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Another violent jolt ran through the aircraft.
Daniel considered himself a seasoned traveler. He had flown with the shabbiest prop planes imaginable and ridden helicopters over the burning villages and jungles of Vietnam. But these weren't ordinary turbulence. Something was off.
He looked up at Dr. Fareed, seated across from him. The aircraft shook them both violently. Fareed's laptop slid off the tray table, crashing to the floor alongside his bottle of water. The cabin lights flickered erratically, rain lashed against the window while the illuminated signs kept mocking him to put on his goddamned seatbelt. Daniel tried to, but the shaking didn’t stop for what felt like an eternity, and of course his trembling, old, sickness-ridden hands had trouble making sense of the situation—and then the jet suddenly dropped about sixty feet downward.
Daniel and Fareed let out the same humiliating scream.
This is it, Daniel thought. So this is how it ends.
He'd always assumed he'd rot away alone in some nursing home, surrounded by strangers paid to wipe his ass while secretly despising him for being impossible to live with.
For a while, he'd even thought it more likely that he'd end up on a vampire's dinner plate first.
Instead, he'd crash in a private jet provided by the Talamasca. How convenient. What a splendid coincidence. He never should have trusted them. But really, the paycheck had dulled his senses, and somehow he thought those guys knew what they were doing, if they’re doing it for hundreds of years.
Bad at keeping our assets alive.
No shit, Sherlock.
Against all odds, the aircraft recovered, climbing again. The shaking subsided, but the cabin had gone eerily quiet. No chime. No reassuring announcement from the captain that everything was under control. Cold sweat trickled down the back of Daniel's neck, and his heart raced in time with the flickering lights inside the cabin. He was still gripping the armrest with white knuckles and noticed Fareed doing the same. But instead of relaxing, Fareed struggled to catch his breath. His face grew even more strained, and his eyes widened until they looked ready to burst from their sockets.
Mouth agape, he was staring over Daniel's shoulder.
Daniel's heart stopped.
Armand stood in the aisle of the private jet.
He stood there like Death itself.
Daniel realized with sudden clarity he had come to kill him.
Whatever Louis had said no longer mattered. To hell with the consequences. This time, Armand intended to finish what he'd started.
He seemed impossibly tall, filling the narrow aisle from floor to ceiling. Black curls framed his face, and his eyes glowed like amber spotlights, reflecting the dim cabin lights. He wore an impossibly thin, dark shirt that clung wet to his lean, muscular frame.
He simply stood there.
Perfectly still. Every ounce of his attention fixed on Daniel.
He didn't even spare Fareed a glance. With a casual flick of his hand, the doctor's frantic babbling ceased. Armand had frozen the plane itself. Daniel couldn't comprehend it. Forty tons of steel suspended in time with the snap of a finger.
"How did you get in here?" Even Daniel thought the question sounded absurdly insignificant considering the impossible situation he found himself in.
Armand found me.
Daniel had believed himself clever. He'd taken precautions. With the Talamasca's help, he'd assumed a false identity, booked fake flights and ferry crossings, meticulously planned his escape. He'd felt safe—not only because of his preparations, but because he'd believed Louis' protection extended to him.
He'd been fooling himself.
Armand found me.
Armand tilted his head like a bird of prey, studying Daniel from head to toe with quick, searching eyes. Daniel stared into Armand's dark face. He watched his mouth part. His lips—perfectly sculpted, sensual—opened just enough to reveal elegant ivory fangs.
Daniel didn't dare breathe.
Armand said: “You made it hard for me to find you.” There was something raw in the way he spoke, his gaze narrowed in on Daniel. “Made me chase you from Dubai to Stockholm and Paris, Madrid and then—” He gestured around the cabin. “—this. Could not sleep, did not feed. You managed to elude me for twenty-two days.”
So Daniel had been right to be paranoid after all; he had been followed the whole time. He couldn’t help but feel a certain pride. He had managed to evade him longer than Malik or presumably any of the other boys Armand took such pleasure in hunting. Now his luck had run out.
“Is this your way of asking me out for dinner? You could’ve just texted me,” Daniel said, unable to shut his damn mouth.
Armand’s lips twitched, unamused. “You’re not realizing the danger you’re in, Daniel.”
But Daniel had an inkling, and he was scared shitless. He pressed himself into his seat as though he could disappear into it. “So where did I slip up?”
