IVONA KNIGHT, VAMPYRESS.

by Shannon Leigh.

CHAPTER ONE

As the others darted about the dimly lit bar, Ivona leaned back in her burgundy leather armchair. She gracefully slipped one long, lithe leg over the other, crossing them at the knees. She folded her hands on her lap in a pose of tranquility, casually watching the handful of men and women as they fussed about the old rustic room.

Completely at ease within the midst of darkness, she reveled in its comfort as it lurked around the borders of the limited candlelight and gently kissed her cheeks with glacial lips.

Smelling fear permeate the air, Ivona couldn't help but smile.

The hammering storm cut off the electricity and continued to blast the tavern's walls outside with torrential waves of rain, wind, and hair-raising thunder, obviously unnerving her skittish cohabitants. The long, drawn out bawls crackled and snapped like the splintering of a ma.s.sive plank of wood. Each spark of lightning sent eerie shadows crawling along the pub's walls and floor, their sinister fingers seemingly groping for the room's terrified inhabitants, fervently reaching with sharp, black claws in hopes of ensnaring fresh victims. Undaunted by themenacing weather or baleful gloom, Ivona merely relaxed in her chair and smiled pleasantly at the others.

Unlike his wary patrons, the gray-haired bartender seemed unaffected by the threatening squall. As though he were completely sure of the aged tavern's ability to ward off the pummeling blows of the raging tempest outside, he merely continued to dry several tankards with a faded white towel, then gingerly placed them upon their designated resting spots on a shelf behind the bar. After completing his task, he slowly sauntered his meaty frame to the front door, glanced out the tattered brown curtains, then turned to address the room's anxious inhabitants.

"The bridge is washed out," he yelled above the growing roar of nervous chatter. "I'm afraid no one will be leavin'

tonight."

A pet.i.te blonde in the back of the room jumped up from her seat. "But I have to get back home before my husband discovers-"

"I'm sorry, ma'am. There's no other way out of here," he cut in, holding up his hands apologetically. "Unless you're willin' to brave the forest out back. Wouldn't advise it though, nearest town is two miles away. An' the woods are not safe to travel at night. All kinds of nasty critters in there."

Ivona chuckled to herself. What of the 'critters' in here?

Truly, they are equally wicked.

"How long is this storm gonna last?"The question came from the man seated next to the woman. With his graying temples and smart, navy suit, his age likely doubled hers. It was your typical affair-older man with a younger woman. Ivona snorted in disgust.

The bartender glared at him, disbelief hardening his features. "An' how the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l am I supposed to know?" he roared back. "From the looks of things, it's gonna be a while."

"What do you suppose we do for the next several hours?" The deep voice had a strong southern drawl, the rich baritone suddenly filling the cold room with all the warmth of vibrant sunshine on a lazy summer day.

Ivona barely remembered the sun. It had been so long since she'd felt its welcoming rays upon her skin. Just the sound of this man's voice was enough to bring forth some of those ancient and precious memories.

Although posed to the bartender, Ivona had the distinct feeling the question held a silent proposition for her as well.

She casually glanced toward the bar. Sure enough, her inquisitive gaze met a pair of striking blue eyes, overshadowed with thick, but neat, black brows.

The man's firm, sensual mouth pulled into an appealing grin, his straight white teeth were a stark contrast in the dim light. He lifted his shot gla.s.s in mock salute, then downed the amber colored contents in one gulp. But before either one could acknowledge the other's attraction, another question drew their attention."What about food?" an elderly man called. "I don't know about the rest of ya, but I'm starvin'!"

Several others nodded their heads in mute agreement.

The bartender stroked his stubbled chin between a thick thumb and forefinger. "Well, I've got a sandwich an' chips in the back, but it's hardly enough to feed all of ya."

Then, as though forgetting the roaring wind and thunderous blasts outside, the paltry meal became the center of everyone's attention-everyone, excluding Ivona and the blue jean-clad man lounging at the bar. Voices once again rose in excitement as the patrons argued over how to divide the bartender's offering.

Several moments pa.s.sed and the chaos only seemed to grow as opposite s.e.xes formed sides against the other. The guys favored purchasing a share, but the women disagreed, claiming the men should be chivalrous and donate their portion to them. Some poor soul even suggested drawing straws, and they nearly tossed him outside to the tempest.

