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E leni smiled as she relaxed in the spa outside of her lair.

It pleased her to know that Saintcrow had been thinking about her.

It had been centuries since she turned him, centuries since she had given him more than a passing thought.

So, he had survived. As pleased as she was that he’d thought of her, it nevertheless annoyed her that it had taken him so long.

But then, for their kind, time passed differently than for mere mortals.

She had preyed on countless humans through the centuries, turned scores of them into vampires in the course of her long existence.

Some had been destroyed by hunters. Some had been destroyed by her own hand.

Some tired of being vampires and destroyed themselves.

There were those she hadn’t thought of in centuries. And some she had likely forgotten.

But she had never forgotten Rylan Saintcrow.

Even after all this time, she remembered him clearly—a tall man, broad-shouldered and lean-hipped, with an air of self-confidence and authority that had been almost tangible.

Long black hair framed his face, his eyes were like deep pools of ebony.

A thin white scar ran from the outer corner of his left eye, down his cheek to his neck, and disappeared under his shirt collar.

It added an air of danger to a decidedly handsome face.

He had oozed testosterone. The thought made her smile.

When she’d found him, he had been a knight, wounded in battle during one of the Crusades.

He had been shaking hands with death when she had come across him on the battlefield.

She had cradled his head in her lap, given him a drink of water.

She recalled singing to him as his life ebbed and then, suddenly unwilling to let such a brave and handsome warrior die, she had asked him if he wanted to live.

He had been too close to death to answer, so she had made the decision for him.

The lust for life burns strong and bright within you, she had murmured. It would be a shame to let that flame be snuffed out so soon. And so saying, she had drained him to the point of death and then given him some of her ancient blood.

She had intended to take him away with her, but hunger had driven her across the field to where another man lay dying.

She had drained him dry but he had lost so much blood from his injuries, what little remained hadn’t eased her hunger.

She had fed from several more of the dying before she was satisfied.

By the time she had taken her fill, it was near dawn and scavengers—men, women, and children who had been hiding in the forest—came out to loot the bodies of the dead and dying.

She’d had just enough time to drag Saintcrow off the battlefield and into the shelter of a shallow cave before returning to her lair.

When she returned the following night, he was gone. She had considered going after him, but she had been madly in love with a lusty young man at the time. A few days later, she had turned Renaldo and in the happiness of the ensuing days, she had forgotten all about Saintcrow.

She’d had many lovers since Renaldo, turned some of them, left others when she grew weary of their company, as she had grown weary of Renaldo.

She smiled inwardly as she licked the neck of her latest consort.

Perhaps, one of these nights when she was bored, she would look in on Saintcrow and see how he was doing.

Her only regret in all her long life was that she had never taken that lusty young stallion to her bed.

Perhaps, when she tired of her latest lover, she would visit Saintcrow.

She laughed softly, thinking how surprised he would be when that day finally came.