Armand nodded towards Fareed. “I didn’t know he was traveling with you then, but he never stopped sending me your medical reports.”
Traitor, Daniel thought.
Armand said: “He couldn’t help himself. I planted the command to do so inside his head weeks beforehand. And the last file he sent came with your final destination. Have you seen your bloodwork lately?”
There was nowhere to run. One moment Armand stood in the aisle, the next, he was sitting beside him. Armand leaned closer. Daniel caught his scent.
Deep.
Sweet.
Woody.
An intoxicating fragrance that seemed to numb his senses. Fear closed around Daniel's throat as he watched slender fingers reach for his wrist. The touch was cool and dry. He could feel his frantic pulse beneath Armand's thumb. Petrified, Daniel watched Armand's other hand gently enfold his trembling fingers.
"You're dying."
No one knew that better than Daniel himself. And no one could help him. Fareed remained frozen, staring into nothing. The rest of the world stood motionless. Not a single bead of sweat formed on Armand despite holding reality still. Daniel had known he was powerful. He had vastly underestimated how powerful.
And now he sat utterly helpless before this creature.
This predator.
Daniel had destroyed everything Armand had built. He had torn down his web of lies. Ruined his marriage of 77 years. So what reason did Armand have left to live—other than revenge?
"You're dying," Armand repeated flatly, almost to himself. A crease appeared across his flawless forehead.
For one desperate second, Daniel wondered whether jumping from the plane would be quicker, but Armand would catch him long before he reached the door. A cold hand settled against Daniel's cheek. Only then did he realize how feverishly hot his face had become.
God...
those cool fingers against his skin...
It felt wonderful.
More, he thought.
Immediately, Armand's fingers slipped into his hair.
A sigh escaped Daniel's lips. He hated himself for making it. He couldn't help closing his eyes.
Armand continued. "You're dying. Not someday in a distant, abstract future. Now. Here. This very moment." He swallowed. "I can see the light leaving your face... your mind... your body. I can feel your heartbeat stumbling. I can feel life slipping away from you."
Armand looked away. "I can't let you go." He shook his head and laughed. It was a dry, bitter sound. "I've never been able to let you go. I tried. I failed. Again and again and again. And now... we're running out of time."
Daniel knew then he was missing some crucial information, but thinking became impossible as Armand’s hands pulled him closer until their foreheads touched. He could feel Armand’s breath ghosting his lips as he whispered: “Forgive me, beloved.”
“What?”
Lips against Daniel’s face, suddenly. Armand kissed him. A thrill went down Daniel’s spine. He gasped, and Armand took the opportunity to invade his mouth with his tongue. And he thought yes and yes and yes and if he has to die like that, dying isn’t that bad at all, and his fingers dug into Armand’s skull as his fangs pierced Daniel's neck, and the world, as Daniel had known it, ceased to exist.
Armand climbed onto his lap and drank from him. He clung to Daniel with terrifying strength. His fingers dug into Daniel's arms like iron while he drank...
and drank...
and drank.
Daniel hated the way his body responded to Armand's closeness. The pain of his bite was sharp—but brief. Then it faded, settling into his bones, spreading through him like warm honey, like oceans of pure bliss. Daniel gasped as his hands rose of their own accord, cradling Armand's head, pulling him closer against the sensitive skin of his throat.
With every swallow Armand took from him, Daniel's fear of dying became more abstract. Surely there was nothing to fear. Nothing at all. And then the rush hit him like the most intense drug he had ever experienced. Daniel sucked in a breath. His fingers tangled in Armand's silky hair. He buried his face in those curls.
They smelled...
sweet.
Subtle.
Familiar.
Please... please... please... don't stop.
I've got you, he heard Armand whisper inside his head.
And it was true.
I've got you. I'm not letting go.
Now Daniel finally understood. Every worldly concern dissolved. Parkinson's. His ex-wives. The endless dispute with his daughters. His flimsy legacy. None of it mattered anymore. There was only Armand and him, and he never wanted it to end. If he could remain in this moment forever, he would.
Daniel closed his eyes.
He saw a garden far away a long time ago beneath a black sky, stars and moon hidden behind clouds.
He saw a man dressed in a white tunic with a crimson sash.
He knew then—like he knew everything now—this man was a vampire and his name was Marius.
Armand's maker.
