The Dark Knight
By
Marianne LaCroix
Resplendence Publishing, LLC
http://www.resplendencepublishing.com
Resplendence Publishing, LLC
P.O. Box 992
Edgewater, Florida, 32132
The Dark Knight
Copyright © 2009, Marianne LaCroix
Edited by Amy Cedars
Cover art by Rika Singh
Electronic format ISBN: 978-1-60735-039-2
Warning: All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
Electronic release: June, 2009
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places, or occurrences, is purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Special thanks to my pal, Annmarie Ortega.
You are the Lucy to my Ethel.
More thanks to Leigh, Tiffany, and everyone at Resplendence.
You guys rock!
Spain, 1362
“Isobel.” Lord Marco Cordoba whispered her name into the still and silent night. Nothing could be heard upon the wind except the mournful cry of the Prince.
“Mourn not for me, my lord.” Isobel’s voice was raspy as she wheezed her final breaths of life. “I will always be with you.”
Then with a final gasp, she was gone, dead within his arms, there in the dark depths of the forest.
“I will always love you,” he wept.
Isobel had disappeared from their bedchamber while he awaited her to prepare for their wedding night. Her screams echoed in his memory, filling his heart with painful regret. By the time Marco had burst through the chamber door, Isobel was gone—kidnapped by the vampiro, Vicente.
Marco rode out into the night after his beloved Isobel, searching for any sign of her within the pitch black. Frantic with worry, he came upon her and the demon. Marco leapt from his horse and attacked the creature, but Vicente was too quick. He transformed into a mist and escaped, his hideous laughter echoing in the night.
Marco was too late.
Isobel lay unmoving upon wet leaves and mud. His love was gone, ripped from his embrace on the very night they were wed.
With tears burning his eyes, Marco lifted her limp body from the damp ground. The gaping holes at her neck were the only marks upon her body. Fresh blood oozed from the wounds, bright against her pale, white skin.
Even in death, her fair beauty astounded him. Her hair, like golden strands of fine silk, framed her face in soft waves. Her features were delicate and feminine—angelic.
“Isobel,” Marco croaked as he tucked her head under his chin, holding her close like he had dreamed of doing for so long. Tonight, his courtship of the fair Isobel was to have ended. They each had been denied their wedding night. Isobel was yet another victim of the vampire.
However, this attack was not random.
Vicente DeMarco’s heart was filled with the thirst for revenge and he hungered for much more than satisfaction. When his wife and children were killed in a raid upon a village by the invading Moorish troops, Vicente held the commander responsible for their deaths—General Santiago Cordoba, his grandfather. It was said that with the hopes to curse the entire Cordoba bloodline, Vicente turned to the devil and entered a terrible contract. He became a vampiro, a dark creature that fed off the lives of the living.
Marco believed the tales of a demon hunting his family to be mere bedtime stories to scare him at night. When his father was murdered ten years ago, found entirely drained of blood, Marco reconsidered the tale. When he began to prepare for his union with Isobel, a dark atmosphere engulfed the castle.
“Grandson of Santiago Cordoba,” an ominous voice called from the shadows of the trees. “Leave the body here. I am not yet finished with your sweet bride.”
Confused, Marco straightened, but continued to hold Isobel’s body in his arms. “She is dead,” he announced. “You have no further use for her.”
“You are wrong, young one. She has much to give.”
Marco searched the trees as Vicente’s voice seemed to move about the clearing from one side to the other noiselessly.
He’d have to carry Isobel back himself, his horse had bolted long ago, scared of the evil aura floating about the woods. Smart beast. Marco began to move quickly through the trees carrying his bride’s body.
“You can not run from me, Lord Marco. I will finish what I started. I took her life, but I need more.”
“What more could you need?” Marco asked breathlessly as he continued to carry Isobel out of the forest.
“I need her soul.”
Marco stopped running and turned. “I will not let you damn her soul.”
Vicente flew from the darkness in a blink. Standing before Marco, the vampire was pure evil, his face was pale and sickly, his thin lips were red and drawn back, and his eyes were wild and a strange light silver in color. Never had Marco ever seen such a hideous sight.
“Then will you give your soul in exchange? Give your last remaining possession to save your beautiful bride.” The last was not a question. Vicente reached a bony hand to Isobel’s face, but Marco pulled her away.
“You are the devil,” Marco said.
The demon began to laugh. “No, my lord, I am not the devil, however I am one of his exalted minions. I am here to collect souls—Cordoba souls—and if I can not have the virgin bride’s, I will have yours.”
“Do you expect me to hand you my life without a fight?”
“I expect you to try and stop me, but I tell you now, you will fail.” Vicente cocked his head and Marco felt a shiver of dread run down his spine. “I believe death is too easy for you.”
Marco took a step backwards.
The vampire stepped forward. “You shall learn the pain and suffering that I have endured. You shall repay the debt.”
Marco’s heart beat wildly, and Vicente screeched his evil laugh.
“You, grandson of Santiago Cordoba, shall become as me and spend eternity in pain over the memory of the woman you loved.”
Fear pumped through Marco’s veins as he turned to run, hideous laughter echoing behind him. He clutched Isobel’s body tightly as he jumped over fallen logs on the forest floor. Leaves crunched beneath his feet, and twigs cracked with every step. He tried to gain the speed he needed to escape. The mist closed about him, but he continued to run, feeding off the adrenaline with every stride.
But he was no match for the vampire’s dark strength. He swooped from behind and tackled Marco to the wet ground. He lost grip of Isobel’s body as the creature sank his teeth into Marco’s neck. His voice stilled in his throat as the thing drained him of every drop of his strength.
Black spots danced before his eyes and unconsciousness beckoned. Marco knew death was at hand, and he had not the power to stop it from coming.
And just on the verge of the abyss, a tangy fluid dripped over his lips. Blood. The vampire had slashed his wrist and offered the liquid to Marco. His body was incapable to refuse, and he drank of the evil-tinted elixir.
At the bridge between mortal and immortal worlds, pain wracked through Marco’s veins as his human self died, and he was reborn into the darkness.
Like knives cutting their way through every vessel in his body, Marco screamed, breaking the feast upon Vicente’s blood.
“The moment will pass, fledgling. You must die to live eternal. And with every passing day, each passing hour, you will feel the despair and longing for your young bride. That is your immortal hell.” The vampire rose and turned to the pale body of Isobel. “Now, I must have your soul.”
Through the fog within his brain, Marco heard the vampire’s plan to take her soul. With every drop of passionate rage, Marco summoned the strength to act. He grabbed for a dagger hidden within his boot, and aimed it at the vampire. The blade struck Vicente in the small of his back. The creature cried out in pain and Marco smiled. Not even Vicente could tolerate a weapon blessed in Holy water. It was only then, free handed, could Marco strike. His timing had saved her soul…but not his own. Saving her from damnation was worth the price.
The vampire screeched into the night, shouting curses, leaving Isobel’s soul untouched.
Marco crawled to her body, dragging his pained form to her still one, and then he collapsed into unconsciousness.
* * * *
Hours later, Marco awoke in his bedchamber. During the night, his servants searched for him and found him in the forest—a grieving groom protecting the body of his dead bride.
Rising from the bed, Marco took note of the setting sun outside the window. Already, the sun had dipped behind the line of trees along the horizon. He’d slept the entire day.
Was it all a dream? Could it be possible that the nightmare he remembered so vividly was just the fevered thoughts of a crazed mind during the fits of restless sleep?
A tap at the door drew him from his thoughts.
“Milord?” Manuel Santos, Marco’s trusted servant, cracked open the door and peered into the room.
