desired
(book #5 in the Vampire Journals)
morgan rice
Also by Morgan Rice
TURNED (Book #1 in the Vampire Journals) LOVED (Book #2 in the Vampire Journals)
BETRAYED (Book #3 in the Vampire Journals) DESTINED (Book #4 in the Vampire Journals) Copyright © 2011 by Morgan Rice
Al rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S.
Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.
This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictional y.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover model: Jennifer Onvie. Cover photography: Adam Luke Studios, New York. Cover makeup artist: Ruthie Weems. If you would like to contact any of these artists, please contact Morgan Rice.
FACT:
Montmartre, Paris, is famous for its huge church, the Sacré-
Cœur Basilica, built in the 19th century.
But sitting beside it, high atop the hil , stands the little known Church of Saint Peter. This smal , obscure church is much older than its neighbor, dating back to the 3rd century, and has an even greater importance: it was in this location that the vows were taken that led to the founding of the Society of Jesus.
FACT:
Sainte Chapel e, located a smal island in the center of Paris (not far from the famous Notre Dame), was built in the 13th century, and for hundreds of years housed the most precious relics of Christendom, including the Crown of Thorns, the Holy Lance, and pieces of the cross upon which Jesus was crucified. The relics were stored in a large, ornate silver chest….
“Why art thou yet so fair? shal I believe That unsubstantial death is amorous,
And that the lean abhorred monster keeps Thee here in dark to be his paramour?
For fear of that, I stil wil stay with thee; And never from this palace of dim night
Depart again…”
--Wil iam Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER ONE
Paris, France
(July, 1789)
Caitlin Paine awoke to blackness.
The air was heavy, and she struggled to breathe as she tried to move. She was lying on her back, on a hard surface. It was cool and damp, and a tiny sliver of light came in at her as she looked up.
Her shoulders were squeezed together, but with an effort she just managed to reach up. She stretched out her palms and felt the surface above. Stone. She ran her hands along it, felt the dimensions, and realized she was boxed in. In a coffin.
Caitlin’s heart started to pound. She hated tight spaces, and she started breathing harder. She wondered if she were dreaming, stuck in some sort of horrible limbo, or if she had truly awakened in some other time, and some other place.
She reached up again, with both hands, and with al her might, pushed. It moved a fraction of an inch, just enough for her to slide a finger into the crack. She pushed again, with al her might, and the heavy stone lid moved further, with the sound of stone scraping against stone.
She squeezed more fingers into the widening crack, and with al her might, shoved. This time, the lid came off.
Caitlin sat up, breathing hard, looking al around. Her lungs gasped in the fresh air, and she braced herself at the light, raising her hands to her eyes. How long had she been in such darkness?
she wondered.
As she sat there, Shielding her eyes, she listened, bracing herself for any noise, for any movement. She remembered how rough her graveyard awakening had been in Italy, and this time, she didn’t want to leave anything to chance. She was prepared for anything, ready to defend herself against whatever vil agers, or vampires—or whatever else—might be nearby.
But this time, al was silence. She slowly pried open her eyes, and saw that she was, indeed, alone. As her eyes adjusted, she realized it wasn’t, actual y, that bright in here.
She was in a cavernous, stone room, with low, arched ceilings. It looked like the vault of a church. The room was lit only by the occasional burning candle. It must be night, she realized.
Now that her eyes adjusted, she looked around careful y.
She had been right: she’d been lying in a stone sarcophagus, in the corner of a stone room, in what appeared to be the crypt of a church.
The room was empty, except for a few stone statues, and several other sarcophagi.
Caitlin stepped out the sarcophagus. She stretched, testing al of her muscles. It felt good to stand again. She was grateful that she hadn’t awakened this time to a battle. At least she had a few quiet moments to col ect herself.
But she was stil so disoriented. Her mind felt heavy, like she had awoken from a thousand year sleep. She also, immediately, felt a hunger pang.
Where was she? she wondered again. What year was it?
And more importantly, where was Caleb?
She was crestfal en that he was not at her side.
Caitlin surveyed the room, looking for a sign of him anywhere. But there was nothing. The other sarcophagi were al open and empty, and there was nowhere else he could be hiding.
“Hel o?” she cal ed out. “Caleb?”
She took a few tentative steps into the room, and saw a low, arched doorway, the only way in or out. She went to it and tried the knob. Unlocked, the door swung open easily.
Before she left the room, she turned and surveyed her surroundings, making sure she hadn’t left anything she needed. She reached down and felt her necklace, stil around her neck; she reached into her pockets, and was reassured to feel her journal, and the one, large key. It was al that she had left in the world, and it was al that she needed.
As Caitlin exited, she proceeded down a long, arched stone hal way. She could think only of finding Caleb. Surely, he had gone back with her this time. Hadn’t he?
