Books by Maggie Shayne (120 page)

"That's right, it is. And that reminds me to ask you why it is you're so sure I'm safe during the day, but in danger at night."

"Vampires only hunt at night."

A little chill ran over her nape at those words. She ignored it.

"Get real, Da mien."

"I'm serious." He sighed hard, pushed a hand through his hair and stepped away from her.

"There's no such thing." But when she said it, her words were barely more than a whisper.

He turned and met her eyes.

"Then let's say the killer wants it to look like a vampire. Can you buy that?"

She nodded, still wary.

"He'll hardly change his tactics now and strike by day."

She felt the tension in her spine ease.

"For a minute there I thought you were going to say you believed in this stuff Had me worried." She was still worried. She just wasn't sun what about. Not that he was a blood-sucking night stalker. No that.

The final test. It would be definitive. After this there would be no question as to Da mien's fondness for the delicate mortal woman.

Anthar had allowed himself no contact with her. He'd kept his mind utterly isolated from her, just as he knew his nemesis had wished to do. It would never do for Anthar to develop a soft spot for her. She was a pawn. Her purpose was to mete out punishment, and nothing more. Anthar felt no hint of the instinctive urge to protect her. And if he had, he'd have ignored it.

The fuel that powered his actions was more powerful than anything else could be. The need for vengeance. He'd been obsessed with the downfall of this onetime king for too long to allow anything to interfere.

And the test he'd devised this time would tell him all he needed to know.

He'd use an element that could spell destruction for any immortal. Da mien the Eternal would have to risk more than the passing pain of a bullet to save his mortal pet. He'd risk his very existence this time, or watch her die.

If he should try and fail to save her, well, that would only add to his torment. If he should not try at all, then Anthar would know he hadn't cared.

It was all so simple to arrange. But not now--dawn was too close. Tonight, with the first layer of darkness on the autumn sky. He'd begin by making her sleep . very soundly.

The story was riveting.

She hadn't wanted interruption. She'd turned on the answering machine and refused to answer the door, even when the man thumping impatiently on the other side had most likely been an angry CIA Spock by the name of Bach man.

She had no idea why he didn't just break in. Maybe he really believed she wasn't here.

Didn't matter. She had no time to talk to him. No. She needed to spend today trying to decide whether Da mien Nam- tar could possibly, in her wildest dreams, be a cold-blooded murderer. Or maybe he was just completely insane.

Multiple personalities, perhaps, and maybe one of those personalities was a vampire.

After he'd left, she'd tried to sleep, couldn't. Countless scenarios popped into her mind, and kept her tossing and turning well into the morning. The result being that when she finally did sleep, she hadn't awoken until noon.

She was beginning to keep some pretty vampiric hours herself.

When she did finally rouse herself, he was on her mind again, from the second she opened her eyes. The only conclusion she'd reached was that she just didn't know enough about the man to make a judgment call. And she'd decided then and there to read this book, cover to cover. To try to see what was in here that moved him so deeply, and maybe find a clue to what made him tick.

And now she knew, and it moved her, too.

Sad, tragic story. All about a great king and the man who became his closest friend--more than a friend, really. Gilgamesh had been a bit of a tyrant at first. A strong man, fierce in combat, abundant in wisdom. So much so he was thought of as half man, half god. But he'd forgotten how to feel compassion for his people.

Enkidu was raised on the steppe, among the wild things. People thought of him as half man, half animal. But he came into the ancient city of Uruk one day and deliberately stood right in Gilgamesh's path. A public challenge.

The two fought, and the description of the battle was more poetic than anything Shannon thought she'd ever read: They fell like wolves at each other's throats, like bulls bellowing, and horses gasping for breath.

crushing the gate they fell against.

The dry dust billowed in the marketplace and people shrieked. The dogs raced in and out between their legs.

A child screamed at their feet that danced the dance of life which hovers close to death.

And quiet suddenly fell on them when Gilgamesh stood still exhausted. He turned to Enkidu, who leaned against his shoulder and looked into his eyes And saw himself in the other, just as Enkidu saw himself in Gilgamesh.

In the silence of the people they began to laugh And clutched each other in their breathless exaltation.

A lump formed in her throat as she read on. The two had been inseparable from then on, and the book told of their adventures together, how they were two parts of a single whole. And how, finally, Enkidu had slowly died as his friend looked on, helpless to save him.

