Books by Maggie Shayne (144 page)

He turned, stalked to the apartment door, picking up his coat on the way. “I’m going for a walk.” Then he looked back at them, his hand still on the doorknob. “And if any of you follow me, I swear to Christ, I’ll never come back.”

“Jamey!” Tamara rushed forward, grabbed his arm as if to stop him.

“Jameson,” he told her gently. “Look at me, Tamara. No, I mean
really
look at me. I’m not Jamey anymore.” She did, her I ebony eyes racing over his face, tearing up as she nodded. He ran his hand through her dark curls, and then lowered his head to kiss I her cheek. “Please understand, Tam. I just need some space, okay?”

Her lower lip quivering, she nodded. “Be careful,” she whispered.

“I’m always careful.”

He turned and left the apartment.

He walked, alone and after dark, completely unafraid. Aside from his occasional run-ins with DPI, few people ever wanted to mess with Jameson once they’d looked him in the eye. He supposed the old anger showed there. And now, probably more than ever. Now that he’d been used, humiliated, as an adult this time, at their bloody hands. Oh, he knew about them. The way they’d had Tamara’s parents killed just so they could get their hands on her. Used her, from the time she was a little girl, as bait, knowing she had the antigen, and knowing, too, that sooner or later one of the undead would show up to check in on her.

And when the one appointed to be her mortal guardian, kindly old Daniel St. Claire, had changed his mind, when he’d decided he couldn’t go through with the plot to use the child he’d raised as his own, they’d had him killed as well.

They were ruthless, bloodthirsty animals. They hunted the undead like game, and when they found them, their experimentation techniques were utterly free of any hint of conscience.

The bastards.

Jameson wanted to know why they’d taken him this time. What kind of information they were seeking. Why they’d taken the particular specimens from his body that they had, and what they intended to do next.

He wanted to know. But how could he find out? That was what he needed to think about, and he needed to think about it alone. Outside, with the fresh, snapping winter air keeping him sharp, and without all those concerned, protective eyes watching over him.

He walked fast, enjoying the exertion and the chill. And he planned. Well, he supposed he might break into DPI headquarters and go through their files. Maybe tap into their computers and see if any information could be found there. Or perhaps he could just grab one of them. That Nazi-like doctor, Rose Sversky, for example, or perhaps Fuller’s lapdog, Stiles. He could torture one of them into talking. Maybe even Fuller himself. Jameson smiled as he thought about the pain he’d like to inflict on that bastard, who’d done likewise to so many, for so long.

Whatever he decided, he couldn’t do anything until he convinced Eric, Tamara, Roland and Rhiannon to get the hell out of here and leave him alone. If they stayed they’d get themselves tangled up in whatever mess he ended up creating, just as they always did, and he didn’t want that. He didn’t want his friends—family, really—put at risk because of his need to vent this old, ever-growing anger. His passion for meting out some long-overdue justice. He couldn’t allow them near this. It was going to be messy.

So he supposed he’d have to wait, and…

Jameson came to a stop in the street, and stood silently, head cocked slightly to one side as the cold wind ruffled his hair and stung his cheeks. He’d heard something…something so faint no one else passing on the street seemed to notice. Or if they did, they didn’t seem to care. He had to strain to catch it again, with the slow-moving traffic, and blasting horns, and hissing air brakes. Less noisy now than during the day, but not by a hell of a lot.

A second ticked by, then two. And then he caught it again. The sound was that of moaning. Agonized, pain-filled moaning.

And the voice was that of a vampire.

A little shiver crept up the back of Jameson’s neck as he pinpointed the source of the sound. An abandoned building, several yards away from him. Crumbling brick and fingers of broken, dirty glass. Snow on the old stone dormers. Gargoyles lining the top, though little remained of those gruesome guardians now. You couldn’t even make out their features aside from their snarling mouths, and angel’s wings, dusted now in snow.

She was in there.

How he knew that—how he could even hear the sound of her voice—Jameson didn’t know. It wasn’t audible. Not to mortal I ears, anyway. But that was just it. His
were
mortal ears. So why was he hearing her, sensing her there? Why could
he feel
her pain?

Jameson Bryant was not a fool. He’d encountered other preternatural beings before, those who were strangers to him. And he always avoided them. True enough, it went against their nature to harm one of their own—one of the Chosen. Those rare mortals with the belladonna antigen coursing through their veins. They always knew that antigen. Scented it or sensed it or something. And most of the undead tended to protect and watch over those mortals with the antigen. Dark guardians. Dark angels. His mouth twisted in a smile at the irony of that.

But there were exceptions to every rule. And there were monsters in every race and every species. He did not make a habit of walking up to strange vampires and extending a hand.

