After Twilight Part 7

Leanne stared up at him, the thought of never seeing him again suddenly more frightening than the realization that he was, indeed, a vampire.

"Our last night?" she repeated tremulously.

"Yes."

His gaze lingered on the pulse throbbing in her throat for a moment before returning to her face. "You'd better go now."

Wordlessly, she continued to stare at him, her eyes filled with anguish and denial.

With preternatural speed he crossed the floor until he was standing in front of her, his eyes blazing with an unholy light.

"Go home, Leanne," he said, his voice harsh and uneven as he fought to control his raging thirst. "You're not safe here."

"Jason..."

A low growl rose in his throat as he bared his fangs. "Go home," he said again, and his voice was filled with pain and tightly leashed fury.

With a strangled cry she turned and ran out of the room.

Out of his life.

Chapter Nine.

He sat in his favorite chair in front of the fireplace in the den, staring, unseeing, a the flames. In his mind's eye, he saw the horror in Leanne's eyes when she thought he might have bequeathed her the Dark Gift and turned her into a loathsome creature such as himself. The sound of her footsteps running away, running away from what he was, echoed like a death knell in his ears.

He stared at his hands. He hadn't eaten for several days, and his skin looked like old parchment. He knew his eyes glowed with h.e.l.l's own fury, knew that soon he would either have to go to ground and lose himself in sleep, or satisfy the awful craving that was eating him up inside.

An unquenchable thirst for blood.

A deep and never-ending hunger for Leanne.

Had it been only two weeks since he'd held her in his arms, tasted her sweetness, heard the sound of her laughter? Only two weeks?

It seemed a lifetime.

A lifetime, Jason mused with a bitter smile. He had walked the earth for three hundred years, and never had the hours and the minutes pa.s.sed so slowly.

During the long, lonely hours of the night, as he prowled the alleys and dark streets of the city, he seemed to hear the wind taunting him with the sound of her name. Sometimes he paused outside a house, listening to the sounds of life inside: children crying, laughing. He watched people eating, talking, arguing, sleeping. And he thought of Leanne, always Leanne, of how wonderful it would be to be mortal, to share her life, to sit across the breakfast table from her in the morning, to make love to her in the light of day, to father a child.

He haunted the shadows outside the Ahmanson, torturing himself with glimpses of her face. He read the sadness in her eyes, and he was filled with bitter regret because he knew he was the cause of her sorrow. She didn't smile anymore, and the world was the poorer because of it.

One night, driven by an uncontrollable urge to hear her voice, he bought a ticket to the evening performance, sitting in the last row of the balcony so there would be no chance of her discovering he was there.

Oblivious to everything else, he sat with his gaze riveted on her face, silent tears streaming down his cheeks as he listened to her sing. Her voice, while still beautiful, lacked the enthusiasm, the joie de vivre, that had once set it apart from the others.

Leaving the theater that night, he had told himself she'd get over him. She was young, so young, and they had spent such a short time together. Soon she'd find someone else...

Now, staring into the fire's dying embers, he gripped the arms of the chair, his nails gouging the wood as he thought of her in the arms of another man.

Rising, he went into the bedroom. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he picked up the pillow she had used. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, his nostrils filling with her scent. In his mind, he saw her as she had been the night they made love, her beautiful body lightly sheened with perspiration, her green eyes glowing and alive. He felt again the touch of her hands as she undressed him, felt the way her fingers trembled as she caressed him, bold yet innocent. He relived every moment, every touch, embracing the pain of remembering, the shattering sense of loss now that she was gone.

Into his mind came the last soulful cry of the Phantom as he stood alone in his underground lair, bidding farewell to the only woman he would ever love.

The urge to kill, to destroy, welled within him, growing until he could think of nothing else.

Engulfed with rage, he stalked out of the bedroom, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. With a strangled cry he grabbed the fireplace poker, holding it so tightly it bent in his hands as though it were made of straw.

With an oath he flung it against the wall, then stormed out of the house, the l.u.s.t for blood, the need to hurt someone as he was hurting, driving him beyond all reason.

He found his prey in a dark alley. The man struggled in vain, his red-rimmed eyes growing wide as he stared into the face of death. With a low growl Jason lowered his head to the man's throat. He smelled the malodorous stench of the drunk's unwashed body, felt the violent tremors that wracked the man as he realized he was about to die.

Unaccountably, an image of Leanne rose in Jason's mind, and he saw himself as she would see him, his eyes glittering with the l.u.s.t for blood, his lips drawn back to expose his fangs as he prepared to drain this hapless creature of its life.

Filled with self-loathing, Jason shoved the man away and disappeared into the shadows of the night.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Leanne glanced up, meeting Jennifer's face in the mirror. As always, Jennifer looked as if she'd just stepped out of a fas.h.i.+on magazine. Her makeup was perfect. Her long, honey blond hair framed her face like a golden halo. Unlike the rest of the cast, who usually arrived at the theater in jeans and a T-s.h.i.+rt, Jennifer always looked as if she were about to go to a Hollywood premiere. "Look like a star, be a star," she always said.

Leanne forced a smile. "Talk about what?"

"Whatever's been bothering you for the past two weeks."

"I don't know what you mean," Leanne said and burst into tears.

Jennifer sat down on the stool beside Leanne and patted her friend's shoulder. "It has to be man trouble," she murmured with the air of one who spoke from experience.

"Oh, Jen, you don't know the half of it."

"I've got time to listen."

Leanne plucked a Kleenex from the box on the dressing table and dabbed at her eyes. If only she could tell someone, she thought sadly, if only she could pour it all out, all the heartache, the hurt. If only...

"There's nothing to tell, Jen. I met a... a man, and I thought... it doesn't matter. It's over."

