The Secret Night. Rebecca York
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ought to do it.”
She turned in her seat to look at him directly. “I don’t know how to thank you. I’d never have—”
Shane shook his head. “We’re square. You helped me out by sharing your information about the Refuge.”
They weren’t square. He’d saved her life. “I’m truly grateful.”
Emma watched him drive away, then staggered into the hotel lobby.
She wondered if they were going to let her in looking like a refugee from a third-world country.
THE ROUGH-LOOKING MAN had been sitting in the corner of the biker bar for the past hour, nursing a beer and trying not to breathe too deeply. The place smelled like a men’s room, with an overlay of booze and cigarette smoke.
Not his kind of scene. But in his two days’ growth of beard, uncombed hair and leather jacket, he figured he blended in okay—except for his lack of tattoos and piercings.
A biker with a picture of a cobra decorating his arm swaggered by and propped himself against the bar, allowing room for his beer belly.
“Hey, Snake,” one of his buddies called out.
“Yo,” the cobra guy answered.
That’s what I need, the observer thought. A colorful name. A handle. He could call himself…Trailblazer. Yeah, Trailblazer would do just fine.
Scanning the crowd at the bar, he shook his head in disgust. It wasn’t yet noon, but the place was already full of guys who drank their breakfast. Finally, when he’d had enough of the toxic gas that passed for air, he decided it was time to make his move.
Bellying up to the bar, he ordered another beer. When it came, he took a sip, then turned to the man next to him—a young punk named Butch McCard, the leader of the biker gang and a regular patron of the bar.
“I hear you ran into a little trouble last night,” he said to McCard.
McCard’s eyes sharpened on him momentarily. “What’re you talkin’ about?”
“Trouble in Ten Oaks Cemetery,” Trailblazer clarified.
McCard’s head snapped around. “Keep your nose out of that.”
“What if I can help you?”
“How?”
“How about the name of the bastard who broke up your private party?”
Trailblazer kept his face impassive when McCard grabbed his shirt and demanded, “What the hell do you know about it?”
Trailblazer cautiously shrugged off the offending hand. “We’ve been keeping an eye on Nicholas Vickers.”
“Who is he?”
Jeez, McCard really was a moron. Patiently, he explained, “He’s the guy who crashed your party.”
“Oh yeah?”
“He sleeps during the day. He sleeps real sound, so you should be able to fix him good without him ever knowing.” Seeing the look of interest in McCard’s eyes, Trailblazer held out a slip of paper. “You want his address?”
A hammy hand snatched the paper from him. It was almost comical watching the bleary-eyed McCard try to read the address.
“Hey, dude, thanks,” the biker said. “What’s your name?”
“Trailblazer.”
“You want to come with us, Blaze?”
“Naw. Just get him for me.”
As McCard strode over to one of his buddies, Trail-blazer slipped from the bar and into the morning sunshine, whistling.
NICK STIRRED in his sleep. He was dreaming about a time long ago, when the wife of the Duke of Monmouth had given the cut direct to the wife of the Baron of Bridgewater. The little drama had been the talk of the ton for half the social season. He had shaken his head at the gossip, at a society that had nothing more important to focus on than who was snubbing whom.
Suddenly, in the way of dreams, he was somewhere else. It was 1850, and he had taken up residence at a castle outside St.-Paul-de-Vence. He had traveled all through Europe, trying to escape the boredom of his life, looking for some purpose and meaning. Finally, he thought he’d found it—a man who called himself the Master and who promised his followers untold wisdom. He was captivated by the Master’s charisma and his idealism so he joined his enclave.
One night, peasants from the region attacked the castle. Without wondering why they would do such a thing, Nick joined in the defense—and got shot in the stomach.
The pain was excruciating, and he knew the wound meant certain death.
“Kill me now. Put an end to it,” he begged the Master.
“I may be able to save you,” his mentor replied.
“How?”
“How is not important. What matters is, if you survive the process, you will no longer be human. You will be like me. You will live forever. I believe it to be an excellent trade-off, but you must make the decision for yourself.”
Barely coherent, in agony from the pain in his gut, his reply came in gasped bursts. “Yes. Do it, please.”
The Master sat on the side of the bed and bent toward him, and he felt the first shiver of fear. He had no idea what was about to happen, only a vague sense that, afterward, nothing would ever be the same again. Yet any protest he might have uttered stayed locked in his throat. He did not want to die.
He cried out as he felt the Master’s sharp teeth fasten on his neck. And he cried out again as he felt the blood being drawn out of him. Terror shuddered through him but was quickly dispelled by an overwhelming sense of peace and well-being that seemed to invade his mind. The feeling was accompanied by the Master’s voice, though he heard no one speaking aloud.
“Rest,” the voice said to him. “You will be well soon. Just rest….”
Again, Nick tossed in his sleep, shaking his head against the pillow and muttering, “No…don’t… God, no…”
As if he had been granted temporary mercy, the scene changed. And suddenly he was in another place, another time.
A pine forest, deep and dark and shrouded in mist. Through the mist, a woman walked toward him, holding out her arms. A wind blew through the trees, and her hair and her white gown billowed out behind her. Jeanette, he thought at first. Then he saw the blond hair and knew it was not she but another woman. The woman whose name he didn’t know but who had been haunting his sleep for so many nights.
“Who are you?” he asked her.
She smiled. “We’ll meet soon.”
“No,” he said. “Leave me while you can.”
“Let me be with you.”
“No!” He gave a near-violent shake of his head. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
For a charged moment, neither of them moved. Then, before he could back away, she closed the distance between them and wrapped him in her embrace. Her female scent enveloped him, and the contact of her body pressed to his set up an unbearable ache inside him. When she raised her lips to his, he was lost.
The first touch of his mouth on hers set off sparks that should have set the pine forest ablaze. Heat crackled through him, heat and longing such as he hadn’t felt in decades, almost unbearable in its intensity. He knew it was the same for her because she made a small, shocked sound deep in her throat.
That sound was his undoing. That and the soft caress of her lips against his. They were so sweet and yielding, and at the same time so charged with wild, unvarnished need. Her need kindled his own. He forgot the rules he’d set to