Vampire - When Darkness Falls Part 20

"An island off the coast."

"What island?"

"The Isle of the Dead."

"Isle of the Dead?"

"The weather is constantly fierce, and many will not come here.

Many will. They say it is a place of the misbegotten. Of dwarves and knaves and hunchbacks. Lepers live here as well. It has been a home to Druids, witches, spirits, and more. No one will question that you should have power here."

"Sophia?"

We brought you here before she could awake. She thinks that you will soon die, if you haven't done so already. No one thought you could survive the depth of that sword wound. Sophia was furious. You injured her badly. She had to sleep in her shroud, surrounded by piles of her earth." "What of Igrainia?" he asked, gripping Wulfgar's shoulder.

Wulfgar inhaled and exhaled slowly. "You know that she went into the sea."

"Aye, but you went after her, you swore-"

"Aye, you know that I did, I searched, I dove, over and over. The waves kept coming.... I couldn't find her, Scotsman."

He knew that Wulfgar meant it, that he had tried his hardest. Such a thought didn't ease the pain that swept over him. A darkness fell upon Lucian, seizing him in a terrible grip, worse than any anguish or agony he had felt thus far. Igrainia. Anything had been bearable when he had thought that at the least, his actions had saved her life.

"Don't despair completely," Wulfgar said quickly.

"Aye, and why not?"

"Some of the men swear that they have seen her walking the beach here. She comes by day, and disappears at night."

"What?" He grabbed hold of Wulfgar, wincing at the pain his sudden movement caused. "So she may be alive?"

"I don't know. Perhaps it is her ..."

"Her what?"

Wulfgar looked at him. "Her spirit."

"No, if she has been seen, she's real. I don't believe in ghosts."

"And why not? All Nors.e.m.e.n believe in spirits. They guide us. Our ancestors have gone before us. They send messages in the runes, the bones. We heed the word of our oracles. There are many forces we cannot touch or see-those of the woods, the waters. The locals here are saying that she comes as a ..."

"As what?" Lucian demanded.

He hesitated, then shrugged. "The island is Irish, my friend. And the Irish accept that you are dead, but still here. And they believe in the power of the water, the sea, as well. Legends abound. Aye, you are dead, but you spared the dolphin that day. Maybe the masters of the seas accepted Igrainia, and gave her new life as well."

"What are you saving? You are daft, man!"

"They believe in selkies. Women by day, sea creatures by night.

Saved by the sea, or born of the sea, they may walk the earth, touch man, but then ... they must return to the water."

"No. She must have survived. Perhaps she is here; she came to this island but is hurt, suffering, and doesn't know who she is."

Wulfgar wasn't going to argue with him. "Who knows? Perhaps you are right; perhaps I am right. Perhaps even such a warrior as yourself will leave this world one day, and still come and sit in the halls of Valhalla. There are more things in my own Valhalla, or your heaven and h.e.l.l, and even in this earth we share, than any man shall ever know."

"I don't believe-"

"You don't believe? In spirits, ghosts, sprites-or in bloodsuckers?

In vampires?" Wulfgar suggested innocently. "Lamia?"

"I will search for Igrainia. Unto eternity," he said.

"Later, perhaps you will do so. Long after I have gone to my own reward, whatever that shall be. For now ... you will do nothing. You should have died. You must regain your strength."

He had wanted to die-or perish as whatever evil thing he had become.

Now he wanted to live.

To find Igrainia, if still she lived.

To destroy Sophia.

But Darian had injured him badly. He was weak as a baby by day, and there was a time of healing when he could barely move, even at the midnight hour, even in the greatest darkness of night. But then, bit by bit, he healed.

He rode the island with Wulfgar. He established himself as lord of the misfits who dwelled there.

He started to walk the sh.o.r.eline in the middle of the night, when his strength was the greatest.

He drank great quant.i.ties of sheep's blood.

He hungered for more, craved more. He knew, somewhere in the depths of him, that, injured as he was, he needed more.

There was a farmer on the island who viciously beat his wife.

