up in a few minutes. They should have our car ready by the time we get down to the lobby."

"Good." She twisted her wedding ring around her finger, and added, "I packed your suitcase, too."

"Thank you."

She stood by the suitcases, waiting for him to say something about what had happened. He didn't.

Finally, she couldn't take the waiting any longer.

"About what happened earlier-"

"I don't think anything more needs to be said." His face had the rigid determination Rebecca remembered from when he'd first described Gillian's disease. "We made a mistake, and we won't make it again."

She loved him more in that instant that she ever had before. Instead of reviling her for what she'd done, he was willing to take a share of the blame. He couldn't have any idea why she'd acted the way she did, yet he didn't accuse her. He didn't want to get rid of her. He was sticking by her, just as he'd promised to do in his wedding vows, for better or for worse. A horrible new interpretation of his words occurred to her.

"By a mistake, did you mean...?" Unable to finish the sentence, she held out her left hand so that the light reflected off of her wedding ring.

"No! I will not forsake my vow." He started to take a step towards her, then checked himself.

She turned away so that he wouldn't see the relief in her face. Relief and shame. She shouldn't have doubted him.

A knock at the door spared her from having to answer him. "I'll get it," she said, and opened the door for the bellman and his cart.