“I’m awake, Manuel,” Marco said as he stepped closer to the window, marveling at the red and orange light dancing upon the low hanging clouds.
“I am truly sorry for your loss, milord. The entire keep is in mourning for Lady Isobel.”
It was no dream. Marco lowered his head and squeezed his eyes closed. She was gone. “Where is she now?” he asked.
“Below in the receiving hall. Her maidservants have taken good care of her.”
Instinctively, Marco knew the vampire would try and reclaim her body. Isobel’s soul was not safe from eternal damnation. He must free her, save her. He turned to Manuel and instructed, “Have a bonfire prepared immediately in the castle courtyard.”
“Yes, milord,” Manuel bowed as he left the room.
Marco turned back to the window and gazed out into the growing darkness. Yes, Vicente would return, but he would not get her soul.
* * * *
Marco stood amid the servants in the courtyard as Isobel’s body was carried out and placed upon the pallet surrounded by dried branches. He stepped forward to her and gazed upon her beauty for the last time. Her hair was a golden halo about her pale face, and her body was draped with the finest white silk. She was an angel in a silent repose.
A tear stung his eye as he reached for the torch.
“My beloved Isobel. May your soul find eternal peace. Someday, we shall meet again.” Then he lowered the flame to the kindling, setting the fire about his bride.
The dried branches and logs set fire quickly, and soon, her body was engulfed by growing flames. Off in the distance, Marco heard the screech of the vampire over the loss of his bounty.
Manuel stood at Marco’s side as they stared into the fire. “The creature took more than her life, hasn’t he, milord?”
Marco was silent for a moment. Vicente had stolen his bride’s life, but not her soul. It was the least he could do for his love. But now, Marco was alone to bear the horrors of what he’d become.
He was no longer human. His senses were sharper, more in tune to his surroundings. He could hear the blades of grass moving in the breeze, the soft steps of servants walking up the stairs in the keep…and every heart beat of every living thing about him.
Marco looked at Manuel in a new light. He was a living, breathing man with blood pumping through his veins with every beat of his heart. That quiet pulse called to Marco, birthing new sensations of hunger and need unlike anything he’d felt before.
Blood. He licked his lips at the thought of it touching his tongue, of the rich fluid rolling down his throat to satisfy the hunger, to fulfill his need.
He glared back at the fire in anger. He’d become a vampire. He’d given his life to exist in emptiness and darkness. The sacrifice was worth saving Isobel’s soul, but how could he bear this hunger for an eternity?
“Damn him,” he muttered, thinking upon Vicente. He quickly turned to Manuel and ordered in a sharp voice, “Come with me.”
The servant followed obediently as Marco stormed into the castle and up to his chamber. There he waited for Manuel to enter the room and then slammed the door.
“I apologize, milord. Please do not punish me.”
“Nonsense, Manuel. You are the only one I can trust now.”
The servant looked at him questioningly.
Marco continued. “You are correct. Isobel was not the only victim of the creature’s evil.”
Manuel took a step backward crossing himself. “Holy Mother of Mercy.”
“I refuse to become a demon of the night.”
“What can you do? He has made you…” Manuel’s voice trailed off.
Marco turned to him and said, “I need your help. I want you to go and have a pig slaughtered and have its blood drained. Then, bring the blood to me. Do this each night, and have a glass awaiting me when I arise in the early evening.”
“The servants will become suspicious, milord.”
“That is why I must let go most of the staff. I must have my solitude. I will keep only those trusted with my secret.”
“But what will the village say?”
“Tell them that Lord Marco Cordoba has slipped into a depression over the loss of his bride. That should suffice to explain my change in habits. I will become a recluse.”
“But the keep, shall it fall to disrepair and crumble into oblivion?”
“There will be basic upkeep to the castle, but I want the main rooms cleaned out and closed. Only my chamber, the cellar, and my study shall remain in use from this day forward.” Marco put his hands upon Manuel’s shoulders. “I ask that you see to this, and that my secret be kept by you and your children, and your children’s children.”
“Y-yes, milord,” Manuel stuttered.
As his servant exited, Marco moved to the window and peered out into the night. He would not become an instrument of evil. The demon cursed his existence into a lonely immortality, but Marco would not spend those centuries killing the innocent. There was only one death he wished to execute.
His existence had one purpose now. To hunt and kill Vicente.
Spain, Present Day
Christine Parker awoke drenched in sweat and her heart hammering in her chest. Every night, the dreams became more vivid in detail, as though she had lived the events that haunted her over the past six weeks. Those dreams brought her across the Atlantic to Spain. It was here in this exotic country she would find the answer to those images that replayed in her mind night after night.
Sitting up in bed, she tried to calm herself by easing her breathing. This last nightmare was much more disturbing than ever before. She lay in the arms of a dark man, a knight she’d known in her heart, yet never consciously met. She labored to breathe as her life seemed to slip away, and he held her, comforting her, vowing his eternal love and devotion.
It wasn’t the man that scared her, but the cold skinned creature that tore at her soul with icy claws, wanting to possess her. The knight gave his very life to protect her. She wanted to help him, desperate to save him, but she was nothing—of no substance, a spirit observing helplessly.
Night after night, the dark knight haunted her with words of love and promises of passionate nights, yet she realized those never came to pass. Who was this tortured man, and why did his pleas drive her to Spain?
It was as though he called to her through the mists of the unknown, beckoning to her to save him from an existence of emptiness and longing. There was darkness about his soul, yet it did not possess him; it did not rule his actions. As the dreams continued, his insistence became more pressing, more urgent.
When the opportunity presented itself for her to travel to Spain for a three-week study of Castilla de la Cordoba, a castle build during the Moorish conquest, Christine volunteered. Working for the U.S. National Gallery had its advantages, and now she was there to highlight the castle in an upcoming exhibit. The owner, a descendant of the Moorish leader and original owner of the castle, Santiago Cordoba, made arrangements with the museum for a representative to come and evaluate several suits of armor, tapestries and oil paintings. From what she’d learned, the present owner, Lord Marco Cordoba, lived like a hermit. It was a rare privilege to be invited into his castle home. Why he insisted on an American museum to come was a great mystery. Christine hoped to shed a little light on the man and his mysteries.
The strangest part of this trip was when she’d seen pictures of Castilla de la Cordoba. It was the very castle within her dreams. Yes, it was weather worn and crumbling in spots, but essentially it was the castle. Christine hoped to find the answers plaguing her dreams there as well.
An hour later, Christine was showered, dressed and driving from Madrid to the small village of Cordoba. As she approached Cordoba, she spotted the turrets of Castilla de la Cordoba. A shiver ran down her spine at the sight of the familiar shape of the castle against the bright blue Spanish sky. The familiarity was so eerie in a déjà vu I’ve-been-here-before way. She could almost see the interior of the castle in her mind’s eye. Yet how could that be? There were no known pictures of inside the castle.
Anxious to see the castle closer, she passed through the village, opting to go back later to make arrangements for a hotel room.
Approaching the outer gates, Christine felt a shiver run down her back. This was all too familiar. She could almost picture herself riding in a wagon through these gates, her stomach turning in anticipation of what awaited her inside. And there was no doubt as to what that was—a man.
Stopping at the gate, an aging man, his hair dark grey and his face deeply creased, walked out of the nearby gatehouse. Christine was struck by his dark suspicious eyes as he spoke. “Here to visit his lordship, sí?”
“Yes, I’m from America, the National Gallery. I’m here to do a photo journal of the items donated for an upcoming exhibit.”
He nodded, but his countenance was wary. “Not many folks come to the castle. His lordship doesn’t usually allow anyone inside, especially during the daylight hours.”
