For a time, it seemed as though she would recover. Her appetite increased. She got out of bed for longer and longer periods of time; she asked Montroy to take her into the maze where she sat for over an hour, staring at the rosebushes, at the statues of the raven and the wolf.

She seemed at peace there, and for a time, Montroy hoped she had accepted the fact that Rayven was gone. Now, he thought, now she'll turn to me and we can begin our life together.

But it was not to be.

For no apparent reason, she went into a decline that came on rapidly, without warning. As the days passed, she grew ever weaker. Her mother and sisters came, bringing sweet treats to tempt her appetite, plying her with hot tea, smiling with forced gaiety as they told her of Aileen's pregnancy, hoping that the thought of a new life would bring her back from the depths of her despair.

But it was all in vain. She looked at them through eyes devoid of life even as she assured them she would be better soon.

Montroy summoned his family physician, but the man only shook his head, declaring there was nothing physically wrong with her.

Ada summoned the village priest, who laid his hands upon Rhianna's head, then turned away, promising he would light a candle and offer prayers for the welfare of her soul.

"She's willing herself to die." Ada stood beside her daughter's bed, staring down into Rhianna's pale face.

Montroy nodded. "I fear you are right, madam." He cursed softly, wondering if Rayven had foreseen such a thing happening when he took his leave.

"It's all that monster's fault," Ada said bitterly. "He's put a curse on her."

Montroy started to object. He didn't believe in magic, white or black. He thought of all the rumors he had heard about Rayven, the gossip, the speculation. Once, he had laughed it all aside. There were no such things as monsters who stalked the night, draining the life's blood out of others. But then he looked at Rhianna's pale face, at the dark shadows beneath her eyes, the hollows in her cheeks, and wondered if the rumors might not be true, after all.

He sat by her bed, holding her hand, while Ada McLeod urged her daughter to drink a little tea, felt his hatred grow until it became a living thing within him as he saw the empty look in Rhianna's once bright eyes. He heard her whisper Rayven's name, her voice barely audible, before she fell back on the pillows.

Stifling a sob, Ada turned away from the bed. Bevins materialized out of the shadows. For a moment, he watched her weep and then, needing to comfort her, he stepped forward and took Ada into his arms.

For a moment, she stood stiff in his embrace, and then she collapsed against him. Feeling awkward, he stroked her hair and back, his gentle touch releasing the tears she had refused to shed.

Montroy felt his throat thicken as he listened to Ada McLeod weeping for her daughter.

He lifted Rhianna's hand to his lips and kissed her palm, afraid, deep in his heart, that she would never recover.

"Damn you, Rayven," he muttered. "I hope your soul is burning in Hell."

He woke with the setting sun. Staring into the crypt's darkness, he remembered how he had gone seeking death and how, when it had been within his grasp, he had discovered he wanted very much to live.

He had been hovering on the brink of oblivion when his skin began to tighten. Near the edge of eternity, he had smelled the coming dawn, had heard Rhianna's voice, growing ever weaker, echoing in his mind, begging him not to leave her, and he had known that, if he died, she would die, too. It was a burden too heavy to bear. He had been ready to end his own life, but he could not take hers, not when she had hardly lived at all.

With a strength of will he hadn't known he possessed, he had dragged himself toward the crypt in which he now lay. The door had been partly open, and he had squeezed in through the narrow crack. The rusty hinges had creaked loudly, shrieking like a soul in torment, as he pulled the door closed behind him and then, breathing heavily, his nostrils filling with the musty odor of old death, he had crawled into a corner and fallen into a deep, deep sleep.

How many suns had set since he took refuge here, he wondered. Ten? Twenty? He had lost count.

His stomach churned with disgust as he looked at the small furry bodies of mice and rats that littered the floor of the tomb. And yet their blood, repulsive though it might be, had kept him alive -  that and his ever-growing need to see Rhianna again.

She was dying. He could feel her vitality ebbing along with her will to survive, and he knew that he was to blame. They were linked together by the blood they shared. But, unlike him, she was subject to the weakness of the flesh.

Salvatore, help me...

He closed his eyes, and the old Vampyre's image rose up in his mind. Salvatore. Slightly built, his black hair combed back, his dark brown eyes filled with the wisdom of the ages.

Rayven smiled faintly. Salvatore looked nothing like the Vampyres of legend. A dapper man, with a thin moustache and refined features. A man who knew what he was and accepted it.

To be Vampyre is not for the weak,Salvatore had once told him. Eternity can be very tiring if one does not keep oneself amused. You must keep up with the world, or you will drown in the past.

You can be a monster, preying off the life's blood of others, or not. The choice is up to you...

With an effort, he rose to his feet, ran a hand through his hair, settled his cloak around his shoulders.

Tonight, for the first time since he had sought death, he would hunt the streets of the city. And then he would go to her and beg her forgiveness.

If he was not too late.