The verse narrative was moving, and that surprised her. She hadn't expected writers from something earlier than 4000 b. c. to be so expressive. She blinked back tears as she read another passage, aloud, just to savor the beauty of it as it described Gilgamesh's crippling grief.

"The word Enkidu roamed through every thought like a hungry animal through empty lairs in search of food. The only nourishment he knew was grief, endless in its hidden source.

Shannon stood very still, knowing exactly how the man had felt. She'd felt that kind of grief when Tawny had died. She still felt it. She had to wait a few minutes before she could read further. Her tears blurred her vision, but she had to finish.

Engrossed, she read on. Gilgamesh, no longer a great ruler but an ordinary man who'd lost his way, wandered in the desert, perhaps a little insane, in search of the secret to eternal life. He became obsessed with the idea of becoming immortal and of carrying that secret home with him, to bring Enkidu back to life. A mission that was doomed to fail.

By the time Shannon closed the book, there were small, spasmodic sobs pulling at her breastbone. She brushed her eyes dry, shook her head and tried to focus on her reason for reading this heartbreaking tale in the first place.

To understand Da mien.

Of course. He said he'd lost his best friend. God, he'd even described their closeness in a way that mirrored the closeness of Gilgamesh and Enkidu in the ancient tale. No wonder he identified with it. And with her.

It was as though some triangle of endless mourning connected the three of them.

But what did that mean to her?

She set the book down, absently caressing the cover, and paced the length of her living room, then back again. Could Da mien be a killer? A man who was moved to tears by a story thousands of years old? A man who obviously felt things more deeply than any man she'd ever met? He couldn't even let her kill a little field mouse, for God's sake.

All her life she'd been taught, over and over again, not to trust anyone.

Not anyone. So why did she so stubbornly persist in wan ting to trust him?

All right, maybe it was time she took a good long look at her motivations here. She did just that, over a long steamy soak in a scented bath.

She'd never been with a man, had never wanted to be.

Until lately. Lately, she'd caught herself thinking about it more than once.

Wondering if there was a chance it could actually be as wonderful as Tawny used to always tell her it could be. And she had to be brutally honest and admit that it was Da mien who was inspiring these kinds of thoughts. No wonder, really. He was such a sexual creature.

It was getting dark outside. He'd be here soon, to stand guard over her for the night. She really ought to get out of the water and dress. What would he do, she wondered, if she kissed him?

Didn't matter. She wasn't going to find out.

Was she?

She felt a peculiar lethargy stealing over her body as she soaked. An unnatural kind of exhaustion, as if she'd popped a sleeping pill or something. She sponged her skin and fought it.

She thought maybe she'd like to find out after all. Hell, she had nothing to lose, and why not experience everything she was curious about before her life ended?

God, she was tired. Her eyes drooped and her body sank a little lower in the water. She dragged herself out of the tub and pulled on a robe. Was it this damned illness making her so sleepy? She'd already dozed half the day.

Whatever, it was irresistible. She shuffled to bed, wet hair and all.

It wasn't the smoke that woke her it was the alarm. Shrieking at her, breaking the night with its whistling pitch. She was half-dressed before she smelled the smoke, creeping in and surrounding her senses, little by little, so she wasn't certain for a moment. It might be her imagination. The alarm might be malfunctioning, and. She pulled on the jeans she'd left on the floor, since they were within reach. She was hopping into the living room as she tugged them up, snapped them, yanked on the zipper. She was headed for the door, but stopped in her tracks when she saw the wispy gray fingers reaching toward her from beneath it.

They grew longer, floating upward, spreading. She took another step and felt a deep terror twist to life in her soul. She pressed her palms to the door, only to suck air through her teeth and yank them away from the heat.

"God! Oh, God!" Panic beat a message across her heart. She fought it, tried to use her mind. She whirled in a circle, then dashed across the room, yanking a blanket from the back of the sofa, heading for the bathroom. She jerked at the tub's faucet and dumped the blanket in. She jumped in on top of it, stomping on it up and down until it was soaked, then hauled it out, dripping and cold, and carried it back to the door.

The smoke seeped steadily beneath it now, and she dumped the wet blanket to the floor, kicking it tight to the crack under the door. Then she watched.

