FEBRUARY 21, 1986/Boston, Massachusetts
I swirl the pinot noir around in my glass and turn another page, absorbed in my book. While it's true that I'm a two hundred-year-old, opera-loving, highbrow culture-consuming, occasionally violent immortal, I have exactly one guilty pleasure.
Romantic fiction.
Yes, yes, I know I said I deeply disliked fated mates. But only in real life. Fictional happiness is somehow far more satisfying, at least to me. Probably this is due to my occupation as a young man, during the time that I was human. I was a poet for several years.
Over the decades I've been a voracious consumer of popular books, bestsellers, and now, romance. It's always been a way to escape the tedium of my existence. Writing has eluded me since I was turned into this current form, and it's one of my chief frustrations about my life.
Or what passes as a life.
Damiano would laugh his ass off if he saw me tonight, a muscular, angry-eyed vampire reading a romance novel in an expensive home in Boston. If he'd lived, he would've wanted to stroll down the hill to the Ritz and sit at the bar, hoping to pick up some gorgeous socialite and then drink her blood while giving her the best orgasm of her life.
Once upon a time, I was like that with women.
These days, all the eroticism I need is in books, because humans bore me. I especially enjoy the historical romances set in Europe in the nineteenth century; it's always fascinating to see how the fictional world compares with my own experience.
Tonight I'm inhaling something a little different: Jackie Collins' Lucky. It's one of the biggest books of this decade, and while I'm not a fan of the prose, I have to say the Mafia plot is addicting, like a sexier Godfather. It's a campy and fun book, and probably far more interesting than what I have to deal with later tonight.
I finish the chapter and set the book down on a dark mahogany end table. There's a sip of wine left in the glass, but I don't touch it. Instead, I check my vintage Rolex, then slip it off my wrist and set it on top of the book. Ten o'clock. I click off a lamp, and bright moonlight streams into the room, casting beautiful shadows on one of the exposed brick walls.
It's time to leave the cool, quiet sanctuary of this Beacon Hill home and go in search of my prey. A dark nightclub is the perfect setting for what I need to do this evening.
Fortunately, my stalking this past week paid off. It hadn't taken much to pay off an intern in the registrar's department at Boston University. That young woman had given me Evangeline Ransom's entire schedule. Then, I'd lingered outside of a lecture hall, and fell into lockstep behind her and another woman.
They'd talked excitedly about an upcoming concert at a club called Axis. Some band called The Mission was playing. I'd never heard of them, but that wasn't surprising. I was familiar with fiction trends, not music.
I'd had to do a little asking around on campus about The Mission. One guy with a pierced nose and a mohawk had called them "rad," and another girl with pale skin and black lipstick said they were "goth." Eventually I'd been forced to walk to Tower Records on Massachusetts Avenue to buy an album.
To my surprise, they weren't bad.
I throw a leather jacket over my plain black T-shirt. I've also decided to wear black jeans and leather Doc Marten boots, since that's what I've seen men wear around the city. Over the decades, I've become an expert in blending in.
The frigid air outside doesn't bother me, and I light a cigarette while hailing a cab on Charles Street. The driver wants to make small talk, but I respond in monosyllabic grunts. I've never understood Americans' need to be pleasant.
At the club, I stuff a fifty into the cabbie's hand through the window—while I can be an asshole, I'm not a stingy tipper—and saunter to the club entrance. I'd bought VIP tickets, and apparently that means I can skip the long line that snakes around the block.
Once inside, my eyes immediately adjust to the dark club, and I head straight to the bar. Everyone's drinking beer, which I normally loathe. Irritated, I order a Rolling Rock, which is what every other man is drinking here.
Bottle in hand, I rest my bicep against a back wall and survey the club. On the stage at the front of the room, roadies arrange guitars and microphones. The crowd's voices drown out the rock music playing over the sound system.