She cocked her head. “Why?”
He paused. “I warn you, señorita. Turn around and go back to America. Save yourself.”
“Good heavens, from what?”
He stood silent.
“Please, Lord Cordoba is expecting me,” she insisted. She just wanted this odd encounter to end. As if she wasn’t nervous enough, this strange man sent her imagination on a wild trip into fearful nightmares.
The gatekeeper bowed slightly then turned to walk to the iron gate where he unlocked the chain and pushed it open.
She drove past the gated stone wall that surrounded the outside of Castilla de la Cordoba. From a distance the massive building stood as sentinel over the landscape, but as she got closer, the castle was much more imposing and sinister. Yet, the familiarity was comforting to her.
She was here before. She was sure of that. Not one to believe in the extraordinary too easily, the feeling of déjà vu was too strong to ignore.
Pulling her small rented car up to the front entry, she sat in wonder for a few moments before venturing from the safety of the car. Somehow placing a foot upon the ground here was much more frightening than the looming castle. It was like stepping back in time…into the shoes of another who had walked this very ground centuries before.
She stood and took a deep breath. Closing her eyes, she inhaled the gothic beauty about her. Even though the gardens about the castle were bare and the front fountain that welcomed visitors stood still, she imagined a time when the scene was bursting with colorful flowers, roses of every shade. The fountain was alive with the sound of rushing water and children played by the side with small wooden boats. Shadows of the past rushed through her consciousness, and she smiled. This was once a place of happiness and joy.
But then darkness descended over her visions. The waters stilled, the children disappeared, and the gardens fell into neglect. What possibly could have altered this place into such bleak despair?
“Señorita Parker?” a voice called from behind her.
She turned to face a man dressed in dark grey pants, a white oxford shirt and a black and gold striped tie. He was darkly skinned, obviously a local. His jet-black hair was streaked with grey, and his brown eyes were lively. He smiled at her and her instant reaction was this was a good man.
“Yes, that’s me. I’m here to do a photo journal of the castle.”
“I am Héctor, personal servant to Lord Cordoba. He is expecting you. He sends his regrets that he was not here to greet you himself, but business has delayed him. He will join you this evening for dinner. He has requested that I show you to your room.”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary. I will stay in the village at the hotel.”
He shook his head. “His lordship requests you remain here on the property during your stay in Cordoba. He would find it a slight against his hospitality if you opt for a hotel.” His voice was light and friendly, and she couldn’t help but agree to this change of plan.
“Very well, then.”
After they gathered her luggage from the trunk of her car, they walked into the main entryway.
“Castilla de la Cordoba was built by the Moorish General and Royal Prince, Santiago Cordoba from 1294 to 1298. It was here in this region the prince met his wife, Esperanza. Shunned by his country for marrying a local woman, they settled here. It is said this structure was in honor of her, a testament of the prince’s love to his wife. In the year of its completion, Esperanza gave birth to their only son, Esteban.”
“Sounds romantic,” she commented absently.
“There is a darker history to these castle walls, for a terrible curse was placed upon Santiago Cordoba and his descendants.”
“A curse?” Somehow she wasn’t surprised. Didn’t every ancient castle come with a curse? Or was that a few skeletons buried beneath the stairs?
“Sí, señorita. The men within the Cordoba line, Santiago and his descendants, were struck down in the prime of life, their souls given in payment to the devil.”
It was too outrageous to believe, but Christine let Héctor continue with his story.
“Even now, Lord Cordoba keeps to the castle grounds in fear of the curse.”
Inside the castle, a grand entry was bare, yet the sparse décor only accentuated the medieval architecture and the large tapestries lining the outer walls. It was as though she stepped through a time portal into the past. Darkly stained wooden benches sat along the edge of the room, inviting visitors to sit and whisper in gossip.
To the right was a spiral stone stairway leading up to the private rooms of the family. The wall along the stairs was blank, and the ancient masonry was easily seen as she walked up the stairs.
“No portraits of the family?” she asked. A chill seeped through her skin and she fought to keep from visibly shaking. It was a foreboding feeling of dread as she climbed the stairs upward, as though she’d climbed these very stairs before, long ago.
“There is a collection of family portraits in the East Hall, including a portrait of Lord Juan Cordoba by Diego Velázquez, painted in the 1640s. There are also several suits of armor and a collection of weapons used through the ages. I believe much of the armor and weapons were going to be part of the exhibit.”
“Diego Velázquez? Really?” How is it she did not know this piece of information? Surely the painting could be the centerpiece to the exhibit. She would have to recheck her inventory list send to her by the Gallery. She was sure the painting was not included on the list.
She followed Héctor up the stairs and down a hall lined with doors. All were closed, and probably locked. It was not unusual for extra rooms to be closed off to save energy on heating and cooling. Or was there another reason?
“Here we are,” Héctor said as he opened a door at the end of the hall. “This is the mistress’s suite.”
The déjà vu sensation washed over her strongly as she crossed the threshold of the chamber. She’d been here before in her dreams. How could that be?
“You may explore on your own the castle and the grounds at liberty, Señorita Parker. His lordship asks you do not venture to the dungeon or wine cellar areas. The stairs are in disrepair and you risk a serious fall.”
She nodded. “Can you direct me to the East Hall? I wish to take some pictures of the armor and the Diego Velázquez painting. That is something I didn’t even know was here.”
He gave her instructions to get to the East Hall then began to leave. Before he closed the door to her room, he said, “His lordship will see you at dinner this evening at eight. Dress accordingly. Dinner is formal.”
“But I didn’t bring anything formal to wear.” She quickly thought of her clothes packed, scanning the items to determine if anything was acceptable.
“No need to worry. Several dresses have been ordered for your use. They are hanging in the wardrobe there,” he explained, indicating an elaborate darkly stained oak wardrobe.
“Dresses have been ordered…for me?”
Héctor simply smiled and exited with the promise, “I shall escort you to the dining room at eight. Good day.”
Alone, Christine examined the grand room that was to be hers for her stay. It was bigger than her D.C. apartment! The bed was enormous in scale with canopy curtains in sheer white framing the romantic flower print and lace coverlet. All about her were the same small rosebud from the bed coverlet, a theme repeated throughout the room. It was welcoming and comfortable. She immediately fell in love with the décor. Its gentle feminine beauty appealed to her softer side, and she knew this would be much nicer than any hotel room.
Still, she was bothered by several things since her arrival. Why was so much effort put into her visit? What kind of man orders dresses made for a guest? She stepped over to the wardrobe and opened a door to reveal several dresses in various styles and colors. She picked out a black dress of a soft buttery fabric she didn’t know. Never had she felt something so soft and—sinfully decadent. The dress was floor length and would hug her body with fluid drapes of black. The back dipped daringly low, and she instantly decided to wear it that evening.
Replacing the dress and closing the wardrobe, Christine grabbed her camera and equipment and headed out of the room towards the East Hall. There were too many questions that needed to be answered, and perhaps some of the mystery surrounding Castilla de la Cordoba could be answered with a bit of exploration. She’d start with the portraits.
* * * *
She was there within the castle walls. He sensed her presence upon the air, her floral perfume intoxicating and her warm blood seductive. Marco stirred in his resting place, anxious to greet the woman he’d seen over and over in his visions.
Rising from his earthy rest, Marco sat up and breathed deeply. He felt nothing but yearning and loneliness. His heart beat, but its melody held no music, no life. After centuries as a vampire, he was nothing more than an empty shell of a man. Yet, with her simple presence within his castle, he began to feel something more than the bitterness of eternal existence. She brought life—the white light of love and beauty—into Castilla de la Cordoba.
