Books by Maggie Shayne (186 page)

Her hands curled over the wood of the coffin's lid. She closed her eyes slowly, drew a breath for courage, prayed she wouldn't find a lifeless shell inside, and then she lifted the lid upward.

Its hinges, rusted with age and disuse, creaked and groaned.

Dante lay inside, perfectly still, utterly white. His face, so lifeless and yet so real. Pale. "Dante… " She touched his face, then drew her fingertips away quickly at the cool chill of his flesh. Was he dead? Had he bled to death from that hunter's arrow in his arm?

Tears blurring her vision, she tore her gaze from his precious face and looked at the rest of his body. He wore the black silk he seemed to prefer in shirts, and she saw that the left sleeve was torn away, his left arm bare except for the band of black silk that was knotted around it high on his bicep, almost to the shoulder.

Had he stopped the bleeding with his makeshift bandage? Would the faded lining of the casket reveal bloodstains if she inspected it?

Her eyes slid to his face again. "Oh, Dante, please be all right. You have to be all right. I need you." She whispered the words as she cupped his face in her hands and pressed her mouth to his cold, still lips.

Her own tears flavored the kiss. And he did not respond at all.

The words she had read in one of his journals and used in her first film came flooding back to her mind now. There were only a few ways a vampire could die, but bleeding to death was one of them. His wound—that would have healed by now, with the day sleep. Unless he had died before it had the chance.

She moved to his arm, tugging at the knotted silk until she got it loose, and then she unwrapped it from around his arm. There was no wound. Dried blood, yes, but no gaping hole in his flesh. It had healed. The books had told the truth about that.

Then they must also be correct about the fact that the blood he had lost could be replaced only one way. He had to take it from someone else.

"From me," she whispered. "Yes. From me." Leaning close to his face again, she stroked his hair. "I know you won't let me die, Dante. I know you'll do the right thing—and make me what you are—before you'll let me fade and die. I know you will. I trust you." Bending, she kissed his forehead. Then she straightened again and ran her hands over his jeans, checking the pockets, knowing he carried some sort of blade. She had seen him use it.

She found it, slid her hand into his front pocket to retrieve it, and as her hand slid intimately close to him, she realized that he was erect. It surprised her. And she knew instinctively that it wasn't the normal sleeping state for vampires. No. It was her. She was near, touching him, kissing him, and somehow, even in this state of near dormancy, he sensed it. And he wanted her.

Morgan dragged her hand over the front of his jeans, caressing the hardness there as she brought the blade toward her. Opening her palm, she saw what looked like a small onyx-handled jackknife. But the blade she unfolded wasn't a knife blade. It was long and slender and looked like a Phillips head screwdriver, except that the X-shapes that crossed at its pointed tip were razor sharp.

She stared down at the device, and a little shiver went through her. If she jabbed herself in the wrong place and he didn't revive as she hoped he would, she might risk bleeding to death herself, she thought. She needed to be careful. Not the wrist. Not the throat.

Drawing a breath, she closed her eyes and tightened her fist around the odd little blade. Then, with one swift movement, she drove it into the palm of her other hand. Pain stabbed through her, and she cried out. The device clattered to the floor as Morgan gritted her teeth, opened her eyes and slowly opened her hand. Blood pooled into her palm. She looked past it at Dante. His nostrils quivered, and his hands were beginning to move sporadically.

"It's all right, my love. It's all right now." Fisting her hand to keep the blood from spilling, she moved it to his mouth. A droplet, then two, escaped her fist and touched his lips.

His tongue darted out to catch them. And then his hands sprang up like a trap, one closing on her forearm, the other pushing her palm to his open, questing mouth. Before she knew what was happening, he was fastened to her there, sucking at the tiny hole she had made, swallowing her.

The sensations coursed through her as they had before. Every part of her came alive, and some new kind of lust burned in her veins. She felt his teeth, his tongue swirling over her palm, lapping up every drop.