It's a cavernous place, heavy with the scent of Dior's Poison perfume, and it's packed with people. Many of them women. How in the hell will I ever find Evangeline Ransom here, in this sea of people dressed in head-to-toe black? I scan the crowd for a head of bright red hair. Fortunately, she'll stand out with those long, flaming tresses.
"Come here often?"
A female voice slices through my concentration. I turn to my right, fully aware of the murderous look in my eyes.
"I've never been here in my life."
The woman grins, probably thinking I'm a challenge. She's in a long, angular blazer with shoulder pads. Black, of course. I think she's wearing only black stockings underneath, with pointy boots. Her hair's messy and spiky. Black, like the shadow that lines her eyes. "Cool. It's going to be an amazing show."
"I expect so. I quite like their first album." I nod and take other swig of my beer.
"It sounds like you're not from Boston. You have a different accent." She smirks.
"Italy."
"Oh. Are you a student?"
I shake my head but don't offer more information about myself. "You?"
"I go to BU."
I can't help but grin at my good fortune. "You wouldn't happen to know an Evangeline Ransom, would you? I'm supposed to meet her here."
Disappointment flashes in her eyes for a second. "Name sounds familiar. What's she look like?"
"Red hair." I pause. "Pretty. Extremely pretty. And short. Maybe this tall. She really loves this band."
I hold my free hand up to my shoulder.
"Pre-med? I think I know her. She was in my anthropology class last semester."
"Oh? You see her tonight?"
She scans the crowd, then points toward the stage as she presses herself against me. She's warm, a fact that has never ceased to surprise me about humans over the years. I was once like that as well, I guess.
"There. See? To the left of the stage? Next to the girl with the short, spiky hair and the leather jacket with studs?"
My gaze lands on a shock of red hair. Evangeline Ransom.
"Yes, that's her," I say softly.
Evangeline turns to the woman with the spiky hair and I can see her in profile now. She's more confident looking tonight than when I first spotted her in Maine. How interesting.
"Thank you," I say to the woman next to me.
"Want me to walk down there with you?" She brushes her breast against my arm.
I step away. "Thank you, but no. I'm going to grab another drink first, then go to her. Have fun at the show."
Thankfully she doesn't follow me as I dissolve into the crowd. I do a lap around the room, throw away my disgusting beer, and slowly work my way through the crowd on the dance floor. Evangeline and her friend have edged closer to the stage, standing among a cluster of people.
I keep my eyes fixed on her red hair as I move toward her, gripping my beer as I go. I slip past two guys with shaved heads and finally, I'm behind her. Close enough to reach out and touch her pale neck.
She's even shorter than I thought, but the thing that instantly intrigues me is her fire-colored hair. It's long, wavy, and flows over her shoulders and down her back. Perhaps it's dyed.
I shoot a glance at her companion, needing to know what I'm up against if I want to get Evangeline alone. I've heard that American girls are reluctant to let their friends leave bars with strange men, but I have yet to confirm that myself.
Evangeline and her friend are swaying a little to the recorded music coming over the speakers. They're both drinking from plastic cups—bless them for not swilling beer, how unattractive for women—and the friend downs hers.
"Want another?" She leans over to yell in Evangeline's ear, which means I can hear every word.
The friend's eyes flicker to me. After all, I'm standing only a foot away, since we're all packed in here like sardines. Then she grins, and that's when I see them.
Her fangs.
Well. This is an interesting development. Little Evangeline Ransom's friend is a vampire. I wonder if her brother is aware of this.
"Yeah, get me another. Cranberry and vodka," Evangeline yells back.
"Okay. Don't let anyone take my place. And be careful. There are some real creeps here." The friend shoots me another knowing look and lurches through the crowd. I wonder what clan she's from, and whether she knows what—or who—I am.
I have to work fast.
Evangeline stops her dancing just as the two skinheads I'd passed earlier slide into the space where the friend was standing.
"Hey. That spot's taken," Evangeline says, turning to them. Her profile is so damned pretty. Such a shame she's related to my sworn enemy.