Then he saw a boy. A sweet, lithe, long-legged thing with black cherub curls, warm brown skin and big dark eyes. Fifteen years old. Still human. Fascinatingly so. Looking up at Marius with boundless gratitude and love.
He knew that boy's name was Amadeo. Not yet Armand. He saw Amadeo's tears. He heard him whisper reverently.
Master.
He cried and cried and cried and—
Daniel wanted to take the boy into his arms. Comfort him. Kiss his tears away. He called out his name, but Amadeo couldn't hear him.
And from somewhere in between, he heard Armand say: "That child no longer exists."
That's not true, Daniel wanted to say.
Can you hear me?
That's not true.
That's not true.
That's not true.
Then the garden disappeared. Amadeo and his master disappeared. Along with the shared memory.
Daniel felt himself hurtling through time and space.
Back into Armand's arms. Back into the real world. And with reality came fear. The terror of death. He felt his body again. The pain, the emptiness. His body was dying.
No, no, no, no, no, no.
Opening his eyes required every ounce of strength he had left. He looked into Armand's face and wondered why he was crying. His death was what he wanted after all, wasn’t it? Daniel died. Crimson tears streamed down Armand's cheeks. Seeing them made Daniel thirsty. He wanted to lick those thick red streaks from this gorgeous face, ah—and ravish these lips again, this sinful mouth. He would have, if he'd had any strength left. Why hadn’t he done it before in Dubai? Or back in San Francisco? Or did he? He almost remembered something, but then he couldn’t, and the thirst—oh, it was all-consuming, hot and searing, and Daniel burned, he burned for it.
He would do anything to quench it, anything, anything, anything, any—
“Drink,” he heard Armand whisper. “God help me, drink.”
Armand opened his wrist with the sharp nail of his thumb, and Daniel’s mouth locked itself to the wound without thinking. He drank, he drank deep, and Armand’s blood filled his mouth and flooded down his throat—waves and waves of blood—he was drowning in it and with it, and it was the sweetest, the bitterest taste he had ever known.
Daniel drew from Armand as hard as he could. He felt Armand’s head lolling against his shoulder, felt his hot, stuttering breaths in his ear and his arms surrounding them. Daniel drank, he drank deep. He didn’t stop, couldn’t. It wasn’t enough, never enough. He felt himself getting hard in his pants. Armand must’ve felt it too, because their limbs were so hopelessly entwined that he couldn’t tell where he ended and Armand began.
This is where I belong, he thought. I belong right here in these arms, where have I been? We’ve been wasting time, all this precious time…
He lapped at Armand’s blood-covered wrist, licked and sucked, and he drank deep. He felt Armand quiver against him—his breaths came shorter, feeble, he was getting weaker while Daniel absorbed the life out of him, transferring it into himself. Armand didn’t stop him, and so Daniel took more.
Armand’s blood tasted of salvation and damnation. Daniel felt himself getting stronger, felt how constant pain vanished from his limbs, from his body entirely. He felt alight and more alive than he had in years. And he felt love for this creature he drank from, this monster who had killed him and bestowed him a new life, an immortal one.
His maker squirmed beside him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Daniel knew he had to stop now, or he would drain him dry, so he tore himself away from Armand, but it cost him every ounce of willpower he had. Daniel let his head fall back against the seat and stared up at the ceiling of the cabin, marveling at the wonders of the world through his new eyes.
“I hope someday you’ll forgive me for this.” Daniel felt a sting in his neck. He saw the needle when Armand pulled his hand back. “Sleep now.”
Daniel’s eyes grew heavy. “Son of a—”
He fell asleep, and when he woke up—hours later—he was alone, lying on a bed in a cheap motel room, windows blocked by newspaper, and his maker was gone. He felt a hunger nothing like he had ever experienced before. That was bad, but the big, dark, gaping hole inside his chest felt worse. This pain was deafening, all-consuming. Devastating.
He left.
Where is he?
He left me behind.
Oh my god…
“Asshole,” Daniel muttered. He remembered Armand’s lips on his skin. He retched as a crushing wave of nausea overcame him. Tears prickled in his eyes. “Fuck him.”
Daniel ignored the blood bags Armand had put for him in the fridge, took his jacket and left the room. He’s going to drain the first unfortunate asshole he’s going to come across. And then he’ll maybe find another meal, because he’s fucking hungry, okay?
And if it’s the last thing he does, he’s going to find his maker.
He is going to find him and kick his goddamn ass.