down in the overstuffed chair across from the sofa. "To my knowledge, there are only two of us in the city."
"That's two too many, if you ask me," Marisa muttered. She risked a glance at Grigori, felt her cheeks grow warm as he lifted one brow in an expression she was beginning to recognize as wry amusement.
"If Ramsey has his way, your city will soon be free of us both."
"You know he's thinking of destroying you?" Marisa exclaimed, surprised that he seemed so unconcerned.
"Of course. It's what he does. Our liaison is quite temporary."
"You're not worried?"
"No."
"Why not? If he's killed other vampires, what makes you think he won't kill you, too?"
Grigori shrugged. "The vampyre who killed Katherine was newly made. The young among us are vulnerable; sometimes they foolishly believe they cannot be destroyed. Sometimes they forget to be careful who they trust, where they choose to take their rest. Such carelessness is usually fatal."
"But that's not the only one he's killed. He must know what he's doing."
"Can I hope this concern means you are worried about my safety?"
"Of course not. Well, maybe a little." She blew out a deep breath. She didn't know what to think. It was all so confusing. True, yet beyond belief.
Clutching one of the sofa pillows to her chest, Marisa stared at the TV screen, thinking this sort of thing would be right up Fox Mulder's alley. She only wished she knew how to cope with it.
She slid a furtive glance at Grigori. He seemed engrossed in the program. How long had he been a vampire? Had it been a choice he'd made? Did he like it?
Questions, so many questions. They made her head ache. "I'm going to bed." She stood up, eyeing him warily. "Are you going to spend the night?"
"If you wish." He rose to his feet in a fluid motion that reminded her of water flowing over a dam.
She chewed on the inside of her lip, wondering which posed the greater threat, the vampire inside the house, or the one who might even now be prowling the shadows of the night.
"I'll get you some blankets," she said.
"Don't bother." His voice held a note of amusement.
"It's no bother."
"The night is my day," he reminded her softly. "Sleep well, Marisa."
"Right," she muttered. As if she could sleep at all, with a card-carrying, bloodsucking vampire in the house.
Grigori grunted softly as he watched her leave the room. Bloodsucking vampire indeed, he mused, and felt his fangs prick his tongue at the image that thought conveyed. He had not yet fed. Crossing the floor, he gazed out the window and let his supernatural powers peruse the night. The darkness beckoned him. A thousand beating hearts called to him.
With a sigh, he sank down on the sofa, his head resting on the back, his eyes closed. He could hear Marisa getting ready for bed, could track her movements by the sounds she made as she brushed her teeth, washed her face, brushed her hair. He heard the rasp of cloth as she removed her clothes, the whisper-soft brush of silk sliding over skin as she put on her nightgown, the rustle of crisp cotton sheets as she slid into bed. He could hear the sound of her breathing, the steady beat of her heart.
He took a deep breath and his nostrils filled with a plethora of odors - the food she had cooked for dinner, the soap she used to wash her dishes, the scent of the flowers on the kitchen table, the dirty clothes in the hamper, the clean clothes in her closet. And, over all, the smell of the woman herself - the fear she tried to hide, the perfume and hairspray, shampoo and soap and toothpaste she had used during the day, the warmth of her body. Her blood... it was a temptation he was hard-pressed to resist, an enticement that pulsed and glowed with every breath she took.
He drew his thoughts from her and concentrated on Alexi Kristov instead. As always, thoughts of Alexi brought Antoinette to mind, and renewed the pain of not knowing how she had died. Had Alexi killed her quickly, mercifully, or had he left her alone, a soulless creature with no will, no mind of her own? Left her to wander in darkness, lost and alone? Had she died of hunger and neglect? Had she been stoned by a mob of frightened villagers? Burned as a witch?
"Antoinette..." He groaned deep within himself as the