Lucian heard their arguments sometimes when he rode with Wulfgar at night-seeking out warm-blooded mammals to attack. She was a tireless young woman who toiled hard with the soil, laundered, cooked, and served her husband. The husband had been a thief. He'd escaped Dublin-and the hangman-for the island, dragging her with him to this exile. One night, as they were riding, Lucian heard her scream.

He glanced at Wulfgar, dismounted from his horse, and strode toward the house. The husband was drunk. She had spilled his ale on the raw wood table. He was beating her with a horse whip.

The hunger gnawed at Lucian.

He went after the farmer, wrenching the whip from his hands. And in his rage he bit into the farmer's neck. The wife watched while he drained the man of blood.

Lucian looked at his victim with revulsion. He staggered back, looking at his own blood-covered hands.

Then he remembered to cut off the farmer's head. Of all the men he didn't want coming back for eternity, this wretched b.a.s.t.a.r.d was surely one.

All this time the young wife simply stared at him. His eyes then turned to her. She didn't flinch.

"Thank you," she said softly.

"You know what I am."

"Most the isle know what y'are," she told him.

"You're not afraid?"

"Of many things, aye."

"But of me?"

"Should I be?"

"No," he told her.

The following day he had the strength to walk the beach while the sun was still up.

And it was there that he saw his wife.

Igrainia!

A ghost? He called to her. "Igrainia ..."

A ghost...

Selkie, the Irish said.

He did not believe in such things. But could he create her with the power of his mind? Would she disappear if he raced for her, to touch her, feel her, to know the softness of her hair, the angel's breath of her whisper against his cheek?

He ran.

She stayed. She was real. Flesh and blood and bone. He touched her. Her sea eyes touched his. "My wife, my love ..."

He started shaking and fell to the sand at her feet.

She touched the top of his head.

"Husband ..."

He looked up. She was smiling.

"My G.o.d, Igrainia ..."

He stood, and he lifted her into his arms. He kept his eyes on hers as he walked with her to the fisherman's cottage he had made his home.

"How can you be here?" he whispered. He laid her on the bed. He loved her so much. And still ...

He could feel her warmth, hear her blood. He would never hurt her, could never hurt her-or could he? Would the agony seize him, overwhelm him? Would he slash her throat with his teeth, make love to her by stealing her lifeblood, her heart, her soul?

"I have to tell you-"

"No!" she pressed a finger to his lips.

"You must understand-"

"No."

"But I-"

"I know what you are. And I know you won't hurt me."

She lifted her lips to his, and he opened his mouth and kissed her and kissed her, more and more deeply. And he felt her body, and her warmth, her shape, her hips flush to his. He felt a burst of arousal, and with it l.u.s.t and tenderness, and it was sweet, so sweet to know desire with love, and a longing that did not tear at whatever remnants of his soul might remain.

Insanely, he stripped away their clothing.

Sophia knew only violence, and the hungers of the flesh.

There were deeper hungers.

Hungers that hinted he might still have a soul.

He put his lips to her breast, down her belly, between her thighs.

She writhed, wrapped herself around him. He tasted the sweetness of her flesh, of her being, of her s.e.x. His body pulsed and groaned, he reveled in what he had, he felt the hunger gnaw at him, felt the ultimate ecstasy he denied himself, and still...

He nearly, so nearly, brought his teeth to the vein throbbing so sweetly at her neck. He fought down the desire, fought it with all the strength in him. She seemed unaware. Wild and wanton, hips locked to his, glued to his, b.r.e.a.s.t.s damp against his chest, her delicate fingers digging into his b.u.t.tocks, her whispers, her words, the sweet wet explosion against him ...

Climax rocked him. He bit down viciously on his own teeth. Fell to her side. Swept her into his arms. Held her ...

"I thought I had lost you. I thought you had drowned. The sea was so cold. The waves were high that day, the wind sweeping. How can you be here?" he whispered.

"Does it matter? Love me. Just love me. As I love you."

He held her. The sun grew stronger. He grew weary. She sat against the hard wooden headboard, down pillow against it, and cradled his head to her breast. She stroked his cheek.

"Igrainia." He wanted to talk. To stay awake.

"Sleep, rest, heal," she told him.

Her fingers were magic.

In the darkened cottage, he slept.

When he awoke, she was gone.