No matter how much they fussed and argued, no one could agree on how to part.i.tion the food.

"I have an idea," a slight feminine voice b.u.t.ted into the midst of the maelstrom. At first, no one paid her any heed.

"I said, I have an idea," she repeated louder, seemingly determined for them to listen. Everyone suddenly stopped their bickering and turned all eyes toward the middle-aged woman seated in the far, left-hand corner."I propose we play a game. The winner will get the entire sandwich and the chips. Everyone has an equal opportunity of winning, and since we're obviously stuck here a while, it will also pa.s.s the time."

Seemingly intrigued by the suggestion, the others began settling back into their seats. A look of triumph pasted on her otherwise plain features, the woman stood up next to her chair. Then she explained the rules of the game.

Each partic.i.p.ant would have a chance to tell a story without interruption by any of the others. It could be real or fictional. When all anecdotes were finished, the bartender would judge which was best, with the winner taking the spoils.

Surprisingly, everyone liked the idea. The men quickly moved tables out of the way and rearranged the chairs into a big circle in the middle of the room. Once accomplished, the next task was deciding who should go first.

"Now what?" the young blonde asked with obvious excitement, apparently forgetting her waiting husband at home.

"I'd like to hear from the lady in red, if there's no objection."

The smooth baritone sung through Ivona's veins like a bow across a well-tuned cello. A strange shudder worked its way up her legs and centered at the juncture of her thighs, followed by a flash of moisture, a rush of heat. She glanced back at the bar, taking in his attractive physique from thetop of his dark head to the rounded toes of his black Harley boots.

This man was straightforward. She liked that. No beating around the bush.

He was tall, lean, and well proportioned. His shoulders were broad, seemingly filling his black T-shirt to just the point of full without pressing the seams unnecessarily. His worn jeans hung well on his trim waist and long legs, molding along his muscled thighs, and outlining the form at his groin with expertise.

Ivona's gaze lingered on his crotch precariously, boldly a.s.sessing his potential with little concern for her bawdy behavior. Nice. Then she moved her inspection upward.

His rugged features were pleasantly appealing-face beardless and sharp, profile strong and rigid. She could tell he came from good stock. There was a lot of history within his genes. And perhaps, quite a bit within his jeans as well.

Seemingly amused by her careful scrutiny, he winked, then shifted to lean back against the bar, one elbow propping up his pleasing form. The movement drew her gaze to his muscled chest and flat abs. All this man needed was a leather coat and he'd be the perfect bad boy. She wondered if a motorcycle waited out back.

Ivona shrugged with feigned indifference. "Fine with me," she replied, and then swiveled in her seat, quickly turning away lest he think himself too tempting to pa.s.s by.

When no one else disputed his request, Ivona resolved herself to going first and silently waited for everyone to find a seat. It didn't surprise her when Mr. Bad Boy chose the chair directly across from her. Crossing her arms over her chest, she did her best to ignore him.

When several of the others continued to shift from one spot to another or talk to their partners, her patience quickly grew thin. With strained annoyance, she loudly cleared her throat, announcing that she was ready to start whenever they were. As if on command, the room suddenly grew quiet, and all eyes became focused on her.

Dipping her head slightly, "My name is Ivona Valeriu Knight," she began. "I was born in Targoviste, Romania, in the year fourteen hundred and forty-six."

Ivona sat motionless for a long moment, quietly studying the reactions of the others. Some wore expressions of disbelief, their brows furrowing together above their noses in frowns of skepticism, while others became instantly attentive to what she had to say, little sparks of curiosity glistening in their shocked stares.

She could see the calculations taking place across the features of her more intelligent listeners, counting, configuring, subtracting. These were the accomplished folk; they had acquired elite status and engineered success through their resourcefulness. The others-the ones who followed their intellectual leaders like faithful puppies, eagerly lapping at their heels for any sc.r.a.ps of coveted acknowledgment-merely stared back at her in dumbfounded silence, their simple minds seemingly hesitant and torn by conflicting thoughts and uncertain emotions.***

Romania...my homeland as well.

Lucian carefully hid his shock as he settled back into his chair and studied the intriguing woman across from him.

Her figure was curving and regal, seemingly perfect in form.

She had delicately carved facial features, with high cheekbones, an exquisitely dainty nose, and a full, sensual mouth the color of the deepest ruby.

