Dead After Dark_Shadow of the Moon Read online

  There were a lot of unanswered questions. Michael still had no idea who his father was or whether there were any other vampires on the planet. They were both worried about their children's futures and the isolation at the estate and the fact that kids needed friends their own age. And health care was an issue because how could they take the children to a human doctor?

  Generally, though, things were better than imaginable. Claire managed the huge Leeds fortune. Michael home-schooled the children. Luke and Gabriella were thriving and healthy.

  It was a good life. An odd life, but a good life.And there was some news to share. "You're a very good father, you know that?" Claire said, brushing back her man's hip-length hair.

  Michael kissed her neck. "You're a very good mother. And a perfect wife. And a brilliant businesswoman. I don't know how you do it all."

  "Time management is a wonderful thing." Claire put her husband's hand on her belly. "And I'm going to need to do a little more managing."

  Michael froze. "Claire?" She laughed. "You were very busy with me last month and it seems as if. . ."

  He hugged her tight and trembled a little. She knew there were moments when the abuse and imprisonment came back to him, and unfortunately it was typically when he got good news. All these years later, he still struggled with anything he viewed as lucky or miraculous. It made him feel, he said, as if he were in danger of waking up and having this new life of his be just a dream.

  "Are you okay? Do you feel all right?" he asked, pulling back, eyes going over her.

  "Fine. As always, I'm fine." The home births were not a walk in the park, but through Mick, who seemed to know someone who knew someone about all things, they'd found a midwife they could trust.

  Michael rubbed her tummy. "You make me so happy. So proud."

  "Right back at you." He kissed her as he always did, lingering before he pulled away. Funny, after all their time together, he still hated to part their mouths.

  "If it's a boy, I'd like to call him Matthew or Mark," she said.

  "And a girl?" "Michael can be a girl's name as well." Claire grinned. "And have I mentioned how much I like that name? Michael is a great name."

  Her husband dipped his head. With their lips touching, he said softly, "It might have come up once before. Yes, if I do recall correctly, that is your favorite name."

  "My very favorite." Claire smiled as she was thoroughly kissed by the vampire she loved. While she wrapped her arms around her husband, she thought, yes, they definitely needed another Michael in the family.

  BEYOND THE NIGHT

  by

  Susan Squires

  1

  Drew Carlowe fingered the heavy iron ring of keys in his breast pocket as he pushed into the Goose and Gander. Grim satisfaction suffused him. He was about to get his life back, along with a heaping portion of the cold revenge that had filled his dreams for so long.

  It had been nearly fifteen years since he'd set foot in the little tavern. He was making a huge wager that no one would recognize The Maples' young groom Andy. He had a mature man's bulk of muscle from hard labor now, and his face had grown more angular, more lined with care. A scar ran across his cheek from a cutlass. It stood out whitely against the tan provided by the years at sea. His eyes looked much bluer, his hair much blonder with his new coloring. Young, guileless Andy Cooper, lover of horses and Sir Melaphont's daughter, was long gone.

  The September evening was unseasonably hot and the tavern had all its doors and windows open, beaming light and raucous laughter into the darkness. It still smelled of yeasty ale and yesterday's cabbage and mutton special, as it always had. It was crowded with the working classes and a couple of gentleman farmers. The noise subsided at the entrance of a stranger.

  He bore their scrutiny and stepped to the bar. "A pint of ale and a beefsteak," he ordered. He didn't ask for a private parlor. The little inn didn't have one. He'd have to eat his dinner in the taproom with everyone else. So be it. He was famished and the risk had to be faced sooner or later.

  "Yes, milord," the owner said, eyeing the cut of his coat and the polish on his boots. Barton didn't recognize him. That was good. Drew would have known Barton anywhere. The long fringe around his head never had made up for the bald pate that shone above it.

  "Just plain Mr. Carlowe," he corrected. "Carlowe, is it?" old Mr. Henley wheezed, sidling up to him. "Rumor 'as it ye mean to buy Ashland."

  "Signed the papers this afternoon." The keys against his heart felt like a triumph.