And then suddenly his eyes were open. Wide open, but unseeing. They glowed with a feral hunger, that predatory gleam she had seen before, as he took her hand from his mouth, held it away from him. He sat up suddenly, sprang from the casket, landing on his feet, still holding her hand at the wrist. His breath came fast, and each time he exhaled, there was a growl from deep within him. He jerked her body against his and ground his hips into her, his mouth trailing over her neck, sucking the skin between his teeth, nipping, drawing blood and moving on. The pain was sweet torture, and she arched against him. With one hand she managed to tug loose the sash of her white satin robe, and he pushed it off her shoulders as he nibbled a path over them.

"Take what you need from me, Dante."

One more low, deep growl, and then he pushed her with his body until she hit the concrete wall. He gripped her thighs in his hands, lifted them around his waist, and he drove into her. He was as cold, and hard as the stone at her back, and he filled her, rammed deeper and sank his teeth into her again and again. The bolts of pleasure and pain rocking through her mingled until she couldn't tell one from the other, and she screamed as she climaxed, her entire body shuddering with the unbearable force of her release, and still he kept pumping into her and sucking the life from her veins.

She clung to him, and she whispered that she loved him, that she would die for him, then feared that perhaps she was about to prove it.

Lou and Maxine sat in the car, a few yards down the road from Morgan's mansion. It was a good spot They had a clear view of the back lawn all the way to the cliffs, and the front and one side of the house, as well. Max didn't think anyone would be coming or going without her and Lou seeing them. She had a Diet Dr. Pepper, and he had a mug of coffee. The sky was purple out over the water, darkening up higher, the water mirroring its progression.

"What time is it?" she asked.

"Quarter past dusk."

"Very funny." She looked toward the front door of the house, saw it open and that Sumner fellow fill the doorway. He spoke to Lydia for a second, then stepped aside and let her pass. "She's in."

"You thought she'd have a problem?"

Max shrugged. "Sumner said for us to stay away and give Morgan some space. I didn't expect him to welcome Lydia with open arms."

Lou shrugged. "She's a beautiful woman."

"Yeah, but she's not into men."

"More's the pity," Lou muttered.

Max punched him, maybe a little harder than if she'd just been playing.

"I meant for Sumner's sake, Max. Sheesh." He rubbed his shoulder. She had no doubt it really hurt.

"Ten to one she'll be back out here in five minutes," she said, smoothly changing the subject.

"I'll take that bet."

She scowled at him. "So what is it with you two, anyway?"

"Who? Lydia and me?"

She nodded. "Did you and she ever… ?"

"She's not into men."

"Was once," Max said.

"How do you know that?"

"She told me she had a kid with some guy." Lou joked surprised as hell. "What, you didn't know?"

"Sure I knew. I just didn't realize she'd told you."

She shrugged.

"What else did she tell you?"

"Nothing." She looked at him, and it was pretty damn clear in his eyes that there was something else. "Jesus, Lou, tell me it wasn't you."

"What?" He blinked twice, then gave his head a broad shake. "No. I didn't have anything to do with those babies."

Max tipped her head sideways. "Babies? There were more than one?"

He licked his lips. "This isn't our business, Max. You wanna know about Lydia's past, you ask Lydia."

"Fine. Don't get so damned defensive, will you? I just wanted to know if you'd boinked her or not."

He sent her a look of barely restrained impatience. "Not."

"Not that it's any of my business."

"You got that right."

"It's not like
we're
boinking on a steady basis."

"Or at all."

"Well, the night's young, Lou. Don't rule anything out."

Lou tipped his head back, thumped it against the headrest repeatedly and stared at the ceiling of the car. Max averted her face a little so he wouldn't see her grin. God, she loved teasing the man. She knew he reacted to it with a stirring of arousal. It wouldn't bother him so much if he didn't.

And she was going to tease the hell out of him tonight. This was too good an opportunity to pass up. Stuck on a stakeout with him like this. Alone, all night, in the car. Just the two of them. What would he do, she wondered, if she were to reach over there and lay her hand on his lap? Probably leap out of the car and run for the hills. She looked down at her hand where it rested on the seat in between them. Neat, short, unpainted nails. She wished for a moment that they were long and sharp and painted like her sister's. Men liked that, didn't they? She inched her hand a little closer to his leg.