But this time was different. He was compelled, drawn by some force he neither recognized nor understood. She might be mad. She might be a killer. She might turn on him. But he had no choice but to climb over the graying boards nailed in the shape of a cross in the doorway of the ruined building, and make his way through the rubble, to where she was.

And when he finally saw her, his heart tripped over itself.

She sat, curled in the fetal position in a corner. Her black dress—or robe or whatever it was—was torn and tattered and filthy. As was her tangled ebony hair, long and dirty and covering her face. She was startlingly white. So very white she nearly glowed in the darkness like a wraith. And thin. Emaciated, even. Her hands…Jesus, he could see the bones in those chalk-white hands.

He took another step toward her, and her head came up fast, eyes wide and fear-filled. And as she stared at him, the clouds skittered away from the moon, allowing its light to spill through the broken glass, and bathe her face and her eyes in that ethereal glow. She was painfully thin, but even then, she was beautiful. The shape of her face, like a sculpture in the moonlight. High, sharp cheekbones, and a delicate jawline. Full lips, parted slightly, and a long slender neck that held him motionless as he studied it. Then she moved her head just slightly, and the light fell on her eyes, and he caught his breath. They were violet. Brilliant, vivid violet. So bright was their color that he’d have suspected it to be false if he didn’t know better. Huge, luminous eyes that shone with color. Her thinness, he suspected, made those haunting eyes seem even larger than they were. And no doubt it was that same condition, and those slight hollows it caused in her cheeks, that made her bone structure seem like that of a goddess. Or an angel.

She wasn’t an angel, though. She was a vampiress, quite possibly a dangerous one. He knew that.

And he knew a few other things, as well.

He knew this vampiress was on the brink of starvation. He knew she might very well be
beyond
the brink of madness. He knew he should leave.

And he knew, damned good and well, that he wasn’t going to.

I had wandered alone for three nights. Hiding out in the very filthiest, vilest parts of the city, for I felt this was all I deserved. I was a filthy, vile being now, wasn’t I? Violated by a monster, and made into one just like him.

And I knew it was my fault. Because there had been a moment, one single moment in time when I could have said no. I could have chosen death and salvation over life—unending life and damnation. I didn’t have to drink when he pressed my face to his throat. I didn’t have to drink. But I had. I had. I’d been filled with an incredible, powerful urge not to die. I’d wanted to live! And so I had.

God had seen fit to test me before I pledged myself to Him. No doubt He had sensed my misgivings. My flawed faith. And I’d failed that test. Failed it miserably.

But there was one thing I would not,
could not
do. And that was to prolong this life by feeding on the living. The innocent. Lambs of God, flocks of them outside, even now. And I, the wolf, hungering for them. Starving for what was the very essence of them. God, how the hunger burned in me! I writhed with it. When one of them passed by the windows of my hovel, and the wind sharpened, I caught the scent of their blood, and my mouth watered. My eyes filled with tears. My flesh tingled and my nerves came alive, singing, and then screaming with need. With every part of me I wanted to take one of them, take them the way I’d seen that monster do it. Gorge myself at their soft throats and taste their salty skin against my lips. Sink these newly elongated, razor-sharp fangs deeply into them, and drink.

Something, some small part of the person I’d once been, remained alive in me, and it was that part I clung to, and drew on to sustain my resistance.

That part…and the crucifix I wore around my neck. The symbol of all I believed in. I ran my hands over the smooth grain of its wood, and studied the grimace on the face of the Christ, the one too tiny for me to have even noticed before. Those things kept me going. Though they did not keep me sane. Like a rabid dog at the sight of water, I do believe I was quite mad that night.

And then
he
came.

I smelled him, as I had the others. No. No, that’s not quite true. It wasn’t the same. His scent came to me more powerfully than theirs had. It tantalized my senses to an even greater extent, so that I curled into the corner, drawing my knees to my chest and hiding my face against my legs, and praying he would pass by. Quickly, before that succulent scent drove me completely out of my mind.

He didn’t, of course. His scent came stronger and more delicious with every second. And then there was a sound. A small sound, his steps coming nearer across the littered floor. I looked up, and he was there, his breaths making little clouds of steam in the dark. Staring at me as if he’d never seen anything quite so pathetic as the picture I made there in the filth. And I wanted to scream at him. Get away! Can’t you see what I am? Don’t you feel the danger you’re in?

“Don’t be afraid,” he said to me. I wanted to tip my head back and scream with laughter, but I hadn’t the strength. This man, this poor, innocent mortal man, telling
me
not to be afraid of
him
. Such irony!

But I didn’t laugh. I didn’t make a sound, but simply sat there, staring at him. His beauty amazed me. I saw it—as I saw everything now—in greater detail than I’d ever done as a mortal. Even in the darkness of that wreck, I could see him. For I saw very well in the darkness now. His eyes—not coal-black. But dark, velvet brown. With blacker stripes, wavy stripes surrounding his pupils like rays around the sun.

