he was nowhere in sight. Through a crack in the drapes, she saw that it was dawn.
She sat there for a long moment, and then, with a hand that trembled, she touched the side of her neck. Was she imagining things, or did she really feel two small puncture wounds? Slipping out of bed, she started for the bathroom, only to stop when she remembered there was no mirror in the bathroom.
There were no mirrors anywhere in the house.
She shook her head vigorously, refusing to even consider the bizarre possibility that came to mind as she climbed back into bed and drew the covers up to her chin.
She was just letting her imagination run wild.
"Just a dream." She spoke the words aloud as she closed her eyes. "Just a dream."
Leanne stared at her reflection in her bedroom mirror, but all she saw were the two small puncture wounds in her neck. For the fifth time in as many minutes, she touched her fingertips to the tiny holes. As before, heat seemed to flow from the wounds and Jason's image danced before her eyes.
She had looked at those marks in the rearview mirror time and again as she drove home. Looked at them and shuddered. Looked at them and tried to find a logical reason for their existence.
Now, still staring into the bedroom mirror, she tried to laugh at the ridiculous image of Jason bending over her, his teeth turning into fangs, biting her neck. She'd been watching too many vampire movies, she thought, had read too many books by Anne Rice and Lori Herter. She was losing her grip on reality. The marks on her neck were probably nothing more menacing than a couple of mosquito bites.
Leaving the bedroom, she went into the kitchen, grabbed a dust rag and began dusting the living room furniture. Her apartment had been sadly neglected since she met Jason Blackthorne?
Jason. He'd been gone when she woke up. A note told her he'd been called to court to testify in a case, but that he'd meet her that night after the show.
She'd never seen him during the day.
She thrust the thought away, plugged in the vacuum, and ran it over the living-room rug.
She put the vacuum away, then changed the sheets on her bed and bundled up her laundry. Carrying it downstairs, she stuffed it into one of the machines, then went back upstairs to fix lunch.
She'd never seen him eat.
Sitting at the table, she cradled her head in her hands. It couldn't be. For all her talk to the contrary, in her heart she didn't really believe in vampires. There had to be a logical explanation for the oddities in his life.
There had to be.
She wondered if he was still in court, and then, because she couldn't wait until after the show to see him, she grabbed her car keys and drove to his house, her laundry forgotten.
She'd left his key under a flowerpot on the front porch. A sudden unease filled her as she unlocked the massive front door. Without thinking, she dropped the heavy brass key into the pocket of her jeans, then stepped into the entry hall. She'd never before noticed how still the house was.
"Jason?"
She tossed her car keys on the small table inside the front door and walked through the house, seeing it all again as if for the first time. The rooms were all dark, the sunlight held at bay by the heavy drapes that covered all the windows. She explored every room, every closet, looking for the door that led to the room where Jason slept during the day.
She shuddered at the thought of seeing him lying in a silk-lined casket, sleeping the dreamless sleep of the undead during the hours of daylight. Unbidden, unwanted, came a rush of images as she recalled every vampire book she had ever read, every horror movie she had ever seen. All had vividly portrayed vampires as the embodiment of evil, preying on unsuspecting mortals. She felt a rush of nausea as she imagined Jason stalking some helpless woman, sinking his fangs into her neck?
She pressed her fingers to the marks in her own neck, shuddering as she imagined Jason biting her, drawing her blood.
With an effort she shook the image from her mind. In the den, she paused before one of the paintings signed J. Blackthorne. Jason had told her an ancestor had painted it. She ran her fingers over the distinctive signature, and then she went into the kitchen