as Sara. Not since he'd first been made vampire had he quenched his thirst with the blood of an innocent.
"Gabriel?"
Ah, the sweet, trusting sound of her voice as she whispered his name, the unconscious yearning, the untapped passion. He could hear every beat of her heart, hear the thrumming of her blood as it pulsed through her veins, thick with desire. It was almost more than he could bear.
He closed his eyes and drew in a deep, calming breath. This was Sara, his Sara. He could not violate her. He would not take her blood, though to do so would be ecstasy.
"Gabriel, are you ill?"
"No." The word was one of harsh denial. "But I must go."
"So soon?"
"Yes." He opened his eyes and forced a smile. "I'll see you tomorrow night."
"Tomorrow night." She repeated the words, holding them close to her heart.
"Good night, cara," he said, his voice thick, and then he was gone, running as if he, himself, were being pursued by demons.
He ran for hours, unable to outrun his loneliness, his longing, and then, filled with self-loathing, he entered the monastery. He had no need of a light as he made his way down the long, winding staircase that led to the underground catacombs where the monks had buried their dead. It was a dark place, musty with age and decay.
To punish himself, he climbed into the coffin he rarely used. Grasping the lid, he brought it down with a resounding thud, burying himself in the smothering darkness he hated.
"Monster," he murmured, and the word echoed off the sides of the oak casket. "Demon. Ghoul. Fiend. You will not touch her, you misbegotten spawn of the devil," he declared, his voice growing thick as the heavy sleep of the undead dragged him down, down, into the deep abyss of oblivion.
"You... will... not..."
He woke the following evening, a moment of panic rising within him as he opened his eyes to eternal darkness. And then he remembered where he was.
Muttering an oath, he climbed out of the coffin. He had not used it in more years than he could remember, preferring to take his rest in the big throne-like chair upstairs.
He stared at the burnished oak for a long time, reminding himself of what he was. Not a man, but a monster, fit for nothing but death and darkness.
His steps were heavy as he climbed the stairs. Deep in thought, he changed his clothes, combed his hair, donned his cloak.
As if to further punish himself for wanting what could never be his, he went out into the shadows, a bloodthirsty beast stalking its prey.
This is what you are. The words echoed and reechoed in his head as he bent over his hapless victim. Don't let her sweetness fool you into thinking you're still a man, capable of loving, of being loved. You're naught but a monster, every man's nightmare...
A short time later, he was walking toward the orphanage. And all the while, he tried to convince himself to stay away from her. His Sara, his angel of light, should not be contaminated by the darkness of his soul.
He was still trying to talk himself into staying away as he vaulted the orphanage's high stone wall.
She was waiting for him. He had expected to find her tucked into bed, but she was sitting in her chair, facing the veranda doors. Her goodness, her sweetness, reached out to him, washing over him like sunlight.
"A new dress," he remarked as he crossed the threshold.
She nodded shyly. "I made it."
"It's lovely," he murmured. And, indeed, it was. The deep blue darkened her eyes, the full sleeves reminded him of angel's wings. "You are lovely."
His words brought a flush to her cheeks. "Thank you."
"So lovely." He held out his hand. "Would you go out with me, coral"
"Out?" She looked puzzled. "Out where?"
"Wherever you like."
"I couldn't... shouldn't... anywhere I wish?"
"Anywhere."
"The ballet?"
"If you wish."
She smiled, radiant with happiness. For as long as she could remember, she had longed to go to the ballet, to see Swan Lake, Giselle, The Sleeping Beauty, Don Quixote. She had studied the lives of many of the great ballerinas, like Marie Taglioni, Fanny Elssler, Carlotta Grisi, Francesca Cerrito, and Marie Salle.
And now her dream was about to come true. Then she glanced down at her dress, and her happiness dissipated like dew beneath the sun.
"I can't go. I don't have anything suitable to wear."
"You will," he said cryptically, and before she could ask questions, he was gone.