A second theory held that if a man went back in time and killed his grandfather, it would immediately create a new quantum universe which would, in essence, be a parallel universe where the grandfather never existed and where the grandson had never been born. The original universe would still remain.
Another theory said that a man could not travel backward to a time when he didn't exist.
Even though Roshan didn't plan to use a time machine, the more he read on the subject of time travel, the more fascinated he became. He watched a number of movies about time travel— Kate and Leopold, The Time Machine, Contact, which had been written by Carl Sagan, and Somewhere in Time. The last was by far his favorite, perhaps because the hero in the film fell in love with a woman in a photograph. Not that he was in love with Brenna Flanagan. Vampires did not fall in love with mortals. It was the height of folly to do so. No sane vampire revealed what he was to another, not if he valued his existence.
No, he was not in love with Brenna Flanagan. He would never love again, but she had given him a new interest in life, a goal, however impossible it might be to achieve, to look forward to, and that was something he hadn't had in far too long. For that alone, he would save her life, should he be able to do so.
But before he attempted something most mortals considered impossible, he would need to be at his preternatural best, so to speak, and for that, he would need to feed.
Leaving the house, he ghosted through the darkness, a whisper of movement unseen and unheard by those he passed until he reached his favorite hunting ground in the city. As a young vampire, he had hunted among the poor and downtrodden. Hiding in doorways, lurking in shadows, he had preyed upon the dregs of humanity. But as he grew older and wiser, he left the slums behind and went hunting among the rich, the elite, those who dined at expensive restaurants and frequented exclusive clubs. They drove costly automobiles or rode in luxurious stretch limos. They lived in million-dollar houses behind high walls and electric fences and thought themselves safe from the rest of the world.
It was so easy to breach their puny mortal defenses, to probe their minds while they slept, to call them to him. Under his spell, they left their lavish chambers. Drawn by his voice, unable to resist his power, they came to him, willingly offering themselves up to him so that he might quench his insatiable thirst. The blood of the rich was ever so much sweeter than that of the poor. The skin of the wealthy smelled of soap instead of vomit, their hair was squeaky clean instead of matted with filth, their breath was sweet and clean, not sour with cheap wine.
The house he chose this night was like all the others on the street— large and well kept behind a high stone wall. He vaulted over the barrier effortlessly and made his way to the rear of the house. A middle-aged woman slept alone in a room on the ground floor. A servant perhaps. He gently probed her mind for her name, then called her to him.
Moments later, she was walking toward him, a tall, slender woman, her bare feet peeking out from beneath a blue cotton nightgown. Eyes open but unseeing, she made her way toward him.
The scent of her blood called to him; his fangs lengthened as she drew near. She offered no resistance when he drew her into his arms. Her body was warm, pliant as he bent her back over his arm.
"Do not be afraid, Monica," he whispered. "I will not hurt you."
He brushed her hair aside, stroked the smoothness of her throat with his fingertips, then lowered his head to her neck. Her sweetness filled his mouth as his fangs pierced her tender flesh. In the beginning, after he knew what he had become, he had been certain that feeding would be repugnant, had feared he would perish rather than succumb to the hunger that compelled him to such repulsive behavior. Ah, how wrong he had been!
He drank his fill, erased the memory of what had happened from her mind, and sent her back to bed.
After leaving the estate, he spent the next few hours wandering through the deep shadows of the night, listening to the sounds that mortals never heard— the whisper of a spider spinning its web, the sighing of the earth as it turned, the sleepy moan of a tree as it stretched its branches toward the sky.
It was a beautiful thing, the night, with a life and a soul of its own. He had wandered the world by the light of the moon, marveling at the wonders of the ages— the Great Pyramid of Giza, the Sphinx, ancient castles and cathedrals and bridges built by men long turned to dust. He had seen the invention of so many modern wonders— cars and airplanes, computers and satellites, bombs capable of wiping out the whole of civilization.
So many things that, in his time, had been impossible, undreamed of, or even imagined. When he had walked the earth as a mortal man, there had been no time or thought for anything but the work of surviving from day to day. There had been sheep and cattle to tend, seed to be sown, weeds to uproot, crops to be watered and harvested. In those days, he had worked alongside his father and his two brothers, toiling from sunup until sundown to provide food for his mother and his five sisters. There had been little time for anything else, until he had met Atiyana.
He shook his musings aside, his body tingling with the familiar warning that preceded the sun's rising.
It was time to return to his lair.
Brenna Flanagan's image lingered in his mind as he prepared to take his rest. That was not particularly strange, since she had been constantly in his thoughts, but what amazed him, even in sleep, was that her image stayed with him while he was trapped in the deathlike slumber of his kind.
He had not dreamed since the night the Dark Trick had been wrought upon him. One minute he was awake, the next he was lost in forgetful darkness, and when the sun quit the sky, he woke again, instantly mindful of his surroundings.
But on this night, for the first time since he had received the Dark Gift, he dreamed. He was aware of the miracle of such a thing even as the images unfolded in his mind. He was standing outside a circle of evergreen trees. Within the grove, he saw a slender young woman with fiery red hair and deep green eyes flecked with gold. As he watched, she began a slow, sensuous dance, her only covering the waist-length hair that fell down her back and over her shoulders, shimmering like veils of crimson silk in the silvery light of the full moon. A necklace of amber and jet circled her slender throat. She lifted her face toward the heavens, her eyes shining like priceless gems. Laughter rose in her throat, a sound of such joy and exuberance that, even trapped in the Dark Sleep, it brought a smile to his lips.
He moved toward her, darkness to her light.
She stopped dancing as he approached. A large black cat padded silently out of the shadows to rub itself against her legs.
Roshan paused when he was an arm's length away. The woman's gaze met his, bold and unafraid, a small smile curving her lips.
"'Tis you," she whispered.
Startled by her words, he took another step forward, one arm outstretched. "You know me? How can that be?"
But her answer was lost to him as the Dark Sleep dragged him down, down, into oblivion.
On waking, her picture was the first thing he sought. He gazed into her eyes. Green eyes. Slightly slanted, like a cat's.
'Tis you.
He heard the sound of her voice in his head. Soft and low, with a husky quality that he found incredibly sexy.