  The attention of the room was riveted on him now. Barton slapped down a tankard of foaming ale in front of him. "Too bad," he muttered.

  Drew frowned. He had expected them to be impressed. Ashland was second only to The Maples in grandeur hereabouts. It must be big news that it was purchased at last after standing empty for so many years. "I'll renovate of course." It had been half-ruined even when he was nineteen. "And I'll need a staff." That would be good for the neighborhood.

  "Don't think nobody will work up at Ashland," old Mr. Henley observed, looking pointedly at his empty glass with a rheumy eye.

  Did they know he was an imposter? Was that why no one would work for him? He'd studied carefully to remove all traces of the stable in his accent and avoid any lapse in his taste and style. "Why not?" he challenged.

  "Th' place is 'aunted," Old Henley said, cackling. Drew relaxed. Those rumors had been rampant even when he was a boy. "Every empty house has ghosts according to the locals." He motioned to Barton to give Henley a pint.

  "This house 'as just got th' one," Barton said as he turned the spigot on the barrel. "A beautiful young woman."

  "Perhaps I'll enjoy having a beautiful ghost." Drew grinned. He hadn't had a woman in a long time. Once he'd cashed out, he'd saved himself for Emily.

  "Not when ye run screaming from th' 'ouse because th' ghost 'as sucked yer blood," a farmer guffawed. There were nods around the room and chuckles.

  Drew smiled. "Vampires suck blood, not ghosts." "I'll wager ye won't spend a full night in th' place," Barton said. He wasn't smiling.

  A little game of "intimidate the stranger." Every village played it.

  "I intend to go up there later tonight. Shall we stake a pint of beer then?"

  Barton set a pint down in front of Old Henley. "Ye're on." There were things he wanted to know that the house agent hadn't been able to tell him. What better place for information than the Goose and Gander? "I'm sure my ghost can't compete with Sir Melaphont's daughter for beauty. The agent, Bromley, was singing her praises." Actually the agent for Ashland didn't know Emily, which could be thought strange since he worked for Melaphont. Melaphont acted for the family that owned Ashland, since they lived in some obscure corner of world. The Carpathian Mountains, wasn't it?

  Old Henley cackled. "Pretty much th' same, they are, I'd say."

  That brought knowing chuckles along the length of the bar.

  A thought occurred. He was shocked he hadn't thought of it before. "Is Miss Emily Melaphont married?"

  "Not any more," Henley remarked, pulling on his ale."Is. . . is she resident here abouts?" "Why, Mr. Carlowe? Lookin' for a 'eiress?" A man to his left smirked over his tankard.

  "No need." Drew smiled. "Made my fortune in shipping." True. Technically. "Always good to have young ladies of birth in the neighborhood, though. Gentles the place."

  Old Henley looked thoughtful. "She's still 'ere. Ain't never left."

  His heart expanded. He had known she'd wait for him. The years away had been painful. But he couldn't come back until he could hold his head high. Until he could look her in the eye and ask her to come away with him, knowing he could provide for her in the fashion to which she was accustomed. It was a terrible risk he took now. But he was tired of living a half-life of regret, the victim of another man's spite. He didn't want to be a victim any more.

  "Barton," he called then cursed himself. The man had never introduced himself. But no, it was all right. He might have heard the tapster's name f
rom a customer. "Can you deliver supplies up there?" He'd have to make do for himself until he could find servants.

  Barton looked uncertain. "Surely someone has the courage to leave a package in the kitchen if they go in the bright light of day?" These superstitious villagers were far more annoying now than when he had been one of them. "I pay quite handsomely."

  "I can get a boy to leave a box by th' door, I guess, though we're short'anded because of th' influenza." He motioned to a table where the serving girl was setting a sizzling beefsteak. "I'll send one up tomorrow, if ye're still 'ere."

  Drew laughed and took his drink over to the table. "The devil himself won't keep me away."