"Who the hell is that?" Lou asked, his head coming level, eyes sharp.

She resisted swearing out loud and followed his gaze. Then a tingling alarm raced up her spine as she saw the dark figure moving toward the house. He passed by the lamp post on the walkway, and it illuminated his face for a moment.

"It's Scarface!" Max said, squinting, staring harder.

"Is he the same man you saw the night of the fire?"

"I don't know. It was five years ago, remember?" she snapped. "He's ringing the bell. Come on, we'd better move."

She yanked open her door and got out. Lou got out on his side and hurried around the car to meet her in front of it. "Stay behind me, Max."

She didn't argue, but she would be damned before she would use him as a human shield. They reached the walkway just about the time the door opened.

Sumner said, "Who the hell are you?"

"The man who was attacking Morgan the night we arrived," Max called.

Both men swung their gazes around to face her and Lou. Lou had his gun in his hand. He didn't point it, just made sure they saw it. "I think it's time we had a talk, Mister… Stiles, isn't it?"

The scar-faced man nodded, his hands hovering about waist high, palms out. "Frank Stiles," he said. "And that's why I'm here. I want to talk." He looked at Sumner. "To all of you. I don't think you know what you're dealing with."

Sumner glanced at Lou. "What do you think?"

Lou walked up to the man. "Put your hands up, pal." The man raised his hands a little higher, and Lou handed his gun to Max, quickly patted Stiles down, then took the gun back again. "Sumner, you wanna hear what this guy has to say?"

"I think we probably should, don't you?"

Lou nodded reluctantly. "You try anything, I won't hesitate. You understand."

"I'm not here to hurt anyone," Stiles said softly. "I just want to help."

Sumner stepped aside. Stiles walked in, with Lou and Max right behind him. "Help?" Max asked. "Is that what you were doing to my sister when we arrived the other night? Helping her?"

"I was checking her to see if she'd been bitten."

Max lowered her gaze as they all trooped through the house into the small sitting room off the main living area. She imagined that was so Morgan couldn't hear or see them if she happened to come down the stairs. "Where's Lydia?" Max asked as they all sat down.

"Upstairs, checking on Morgan." Sumner turned to Stiles. "If you have some explanation for attacking that girl, sir, I would suggest you give it now."

"I need to start at the beginning. If you'll just give me five minutes, I can make you understand—"

"Yeah?" Max asked. "You gonna make me understand why you put a bullet in my best friend's forehead, too, while you're at it?"

Stiles looked her dead in the eye. "I was there. It's true. I was at that apartment. But I did not hurt your friend. He did."

"He, who?"

"Dante. The killer I'm trying to track down."

"Vampires don't shoot people, Stiles."

"They do if they're trying to set someone up. Like me."

"So Dante framed you? Funny, the cops all seemed to think Lou did it. He was the one who ended up framed."

"Lou is a cop. They knew he hadn't done it almost immediately. I was the next obvious choice." Max rolled her eyes, but Stiles went on. "Listen to me. Please."

Throwing her hands in the air, Max sighed and paced away. "Fine. Fine, you have the floor." She sank into a chair. Sumner and Lou were already sitting, but Stiles remained standing.

"For twenty years I was an agent with the CIA's ultra-secret Division of Paranormal Investigations. Our headquarters was in White Plains. Our charge was the research and elimination of vampires."

Max nodded. She had already known all of this. Sumner seemed stunned as he glanced at Lou, then back at Stiles. "My God, you mean it's all true?"

"What I'm telling you is true. The vampires revolted, attacked the headquarters, burned it to the ground and killed most of the operatives. That was five years ago. It was a disaster. Our funding was pulled, the division completely shut down. Any surviving agents scattered, going undercover, as I did."

"Why?" Max asked.

"To avoid debriefing. We know a lot of things the government would rather not risk being made public." He eyed Max. "That's why I threatened you that night. I couldn't afford for anyone to know I was alive."

"And when I told someone, even though it was five years later, you knew somehow."

He nodded. "I still have a few connections in the Agency. One of them told me about Officer Malone's phone call."

"So you went to Lou's place, lured my best friend there and shot her to teach me a lesson?"