way her dark eyes had caressed him, that had chilled him to the very marrow of his bones and yet? and yet it had drawn him to her side.
Mesmerized by her beauty, by the husky tremor in her voice, he had followed her upstairs. Never before had he been unfaithful to Jolene, but that night it was as if he'd had no control over his passion. And so he had followed her up the narrow wooden stairway and into a life of eternal darkness.
She had taken his blood and returned it to him, then left him just before dawn, warning him that he would need to find a place to hide himself from the sun unless he wished to perish on the morrow.
He had not believed her?until he stepped into the dawn of a new day. The pain of the sun on his face had been excruciating. With a cry he had run into the woods and taken refuge in a cave.
Trembling with pain and fear, he'd become as one drugged, unable to move, only vaguely aware of the ghastly changes taking place in his body as Marguerite's accursed blood wrought the hideous transformation.
He had died that day, and when he awoke that night, he knew his old life was gone.
He had sought Marguerite the next night, begging her to undo what she had done, but she had only laughed softly as her hand caressed his cheek.
"There is no going back,mon amour."
"There must be a way!"
"None that I know, except?"
He had grabbed her by the arms, his fingers biting deep into her cool white flesh. "Except?"
"It is rumored that there is one bloodline that has the power to transform you into a mortal again, but I have no idea as to how it's done. I know only that the power is not in the blood." She shrugged, as if the whole conversation were unimportant. "That's all I know."
"Whose bloodline? Where do I find it?"
"I know not. I care not. I am happy as I am, and have no wish to be mortal again."
She had pried his fingers from her arm, then patted his cheek, much as a mother might comfort a weeping child.
"Give it time,c?ri. One day you will bless me for what I have done."
Bless her! He would have killed her had he known how. That night, he had gone home to find Jolene frantic with worry, her beautiful face ravaged by tears.
She had been disbelieving when he told her what had happened, disbelieving until the sun came up and she had seen for herself the deathlike lethargy that held him in its grip.
To her credit, she hadn't turned her back on him. Although she had been repulsed by his lust for blood, she had never stopped loving him. Blessed woman that she was, she had kept his secret until the day she died.
And that had been the hardest thing of all to bear, watching his beloved wife grow old and feeble while he stayed forever young and strong. Her soft, unblemished skin had wrinkled with the passing years, her hair, as fine as black silk, had turned white, the joy of living had gone out of her eyes, those beautiful green eyes that had ever looked on him with love.
It had been torment of the worst kind, watching her sicken and die. In desperation he had offered to save her, to make her into what he had become, but she had refused, and in the end, she had died in his arms, whispering his name.
In his youth he had been zealously religious. Always, he had believed in a just and loving God. He had been faithful in his prayers, certain they were heard. But now he was cut off from the powers of heaven, unable to offer a prayer on behalf of his wife.
That night, for the first time since Marguerite had turned him into a monster, he had contemplated putting an end to his existence. Considered it and found he lacked the courage, for far worse than the thought of dying was the knowledge that, in death, he would come face-to-face with the Almighty and have to confess his sins.
In all the years since Jolene's death, he had kept a tight rein on his emotions, never letting anyone get close to him. He had no friends, mortal or otherwise. At any rate, trusting one of the undead could be as dangerous to his existence as trusting the living, and so he had trusted no one, loved no