"But you don't want it to be over?"

"No."

"Maybe he'll change his mind."

A rueful smile tugged at Leanne's lips. It wasn't Jason's mind that was keeping them apart. "Maybe."

"Come on," Jennifer said, gaining her feet. "Let's go get a cup of coffee."

It was unusually crowded backstage that night. Some of the cast members were giving friends and family a behind-the-scenes tour, showing them the props: the huge painted elephant that was part of the first act, the boat that ferried Christine and the Phantom across the underground lake, the numerous candelabra that lit the Phantom's lair, the enormous winding staircase, the trap door that the Phantom used during the Masquerade number. Later, they'd see Twin's Gym, where members of the cast and crew sometimes worked out between shows.

Near the stage door, Leanne saw Michael Piontek, who played the Vicomte de Chagny, signing autographs, and Dale Kristen, who had played the part of Christine Dane for over four years, a role Leanne secretly yearned to play.

When they reached the street, she couldn't help glancing at the corner where she had first seen Jason. There was no one there now, and she experienced anew the pain of their separation, the awful sense of loss that had filled her heart since the night she ran out of his house.

She blinked back the tears that threatened to fall.

"Where shall we go?" Jennifer asked.

"I'm not up to it, Jen," Leanne said. "I think I'll just go home."

"Leanne..."

"Please, Jen. I need to be alone."

Jennifer laid her hand on Leanne's arm. "All right, honey, but you call me if it gets too bad, promise?"

"I promise. And thanks, Jen."

"See you Tuesday."

Leanne groaned softly. Tomorrow was Monday, and the theater was dark. What would she do all day, all night, with not even a performance to help fill the lonely hours?

Shoulders sagging, she crossed the street to her car. All the magic had gone out of the play; all the joy had gone out of singing. Jason was gone from her life, and he'd taken her heart and soul with him.

Sliding behind the wheel, she drove out of the parking lot and turned down Hope Street toward the freeway.

At home she kicked off her shoes and sank down on the sofa. For a time she stared at nothing and then, because the silence was too much for her, she switched on the TV.

It took a moment for the black-and-white images to register on her mind, and then she didn't know whether to laugh or cry, for there, clad in funereal black clothes and cape, was Bela Lugosi in his most famous role, that of Count Dracula.

The tears came then, burning her eyes, making her throat ache. She sobbed uncontrollably, wis.h.i.+ng that she'd never gone to Jason's house that day, wis.h.i.+ng she could have gone on loving him in blissful ignorance.

For a moment she considered going to Jason, begging him to do whatever was necessary to change her into what he was, but she knew she lacked the courage to face the enormity, the horror, of such a vile transformation. She didn't want to live forever if it meant she would never be able to see the sun again, never be able to jog along the beach on a bright summer day, never experience the joy and wonder of motherhood.

But she didn't want to live without Jason.

Tears washed down her cheeks as she watched Dracula, but it was Jason she saw walking down the long stone stairway, a candle in his hand; Jason enveloping Mina in his cloak. How many people had he killed in the last three hundred years? In the last two weeks? Or perhaps he no longer had to kill. She remembered watching Love at First Bite and wondered if Jason visited the local blood bank to satisfy his thirst.

A burst of hysterical laughter bubbled to her lips. She must be going insane, she thought, comparing the reality of what Jason was to Hollywood's celluloid illusions.

Jason, Jason. Why couldn't she forget him? Why didn't she hate him? But she couldn't think of him as an evil monster, not when she remembered how tenderly he had made love to her.

Sniffing back her tears, she thought of all the hours they had spent together. Never had he done anything to hurt her, never had he treated her with anything but kindness and affection.

She lifted her hand to her neck. The tiny wounds had all but disappeared. She recalled asking him why he had bitten her, remembered the sadness in his eyes when he told her that night was to have been their last. She knew now that he had planned to leave her because he was afraid for her, afraid of what he might do.

I wanted to taste your sweetness just once.

Burying her face in her hands, she sobbed, "Jason, help me. Please help me."

He paused in his headlong flight to nowhere as Leanne's soulful cry echoed in his ears. He felt her pain as if it were his own, felt her unhappiness, her anguish of spirit.

Closing his eyes, he pressed his forehead against the cool stone wall that ran along the alley.

Ah, Leanne, beloved, he thought, If it gives you any solace, be a.s.sured that your pain is no greater than mine.

Leanne. The need to see her burned strong and bright within him, and before he quite realized what he was doing, he found himself at her door.

He hesitated for the s.p.a.ce of a heartbeat, and then he placed his hand on the latch. It was locked, but nothing as insignificant as a locked door could keep him from his heart's desire.

A wave of his hand and the door swung open. Quiet as a shadow, he entered the apartment and closed the door behind him.

She was in the front room. Her life force drew him as surely as a beacon.

On silent feet he followed her scent.

She was curled up in the corner of a high-backed sofa, her head pillowed on her arms, her cheeks wet with tears.

He watched her for a long moment, and then, unable to help himself, he crossed the room and knelt on the floor in front of the sofa.

"Leanne."

Her eyelids fluttered open, and his breath caught in his throat as he waited- waited to see the horror and the loathing that would be reflected in her eyes when she saw his face.

"Jason?" She reached out to him, her hand trembling. "Tell me you're really here, that I'm not dreaming."

"I'm here if you want me to be."

"I do. Oh, I do!"

Sitting up, she threw her arms around his neck and held him tight.

With a strangled sob he drew her down into his arms and buried his face in her hair. For a long while they simply sat there holding each other close.

Leanne felt the sting of tears behind her eyes. He was here, really here. It didn't matter how or why or for how long, only that he was there, holding her as if he would never let her go.