The smoke stopped.

A sigh of relief that she knew wasn't called for escaped her lips anyway.

She ran to the phone, picked it up and jiggled the cutoff. Dead. Her throat went dry. She licked her lips, standing in the room's center, turning slowly in a full circle. What could she do? She was twenty-three stories up and her only way out was through a door she knew better than to open. What in the name of God could she possibly do?

She went to the bedroom to stare out the window. Flames lit the night. She saw their orange glow dancing upward from the stories below her. She saw the flashing lights of rescue vehicles bathing the crowd that had gathered below.

She saw people in their nightclothes, wandering like bugs. God, how had she slept through all of this? And she saw the huge gap where the fire escape ought to be. She would be down there soon, being led around by those fire fighters like the bug people were. Just as soon as they put the fire out and came for her. She would. She only needed to keep her head.

She went to the closet, opened it and picked up her worn- out baseball bat.

She hurried back to the bedroom, and the window shattered with the first impact. She hoped the people below were far enough away to avoid the flying glass. She imagined they were. They'd expect windows to be smashed by the ones still trapped.

Trapped.

She bit her lip, and tore her gaze away from the people below and the flame's color on the night sky. She went back to the living room and glanced longingly at the balcony. But red tongues of flame leapt up around it, attacking from the one below. She couldn't go out there. No haven there.

She returned to the bathroom, stoppered the tub and let more water rush into it. Cool water. And then she filled a dishpan, carried it into the living room and hurled the water at the hot door. The paint on the inside was blistering now. The smoke was finding its way around the blanket. The next dish panful hit, spattered, splashed back on her face.

She threw another blanket into the water, this one to wrap herself in should she need it.

What else? What else?

Her heartbeat escalated when she realized she was sweating The temperature of the room was increasing. The floors. God, the bottoms of her bare feet felt the heat seeping up through the floors.

Calm. Calm, don't panic. Go to the window again. Let them know you're here. A signal.

She tied several sheets together, taking her time, trying to keep her hands from shaking so hard, knowing there was nothing to do but wait. When she glanced up, she saw a layer of smoke suspended at waist level, and she got down from the bed to sit on the hot floor. She tied the end of her sheet banner to the bedpost and tossed the rest out the window.

They'd see the white flag in the night. They'd come for her.

Her eyes burned. The inside of her nose stung. Her chest hurt.

It's the smoke. The smoke is the enemy. Have to stop breathing so much of it.

She went to the bathroom again, to the overflowing tub, but she didn't turn the water off. She took a clean washcloth, wet it and held it to her face.

She swiped at her burning eyes, but when she opened them again, it was dark.

The power had gone. The tub spluttered to a stop. She held the cloth over her nose and mouth to filter the air, but she choked anyway. She pawed for the tub, dragged the wet blanket from it. That thick, acrid stench coated her mouth and tongue. She dropped to her knees and crawled from the bathroom, pulling the sodden weight behind her.

The explosion came from nowhere and from everywhere. Burning brands rained on her like shrapnel, and a blinding wall of flame stood where the door used to be. She crawled faster, on knees only, coughing, clutching the washcloth to her face with one hand and pulling the soaked blanket with the other. She found her way to the bedroom door by the light of the inferno spreading like a pool through her apartment. She hurled herself through, then closed it and pushed the blanket to the bottom.

The coughing racked her now, and with each bout she spasmodically inhaled more of the smoke that was choking her. Killing her. She sat on the floor, turning herself slowly, blinking her watering eyes in pitch-darkness to get her bearings. The window--she wanted to get back to the window. She ; choked again, dragging in more of the acrid stench. Her finger^ I screamed in white-hot pain, and she suddenly realized the ring she wore was burning a brand into it. She yanked it off, threw it away. Her hair was soaked in sweat, her skin sizzling with the heat.

And then she found the window. She found it by the glow of the sheets she'd hung out, which were burning now, like everything else. Flames climbed the sheet like a rope and leapt the windowsill to invade. She lurched to her feet, to the bed. She fumbled with the knot she'd made, but a fit of choking caught her, held her in a merciless grip. She had to stand long enough to undo the knot on the bedpost. When she finally got it free, and sent the sheets sailing to the ground below, she dropped to the floor again.