The sun was high in the afternoon sky, and he felt anxious to leave the shady underground chamber to go to her, to touch her hand, to absorb her into his being. He had gone to great lengths to bring her here to Spain in hopes to reawaken her soul—the soul of Isobel reincarnated. He was sure of this. Her love had called to him in dreams. Even after centuries, their connection was strong. However, when she was conscious, their connection was severed. This was why he brought her here. Could he make her remember who she once was? Was there any chance of him finding some tenderness and love again?
She is destined to be mine, an evil connection pierced Marco’s thoughts.
No, you can not have her, Marco whispered back to the creature.
Vicente still prowled the night. Though his revenge had taken a dismal toll upon the Cordoba line, ending with Marco, Vicente delighted in tormenting his creation every hundred years or so.
To appear without question to the surrounding villagers, Marco had taken to recreating his existence every so often. He’d go to ground under the guise of world travel, then reappearing as a descendant to take over the castle operations. None questioned his apparent likeness to the previous Lord Cordoba as he would only reappear every forty years or so.
Her soul was mine and you robbed me of its essence. She has returned, and I plan on collecting what is mine. Vicente was relentless in his revenge.
It is time we end this, Marco growled into the vampire’s thoughts.
Kill me, and you kill yourself. Then the connection was gone.
“You look beautiful, señorita.”
His voice startled her as she stood in the library scanning the hundreds of books lining the built in shelves that lined the vast room. Two levels of shelving encircled the room, a reader’s paradise. She could spend literally weeks in here searching through all the books.
She turned and was struck frozen by the man who stood examining her so closely.
The dark knight, she thought in recognition.
He smiled and her breath caught.
“I’m sorry I startled you,” he said as he moved into the room. “I am Lord Marco Cordoba.”
Tall, dark, and handsome. Lord Marco was all those highly coveted qualities, and more. Dressed in a black tuxedo with a startling white shirt and black bowtie, he was the picture of elegance and class. His skin was dark brown, an obvious Moorish trait inherited from his ancestors, yet he was modern in manners and charm. He smiled and his thin mustache neatly framed his perfect smile.
Her legs were weak just for looking at him.
“Christine Parker,” she offered with a nod, fighting to find her voice once again.
“Welcome to my castle, Señorita Parker.” He offered his hand and at his touch, she shivered. Something very familiar curled about her when he took her hand and brought it to his lips. “Your beauty brightens our halls,” he added after kissing the back of her hand. It was an Old World elegance, and it left Christine grasping a nearby chair back to keep her steady.
“Thank you for allowing me to come and tour your castle. It is absolutely stunning. I took several rolls of film already in the East Hall.” He frowned, and she apologized, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I did something wrong, Héctor said—”
“No, you did nothing wrong,” he broke in with a forced smile.
What was it that made him change so abruptly? Was there something in the East Hall he didn’t want her to see?
A knock at the library door startled them.
It was Héctor.
“Excuse me, milord…Oh, I see Señorita Parker is downstairs already.”
“Yes, I am sorry. I dressed then decided to just come down and look around some more.”
“Very well, milady. Dinner will be served in ten minutes,” Héctor announced then left.
“Do you like my library?” he asked breaking the sudden silence.
“It is beautiful. Some of these books are museum pieces in themselves. First editions…absolutely amazing.” Her gaze roamed over the vast collection about her, but then settled back on him. It was hard to look away from his virile form…and intoxicating presence.
“You are free to go through and pick out several books to send along with the exhibit. I am very honored at the opportunity to work with the U.S. government for the safekeeping of some of my family’s possessions.”
“What I don’t understand is why the U.S.? You are here in Spain in an area steeped in history of the Spanish people along with the Moors.” She was curious to know, but more so, she wanted anything but silence between them. Silence was too unnerving.
Or was it his heated gaze that sent her body on high alert?
He strolled over to his desk that stood in the center of the room like a grand throne of an emperor, and pulled out some brandy and two glasses. “Care to have some?” he asked.
“Thank you, yes.”
After pouring out two short servings, he handed her one. He picked up his own and took a sip.
“You haven’t answered my question,” she urged.
He took another gulp of his brandy. “I have my reasons.” His reply was sharp, and when he poured himself some more brandy, she chose not to press further. She sipped her brandy and remained silent.
A man of mystery…a man of raw appeal…a man that made her heart beat faster and her body vibrate with awareness of her own femininity.
“Shall we walk in to dinner?” he asked, offering his arm.
“Thank you.” She crooked her arm through his and walked out of the library. Her side brushed along his, and she was painfully aware of the heat of his body so close to hers. Never had she been so keenly aware of a man. She’d dated several men in her past, but none had ever made her feel so…alive.
The dining room was modernized with an elegant Queen Anne style cherry table and matching chairs. The table reached along the long room, large enough to seat thirty or so visitors. Upon the table was an elaborate center piece of flowers and fruit, and on each side stood large silver candelabras with five tall white candles lit in each. And at one end of the table were two place settings of fine bone China and silver.
Despite the updated furniture and place settings, the room décor remained locked in time. Tapestries hung from the walls depicting intricate scenes of knights on horseback—typical medieval designs. Christine made a mental note to come back later and photograph the tapestries for her journal.
He showed her to her seat to his right as he sat at the head of the table. The meal of roasted quail and pearl onions was served. She hadn’t realized how hungry she’d been until she smelled the delicious foods before her.
She ate, savoring the tastes. Part way through the meal, she realized he ate nothing but sipped only upon his red wine.
“Are you not hungry?” she asked.
“No. Forgive me. Do not let my lack of appetite ruin your meal.”
She thought it extremely odd, but tried not to dwell upon it. So much here was strange, and if she analyzed every little oddity, she’d drive herself crazy. Besides, rich lords living in dark castles were allowed a certain leeway for the strange and unusual. Didn’t it?
“Tell me of your life in America,” he asked after dinner.
“Well, I was born in Philadelphia and grew up in the suburbs. I went to Penn State University and got a degree in Art history. I knew it really didn’t prepare me much for a career anywhere but in a museum, so that is what I did. I got a job in the Philadelphia Museum. Later an opportunity opened up in Washington D.C. at the National Gallery, so I applied. I ended up getting the position and moved to D.C. about five years ago. I love working there around all that history.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Something about it makes me feel at home, comfortable.”
He nodded with understanding. She gulped and looked down at her lap. His dark eyes made her uneasy, as though they could see straight into her heart, revealing all her secrets.
“What is your favorite period of history?”
“Medieval. I particularly like Spanish history, that’s why I was chosen for this assignment. I have a gift for spotting authentic works of the period.”
He rose from his seat and stepped across the room to one of the tapestries on the wall, one of a dark knight armored in silver atop a black horse. “What do you think of this tapestry?”
She followed him to the tapestry and stood by his side. “It is of the time when the Moors invaded Spain and occupied the region.”
“Yes, anything else?”
“This piece is particularly unusual. It appears to be a portrait rather than a battle scene like the others I’ve seen here in the castle.”
“This is a rendition of my ancestor, Prince Marco Cordoba, son of Esteban Cordoba, grandson of this castle’s builder, Santiago Cordoba.” His face appeared drawn as he gazed up on the portrait of his namesake, as though he directly saw through the eyes of the knight portrayed.
“I’ve heard some of the history of the family from Héctor.”
“Did you tell you of the curse?” he asked turning to her.
“A little. He was not entirely detailed about it.” She paused, then asked, “Do you believe there is a curse?”
