Darting forward, Jason Rourke caught the woman in his arms. Her scent flooded his nostrils. The silk of her hair caressed his hands. The feel of her body against his reminded him, almost painfully, that he had not had a woman in three hundred years.
But it wasn't the hunger of the flesh that burned through him. It was the almost overpowering scent of the warm crimson tide flowing sweetly through her veins, the tantalizing beat of her heart. He groaned softly as his fangs brushed his tongue. He looked at the woman, his body cold and aching with need; looked at the pulse beating slow and steady in the hollow of her throat and saw an end to the pain that had plagued him for centuries.
Lowering his head to her neck, he swept his tongue across her silken skin and then, with a low growl, he closed his eyes, sank his fangs into her throat, and forgot everything but the primal urge to feed, to slake his hellish thirst, to ease the pain that had tormented him for so long. The warmth of her life's blood burned through him, turning away the chill, the emptiness, of three hundred years.
Lost in the ecstasy of the moment, he might have taken it all if she hadn't moaned softly. Lifting his head, he gazed into her eyes, deep blue eyes wide with terror and disbelief.
With a hoarse cry of fear, Kari twisted out of his embrace. Had she been able, she would have run out of the room and out of the house, but she lacked the strength to do so. With a sob, she staggered backward a few feet, then collapsed onto the sofa.
She looked up at him, her expression one of fear, hopelessness, and distrust.
Rourke stood over her, his hands clenched as he fought down the hunger that still raged through him. It would take more than the life's blood of one mortal female to satisfy his rampant hunger.
Even so, the heat of her blood sang through his veins, and with it came a renewal of his preternatural power. Colors increased in brightness and depth, his nostrils filled with a thousand scents, most of which were alien to him. He heard the harsh rasp of the woman's breathing, the erratic beating of her heart, the ticking of a clock somewhere upstairs, the drip of water. And mingled with those mundane sounds were others he could not identify.
It had been in his mind to drain the woman dry, but he realized now that he might have need of her. The world had changed since the wizard had cursed him. During his imprisonment in the painting, Rourke had seen but little of the new world, and much of what he had seen made no sense. She could explain it to him. And then there was the fact that he owed the woman a life debt for setting him free. What kind of monster had he become, that he could even think of repaying her kindness with treachery?
Catching the woman's gaze with his own, he willed her to go to sleep, and then, filled with the exhilaration of freedom and the burning thirst of three hundred years, he opened the door and stepped out into the night.
He paused in the darkness, hidden in the shadows, his senses expanding as his power surged up within him like lava erupting from a long-dormant volcano.
A myriad of sights and sounds and smells pummeled his senses from all sides. He drew them in, sorting those he knew from those that were foreign to him. One scent overpowered all the others. The smell of prey, nearby.
Becoming one with the night, he followed the scent. It led him to a group of five boys gathered in an alley. Music blared from a black box.
Rourke watched them for several moments before they grew aware of his presence. They were an odd-looking bunch, with their baggy trousers, sleeveless shirts, and heavy boots. One had hair that resembled a rooster's tail; another had no hair at all; a third wore his hair in an unremarkable style save that it was bright green.
Rourke grunted softly. A veritable feast, his for the taking.
The boy with green hair noticed him first. "Hey, man," he exclaimed, "what do you want?"
Rourke smiled, displaying his fangs. "You."
The boy stared at him. "What the hell are you talking about, man?" Reaching behind his back, he produced a knife. "This is our turf, you freak. Get the hell out of here."
Focusing his energy on the blade, Rourke plucked it from the boy's hand and flung it into the street.
Perhaps thinking there was safety in numbers, the other four thugs moved closer together, their eyes narrowed. He could smell the stink of fear that rose from them with the realization that they were facing something completely beyond their ken.
"Who are you?" Green Hair asked, his voice little more than a whisper.
Rourke didn't bother to answer. He looked at each boy in turn, his mind holding each of theirs captive as he moved among them. Young blood, was there anything in all the world like it?
He was tempted to drain them dry, all of them. There was nothing to equal the rush of drinking a mortal dry, the preternatural strength that came with it, the all-encompassing sense of euphoria. But it was never wise to leave a trail of bodies behind and tonight he didn't want to be bothered with disposing of his kills.
He drank from them all, drank until he was drunk with the taste and the smell and the power. He could feel it flooding his being, singing through his veins, sharpening powers that had lain dormant for too long.
Releasing the mortals from his thrall, he vanished from their sight. The moon he had not seen in centuries called to him and he ran effortlessly in its light, his muscles stretching after their long confinement. He ran for miles, reveling in the touch of the wind on his face, in his hair, the feel of the earth beneath his feet, thrilling to the supernatural power and strength that surged like a living, breathing thing within him. And as his strength grew, so did his hatred for the wizard who had imprisoned him and stolen so many decades of his existence.
The wizard, Vilnius. Did he still live? And what of his daughter, Ana Luisa? Was she still ensnared inside a painting, as well, or had her father taken pity on her and released her years ago? Trapped in a prison of his own, Rourke had vowed to destroy Vilnius for what he had done. It had been the thought of avenging himself on the wizard that had kept him sane during the long centuries of his imprisonment. In his mind, he had killed the wizard over and over again, each death more diabolically cruel, more lingering, than the last.
He swore softly. Finding the wizard. That could prove difficult, if not impossible, after so many years. But if the wizard still lived, Rourke would find him. One way or another, he would find him. The thought of vengeance would only grow sweeter with the passage of days. In the meantime, he would acclimate himself to this new century, this new world.
With that thought in mind, he strolled down the street, noting that houses had changed in both style and architecture since he had been born over seven hundred years ago. Cars had replaced the horse. Walking along, he found that he preferred the pungent smell of horse manure to the stink of oil and gasoline. Fashions, too, had undergone a drastic change. In his day, women had covered themselves from head to foot and often worn hats with veils. The women of today bared it all, apparently without thought for modesty or shame. Fashions for men had also undergone a radical transformation. He observed the flamboyant shirts, baggy pants, casual footwear, and shook his head.