Twilight Phantasies

Twilight Phantasies
Maggie Shayne

In two centuries of living death, Eric Marquand had never once cried out against the cruel fate that had condemned him to walk forever in shadow.But then, he found the woman he knew was his chosen one–and understood that to possess her was to destroy her… Tamara Dey trembled at the aura of dread and despair that enshrouded this creature of the night.And yet, against all reason, she saw clearly that her destiny was eternally entwined with his, and that she must know–even welcome–the terror and the splendor of the vampire's kiss…For centuries, loneliness has haunted them from dusk till dawn. Yet now, from out of the darkness, shines the light of eternal life…eternal love.

Twilight

Phantasies

Maggie

Shayne

www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)

To the real “hearts” of New York,

the members of CNYRW.

And to the young blond man on the

balcony high above Rue Royale.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Prologue

Desires and Adorations,

Wingèd Persuasions and veiled Destinies,

Splendours, and Glooms, and glimmering Incarnations

Of hopes and fears, and twilight Phantasies;

And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs,

And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by the gleam

Of her own dying smile instead of eyes,

Came in slow pomp.

—Percy Bysshe Shelley

March 20, 1793

The stub of a tallow candle balanced on a ledge of cold stone, its flame casting odd, lively shadows. The smell of burning tallow wasn’t a pleasant one, but far more pleasant than the other aromas hanging heavily all around him. Damp, musty air. Thick green fungus growing over rough-hewn stone walls. Rat droppings. Filthy human bodies. Until tonight, Eric had been careful to conserve the tallow, well aware he’d be allowed no more. Tonight there was no need. At dawn he’d face the guillotine.

Eric closed his eyes against the dancing shadows that seemed to mock him, and drew his knees closer to his chest. At the far end of the cell a man coughed in awful spasms. Closer, someone moaned and turned in his sleep. Only Eric sat awake this night. The others would face death, as well, but not tomorrow. He wondered again whether his father had suffered this way in the hours before his appointed time. He wondered whether his mother and younger sister, Jaqueline, had made it across the Channel to safety. He’d held the bloodthirsty peasants off as long as he’d been able. If the women were safe he’d consider it well worth the sacrifice of his own pathetic life. He’d never been quite like other people, anyway. Always considered odd. In his own estimation he would not be greatly missed. His thirty-five years had been spent, for the most part, alone.

His stomach convulsed and he bent lower, suppressing a groan. Neither food nor drink had passed his lips in three days. The swill they provided here would kill him more quickly than starvation. Perhaps he’d die before they could behead him. The thought of depriving the bastards of their barbaric entertainment brought a painful upward curve to his parched lips.

The cell door opened with a great groan, but Eric did not look up. He’d learned better than to draw attention to himself when the guards came looking for a bit of sport. But it wasn’t a familiar voice he heard, and it was far too civilized to belong to one of those illiterate pigs.

“Leave us! I’ll call when I’ve finished here.” The tone held authority that commanded obedience. The door closed with a bang, and still Eric didn’t move.

Footsteps came nearer and stopped. “Come, Marquand, I haven’t all night.”

He tried to swallow, but felt only dry sand in his throat. He lifted his face slowly. The man before him smiled, absently stroking the elaborately knotted silk cravat at his throat. The candlelight made his black hair gleam like a raven’s wing, but his eyes glowed even darker. “Who are you?” Eric managed. Speaking hurt his throat after so many days without uttering a word, or downing a drop.

“I am Roland. I’ve come to help you, Eric. Get to your feet. There isn’t much time.”

“Monsieur, if this is a prank—”