Twilight Illusions Read Online Free PDF Page A

body until it vibrated as if electrified. Visions flashed in front of his eyes, blinding him. A thousand scents assailed him, a thousand tastes coated his mouth before he managed to block them out, slamming the door of his mind like the lid of a casket. Closing it, sealing it.
    For the love of Inanna! It had been so long since he’d attempted to receive the sensations of others…he’d grown in power, in strength, in the ability to do the trick, and at the same time, neglected the taming of his own abilities. He’d need to work on it, relearn the ways to filtering the vibrations, to home in only on the mind in question.
    Which, at the moment, was hers.
    He opened his eyes, blinking the room into focus. He was alone. He turned to stare down the short hallway. The door stood wide, with only the night beyond it.
    Gone. As if she’d never been there.
    Damien closed the door and stood for a moment, still trembling with the aftereffects of the blow he’d just taken. He made himself move back into his comfort room. The haven he’d created for himself. The place he felt the most relaxed. The sunken eyes of the dead woman stared up at him from photos scattered over gleaming black marble floor. The marks on her lily-white throat seemed to taunt, to laugh at him.
    You think yourself the enemy of death, Damien? You think wrong. I’ve won at last, you see? You’ve surrendered. I own you now.
    He lunged forward, snatching the horrible pictures from the floor, falling to his knees in front of the hearth, throwing them down on top of the cold ashes. “I didn’t kill her.” The words came as if on their own, in a harsh whisper. The face of the once-beautiful young actress stared at him, accusation screaming from the silent depths of her sightless eyes. He focused the beam of his thoughts, and the photo burst into flames. Red-orange tongues danced and licked, spreading to the other photos in the hearth and then to the letter he’d thrown there earlier. Damien watched them burn and wondered what more he could have done to prevent this.
    The thirst—the damned need—had grown stronger with every year he’d lived. It raged now like the Bull of Heaven, sent down to wreak the vengeance of the gods on mankind. It was impossible to deny, or to deprive the hunger. Animals no longer sufficed. The cold plastic liquid stolen from blood banks couldn’t fill his burning need. He couldn’t ignore it.
    He’d tried. In fact, he’d made it a ritual of self-torment. Whenever the hunger came, he refused to feed, fought the bloodlust, resisted it until it became all powerful. He’d thought that by resisting it, he’d be the one to grow stronger. It hadn’t worked out that way, though. Every time he tried, the lust raged more potent in his veins, until every cell of him screamed for the elixir, until his mind left the realm of his control and he hunted, swathed in a bloodred haze of mindless need.
    And even then, he’d thought he’d kept a modicum of restraint. He’d fed only in sips, and only from those women who’d hounded his steps after a performance. The groupies. The ones who slipped uninvited into his dressing room, baring pretty necks and offering themselves to him, sometimes begging him to take them.
    Fantasies, he knew. And he’d laugh off their offers, only to appear in their bedrooms—in their dreams—a few hours later. There, twined in their warm, mortal arms, he could sate his roaring lust. And by his simple command, these willing victims would remember the entire exchange as an erotic, pleasure-filled dream. As they drew their first breaths; bathed in sunlight, the marks on their throats would begin to heal. If they noticed the wounds at all, they’d remember a minor accident to explain them. One that had never happened. He thought he’d been so careful. Always leaving them asleep, looking utterly tranquil and contented,