And if he had, would he remember her this time? She could not possibly imagine having to go through al that again, having to search for him, and then having him not remember. No. She prayed that this time would be different. He was alive, she assured herself, and they had gone back together.
They must have.
But as she hurried down the corridor, and up a smal flight of stone steps, she felt her pace increasing, and felt that familiar sinking feeling in her chest that he had not come back with her.
After al , he had not awakened at her side, holding her hand, he was not there to reassure her. Did that mean he had not made the trip back? The pit in her stomach grew bigger.
And what about Sam? He had been there, too. Why wasn’t there any sign of him?
Caitlin final y reached the top of the staircase, opened another door, and stood there, amazed at the sight. She was standing in the main chapel of an extraordinary church.
She had never seen such high ceilings, so much stained-glass, such an enormous, elaborate altar. The rows of pews stretched forever, and it looked like this place could hold thousands of people.
Luckily, it was empty. Candles burned everywhere, but clearly, it was late. She was grateful for that: the last thing she wanted was to walk out into a crowd of thousands of people staring right at her
.
Caitlin walked slowly, right down the center of the isle, heading towards the exit. She was on the lookout for Caleb, for Sam, or maybe even for a priest. Someone like that priest in Assisi, who might welcome her, explain things to her. Who might tel her where she was, and when, and why.
But there was no one. Caitlin seemed to be completely, utterly alone.
Caitlin reached the huge, double doors, and braced herself to face whatever might be outside.
to face whatever might be outside.
As she opened them, she gasped. The night was lit up by street torches everywhere, and before her was a large crowd of people. They weren’t waiting to enter the church, but rather were mil ing around, in a large, open plaza. It was a busy, festive night scene, and as Caitlin felt the heat, she knew that it was summer. She was shocked by the sight of al these people, by their antiquated wardrobe, by their formality. Luckily, no one seemed to notice her. But she couldn’t take her eyes off of them.
There were hundreds of people, most dressed formal y, al clearly from another century. Among them were horses, carriages, street peddlers, artists, singers. It was a crowded, summer night scene, and it was overwhelming.
She wondered what year it could be, and what place she could have possibly landed in. More importantly, as she scanned al the strange and foreign faces, she wondered if Caleb could be waiting among them.
She scanned the crowd desperately, hoping, trying to convince herself that Caleb, or maybe Sam, could be among them. She looked every which way, but after several minutes, she realized they simply were not here.
Caitlin took several steps out, into the square, and then turned and faced the church, hoping that perhaps she would recognize its façade, and that it would give her a hint as to where she was.
It did. She was hardly an expert on architecture, or history, or churches, but some things she knew. Some places were so obvious, so etched into the public consciousness, that she was sure she could recognize them. And this was one of those.
She was standing before the Notre Dame.
She was in Paris.
It was a place she could not mistake for any other. Its three huge front doors, ornately carved; the dozens of smal statues above them; its elaborate façade reaching hundreds of feet into the sky.
It was one of the most recognizable places on earth. She had seen it online before, many times. She couldn’t believe it: she was real y in Paris.
Caitlin had always wanted to go to Paris, had always begged her mother to take her. When she had a boyfriend once, in high school, she had always hoped he’d take her there. It was a place she had always dreamed of going, and it took her breath away that she was actual y here. And in another century.
Caitlin felt herself get jostled in the thickening crowd, and she suddenly looked down and took stock of her clothes.
She was mortified to see that she was stil dressed in the simple prison garb that Kyle had given her in the Colosseum in Rome. She wore a canvas tunic, rough against her skin, crudely cut, way too big for her, tied over her torso and legs with a piece of rope. Her hair was matted, unwashed, in her face. She looked like an escaped prisoner, or a vagabond.
Feeling more anxious, Caitlin again looked for Caleb, for Sam, for anyone she recognized, anyone that could help her. She had never felt more alone, and she wanted nothing more than to lay her eyes on them, to know that she did not come back to this place by herself, to know that everything would be al right.
But she recognized no one.
Maybe I am the only one, she thought. Maybe I am really on my own again.
The thought of it pierced her stomach like a knife. She wanted to curl up, to crawl back and hide in the church, to be sent to some other time, to some other place—any place where she could wake up and see someone she knew.
But she toughened herself. She knew there was no retreat, no option but to move forward. She’d just have to be brave, to find her way in this time and place. There was simply no other choice.
*
Caitlin had to get away from the crowd. She needed to be alone, to rest, to feed, to think. She had to figure out where to go, where to look for Caleb, and if he was even here.
Just as important, she had to figure out why she was in the city, and in this time. She didn’t even know what year it was.
A person brushed passed her, and Caitlin reached out and grabbed his arm, overwhelmed with a sudden desire to know.
He turned and looked at her, startled at being stopped so abruptly.