  Freya sat in the window seat, looking out through mullioned windows over what once were the formal gardens. They were overgrown with weeds and wildflowers now. The full moon rode low over the hot night. It was only nine o'clock. The darkness stretched ahead. Moles were making heaps. A fox trotted over the meadow beyond the gardens that stretched down to the cliffs and the sea. She saw well in the dark, of course, much better than humans. The fecund, salty scent of the sea hung in the still air. Not a breath was stirring, making one wonder how the cypress trees had been bent away from the cliff's edge. Freya caught herself. She didn't want to wonder anything. She wanted to sit, quietly, as she always did these days, not thinking, or feeling. They said time healed everything. What did they know about time?

  She daubed the perspiration at the place between her breasts with a handkerchief. Even the diaphanous white gowns she wore seemed oppressive in this heat.

  She heard the horse long before she saw it, of course. She stood, sighing. One of the young men from the village must have accepted a dare to stay in the house. She thought they had tired of that after the last one had wet himself as he scrambled for the door. He was so pathetic she hadn't even bothered to take blood from him. She hadn't been in need, having fed several nights earlier in Tintagel. That had been more than six months ago and she'd had peace and quiet since then. Or as much peace as her thoughts left her.

  Tonight was a different matter. She did need blood. Perhaps it was as well that hubris and ignorance had sent this callow youth her way. She'd frighten him, take what she needed, and send him back to the village blubbering of ghosts with two drooling bites on his neck but otherwise none the worse for wear. That would keep others away.

  She rose and turned into the room. The dust covers were still on the furniture. She hadn't bothered to remove them, though she'd been here a year. The only mark that she spent her days here was the bed, which was neatly made, and actually had clean sheets on it.

  The horse did not pull up at the front portico but headed round for the stables. That was odd. Usually they left their horses tied near the doorway so they could be away quickly. She glided out the door and down the dusty hall. Dust was the worst of her situation. It made her sneeze. And spider-webs, of course. Hastening down the servants' stairway and out through the kitchens, she saw a light flicker on in the stable.

  Well, the intruder was certainly bold. She stepped quietly across the yard and slid through the open stable door into the shadows.

  The horse heard her if his owner did not. He sidled away, snorting, as the intruder tried to uncinch his girth. The prowler was a man, not a boy. All she could see was his silhouette, but no boy had shoulders like that, or thighs. How long it had been since she had had a man? The parasite that ran in her veins and made her what she was, her Companion, worshipped life. What surer urge to life than the sexual act? So she was easily aroused. That was her curse. She shut down those thoughts. She, of any of them, was not to be trusted with thoughts like that.

  "Whoa, now, Darley," the intruder soothed, in a baritone that came from no callow youth. "What's wrong with you, boy?"

  The horse quieted when she stilled herself. Animals always liked her. It was the energy she emanated. The man heaved the saddle off and turned into the light to lay it over the edge of a stall door. His breeches were close about his thighs and bulged in just the right place. Hmmmm. Interesting. His riding boots were made by the finest of bootmakers. He was in his shirtsleeves, his collar open in the heat. His sleeves were rolled up over strong forearms, and his shirt clung damply to his body. He had blond hair, tanned skin, and very, very blue eyes. He also had a scar along his left cheek, white against his tan. That might distract the simpler of those he met into thinking he was not handsome. Hunger itched along her veins as she saw the pulse throb in the damp skin at his throat. He was definitely no boy. The lines in his face were as hard and unforgiving as the scar. But his mouth was soft and full. Incongruous. Interesting even.

  But she wasn't interested in men. Not any more. She couldn't be trusted around them. She jerked her eyes to his horse, as he pulled the bridle over its head. The creature was magnificent: big, well muscled, with a piercing eye and flaring nostrils. Just now the horse was sweating from the ride up from the village. It would take quite a rider to master this beast.

  "Good thing you were fed in the village, boy. There's no hay in this molding old place." He led the horse into a stall. "You'll have to make do." He followed the horse in and took some handfuls of old straw to rub it down. She watched the muscles move in his back and arms. The fine linen of his shirt was made almost transparent by his perspiration. She remembered that smell now, the scent of a man sweating. The throb began between her legs. She mustn't let the beast within her rouse itself. But she couldn't stop watching him. He looked up once or twice and peered around. He sensed her presence. He would feel her vibrations. Most humans sensed it only as vitality, an aliveness that made her incredibly attractive. But he shook his head and chuckled at himself, apparently writing off his senses to the tales he must have heard about the place being haunted.