Shrouded in a thick cloak of long, dark lashes, her eyes were startling, but there was an oddness about them; one which he couldn't quite put his finger on. As he stared into their mesmerizing depths, he could have sworn he saw something...move. Perhaps it was a shift in the pupils, or the dance of candlelight, or perhaps, one too many shots of whiskey.

The black velvet of her oriental robe heightened the translucence of her skin, making her look flawless-almost porcelain in nature-like the finest of hand-painted china.

Her sheer, red gown seemingly clung to her shape as though one with her flesh, skillfully outlining her full b.r.e.a.s.t.s and narrow waist with startling clarity.

Lucian drew in a steady breath as his gaze lingered on her generous cleavage, cleverly displayed by the parted material of her coat. One word came to mind as he summed up his examination-dangerous.For some strange reason, he sensed she was telling the truth. While the others might chalk off her forward declaration as nothing more than an elaborate fairy-tale, something within warned there was more to this sinister beauty than what was outwardly apparent.

His eyes strayed to the borders of the limited candlelight.

An eerie darkness hung in the air, clinging to her aura like a demonic parasite. Even the shadows seemed to worship her presence, undulating toward her as though paying homage to an ancient queen. Inherently, he sensed an evasive evil lurking deep within her soul.

Yet, he felt no fear. Somehow, their destinies were bound-their meeting more than chance. Something had drawn them here, something unearthly. Perhaps her tale would lend some insight.

His gaze returned to hers, catching her studying him with an unnerving expression of secrecy. Then she dropped her chin toward her chest. Her black hair slid forward around her cheeks, skillfully shrouding the guarded expression in her cold, emotionless stare.

It was sleek and shiny, like two black panels of the purest silk. With her strange, malachite-green eyes and alabaster skin, she looked ethereal in the flickering candlelight. More likely than not, to some of the nerve-frazzled patrons about the room, she probably seemed unreal.

As though reading his thoughts, her ruby lips curled into a temptingly sensual smile. "Humans..."It was a low throaty growl, nearly inaudible within the s.p.a.cious room. Lucian's eyes narrowed as he watched her flick an imaginary speck of lint from her gown. He sensed she was toying with him, purposely trying to frighten or intimidate him. Although he sat the farthest away, he was sure none of the others had heard the unnatural rumble coming from her chest.

Then her piercing gaze snapped up, locking with his.

"Their reactions are so predictable. After all, it's the denial of mortals and their refusal to believe that has allowed The Evil to survive for so long."

Lucian's breath caught in his throat. He knew she'd just spoken to him, yet her mouth never moved. For the first time since laying eyes on her, he felt a chill of forewarning.

This was no game she played. The room was full of life, mortals, humans-Ivona Knight was not one of them.

Part of him wanted to get up from his leather armchair and walk out, swim across the river, take his chances in the forest-whatever it took to get away. But the other part stayed rooted in place, refusing to budge. It was almost as though he had to hear her tale, had to know what she was, had to know why she inexplicably drew him to her like the proverbial moth to a flame. Against his better judgment, he pasted on a false smile and forced himself to remain.

CHAPTER TWO

Ivona pushed the stray locks away from her cheeks and tucked them behind her ears. She cared not if these imbeciles considered her mad. She was merely playing their game to pa.s.s the time. If it weren't for the raging thunderstorm, she would be outside, doing what she did every evening during the darkest hours of night-hunting.

She chuckled to herself. What a silly compet.i.tion it was.

She cared nothing of the prize.

The others acted as if they were to win the lottery. Of course, what could you expect from a room full of drunkards and wh.o.r.es? Their thoughts went little beyond the basics of survival-food, drink, and fornication.

Yet, this one intrigued her. What was it about him that seemingly called to her essence? With his shoulder length, raven black hair, and piercing blue eyes, it was as though she knew him, or at least, a part of him. He reminded her of...

but no, that was ridiculous. It simply couldn't be.

She let her gaze wander about the room. She had no time for indulgence. No, her objective was much more important than a tasteless sandwich and a bag of fried potatoes.

Even though it had been a long time since she'd allowed herself the luxury of a man's touch, her primal cravings would have to wait. Her prey was close, perhaps, even sitting within her sights.She only hoped that by suffering through each of their boring tales, she might gain insight as to who might be her long, sought-after target. One of these humans was a descendent of her nemesis-she could feel it. Until she picked out which one it was, she would endure their silly compet.i.tion.