“I’m sorry,” she said, realizing how dry her throat was, and how ragged she must have appeared, as she uttered her first words, “but what year is it?”
She was embarrassed even as she asked it, realizing that she must have seemed crazy.
“Year?” the confused man asked back.
“Um…I’m sorry, but I can’t seem to…remember.”
The man looked her up and down, then slowly shook his head, as if deciding there was something wrong with her.
“It’s 1789, of course. And we’re not even close to New Year’s, so you real y have no excuse,” he said, shaking his head derisively, and marching off.
1789. The reality of those numbers raced through Caitlin’s mind. She recal ed that she had last been in the year 1791.
Two years. Not that far off.
Yet, she was in Paris now, an entirely different world than Venice. Why here? Why now?
She racked her brain, trying desperately to remember her history classes, to remember what had happened in France in 1789. She was embarrassed to realize that she couldn’t.
She kicked herself once again for not paying closer attention in class. If she had known back in high school that she’d one day be traveling back in time, she’d have studied her history through the night, and would have made an effort to memorize everything.
It didn’t matter now, she realized. Now, she was a part of history. Now, she had a chance to change it, and to change herself. The past, she realized, could be changed. Just because certain events had happened in the history books, it didn’t mean that she, traveling back, couldn’t change them now. In a sense, she already had: her appearance here, in this time, would affect everything.
That, in turn, could, in its own smal way, change the course of history.
It made her feel the importance of her actions al the more.
The past was hers to create again.
Taking in her elegant surroundings, Caitlin began to relax a bit, and even to feel a bit encouraged. At least she had landed in a beautiful place, in a beautiful city, and in a beautiful time.
This was hardly the stone age, after al , and it was not like she had appeared in the middle of nowhere. Everything around her looked immaculate, and the people were al dressed so nicely, and the cobblestone streets shined in the torchlight. And the one thing she did remember about Paris in the 18th century was that it was a luxurious time for France, a time of great wealth, one in which kings and queens stil ruled.
Caitlin realized that the Notre Dame was on a smal island, and she felt the need to get off it. It was just too crowded here, and she needed some peace. She spotted several smal foot bridges leading off it, and headed towards one.
She al owed herself to hope that maybe Caleb’s presence was leading her in a particular direction.
As she walked over the river, she saw how beautiful the night was in Paris, lit by the torchlight al along the river, and by the ful moon. She thought of Caleb, and wished he was by her side to enjoy the sight with her.
As she walked across the bridge, looking down at the water, memories overcame her. She thought of Pol epel, of the Hudson River at night, of the way the moon lit up the river. She had a sudden urge to leap off the bridge, to test her wings, to see if she could fly again, and to soar high above it.
But she felt weak, and hungry, and as she leaned back, she couldn’t even feel the presence of her wings at al . She worried if the trip back in time had affected her abilities, her
powers. She didn’t feel nearly as strong as she once had. In fact, she felt nearly human. Frail. Vulnerable. She didn’t like the feeling.
After Caitlin crossed the river, she walked down side streets, wandering for hours, hopelessly lost. She walked through twisting, turning streets, further and further from the river, heading north.
She was amazed by the city. In some respects, it felt similar to Venice and Florence in 1791. Like those cities, Paris was stil the same, even to the way it appeared in the 21st century. She had never been here, but she had seen photos, and she was shocked to recognize so many buildings and monuments.
The streets here, too, were mostly cobblestone, fil ed with horse and carriages, or the occasional horse with a lone rider. People walked in elaborate costumes, strol ing leisurely, with al the time in the world. Like those cities, there was no plumbing here either, and Caitlin couldn’t help noticing the waste in the streets, and recoiling at the awful stench in the summer heat. She wished she stil had one of those smal potpourri bags that Pol y had given her in Venice.
But unlike those other cities, Paris was a world unto itself.
The streets were wider here, the buildings were lower, and they were more beautiful y designed. The city felt older, more precious, more beautiful. It was also less crowded: the further she went from the Notre Dame, the fewer people she saw. Maybe it was just because it was late at night, but the streets felt nearly empty.
She walked and walked, her legs and feet growing weary, searching around every corner for any sign of Caleb, any clue that might lead her in a special direction. There was nothing.
Every twenty blocks or so the neighborhood changed, and the feeling changed, too. As she headed further and further north, she found herself ascending a hil , in a new district, this one with narrow al eyways, and several bars. As she passed by a corner bar, she saw a man sprawled out, drunk, unconscious against the wal . The street was completely empty, and for a moment, Caitlin was overcome by the worst hunger pang. She felt like it was tearing her stomach in half.
She saw the man lying there, zoomed in on his neck, and saw the blood pulsing within it. At that moment, she wanted more than anything to descend on him, to feed. The feeling was beyond an urge—it was more like a command. Her body screamed at her to do it.