Books by Maggie Shayne (214 page)

He felt her falling away into the depths of slumber, and he lifted his head from hers.
 
Tucking the covers around her once more, brushing astray coppery curl from her check he forcibly ignored the soft, inviting rush of blood flowing just beneath her skin, the delicate, steady thrum of its pulsing there.
 
Involuntarily he licked his lips.

Then he closed his eyes, and forcibly turned away from her, striding out of the room, and out of the house.
 
He needed blood.
 
It wouldn't take long.

*
   
*
   
*
   
*
   
*

When he crept back into the house a half hour before dawn, sated and warm thanks to the local blood bank's flimsy locks but no less hungry for her, he smelled something that made him slightly queasy.
 
Following the aroma and his sense of Mary in the kitchen, he found her there, scooping yellow omelettes with flecks of green and brown and red onto plates.
 
Two of them.

Mary?" he asked.
 
"Why are you up so early?"

She looked toward him, smiling brightly.
 
The way she sparkled his morning took his breath away.
 
"I set the alarm an got up early so I could make you a special breakfast before you had to leave for work."

He looked at the plate, then at her.
 
His stomach twisted
 
"You shouldn't have gone to the trouble—"

"It's the least I could do, after all you've done for me."
 
She shrugged.
 
"You said you eat out most of the time.
 
I thought a home-cooked breakfast would be a welcome change."

"That's...
 
I don’t know what to say."
 
He truly didn't.
 
He couldn’t actually... eat that thing.
 
Could he?
 
And yet it touched him to his core that she wanted to do this for him.
 
To take care of him—the way he wanted to take care of her.

She smiled again and pulled out his chair.
 
I'm going to go out walking today and if I should pass a shop that sells them, I'll buy you a coffeemaker.
 
I don't know how you manage to start the day without coffee."
 
She pulled out a chair and sat down.
 
"Well?
 
Dig in."

Licking his lips, he sat in the chair opposite her.
 
The smell of the omelette wafted up to his nostrils, and his stomach rebelled again.
 
He glanced at his wristwatch.
 
"I'm not
 
going to have time to do this luscious meal justice."

"I'm not gonna be offended if you have to eat and run.
 
I know you have to get moving early."

He nodded and watched her eat a few bites.
 
But she kept looking at him, and he knew damned well she was going to be wounded and offended and, worst of all, suspicious if he didn't eat the food.
 
Bracing himself, he picked up the fork, squared his shoulders and shoved a bit into his mouth.

Sold food was a misnomer.
 
It wasn't solid at all, but a mushy mass that only got more soggy as one attempted to grind it to a digestible consistency with one's teeth.
 
He tried his best to turn the sound of revulsion leaping up from his gut into moans of ecstasy.
 
He almost gagged when he had to swallow, but he managed to force it down, and then he shoveled in another bite, and another.

He devoured fully half of his meal, then pushed his chair away from the table.
 
Bits of the horrible thing still clung to his teeth and tongue, and his in the crevices of his mouth.
 
'That was the most delicious omelette I've ever had, Mary.
 
Truly.
 
Thank you.
 
I'm so sorry I have to go."

"You're welcome.
 
And don't apologize."

He was already halfway to the front door.
 
His body was not designed to digest solid food.
 
His liquid diet was absorbed into his blood stream directly from the stomach.
 
The rest of the tract—hell, he didn't know, but he'd always assumed it was simply shut down.
 
It certainly hadn't preformed any noticeable function since he'd been transformed.

He closed the door behind him, and stumbled to the car, his keys in his hand as his stomach convulsed.
 
His plan was to get into the car, drive out of sight and then—but no, it was too late for that.
 
Dropping the keys on the car's front seat, he slammed the door and ran across the narrow side road and into a decorative copse of pinon pines.
 
And then he fell to his knees as his stomach rejected the meal in terms so violent he thought his body was being torn apart from within.

When if finally stopped, he moved a few steps away, fell to the ground, and lay there, shaking trembling, chilled trough and oddly weak.
 
He remained that way for several moments, until disgust forced him to get to his feet again and move farther.
 
There was a stream a few yards away, runoff from the
 
mountains leading into the sea.
 
He went to it, dipped his hands full of icy cold water and filled his mouth with it, over an over, swishing, rinsing and spitting until he had rid his mouth of every crumb he could manage.

He need a full bathroom, with a shower and sink and, most of all, a toothbrush.
 
And floss.
 
He shivered, and then he moved on into the scrubby excuse for a woodlot over the narrow deer path.
 

