"Ashley, Amanda - Midnight Embrace" - читать интересную книгу автора (Ashley Amanda)

A soft chuckle floated through the blackness toward her. "Only what I gave you last night. Only what you gave me in return."
"I gave you nothing." She took a deep breath, opened her mouth to scream for help, but he was suddenly at her side, his hand on her mouth stifling her cry.
"You don't want to do that." His voice was as low, as mesmerizing, as she remembered. "Did I hurt you last night, sweet Analisa?"
She stared up at him. How did he know her name? Who was he, this dark stranger with the compelling voice and mesmerizing eyes?
"Did I?" he persisted.
She shook her head, her heart pounding loudly, erratically. He hadn't hurt her, but there was something about him that frightened her. Something dark and intangible.
"I will not hurt you tonight."
She felt a wave of sweet relief wash over her as someone opened the door. Welcome light from the hallway spilled into her room. Thank goodness. Help was here. "Dr. Martinson! I'm so glad to see you!"
"Good evening, Analisa. How are you feeling?"
She stared at her doctor, waiting for him to question the stranger's presence in the room, but Dr. Martinson walked by the stranger as if there were no one there, though she could see him plainly. He was standing in the shadows, as still and silent as death.
"Who's that man?" Lifting her hand, she pointed a trembling finger toward the stranger.
The doctor glanced around the room, his brow furrowed. "What man?"
"You don't see him?" She looked at the stranger, then back at Dr. Martinson. "He's standing right there, by the window."
Dr. Martinson smiled indulgently. "You must have been dreaming again, my dear. There's no one else here."
She stared at the stranger while the doctor examined her, wondering if she was going insane. She saw the cloaked figure so clearly, but if the doctor could not see him, then surely there was no one there. Perhaps she was having delusions of some kind. She had been ill for so long, perhaps in her weakened state she could no longer discern fact from fantasy. But she didn't feel weak and sick today. She felt stronger this evening than she had in weeks. Perhaps the hooded man was Death come for her. Perhaps that was why only she could see him. Her grandmother had told her that Death rode a dark horse. She giggled softly. Of course, he couldn't ride his horse into her room.
Dr. Martinson was smiling when he finished his examination. "I am pleased with your progress, Analisa, though I confess I do not understand it. It is quite beyond anything I have ever seen before."
She nodded, her gaze still on the hooded man.
"If your condition continues to improve through the night, I think you will be ready to go home tomorrow afternoon."
"Thank you, Doctor."
He patted her hand. "Rest well, my dear."
She watched him leave the room, the stranger momentarily forgotten. Home. She had no home, no place to go when she left here.
"Analisa."
The sound of her name on his lips sent a shiver down her spine. "What do you want? Why couldn't Dr. Martinson see you?"
He moved toward her, bringing the darkness with him. "Because I did not wish to be seen. As for what I want with you, only what I desired last night."
She was trembling now. "What did you do to me last night?" She lifted her hand to her throat. "Did you give me an injection of some kind?"
He hesitated. "An elixir of my own making. It made you feel better, did it not?"
"Yes. Yes, it did. But howЧ"
"Then close your eyes, Analisa."
"Why?"
"Close your eyes, my sweet Analisa. Listen to the sound of my voice, only my voice."
His voice. It moved over her, soft as a mother's caress, soothing her, comforting her, mesmerizing her so completely that she offered no protest when he sat down on the edge of the bed and drew her gently into his embrace. She was aware of the strength of his arms even as her eyelids grew heavy, heavier. Drifting between the awareness of consciousness and the forgetfulness of sleep, she felt again a quick needle-like pain at her throat, and then she was overcome with a familiar feeling of lethargy, of euphoria, that carried her gently down, down, into the velvet darkness of oblivionЕ
Her blood. It was sweet, so very, very sweet, and he drank and drank, despising himself, despising his inability to control the need that burned through him, yet reveling in the warmth that flowed through his limbs, chasing away the cold that was ever a part of him, giving him an illusion of life, of mortality.
He drew back to gaze at her face, imprinting her image in his mind. She was a beautiful child, her oval face framed by a wealth of ebony curls. Beneath closed lids, her eyes were the color of sun-warmed earth, large, luminous eyes, innocent and without guile. Her brows were delicately arched. Her nose was perfectly formed, her lips as pink as the petals of a wild rose, her skin smooth and unblemished. And warm. So warm, so alive.
How many times in the last four hundred years had he stolen the elixir of life from a child as pure and innocent as the one lying helpless and vulnerable in his arms? It mattered not that he drew them back from the brink of death and gave them life in return. Who was he to interfere with Fate? What right did he have to play with the lives of those whose blood he took?
This would be the last time. When he left here, he would wander the streets in the company of innocent mortals one last time. He would drink until he was replete, and then he would seek oblivion.

Chapter Two
Analisa forced a smile as Dr. Martinson took her hand in his and wished her well. The smile lasted until she left the hospital and stepped out onto the street. What now? she thought. The epidemic that had almost taken her life had succeeded in taking the lives of her parents and her two brothers, as well as the lives of most of the other people in their small village. The cottages of the diseased had been burned to halt the spread of the disease leaving those who survived homeless. She had nowhere to go, no place to stay, no family to take her in. Alone, she thought. For the first time in her life, she was totally alone.
The thought frightened her almost more than the thought of dying. Never in her entire life had she been without friends or family. It was her worst nightmare come true.
"Analisa!"
She turned to see Dr. Martinson hurrying down the street toward her. He was a tall, austere man in his late sixties, but he seemed much younger. It was his eyes, she thought, always so kind and compassionate, and the briskness of his step.
"I almost forgot," he said, pulling an envelope out of the pocket of his coat. "This was left for you."
"For me?" She took the envelope, turning it over in her hands. It was sealed with a dollop of dark red wax that reminded her of blood. She recognized her name, written in bold script. "Who's it from?"
"I'm sure I don't know."
"Would youЕ would you read it to me?"
"Of course." Dr. Martinson broke the seal and opened the envelope. Withdrawing a letter written in a bold hand on fine ivory-colored parchment, he began to read:
My dear Analisa, I am going on an extended holiday and it is my wish that you occupy my family home at Blackbriar Hall. It is an old residence, but I am confident you will be comfortable there. If you find it lacking, feel free to purchase whatsoever you may need, and to stay as long as you wish; I have made arrangements with my creditors to cover your expenses, my servants will obey your commands as though they were my own. I have included a small amount of cash to cover your transportation and meals until you arrive.
Your servant,
Lord Alesandro de Avallone
Master of Blackbriar Hall.