He reached up and touched her face gently with a finger. She sucked in her breath quickly at the intensity of his simple touch. “I am cursed. Cursed beyond your comprehension.” His voice was sad and forlorn. “I’m glad you have come here,” he added in a soft voice.
“I…I don’t know what to say.” She was overcome with emotions flooding her heart. Why did she feel such sympathy and longing? His fingers were warm against her skin, and she held back a moan. Instead she closed her eyes, trying to keep her composure.
“Do you know the story of Marco and Isobel?” He pulled his hand away from her face, yet his voice was like a warm cloth hugging her close, soothing her with gentle tones.
“No, I don’t.”
“Marco loved Isobel, a woman of high birth. Her hair was pale blonde like corn silk and her eyes blue as the ocean. Marco courted her despite the differences of their races, the contrasts of their births. And Isobel loved him in return.”
With her eyes closed, Christine could see the lovers together, walking by a lake hand in hand.
His liquid voice seduced her further into the dreamy scene. “Marco and Isobel were betrothed and on the day of their wedding, they celebrated with the entire village. The castle was bedecked in bright flowers and the bride glowed with beauty. Marco was bursting with happiness. But that was about to end.”
She gasped as she saw Isobel in her room. She moved about in a white gown, preparing for her new husband to join her. Then from the window in the darkness, black fingers crept through the shadows and wrapped about her.
Pain pierced her neck and Christine screamed, surrendering to the darkness that gripped about her.
Marco caught her in his arms after she screamed. The visions were too much for her. He merely enhanced her past life memory with some of his magic, but perhaps she was not ready for such an experience.
Too fast. He was moving too fast. Yet he couldn’t help his pushing for her to regain her memories. He’d waited over seven hundred years to find Isobel’s soul. He had to ease his hold upon her mental state and gently let her realize her connection.
He carried her through the dining room and out into the entry to the stairs. He took two at a time as he held her close, breathing in her scent, intoxicating his senses. Yes, he felt love for her…for Isobel…for Christine.
Christine was not Isobel. His bride was only a part of the woman he held in his arms. He loved Isobel, and he’d come to love Christine. He hardly knew her, but then, he had vast knowledge of her from his investigator reports. Once he discovered the identity of the woman who held Isobel’s soul within her own, Marco had gone to great lengths to learn all about her.
The hardest part was finding her. The emotional connection from the past helped him make a link to her unconscious mind. In dreams he found her, and with each nocturnal visit, he was able to locate her in the States, and eventually to the National Gallery.
In her bedchamber, Marco laid her on the bed. He stepped away and stared down at her fair beauty. Pale blonde hair fell in soft waves about her face and down around he shoulders. Her skin was creamy and smooth, and her dark eyelashes were like black silk lying softly upon her cheeks. Her lips were full and pink, and in her unconscious state, she moaned and her tongue swiped between those perfect pink petals, setting his blood into a boil.
So beautiful…so much like Isobel. But he had to remind himself, she was not Isobel, but a reincarnated soul of the woman he’d married so long ago. Christine was a woman of the modern world. He was attracted to her physical beauty along with her inner gentle character. Giving, intelligent, caring—qualities he admired about her.
Over the centuries he’d seen the role of women increase in the running of business and politics. As a man of the past, it was sometimes hard to look at women in a role other than wife or mother, but Marco tried to accept the changing of the times. With Christine, he loved the fact she not only worked but was highly educated and completely charming all at the same time. He had seen within her dreams her strong spirit and questioning mind. It was easy to say he had fallen for her weeks prior to his actually meeting her today. He wanted, more than anything in his existence, to love her.
Could he get her to see him as a man even if he wasn’t?
* * * *
“Christine! Wake up. Are you going to sleep away the entire afternoon?” A male voice called to her, a light, jovial tone to his voice.
She blinked her eyes against the bright afternoon sun while lying on a blanket in a field of buttercups. Water bubbled nearby and she spotted a stream where Marco stood with a crude looking fishing pole in hand.
He was casually dressed in a white linen shirt that was open at the neck, and dark brown pants rolled up to mid-calf. He stood in the stream, water running over his bare feet. He tossed out his line, appearing completely relaxed while fishing.
This was familiar, yet strange.
She looked down at herself and ran unsure fingers across the fine wool of her gown. Sky blue with hand-embroidered detail, it was unlike anything she’d seen before. It was Medieval in style like the gowns she’d seen before in the costume section of the Gallery and Renaissance fairs.
A gleeful yell drew her attention back to Marco who caught a trout. He splashed in the water as he handled the flopping fish from his hook and into a nearby basket of fish.
He picked up the basket once he was through and carried it over to the blanket where she lay. He threw down his pole and sat the basket down, then picked up a nearby cloth and dried himself. “The fish were jumping in line today,” he said with a smile.
In the afternoon sun, Marco was like a dark god who emerged from the waters for seduction. His brown skin was wet and she was intrigued by several droplets that splashed his chest and ran down behind the white fabric of his shirt. “You look like you enjoyed yourself,” she commented.
“A day out with you just being a man instead of a lord prince is refreshing. You have no idea how much I look forward to these days together.” He tossed the cloth aside and sat on the blanket before her. “Once we are married, we will do this often.” He reached over to her hand and grasped it. She was stunned at the welcoming warmth of his skin. “And once we have children, we will bring them here so I can teach them to fish.”
She smiled and her heart ached with love. She had an urge to reach over and kiss him, to let him take of her body, but she remained still. “I can not wait until we are married, my lord.” She hardly recognized her own voice. “I wish to give you many sons.”
He squeezed her hand. “We will, Isobel. We will.”
Then he tugged gently on her hand, pulling her closer. She willingly lay on the blanket next to him. He pulled her beneath him and her heart raced, and her breath caught.
“You’re shaking,” he said seriously.
“No, I’m not.”
He leaned down and breathed into her ear. His warm breath ignited her body. “I love you,” he whispered. “I anxiously await our wedding night so I may finally make love to you, my sweet Isobel.”
Tears burned her eyes as she knew the night would never come. She turned her mouth to his and they kissed. She surrendered to the moment his lips touched hers in an almost forbidden moment.
Images flashed before her mind’s eye of her mother refusing to let her be courted by a Moor. Her father had simply denied her existence at the announcement of her marriage to Prince Marco. She loved him too much, and would defy her family to be with him. Yet in her heart, she knew the union would be short lived.
He kissed her and she wrapped her arms about his neck, bringing him closer. She wanted to soak up the moment with her Marco.
“Christine…” he whispered against her lips. “Let me into your heart as you have once before.”
The edged blurred as she became aware of the dreamy moment. She was not Isobel, a woman of the past, but Christine, a woman of the twenty-first century. Yet, she was both.
Her eyes snapped open and Christine was alone in her room, darkness of the night surrounded her. It was a dream, unlike the visions she’d had before.
She touched her lips with her fingertips. She could still feel the warm press of his lips to hers. Tears burned her eyes as she fought the sudden sadness of the tender moment she’d dreams of had come to an end. Somehow, her heart ached for the dark lord of Castilla de la Cordoba.
Unable to rest now that her body was vibrating with sudden awareness, Christine rose from her bed and padded on bare feet to the window. She peered out into the night and sighed. This land was magical, almost eerie in its unexplained influence on her senses.
She turned and removed her gown she’d worn to dinner and dressed in a white cotton nightgown she’d brought. The familiar gown comforted her, giving her some connection to her life back in the States. She yawned and decided to try to sleep once again.
Just before she turned to return to bed, she heard a voice soft upon the wind.
I will always love you.
