Page 15 of Obsessed in Blood
“Do I know you?”
His features saddened, and if he hadn’t been holding my hand I would have reached out to smooth the lines on his forehead.
“I was afraid this might happen. You don’t remember running away?”
Now it was my turn to furrow my brow as I tried to remember anything before this moment. I knew who I was—Cressa Langtry. But there my memories ended. No. That wasn’t exactly right. This man was a vampire, and while it should scare me, it didn’t.
“I don’t remember much of anything.”
He nodded and squeezed my hand. I couldn’t seem to stop staring into his eyes—as black as a deep well yet somehow enchanting. “The healer thought you might have difficulties remembering. It’s not uncommon for the trauma you experienced to make you want to forget.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
He scooted closer to me. “Of course not. Let me help with some basic information. Or perhaps I should ask the obvious. Do you know who you are?”
I nodded.
“That’s an excellent start. I’m Lorenzo Venizi, leader of the House Venizi. We’ve known each other for some time, though you’ve been living at House Trelane as a Blood Ward.”
The name triggered a flash of fear. A man who seemed more beast than human. Maybe not human—another vamp.
“Trelane is a hard man, feared by many, and treats his women with disrespect and severe beatings when they get out of line. Do you recall any of this?”
I shook my head, careful of the jostling as it still throbbed. The vamp sounded horrible, and I was grateful the memories eluded me.
“Something happened the evening before last. I don’t know the details, and you haven’t been able to recall them, but one of my men found you running down the street in a torn nightgown. You were bloody and had been beaten.”
I sat up, pushing myself against the headboard. How could I have ended up like that? “That doesn’t seem possible. I wouldn’t be with someone like that.”
“Not if you had a choice. You did seem to remember one piece. I believe you owed a debt.”
Flashes of another man with a tattoo of a cobra on his face. “Ginger!”
“Who’s Ginger?”
“My friend. I took on a debt to get her out of trouble.”
“Ah, yes. I believe Trelane has her as well.”
“No. We have to get her back.”
His smile widened. “Of course, we do. But we have to be careful. And I’m afraid I’ve taxed you too much for one night.” He ran his hand down my cheek and brushed my lips with his thumb. “You need your rest to heal. Soon your memories will return. And if not, I’ll help you once you’re ready. Sleep now, Cressa. Sleep deeply.”
Then the darkness reached out for me.
I walked through the trees,the grass tickling my bare feet. Everything was in black and white, and darkness bordered the edges of my vision. It was like one of those old horror flicks with Bela Lugosi. But it was more than that. Someone had thrown a gauzy material over the world, giving everything a milky hue.
Even so, the lake was beautiful with the moon’s reflection floating on the calm water. It was disrupted by two late-night ducks gliding smoothly along as if a wind pushed them. I turned at the sound of footsteps, but when no one was there, I leaned against the rough bark of a tree and stared at the lake. Tears fell, but I wasn’t sure why. I was close to remembering something and at the same time a thousand miles away from grasping it.
I must have been transported someplace else when I closed my eyes because I was in a room when I opened them. A huge bedroom, or maybe a penthouse suite. Paintings were everywhere—hanging on the walls, leaning against the walls, or stacked on a table.
A woman stood at an easel, a brush in her hand as she considered her palette. I was behind her, and though I couldn’t see her face, her figure seemed familiar. Everything was like the earlier image—the same black-and-white setting, the same milky gauze, and the same eerie feeling that I should know this person.
I stepped closer, but the woman either didn’t hear me or chose not to turn around. I peeked over her shoulder. She dabbed little spots of dark, crimson red on the canvas, making delicate roses. The only spot of color in a sea of monochrome. A woman knelt by them. But on a second look, it wasn’t the complete form of a woman. It was a transparent figure, as if the painter had drawn a soft outline but hadn’t gotten around to adding the paint. The figure stirred and glanced up.
The face was mine.
No. That wasn’t possible.
