Marie sighed. “No doctor can help you now, Alex. Only Aidan can. He is a great healer. They say there is only one other greater than he.” She smiled. “Aidan will return, and he’ll take away your pain.”
Her insides twisted so hard and abruptly, Alexandria was nearly thrown from the bed. She cried out, screamed. “You have to call me a doctor, Marie. Please! You’re human, like me, aren’t you? You have to help me. I want to go home! I just want to go home!”
Marie tried to hold her down on the bed, but the pain was so intense, Alexandria’s body convulsed, and she hit the floor hard.
Chapter Four
Aidan inhaled the night as he walked along the San Francisco sidewalk. Creatures winged their way across the sky. The breeze carried the scent of prey. Half a block away, an alley, narrow and dark, opened onto the street. He could feel the presence of three men. He smelled their sweat, heard their crude laughter. They were would-be assailants waiting for a lost soul to brighten up their otherwise dull lives.
His hunger rose sharply with every step he took, the demon rising so that his mind became merely a red haze demanding to feed. He smelled the night. It had taken him some time to get used to the sounds and sights and smells of this foreign city. The sea salt carried on the wind, the thick fog, the patterns of the night life were all so different from the ways of his homeland. But someone had to hunt the vampires. Once the undead had learned they could leave their lands and travel far from the Dark One’s justice, they had begun to branch out. Aidan had volunteered to leave his beloved Carpathian Mountains and go to a new land to protect the humans residing there. And San Francisco had become his home base. Over time he had come to enjoy the city and its diverse people, to even think of it as home.
The art centers were wonderful. Theater and opera were plentiful. And there was a ready supply of prey. He moved silently, muscles rippling as he neared the alley. The three thugs were shuffling back and forth, whispering, unaware of his stalking. Their mutterings were loud in his ears, despite the fact that he had deliberately lowered his hearing, wanting to escape the assault on his senses. Sensations, intense emotions, even the vivid colors he hadn’t experienced in so many centuries were overwhelming to him. The night seemed so brilliant, it took his breath away. He found it beautiful, the clouds, the stars, the moon, all of it.
Aidan shrugged his powerful shoulders to relax the tension in his body. He was more obviously muscular than most of his kind. The majority of his people were slimmer, more elegantly built. Also unlike the others, he and his twin were blond with golden eyes. His race customarily had dark hair and eyes.
As he approached the alley, he sent forth a call. He didn’t need to do so. The moment the men spotted him, they would have attempted to attack him. But this way would be calmer. Although the predator in him would welcome a battle, brief as it would be, he didn’t have the time to indulge his nature just now. In any case, having come so close to the edge of madness and transformation to vampire by waiting so many centuries for his mate, and so soon after the killing battle with Paul Yohenstria, he would not allow himself to explode into violence. He had a purpose now, a reason for existing, and he would not allow his predatory nature to overcome his intelligence and will.
One of the trio had just lit a cigarette, its pungent aroma wafting along the street, but abruptly he turned and began to shuffle out of the alley. The other two followed him, one cleaning his greasy fingernails with the point of a pocketknife. Their eyes were slightly glazed, as if they were drugged. Aidan frowned, unhappy that the prey was using narcotics, but blood was blood, and the drugs wouldn’t affect him.
“It is cold out on the street,” Aidan said softly, slipping an arm around the smoker’s shoulders. He led the men back into the darkened alley, away from prying eyes, and bent his head to drink. The other two waited like cattle, pushing close to him for their turn. Their unwashed bodies and rather useless minds sickened him, but he had to feed. Sometimes he wondered why humans like these were allowed to exist. They seemed little different from those of his race who had chosen to forfeit their souls and turn vampire, preying on those less powerful than themselves. Why didn’t someone stop these humans? Why had God created them? Why had he given the gift of breath to them, knowing they would fail to live a life of honor and integrity? Carpathian males endured for hundreds—some of them thousands—of years before they sought the dawn and self-destruction or made the decision to turn renegade and lose their souls for all time. Yet some human males could not endure even beyond their teen years.
Aidan dropped the first victim carelessly on the ground, his hand curling around the nape of the next donor. The man came to him easily, under hypnotic trance, eager to please. Aidan fed voraciously, heedless that the three men would be weak and helpless for some time. He needed the nourishment, and he was disgusted with their existence. Men like these searched to exploit those weaker than themselves. They were cruel to their women and avoided their obligations to their most precious treasure in life, their children. Who cared how they got this way? Aidan was a firm believer in choosing one’s own destiny, not taking the easy way out. Carpathian males had all the instincts of a predator, sometimes more dangerous than wild animals, yet they would never abuse a woman or a child. They held to a strict code of honor even in their oftentimes kill-or-be-killed world. All of them knew the consequences of their actions, and they accepted the responsibility of their gifts. In Aidan’s race men such as these three would soon be exterminated. As powerful as Carpathians were, they could not be allowed to abuse those weaker than themselves.
The second victim swayed and fell nearly on top of the first. Aidan dragged the knife-wielding man close. The man looked up at him. “Are we going to party?” the reprobate asked with a crude laugh.
“One of us is,” Aidan agreed softly, and he bent his head to find the pulsing jugular.
The first ripple of unease hit him. He lifted his head for a moment, and his prey’s blood spurted out. He bent once more to his task, this time all efficiency and quickness. It was Alexandria. He could feel the first wave of pain hitting her.
He meticulously closed the wound, ensuring that there was no evidence on the man’s neck to betray the presence of his kind in the area, and allowed his prey to sink to the ground. To anyone passing by all three men would appear drunk. Doubtless the trail of blood down one man’s shirt would be attributed to a bloody nose.
It was starting within Alexandria, as he knew it would. The conversion. And, ultimately, if inadvertently, he was responsible. The guilt didn’t sit well with him. He had observed two wounds on Alexandria’s neck, which could only mean one thing: the vampire had bitten her twice, made his exchanges. When Aidan had assumed she was a vampiress, already turned, he had nearly killed her. Then, when he had realized his error, he had replaced her lost blood with his own. Four blood exchanges would put the human through the transformation process—to vampire or Carpathian. Either way, there was no turning back. In most humans, attempts at conversion either killed the woman outright or drove her insane. Only a few women, those possessing psychic abilities, had managed to come through the ordeal alive and well. And they would be the ones to help perpetuate the Carpathian race, since their own females were proving barren.
The fourth blood exchange, converting Alexandria, would also keep her chained to him forever. Selfish though it might be to make that decision without her consent, she was, after all, his only salvation. He had held on for so many centuries, awaiting his lifemate, avoiding turning vampire himself. And, consenting or not, she