Marco stood out in the garden, hidden by the shadows and stared up at her window. Even at this distance, he felt her life force pump with each beat of her heart. His visit into her dream had empowered him with her psychic energy, but left him hungry for the physical essence that sustained him—blood. Aroused, he needed to distance himself from her. Putting Christine in danger was out of the question.
An evil cackle sounded about him. The voice was all too familiar. Marco was painfully aware of the close presence of Vicente, his demon sire. There on the castle grounds, the ancient vampire stalked close by, watching…waiting…planning his next move against Marco, and now Christine. The creature intended to take of her soul, the soul he lost seven hundred years ago. Marco had no intention of letting Vicente win.
I am stronger than you, the evil one whispered into Marco’s mind. Stronger than ever before. I will have her soul. There is no immortality for her. She will die, and I shall collect that which I was denied so long ago.
Marco turned and began to sprint through the woods, jumping over fallen logs, whipping by prickly bushes, reviving his spirit with the simple sound of the grass beneath his feet and the wind upon his face. As he connected to his inner self, he transformed into a great black wolf.
Shape shifting was a skill he’d learned over the past few centuries. Only with concentration, practice, and psychic strength could he complete the feat. Now he galloped through the forest toward Vicente, hungry for his long denied revenge.
He did not track the vampire like living prey. Vicente had no heart beat, no warm blood pumping through his veins. He did not even breathe in the crisp fresh air of the recent rain there in the forest. But Marco sensed him clearly, strong in his connection through blood and ancient pain.
In the air, the vampire taunted Marco, yet a strong sense of fear was present. Marco stopped upon a small hill and sniffed the air. Licking at his nose, he could almost taste his prey’s fear. It was that small advantage that Marco needed. The vampire was not as confident in his strength and superiority as he portrayed.
I do not fear anything, the creature growled through their mental bond. Least of all, you.
Marco leapt from the hill and raced closer to his sire. On the hunt, Marco howled as he ran, eager to end the horror, hungry for substance.
He caught up with Vicente, and leapt at the vampire awaiting his approach. He laughed, confident in his strength, denying his underlying fear, but his laugh was quickly cut off by the large vampire wolf. Marco knocked Vicente to the ground and a battle of immortal strength ensued. He sunk his teeth into the vampire’s shoulder and the creature screamed, shoving Marco from him with supernatural strength.
“You think brute force will harm me, young one?” Vicente voice was hoarse yet powerfully demonic in tone.
Marco sniffed. I think you are weaker than you like to believe.
“I am not weak. Your thirst for vengeance makes you careless.”
And your desire to destroy me has become an unnatural obsession. Marco bared his teeth at the pale skinned vampire.
Vicente had changed through the centuries. His complexion was grayish and his eyes shone deep red with bloodlust. His form was thin and wrinkled, and Marco realized the vampire had been at rest for a very, very long time. Vicente had arisen from his crypt to seek out the soul of Marco’s beloved.
“I do not desire to destroy you, Cordoba. I only wish to have what has been denied me.”
You’ll never have her soul.
Vicente crooked a small smile, his fangs tinted in pink from a recent feeding. “We shall see about that.”
Marco growled and leapt toward the vampire, but Vicente shifted into a mist and disappeared into the night.
“Give up, my spawn. You can not defeat me.” The creature promised, his voice echoing upon the wind. “I will win her soul.”
Over my dead body, Vicente, Marco whispered into the creature’s thoughts.
His answer was a low evil laugh dancing through the forest upon the night wind.
* * * *
Christine woke after her restless night, uneasy and fatigued. Her visions of Marco from the past made her feel comforted, but then something else seemed to disturb her sleep—something much more sinister.
After bathing in the modern bathroom connected to her room, Christine dressed and went downstairs for breakfast. A grand buffet style breakfast of eggs, potatoes and fruit was set out on the side bar in the dining room. After filling her plate, Christine sat at the table, and in walked Héctor.
“I hope you slept well,” he said.
She wasn’t going to reveal her dreams to this man, so she responded with a nod. After a pause, she asked, “Will Lord Marco be joining me today for breakfast?”
“No, señorita. His lordship has gone out on business early this morning. He will be back tonight for dinner.”
“Oh.”
“He requests that you join him once again for dinner this evening.”
She simply nodded, trying to hide her disappointment of not seeing him before dinner.
What business could have called him away today? This was the first whole day the National Gallery representative was here to take photos and notes on some of the castle history along with the history of some of the pieces to be included in the exhibit.
Lord Marco was a man of mystery, and the more she thought on him, the more she was intrigued. He was handsome, cultured, and very alluring. She had fought her conscious thoughts of him touching her. She couldn’t help but wonder what his dark, smooth skin would feel like against hers as they made love? Just the thought of him kissing her sent her body overheating with need. Why did she have such an intense response to him, and why did she dream of him weeks before coming here to the castle?
“Is there any written history of the family here in the castle library, Héctor?”
“Sí, señorita. There is a family history and a history of the castle that was recorded.” He paused and yet looked unsure to say anything more. Had he said too much?”
“I will need to see those records in order to send a report back to the office. I would like to connect the items here in the castle or exhibit to the actual castle history.” And the history of the Cordoba family, she thought to herself.
Héctor nodded and said he would get the records pulled for her and ready in the library.
Once he left the room, she glared over at the tapestry of Lord Marco Cordoba. Rising from the table, her plate of eggs and sausage suddenly unappetizing, she strode over to the tapestry. She pulled out her digital camera and took several pictures of the knight’s face. At closer inspection, she wondered at the strong similarity between the medieval prince and his modern day descendant. Amazingly similar in facial features, one man could have easily passed for the other. If only several hundred years did not separate the men…
* * * *
Marco arose from his rest that evening and prepared for dinner. Even with his centuries of experience and knowledge, one woman could send his stomach fluttering with anxiety. He was nervous! It was a sensation he hardly recognized, yet he couldn’t deny the anticipation and fear at meeting Christine again.
He climbed the stone steps from his cellar chamber and followed the faint sound of her heartbeat into the library. There he found Christine sitting at his desk with her laptop. The screen’s pale blue light illuminated her face as she concentrated on whatever she was doing. What could capture her attention so fully to not hear him enter?
“Did you have a good day?” he asked.
She jumped in her seat at his voice. “Oh.” Her breath quickened and he sensed fear about her. Her heart began to race as he stepped closer. It was not only fear, but attraction—a primal reaction to his presence.
He embraced her physical reaction to him, but he was disturbed by her fear. “I’m sorry if I frightened you.”
“It isn’t that,” she stammered.
“What is so interesting, if I may ask? Did you find a particularly interesting piece of art here?”
“Well, you have several pieces that are quite extraordinary, your lordship.”
“Please, call me Marco.”
She nodded absently as she avoided his eyes.
“What is it?”
“Well…the first piece I find interesting is this portrait of Lord Juan Cordoba by Diego Velázquez. He was a very famous Spanish artist, as I am sure you know.” She made a few clicks on her mouse and waved him to look at her laptop screen. “This is an exceptional piece that I definitely want to include in the exhibit.”
He stepped over to her side and pulled up a chair. Close to her, he breathed in her scent deeply, a light essence of lilies of the valley coated her skin. She intoxicated him with her subtle movements to avoid his touch, but he moved in closer. “This was always one of my favorite family portraits.”
She made a low sound of agreement and then said, “This tapestry of Lord Marco Cordoba in the dining room is also quite exquisite.” She enlarged the image next to the Diego Velázquez painting. “And this 1832 portrait of Lord Esteban Cordoba IV…” She clicked another picture to be enlarged along side the two others. “And then there is this modern portrait of you in pastels by Pamela Cortez.” She enlarged the forth image.