"I don't see anyone standing here," the taller of the two says.
"C'mon. Don't be a dick," Evangeline retorts. "My friend was just here, she's getting our drinks."
"What does she look like? Maybe she'll want to share our space." The guy eyes Evangeline lasciviously and I instantly want to kill him. "Why don't you get nice and close to me?"
The guy winks, which makes me clench my hand into a fist. There's nothing I love more than beating the shit out of skinheads. Or worse...
Evangeline hauls in a breath, obviously exasperated. She knows that if she protests further, the guy's attitude will get even worse.
She turns a half step and faces me, her jaw clenched and tense. We lock eyes and I feel a zing shoot through me. The crowd and the noise fall away for a second, and I can only focus on those eyes, a clear blue like the sky in Tuscany.
I wonder what words, what ideas, what poetry, those eyes hold within.
The corner of her scarlet mouth quirks up.
Unable to help myself, I lean down, into her ear and speak in a low growl. "Do you need my help?"
She nods and squeezes my arm. "Please, and thank you."
Her little whisper sends a shiver through my body.
"Amore mio," I say loudly while glaring at the guys, "Are these two assholes giving you a hard time?"
"Yes. They are. Kerri went to get us drinks while you were in the bathroom and they refuse to move." She presses herself against me, and I slide an arm around her shoulders. She's the perfect actress, with an adorable pout on those scarlet lips.
She's close enough that I can detect her perfume. My sense of smell is sharp, and I inhale marshmallow and vanilla in the beginning, then a darker, sultry musk in the base note. Sweet and delicious, heady and mysterious. I like it.
A lot.
"Get the fuck out of here," I growl at the guy closest to Evangeline. He's big, but not as big as me.
"You gonna make me?" he says, puffing his chest. He's wearing a ridiculous T-shirt with some sort of anarchist symbol on it, and I want to spit on him because I actually fought with the original anarchists in Italy back in the late 1800s. Poser.
His friend eyes me and reaches for his buddy's bicep. I get the distinct feeling that they're more than a little familiar with my kind.
"Dude. No. You don't want to go there. C'mon, there's a couple of girls on the other side of the stage. Let's go."
Anarchist T-shirt guy shoots me a glare and flings off his friend's hand with a wave of his arm, then stomps away.
"Sorry," his friend says quickly to Evangeline. "He's a little drunk."
She gives him a sour look but doesn't move from my side. We both watch as the guys strut off in their heavy boots. They shove a smaller guy out of their way.
"Charming," I murmur, wishing I could bash their heads in simply for that.
Evangeline slowly steps out of my embrace and exhales. "Thanks. That could've gotten ugly."
"My pleasure."
"I hate men like that."
"So do I."
We stare at each other for a beat. There's something about this woman that I can't put my finger on. Something unusual. And it's not just because her brother is the one who's trying to eradicate my kind.
It's as if she has embers in her eyes and fire in her veins.
This woman, this situation, this night. It's going to be complicated, I can already tell.
"I'm Evangeline," she says.
"Matteo."
As if on cue, the lights in the place dim to near-blackness, and the drums thunder, loud enough that I can feel the sound in my heart. A blaze of light illuminates the stage, and the raven-haired singer runs out to grab the microphone. Evangeline still hasn't turned around to face the band, and all I can see is her gorgeous face and all that red hair.
For the first time in decades, there's a stir of longing and desire coursing through my body. Or is that because I'm one step closer to revenge? I don't have time to figure it out, because she's coming closer. Much to my delight.
She stands on her tiptoes, leaning into me, trying to reach my ear. I oblige by tilting my head and gently clasping her arm.
"I'll buy you a beer after the first set, okay?" She flashes me a saucy grin then whirls around, sending a wave of sweet, floral fragrance my way.
Maybe this won't be so complicated after all.
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AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hmmm. Thoughts on the two of them?
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