She was rereading what she had written when Logan came up behind her. “Still writing your life story?” he asked, dropping a kiss on the top of her head.
“Mostly jotting down memories. Once I get it all down, I guess I’ll have to put it in some sort of order.” She shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.”
Logan grunted softly. “Digging up some unpleasant memories, are you?” he asked, reading over her shoulder.
“A few.”
“Well, come on, let’s go for a walk.”
Stretching, she ran a hand through her hair. “Now?” “Why not now? Didn’t Ramsden say you needed to get some exercise? Besides, there’s nothing like a stroll in the moonlight to put your mind at ease.”
That had been true once, she thought, remembering how she had always loved the night. “Let me shut down the computer first.”
“I’ll get your jacket. It’s cold out.”
Minutes later, they were strolling down the sidewalk like an old married couple. Logan wore faded blue jeans and a black T-shirt; Mara was bundled up in sweatpants, a long-sleeved shirt, a jacket, and fur-lined boots. She grinned inwardly, thinking they looked like ads for summer and winter.
She sighed as her thoughts returned to Jeffrey. He had been a bright young man, easy to talk to, with a dry sense of humor. She had been quite fond of him. His destruction had been such a waste, but some people just weren’t cut out to be vampires. They hated their new existence, hated the one who had brought them across. Unable to embrace what they had become, they went out to meet the dawn and instant destruction. Others, unable to take their own lives, sought out older vampires and asked to be destroyed, or spent their lives trying to deny what they were. They refused to feed until the hunger became unbearable and then, almost mad with pain, they hunted. Driven by an insatiable need, they often ripped their prey to shreds, only to suffer nights of remorse afterward. Truly, they were the most miserable of all the Undead. Of course, there was no way to know how a person would take to being Nosferatu until it was too late.
After Jeffrey’s death, Mara had sent her servants away and abandoned the plantation. She had taken to haunting the battlefields, where she ferreted out those who were beyond any hope of recovery. She soothed their pain and their fears, eased her hunger, and sent them peacefully into whatever lay beyond the grave.
“You’re very quiet,” Logan remarked.
“I’m sorry. I guess I’m not very good company tonight.”
They walked in companionable silence for a time, and then Logan said, “I heard some disturbing news today.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. You ever hear of a vampire by the name of Travis Jackson?”
“Jackson, yes, I remember him.”
“Someone took him out.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. The vampire who told me about it heard it thirdhand. Happened somewhere in North Hollywood.”
“Really? The last I knew, he was down in Texas with his grandmother.” She had never been fond of Jackson. He had been a hunter before he was turned. At last count, he had destroyed thirty-six vampires, killed eighteen werewolves, and a were-tiger. During the War between the Vampires and the Werewolves, Jackson, his grandmother, Pearl, and Pearl’s friend, Edna, had caused a great deal of trouble. Pearl and Edna had concocted a serum they had hoped would cure the vampires and the werewolves. They had rounded up a number of test subjects, Rafe and Kathy among them, and injected each one. Fortunately, it had had no effect on vampires or humans. Werewolves had not fared as well. The experimental drug had killed two of them.
“Do you think the Jackson killing was an isolated incident?” Logan asked.
“How would I know?” Mara replied testily. “I’m a little out of the loop these days. What do you think?”
“I’m not sure. It’s the first killing I’ve heard about in quite a while. Well, except for Tasha.”
“Yes, Tasha,” Mara murmured. Tasha had killed Savanah’s father, and Savanah had driven a stake through her heart.
“I hope Pearl and Edna have enough sense to lie low for a while,” Logan said.
Mara snorted softly. She had no liking for either of the old biddies. Had it been up to her, she would have destroyed them both after the War. How like her softhearted Rafe to bring those two meddlesome old fools across rather than destroy them as he should have done.
Chapter Nineteen
The next morning after breakfast, Lieutenant Jeffrey Dunston was still on Mara’s mind. Lingering at the table, she thought again how sad it was that he had taken his own life rather than accept being a vampire. She had intended to spend a few years with him, to teach him how to wield his powers, to take him to London and Paris and Rome, to see the world anew through his eyes. But he had been too weak to accept the gift she had given him.
After Robert E. Lee surrendered, Mara had stayed in the South for a time, but living through the reconstruction period had been no fun at all, and so she had headed West. With no particular destination in mind, she had traveled from town to town, staying in one place or another for a month or a year as the spirit moved her.
She had always had a thing for men in uniform, whether they were wearing Confederate gray or Army blue, and so it was that in 1876, she found herself in Dakota Territory at Fort Abraham Lincoln. Women had been scarce in the Old West, especially women with soft hands, and faces that weren’t browned by the desert sun and lined by the stress of living on the frontier. The men she met treated her with the utmost courtesy, and if they weren’t quite as refined as their counterparts in the South, they made up for it in enthusiasm.
But it had been a Lakota scout named Runs With Thunder who had captured her interest and her affection during that time. In all her travels, she had never met a Native American and Runs With Thunder fascinated her. He was unlike any man she had ever known, and perhaps that was his attraction. He wasn’t the least bit interested in her, and that, more than anything else, had made her determined to have him.
She started her campaign slowly, asking questions about his people, how they lived, what they believed in, why he was working with the Army. At first, his answers had been cool, stilted, but her interest had been genuine and after a week or so, he began to answer her questions.
The Lakota were a proud race, their warriors fierce and brave. He told her of their customs, how the number four was sacred, how the tribe moved with the seasons, following the sun and Pte, the buffalo, how warriors went into the Paha Sapa, the sacred Black Hills, to ask the Great Spirit for a vision to guide them through life . . .