Marco shifted uneasily in his seat.
She turned to him, and he felt the attraction sizzle between them along with her underlying fear.
“I find it curious that all these men are amazingly alike in their appearance,” she commented.
He reached up and touched her face. She sharply inhaled and closed her eyes.
“What are you saying, Christine?” he asked in a low, husky voice.
“Something is happening here that I don’t understand.”
He leaned in and touched his lips to hers. He kissed her lightly and her heart beat raced with each pass of his lips along hers.
“Tell me what you feel,” he coaxed in a whisper.
“I feel…I feel like something is going on and I am part of the puzzle.”
“You are.”
He leaned back and looked at her sweet face. “Open your eyes, Christine.”
She did and his breath caught at the reflection of budding love in her eyes.
“What I am about to tell you is probably going to be hard to believe. But I swear on my honor as a knight, it is all true.”
She cocked her head and reached her hand to his face. “I’m here to listen.”
“Promise me to keep an open mind.”
“I promise, I will.”
“My name is Lord Marco Cordoba, born in 1331, son of Esteban Cordoba. I died in 1362 at the hands of an evil creature of the night, bent to destroy and curse the entire Cordoba family. This creature, a vampire, killed my bride on our wedding night, kidnapped her right from our chambers and disappeared into the night. I rode after them, but I was too late. Vicente murdered Isobel and I couldn’t save her. She died in my arms as I wept for her. But the night was not over. The vampire wanted her soul as payment to his master. I fought, sacrificing my very life to save her soul. I became that which I hated—a vampire.
“Centuries passed and I would recreate my existence every few generations. I held onto my castle and my lands through created identities. I had portraits made of my personalities to cement my existence in the community.”
“Are you telling me these portraits are all you?” she asked incredulously.
He nodded. “Sí, they are all me.”
She turned back to the images all displayed together on her laptop. There was no doubt that the portraits were all the same man. “You are a…vampire?”
“Sí. I am immortal, bound to exist an eternity upon this earth by drinking the blood and psychic strength of the living.”
“You drink blood?” She inched away from him at the thought.
“Blood and psychic energy, like that in dreams.”
She gasped. “Dreams?” Pausing a moment, she then asked, “Have you been visiting my dreams?”
“Sí, I have, for some time now.”
“How…? How did you know? Why…?” Her fears were bubbling to the surface.
He grabbed her gently by the shoulders. “You are the reincarnation of my beloved Isobel, my bride. I found you through our bond…of love.”
“Then these feelings I am having…are they mine, or are they…someone else’s?”
“Christine, listen to me—look at me.”
She lifted her head and gazed at him with tearful eyes.
“I loved Isobel once, but you are not her. You are yourself. You carry her inside you. I love her still, but you are Christine. And I…I love you.”
Tears spilled from her eyes. “How could this happen so quickly?”
“We were destined to be together. I feel it in my heart.” He paused then asked, “Do you think you can come to love me in time?”
She covered her mouth and nose with her hands as she wept. After a few moments of tears, she said, “I am already falling in love with you.”
Tension seemed to wash away from his muscles that had clenched in fearful anticipation. He took her into his arms and held her close as she cried. He stroked her hair and whispered endearments to her, promising to love her for all eternity.
How could she fall for a man who claimed to be immortal…a vampire? Could it be true? After her examination of all the portraits in the East Hall and the tapestry in the dining room, there was little doubt the image was of the same man. But could she bring herself to believe in vampires, eternal life and reincarnation?
As much as her heart told her to throw caution to the wind, her mind held the reigns of constraint. She wanted to believe him, but it was too incredible. And even as he held her, soothing her nerves with the simple stroke of his hand along her hair, she resisted in giving her heart completely. Christine wasn’t ready to give her heart to him fully. There were too many questions, too many doubts.
“Come, let’s go upstairs and talk some more as you lie down.” Marco helped her rise from her seat and led her gently to the stairs. When her legs faltered, he picked her up effortlessly and carried her.
In her room he placed her on her bed and she slid to the far side, her eyes watching him cautiously.
“I know. It is all quite hard to believe,” he said, pain etching his handsome features.
“You claim you are a vampire,” she blurted.
“Sí. I am.” Marco sat on the edge of the bed and rested his hands on his lap. “I was created by evil.” His voice was low and she could hear his heartache in its tone.
“But I thought vampires were just…fairy tales or folklore.”
“Every nation in the world has some sort of vampire legend. With every legend or folktale, there is a basis of truth weaved throughout.”
Silence fell between them.
“I am not a bad man, Christine.”
“I know that,” she quickly refuted. “I am just…wow, a vampire. Vampires exist, and you are one.”
He smiled and her insides melted. “Think you can adapt to the thought of my being a vampire?”
She reached her hand to his. His warm skin wrapped about hers in a comforting grip. Her heart leapt at his touch. “It’s going to take some time, I think.”
He was a vampire—a creature of myth and magic—yet all she wanted was for him to touch her further, to make love to her. In her heart, he was the man she desired beyond all others.
As though reading her mind, he leaned over the bed to her and stroked her face with his fingertips. A shiver ran down her spine and her breath caught.
“I need you, Christine. I need to make love to you, to drink from you.” Her gaze met his and she could feel the heat pouring from him, calling her in a silent seduction. “Please, let me taste of you.”
Her eyes fluttered closed as she breathed a soft, “Yes.”
He kissed her gently at first, but it wasn’t enough for her. She needed him as much as he needed her. The desire to rip off her clothes and offer her body to him was overwhelming.
He moved closer to her, covering her torso with his powerful body. He was dominating yet loving. His hands moved over her, pushing away the fabric of her dress to reveal her sensitive flesh. His lips kissed a trail along her chest and when he reached the tip of one breast, she gasped. She held his head to her breast as he suckled upon first one hard nipple and then the other.
“Marco,” she breathed, giving herself to him.
Moments later, he had stripped away his clothes and then hers and they lay together in bed, examining their bodies through touches and kisses. Skin upon skin, she felt as though she’d turned to water, melting into him. He took great care in fondling her breasts and seemed to be in no hurry to move on from there.
“You have the most beautiful breasts,” he murmured after licking one nipple thoroughly. He flicked the tip with his tongue then nibbled it gently between his teeth. “You like that?” he finally asked.
Her only response was a low moan.
He continued to play with her breasts, cupping their soft, round shape in his palms, feeling their weight, and then suckling the nipples into hard points once again.
The world could be crashing about the castle walls, and she wouldn’t have cared. Marco took her to heights of pleasure and ecstasy she’d never experienced before. As he dipped his fingers into her sex, she experienced the first of many orgasms. Holding onto his shoulders as she rode the waves of bliss, Christine forgot about vampires and ancient curses. There was only the incredible man—a knight of old—making love to her, awakening sensations within her body previously unknown. And when he finally entered her, she clutched him as he set the pace of the moment. When she found her release, she cried out his name in passion only to have him join her with his own climax deep within her body.
At the peak of his release, he bit down upon her shoulder. The pain was fleeting as her orgasm increased and sparked another. She clutched onto his body as he drank from her. After only a moment, he released her and licked at the wound.
Later as they lay in bed with limbs wrapped about their bodies, moonlight poured in through a nearby window, cutting the darkness with a soft white glow.
She breathed deeply, inhaling the scent of sex and Marco, and Christine felt safe—comforted. Yes, she already knew she’d been falling for the dark knight, but now she knew her heart was lost to him. She moved and he held her tightly against him. Her entire body was sore from their glorious loving, but not the area on her shoulder. She absently reached up to the wound and felt her skin.