He
was like the sun…the sun I would never look upon again.

His hair was thick and he wore it long. I could see, even from this distance, its luster, its richness. It would feel like silk, that raven mass of unruly curls. His skin wasn’t chalk-white and sickly like mine, but bronze, as if his body had been coated in honey just for me.

I licked my lips as my eyes feasted on the bit of flesh exposed at his muscled throat. And then I lowered my eyes, closed them. I wanted him. I wanted his blood, and I wanted his body. I, a virgin, whose intent had been to pledge myself to Christ, and to remain chaste until I died. I craved him with a hunger so carnal it shocked me. Was this yet another aspect of my new character? Was I to become a harlot as well as a demon and a murderess?

“Go away,” I croaked. “You’re not safe here.”

But the man came closer, towering over me, and frightening me, until I recalled that I was stronger. Despite his size—and he was a big man, broad across the shoulders and very tall—I had nothing to fear.

He stood over me, staring down, those tiger-striped eyes of his soft with pity when they should have been wide with revulsion. “You’re starving, aren’t you?”

Yes, I was starving. And I could hear the strong, and steady thrum of his pulse now. The rushing river of the blood running through his veins. I could hear it!

“Please!” I cried, burying my face in my hands. “Get away! I can’t stand it!”

And then his hand came to stroke the hair from my face. It slipped down to cup my chin, lifting my head until I stared up at him again. I could feel the warmth of that hand, suffusing my face. I could feel every line in his palm. “You’re just a fledgling, aren’t you?”

But my eyes had found the spot where his pulse beat in his throat, and for the life of me, I could not look away.

“I can help you,” he told me. “It will be all right, you’ll see.”

“Go, please…” But my voice lacked conviction now as I thought of the taste of him. My mouth on his skin. The warm rush of his blood as I—

“I can’t just go away and leave you here. You’re suffering, I can see that.”

I moaned low and deep in my throat, and the tears rolled from my eyes. Sobs tore at my breastbone, shaking my body, racking me. I wanted to take him more than I wanted to draw another breath. And yet I couldn’t. How could I? He’d done nothing wrong. Tried to help me, even.

But my crying was the wrong course of action, because the big, beautiful fool put his strong arms around me, and I could feel every curve of the muscled firmness beneath his clothes. He drew me close, holding me gently, rocking me a little. Saying, “Shh, it’s all right. I have friends who are like you. They can help you. I’ll take you to them. It’s going to be all right.”

He went on like that, stroking my back and my hair. I had no idea why. But his movements made me insane with this unnatural need. Insane with lust for him, body and blood. And the two desires seemed to intermingle until I couldn’t distinguish the carnal lust from the unnatural hunger. They became one. My face rested in the crook of his corded neck. My lips even touched his warm, salty skin, as he held me there. And it was the end. All I could stand. There was no shred of humanity left in me at that moment. I was simply a hungry animal, and he was my meat.

I slipped my arms around the beautiful man, opened my mouth and sank my sharp new fangs deeply into him. Skin, and muscle, and then the pop as I pierced the jugular. He gasped. But didn’t fight me very hard at all. In fact he leaned closer, held me tighter, and I felt a shudder work through him. He groaned and threaded his fingers in my hair, and pressed his hips against me. I felt his arousal, the hard shape of him nudging me between my legs, and like a common whore, I arched against him.

I think, perhaps, he didn’t realize that this would be the end of him. Not until I’d nearly drained him dry. That was when he began to twist in my arms, and pull. But as starved as I was, it was useless. He couldn’t break my hold on him. Already, he was weakened from the loss of his luscious blood.

“No more,” I heard him whisper, so close to my ear. “Please, no more.”

But I held him tighter, and bit down harder, and sucked at the wounds in his throat all the more. His strength surged through me, filling me, warming me, bringing me to vivid, sparkling life again. And he said, “Damn you…you’re…killing me,” in a barely audible whisper.

That voice, that same silken voice that had been music to my ears, pleading now, for his very life, and reduced to this harsh whisper. I was horrified, and shoved him away from me. But he collapsed on the floor like a rag doll, and lay there, his eyes no more than glazed slits, staring up at me. And then they fell closed.

“Jesus, Joseph and Mary, what have I done?” I whispered, and I turned to run away.

“Hold it right there.”

This voice had no music. No silk. It came harshly, cruelly, from just beyond the doorway. A voice that held authority, command and menace. I froze there, panic trying to chill my body, so recently warmed by my victim’s blood. This newcomer couldn’t see the man I’d just killed. Not from here. I hoped he wouldn’t. I couldn’t bear for anyone to know what I’d done, what I’d become.

