Free Black Desire by Karyn Gerrard Page A

need
for both blood and sex over the decades, especially the latter half of the last
century. Tristan had reveled in the nightlife of the ‘60's-‘90's.
    However, it left him
empty and bereft. Deep down he knew he had the capacity to love again. Hell, he’d
promised Georgiana he would.
    Tristan came here
every week and laid a red rose at her grave, as it was her favorite flower. He
would never forget that she was gone and he was left to mourn, live in
darkness, and reside in sorrow and misery.
    For years while he
was married to Georgiana, he was haunted by a recurring nightmare.   He dreamed of leafless, gnarled trees bending
over a monument in a desolate cemetery. He saw himself with his head in his
hands weeping while above the dark stormy clouds moved at breakneck speed
showing the rapid passage of time. The scene seemed so brutally real. Standing
before her grave the realization hit him that his dream had become reality.
Georgiana was gone.
    How in the name of
hell could he put himself through this again? A flash of anger clutched his
heart. Damn Katrina for making him feel again.
    ****
    As she drove down the
highway, Katrina began to laugh, a maniacal, crazed laugh that only those in
strait jackets indulged in. This was a dream, some twisted nightmare. Dhampyre. Might as well be some elf or
goblin for all that meant to her. She tried not to drive too fast as it was
only a few kilometers back to Greg's. In spite of her snarky comments, she
believed him. When he showed her the tintype and the medal, the truth was in
his voice and in his tortured eyes. She couldn't deny it, so she accepted it. Now
what? She was his soul ? The mark on
her breast burned. Damn him! He not only tasted her, he marked her. Territorial bastard. There was more of
his kind all over the world? That information she didn't need to know. She was
happier in quiet ignorance. Going forward, she would be looking at every person
on the street, wondering. God, why did he have to be everything she wanted in a
man? Okay, so he had this thing about blood. Was he immortal? Yes, she had more
questions but she couldn't handle any more tonight. Oh God, the sex.   Just being near Tristan turned her into a
raging nymphomaniac. Did he cast some spell on her? Obviously.
    The radio hummed
inoffensively in the background. Her cousin! Did he know about his so-called
friend? She was tempted to drive to Greg's pub, walk in and kick his ass,
because she would bet he knew plenty. He never said a word. No warning. But Katrina
wanted a hot bubble bath more. She could wait until he got home to kick his ass
and pepper him with questions. She needed a drink as well. Or three.
    She turned down
Greg's street. Her head was pounding, the type of pain that felt as if one’s
head was going to blow off. Yes, hot bath, cold drink and cool sheets. She was
emotionally drained and exhausted. What she should do is stuff her clothes in
her suitcase and hightail it to the Halifax International Airport and not look
back.
    Parking her car she snapped
off the ignition, wearily climbed out of the car and slammed the door. She
walked toward the entrance and fumbled with her keys. A deep voice called out
behind her.
    "Good evening,
Katrina."
    She didn't even have
time to turn around before she felt a needle enter her neck. Immediate
dizziness washed over her and her legs gave out. A strong arm kept her upright,
and then blackness descended.
     
     

Chapter Seven
     
    Katrina's eyes
fluttered rapidly. Everything was hazy and the room spun. What room? She lifted
her head and looked around. Hell of a nice room wherever it was, all muted
colors and expensive furniture. Her hand spread out. She was lying on a queen
size bed with a satin comforter, a big ass brass bed like something out of a
Tennessee Williams play. Before she could even sit up, the door opened.
    Devlin Steele.
    "Good evening,
Katrina, or should I say morning as it is now one a.m.?"
    She groaned as she
sat up. She touched her