“My saliva has healing properties. You don’t have a mark.”
“Oh,” she said, a little embarrassed.
“I drank of you, but not for sustenance. You’re worth far more than that. Now, I have bonded myself to you though a blood link. If you ever need me, just call me through your thoughts. I will hear you.”
“You mean like some sort of mental telepathy?”
“Something like that.”
They lay in silence and the reality of their situation crashed over her. She was falling in love with a vampire…a seven hundred year old vampire. Did they even have a chance at a future?
Or better yet, could she remain here with Marco for a lifetime of love? What would it feel like to age before him as he stayed as young as the day they met?
“You are troubling yourself with things we can only discover in time,” he said.
She looked at him in surprise.
“Mental link. I can feel and hear what you are thinking…experiencing.”
“I’m sorry, this has been very hard to come to grips with.”
“Perhaps I should get us some wine or something stronger from the library.”
She laughed softly. “You know, I could use something to calm me.”
He leaned into her and kissed her. “Then we can make love again.”
“Oh, yes.”
He rose from the bed and strode to the door, completely unaffected by his nakedness. He was a dark god of toned muscle and sexual prowess. She let her gaze slide over his perfect form and she moaned.
“When I get back, you can look me over further,” he laughed.
“Well, you are very sexy, my lord.”
“And you are incredibly beautiful.” He opened the door and left her alone.
She giggled at the thought of one of the servants bumping into Marco in the hall…after all he was completely naked.
She wrapped herself in a sheet from the bed and strode over to the vanity. Maybe she could brush out her hair and freshen her makeup before Marco returned.
“Christine.” Her name caressed her skin with the night breeze flowing through the window. “Christine.”
“Marco?” she rose from her chair and went to the window.
Then the hypnotic sound floated to her once again.
“Christine, tonight, you shall be mine.”
* * * *
Marco was gathering a tray together of fruits and wine to take upstairs when he sensed evil vibrate through the castle walls. Vicente.
Christine, tonight, you shall be mine.
The vampire called to her, used magic to entrance her.
Marco! She mentally screamed.
Marco dropped the tray and raced toward her room. When he reached her door, the bolt was locked. With incredible otherworldly strength, he broke through the magic Vicente placed to keep him away. Bursting into the room, Marco found himself alone.
Christine was gone.
Without a second thought, Marco raced to the window, open from the vampire’s visit, and jumped out. In an instant, Marco transformed into a black hawk and soared into the night.
Vicente’s laughter echoed into Marco’s mind, and fear gripped at his heart. How could he have turned away for a few moments when the creature hunted so close by, waiting for his opportunity to steal her?
Focusing on Christine, Marco zeroed in on her scent and his blood bond with her. Now that he’d drunk of her, even though it was the merest of sips, he could track her closely through her blood. But in Marco’s heart, he did not need to search for her. He knew where Vicente would take her—to the same place in the forest where Isobel had died.
Marco soared above the trees, and then circled through the high reaching limbs to find Christine.
Marco! Help me! She called in his mind.
I’m coming, my love!
Then he felt her heart beat rapidly as she ran. Vicente had let his guard down for a moment and Christine startled him by kicking him in the crotch. She bolted from his grip and now ran through the dark forest as the vampire screeched behind her.
Marco swooped past Christine’s sprinting figure and he slammed into Vicente. The hawk shifted into a great black panther with claws bared. Marco released his rage and attacked the vampire in full force. He dug his claws into Vicente’s pale flesh and bright red blood spewed from the creature’s wounds. He clamped down on the vampire’s shoulder and drank deeply…greedily…hungrily, taking the very essence of the vampire into himself. Marco felt Vicente’s immortal life wane with every drop of blood lost.
Then he sensed her approach from behind. “Move aside!” she called.
In a flash, Marco rolled from the vampire and she drove a sharp branch into its chest. The unholy scream that burst from Vicente’s lips filled the air, but then as she drove the stick in further, the vampire’s voice stilled.
He lay on the ground at her side as she fell to her knees. She began to sob as he stared with unbelieving eyes at the sight of the fallen vampire before him. Centuries of pain and torture were at an end. No longer would Vicente haunt the grounds of Castilla de la Cordoba.
Then a strange sensation overcame Marco—a pain so sharp and unearthly, he cried out as his body began to convulse.
Hardly aware of his surroundings, he rode the painful waves of his transformation as Christine held onto him, crying and begging for him to live.
He had to catch his breath, slow his racing heart. What was happening to him? Several minutes of this torture wracked his body until he fell unconscious.
Marco was unsure of how long he’d been in the safety of his unconscious mind. He only knew that her tender words of love called to him, beckoning him to turn from the welcoming light from beyond. Christine called to him.
When he opened his eyes, he saw her above him. Her beautiful face was streaked with tears and he reached up a hand to brush away the salty moisture.
“You’re alive!” she cried.
“Alive.” He repeated. “And cold.”
“We need to get you back to the castle and warm up by the fire.”
“No, there is only one place I want to warm up.” He cupped her cheek and said, “In bed with you.”
Christine laid a hand upon her abdomen where her son turned over inside her. It had been six months ago when Marco had became human once again. With the death of Vicente, Marco’s vampiric life had come to an end.
Christine had come to terms with the events of the weeks that brought her here to Spain and Castilla de la Cordoba. Now, she couldn’t even dream of living anywhere else.
They were married immediately and had taken an elaborate honeymoon around the world. And during that time, she had gotten pregnant. This feat was the greatest gift Marco could give her.
“I never thought I would ever see the day my son was born,” he said in bed after they had made love. He covered her hand with his as they felt the gentle movement of the baby.
“I certainly didn’t think I’d be having the baby of a seven hundred year old knight.”
He nuzzled her neck and breathed warmly into her ear, “You are just lucky, my sweet wife.”
“I wish I was able to travel to see the exhibit open in the National Gallery next week.”
“At least some of the castle history will be shared with the world.” He rubbed her hand as the baby kicked hard against her abdomen.
“I swear, he’s going to come out kicking and fighting,” she laughed.
“Brave like his mother,” Marco said with a kiss to her cheek.
“A true knight, just like his father.”
Marianne LaCroix started writing as a child in elementary school. Her first book was a story about a Christmas underwater featuring an eel, a whale and an octopus which she read to the first grade class to a memorable round of applause. She grew up in New Jersey in a small town located between Philadelphia and Atlantic City where she received her Bachelor’s degree in English Literature from Glassboro State (aka Rowan University). Shortly afterwards, she married her “sexy Dutchman” and moved to Southwest Georgia. There she went back to school for nursing. She has worked in a hospital, a nursing home, and a local physician’s office.
When she was pregnant, Mari revisited her earlier passion for writing. Always a voracious reader, she decided to write romances she’d like to read. She has written several short stories, novellas and novels and has received numerous recognitions for her writing such as two Romantic Times BOOKclub Reviewer Choice nominees, a Paranormal Excellence Award for Romantic Literature (PEARL) Honorable Mention, and a Cupid and Psyche Award (CAPA).
She is active in Romance Writers of America and is the founder and president of Florida Panhandle Romance Writers (FPHRW) located in Tallahassee, Florida.
Mari loves reading romance, surfing the web, hanging out with her family and gossiping on the phone with friends. She loves attending writer conferences and reader conventions to meet her favorite authors and obtain cherished autographed copies of their books. A self described “bookaholic”, her book collection numbers in the hundreds—and continues to grow steadily much to her husband’s dismay.
Mari lives in South Georgia with her husband, their twin daughters, two dogs, a cat, a cockatiel, and an escape artist hamster.
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