Her gaze strayed back to the tempting morsel across from her. His clean hair gleamed in the flickering light like a polished black pearl, making Ivona wonder if it was as soft to the touch as it appeared. Strangely, she yearned to find out.

There's always later...

"My home is on the banks of the Dimbovita River, and is shadowed by the Carpathian Mountains," she continued, describing the location as though teaching history to a cla.s.s of high-school students. "During the fifteenth century, my Targoviste served as the capital of Walachia, which comprised the southern part of modern-day Romania, between the Carpathians and the Danube River. This also included Bucharest."

Ivona brushed her fingertips across the mandarin collar of her satin robe. She gently touched one of the embroidered gold dragons decorating it from neck to hem, lovingly stroking its beautiful design, memorizing each tiny st.i.tch.

Momentarily lost in deliberation, her gaze grew vacant and unseeing as she remembered the striking landscape of her home-vast valleys of lush, green vegetation, ma.s.sive purple mountains with snow-capped peaks stretching to theheavens above, and gorgeous meadows festooned with an infinite hodgepodge of vivid wildflowers.

To see such lands again...

"During this time, turmoil plagued our countryside," she declared suddenly, breaking the long silence. Once again folding her hands, she neatly placed them back on her lap.

"Walachia lay directly between the two powerful forces of Hungary and the Ottoman Empire, both of which constantly struggled to obtain control. My father was a boyar of Targoviste-similar to a politician or wealthy landowner. He was a n.o.bleman, as was his father before him, and his father before...well, you get the picture here."

She lazily waved her hand through the air in front of her as though chasing off an invisible pest.

"My mother, of course, was a faithful and dutiful wife.

She tended the home and saw to the education of the children. We were her livelihood."

Ivona studied the stout goblet seated on the table next to her chair. It was made of the finest gold and bejeweled with an a.s.sortment of priceless gems-she never drank from anything else. Gingerly lifting it to her mouth, she sipped noiselessly from its gleaming rim. As she rolled the intoxicating liquid around on her tongue, letting the heady flavor saturate her taste buds a long moment beforeswallowing it down, she continued to examine the patrons around her in silence.

She'd already picked out the most acceptable male candidate, that is, if she were to give in to the carnal l.u.s.t pooling in her veins, and allow herself the luxury of a late nigh rendezvous later on. Like any other female, her attentions mainly focused on the women, sizing up her compet.i.tion.

Although there was quite a broad a.s.sortment of temperaments, it took little more than a fleeting sweep of the room to a.s.sure herself of her superiority. Not even the young blonde could compare to her...splendor.

First, you had your seeming G.o.dliest of souls. The woman sat so stiffly in her chair; it appeared as though she teetered on the craterous edge of h.e.l.l itself. This statuesque Prima Donna pretentiously stared down her holier-than-thou snout with an air of condescension, clearly considering the others unworthy cohabitants of her divine presence.

Strangely, this one's gaze never met hers, and Ivona couldn't help but wonder what it was that brought this haughty Christian vicar into a bar in the first place.

Next, you had a couple of tainted flowers, who sported name-brand clothing, sculpted salon hair, perfectly manicured nails, and Victoria's Secret makeup. These middle-cla.s.s fashion models were not quite as prim and proper as their older, sanctimonious cohort, yet they still lacked any real wicked deviancy to be worthy of the term heathens.Her gaze shifted to the young blonde and her aged beau.

This one fit here. Ivona sensed this girl's apparent partic.i.p.ation in infidelity had explainable circ.u.mstances-an abusive husband perhaps, or maybe the motive of revenge came into play. Whatever the reasoning, it belied this woman's normal character.

Finally, you had your surgical Frankensteins. These latest models came equipped with putty knife thick makeup, boasted vulgar, obnoxious language, and dressed copiously in gaudy, revealing clothing; but they were nevertheless still just common wh.o.r.es, fully stocked with silicon b.r.e.a.s.t.s, Botox brows, and collagen lips.

There was no disputing their motive for being there.

These women were looking for a free ride on the candy wagon, and a bar seemed as likely a place as any to pick up the next sugar daddy.