  She glanced to a large valise that sat just outside the circle of light from the lamp. No intruder had ever brought a valise. An uneasy feeling settled on her.

  Nonsense. He'd be running down the road, leaving his beautiful horse behind, just after he nodded off. She'd see to that. And she'd have quenched her hunger.

  Perhaps she should wait and go to one of the surrounding villages for her blood. Perhaps it was a danger to engage in the sensuous act of feeding with this one. She daren't give in to the rising pressure between her legs.

  He picked up the lantern and the valise and, with one glance behind him, strode out the door. He certainly didn't look afraid. She'd fix that.

  She glided after him. Where did he plan to wait for her? Probably in the front drawing room in the main wing of the house. He'd sit up with his lantern, pretending to read, just to say he'd spent the night. A wager no doubt. Which she would insure he lost.

  But he didn't go round to the front again. He went in through the kitchen door. She slid after him. Holding his lamp high, he found another and lighted it, and another. He rummaged around until he found the candles she had ordered—her supplies were brought from three villages over in Tremail, far enough away that the house's reputation was not a problem. He lit a candelabra full of candles. Not good. The kitchen was fairly bright now. He looked around, surprised. She drifted into the maw of the pantry where the light did not penetrate. The kitchen was the one room she kept tidy. No dust here. And her supplies were in evidence if he looked. He did, peering into cupboards. He found the flour, the vegetables, the smoked ham. He stood, and after thinking a moment, he walked to the great kitchen fireplace. She sighed.

  He held out his hands and felt the heat. When he kicked at the banked coals the ashes fell away, revealing the last glow of the fire she had used to heat water for her tea.

  "Well, well, well," he murmured. "Ghosts, have we? More likely trespassers."

  That didn't seem to frighten him, either. He pumped water into two buckets. Pouring the buckets into the cauldron to heat, he stirred the coals into a blaze. Then he took a lantern and started off to explore the house.

  He settled on a bedroom in the main block that overlooked the gardens in the back, just a
s hers did from the ruined side wing. She watched from the shadowed dressing room as he opened the windows wide and flung the Holland covers from the furniture. Dust hung in the air, and she had to hold her nose to prevent sneezes. The man was not here for one night, at least in his own mind. He was moving in. He hung two coats and several shirts in the wardrobe, and placed folded cravats and smalls in the highboy drawers. Breeches went in the bottom drawers. She had to retreat to the adjacent bedroom when he came in to rummage in the dressing room. What was the stupid creature looking for?

  She heard him drag it out. A bathtub. This was not good. She slipped back into the dressing room. The door was left wide open. Not tidy, this man. He had the tub out in the middle of the old Turkey carpet in front of the fireplace. He took the candelabra and strode out into the hall. He was so . . . purposeful. Soon he was back with two huge buckets of water and some soap from her stores. He poured the steaming water into the bath and took off again. This time when he returned he had clean sheets tucked under one arm and two more buckets of water. He poured these into the bath as well and bent to remove his boots.

  She could come back later when he was asleep and haunt his dreams. She was in danger if she stayed. Watching him would rouse everything she had worked to suppress.

  He took off his shirt. Oh, my. He was certainly strongly built. His shoulders were positively brawny. His biceps swelled as he worked at the buttons on his breeches. His chest was covered with curly blondish hair. His nipples were soft and browned, his belly ribbed with muscle. She should go. Was he as tanned all over as his upper body? He moved his breeches over his hips. She covered her mouth to prevent an appreciative sound escaping. No, he was not so tan all over. Though everywhere had seen some sun. The nest of hair around his man parts was dark gold. He was well endowed, and she had seen many men. No wonder his breeches bulged in such an interesting manner. But it wasn't just his male equipment that fascinated her. The hips were slim, the thighs flaring with muscle, the buttocks in profile. . . oh, dear, firm, round. Tight.