He stepped into my range of vision, and he was pointing a weapon at me. A gun, of sorts.

“There’s a tranquilizer in here,” he said. “You come along peacefully, and I won’t have to use it.”

I eyed the gun, and then the man. “Come along…where?” I asked him. And then I licked my lips, and I could still taste that handsome one on my tongue. Shameful pleasure filled me at the taste of him.

“You’re very young, aren’t you? When did those bastards change you?” Suddenly the voice was filled with sympathy.

“Three nights ago,” I told him quite honestly, seeing no reason to lie. The light the man held shone in my eyes, then, and glinted from my crucifix, and illuminated my tattered habit.

“For the love of Christ,” he muttered. “You’re the missing nun.”

“Novice. Not nun. Not yet.” I closed my eyes, averted my face from his light. “Not ever.”

“I can help you,” he said, and he clicked off the flashlight as if it were a sign of good faith. “I work for DPI—the Division of Paranormal Investigations. It’s a government agency, Sister. We’re doing research, and—”

“Don’t call me ‘Sister,’” I said. “Don’t ever call me ‘Sister.”

“I’m sorry. Listen…come with me. We’re working on a cure. There’s a chance we can help you.”

I narrowed my eyes and studied his face. “Where?”

“Our headquarters. In White Plains. It’s not far, really. Come on, come with me. Let me help you. You want to be human again, don’t you?”

I blinked, searching his face. Was it truly possible? Could I regain my mortal self, and with it, my immortal soul?

No! Don’t trust him!

I went stiff as, very clearly, that satinlike voice rang in my mind. The voice of my victim. Not wandering through my head like a stray thought or a daydream. But speaking, weakly and breathlessly, in my mind. His voice. It was real.

I glanced behind me, and his eyes, though barely open, met mine, held them.
Don’t go with him! Don’t go
…

I snapped my head around, ignoring the dying man. Surely he was not the one I should be listening to right now. He’d admitted to me that he had friends who were…like me, as he’d put it. Other vampires. Was I to trust a friend of those creatures, those leeches in human form, those predators of the night? No. I hated them. All of them, and I hated myself for being like them. I wanted it to end! I could not exist as a monster. I could not.

“I’ll go with you,” I said. And the stranger took my hand.

Fool
. I kept hearing his voice in my mind as I went with the stranger. Though it grew weaker and weaker.
Traitor. You’re a traitor to your kind. And you deserve whatever they do to you there
!

I closed my eyes, tried to block out his voice.

I
could have helped you. You’ll wish you’d let me…I swear you’ll wish
…

And then nothing. Nothing at all. Had he finally died then? A heaviness like none I’d ever known filled my heart. I’d killed. Twice now, once for no more reason than to preserve my own life. I was damned, but perhaps the road to salvation was not entirely blocked to me. Perhaps this was simply a test, or a lesson I had to learn, before I could take my final vows. Perhaps there would be forgiveness for me still.

The stranger opened the door of his automobile, and I got in. And as we pulled away, I heard him again, that musical voice, perhaps its dying breath.

You were right, Tam. Dammit, I need help…I…I…

There was no more. Not another hint of life from that condemned building. A large tear rolled down my cheek as we rounded a corner and drove out of sight.

“Jameson? Can you hear me?”

“He’s going to be all right, Tamara. We got to him in time.”

“But Eric…”

“Shh. Let him rest. He’s going to need all of his strength when he wakes. It won’t be easy for him to deal with this. He wasn’t ready, you know.”

“I know.” A hand stroked Jameson’s face. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “But we just couldn’t let you go.”

Jameson opened his eyes, and then blinked, because something was wrong with his vision. Everything was too bright. Too vivid. He quickly closed them again, startled. “What happened?” he whispered, searching his memory.

“You were attacked,” Tamara said softly, and he was amazed that he could hear the very vibrations of her vocal cords as she spoke to him. The perfect hum of her voice. Like music. “You called out to me for help. We found you in—”

“Wait…I remember. That crumbling ruin.” It all came back to him then, but as he held up a hand to stop Tamara from speaking, he turned it slowly, eyeing the white bandage on his wrist. When he looked at his other wrist, he saw another. “What’s going on?” he said slowly, eyeing each of them, one by one.

Rhiannon sat in a chair on his left. She closed her elegant hand around one of his much larger ones. “Some renegade bastard drained you to the point of death, Jameson. We had no choice.”

He shook his head, but even as he did, the truth was making itself a home in his mind. He couldn’t deny it. Even without their worried, slightly guilty expressions he’d have known. He was feeling things. Every wrinkle in the sheet. His skin was alive, tingling, and he could hear the way the breeze outside fluttered over the single dead leaf that still clung to that flowering maple. How many stories below was that skinny tree, planted in a perfect circular opening in the concrete? Twenty-four?