The sun was on its way.
 
He could already feel its touch on the air, though it had yet to peek over the ocean.
 
He followed the trail, a shortcut to the cemetery, and emerged into the place from the rear.
 
It was an old cemetery, with several family plots, each one consisting of one large stone an several smaller ones, all surrounded by a wrought-iron fence.
 
They occurred in various sizes and styles, but nearly all the groups here were grouped that way.

A few more recent graves stood alone.
 
Up the hill a bit were the crypts, including his own.
 
His name was engraved on the top, chiseled into the granite, in all caps.
 
He'd purchased it, allegedly for his father, even staged a fake funeral a month ago, in preparation for his move here, knowing he would need a backup shelter from the daylight.

The door was sealed and looked like all the others.
 
But there was hidden catch to release the lock from the outside.
 
He did so, glancing around, opening his senses to be sure he wasn't observed.
 
Then he opened the door and went inside.
 
He closed it behind him an slid home the additional locks he'd installed on the inside of the crypt.

He sighed as he faced the four-by-eight rectangle and the stone slab upon which he was going to spend the day.

The full moon was tonight.

No matter how else Mary tried to occupy herself though the day, that was one of the three thoughts that kept circulating through her mind.

The second was a question.
 
Why hadn't Michael taken his car this morning?
 
She lied to think he had decided at the last minute to leave it for her—except that she'd found the keys lying on the front seat and the car unlocked.
 
Which just didn't seem in keeping with his past as a police officer.

He'd left in such a hurry—almost as if he were desperate to get out of her sight.
 
She'd run to the window to wave him off, but he'd seemed... almost ill, suddenly.
 
The way he stopped near the car, fumbling with the keys, dropped them, then went staggering off at an uneven run across the street and out of sight.

Had someone picked him up?
 
Did he have a car pool he'd forgotten about or something?

No matter, she could just ask him when he got back home.
 
She was sure there was some explanation.

The third thing on her mind was the dream she'd had last night.
 
God, it ha been so real.
 
In the dream he'd made love other, and it had been intense and incredible and the most erotic thing she'd ever experienced, real or imagined.

She cleaned up the kitchen, then took Michael's car out to do some shopping, a coffeemaker being at the top of her list.
 
But all day long, erotic images and fluttering arousal gnawed at her, fighting for space beside the ice-cold fear in her mind.
 
Shopping didn't help to alleviate either of the conflicting emotions.
 
So when she returned to his place, she put her purchases away and tried to think of something else to occupy her mind.

She tried watching TV, but he didn't get many channels.
 
She thought about planning an extravagant dinner, but she really didn't think he'd enjoyed the breakfast all that much.
 
So she sat on the sofa, and she gave in to the more pleasant of the barrage of thoughts.
 
She let herself relive her exquisite dream of the night before.
 
Her and Michael, making love.
 
The things he'd whispered in to her ear, the ways he'd make her feel, the places he'd touched her, the feeling of him inside her...

She shivered and closed her eyes.
 
She had never had an experience like that one in her dream.
 
She'd had sex, but never like that.
 
It had been—like something beyond.
 
And she wasn't sure, but she thought she'd climaxed in her sleep.
 
Up until last night, she hadn’t thought such a thing was possible.

Oh, hell, so now she was going to sit here and have sexual fantasies about Michael for the rest of the day?

Yeah, she realized, she just might at that.
 
She'd wanted him from her very first glimpse of him, watching her in the bar, from the darkness.
 
His eyes, so intent and appreciative.
 
Almost hungry.

A delicious chill raced up her spine.
 
She shook it away, evens she wondered if he could possibly feel as powerfully attracted to her as she did to him.
 
She thought he did, and yet it didn't seem possible anyone could feel as strongly as she did about him.

But she shouldn't even be thinking along those line, not now, when so much else was happening.
 
The full moon was tonight.

She got to her feet and decided to explore the house.
 
Surely that would keep her mind off sex with Michael.
 
So she wandered.
 
There wasn't much more to the place than what she had already seen.
 
A laundry room in the back, with a nice jet-black washer
 
and dryer.
 
A garage on the side.
 
She went into it, not expecting to find much of interest—it was a garage, after all.
 
What would there be besides a few tools and car accessories, maybe some spare tires?
 
But when she entered she was surprised.
 
There was a shiny midnight-blue motorcycle leaning on its kickstand.

And why did knowing he rode that thing make him even more attractive to her?
 
She flashed on an image of the two of them riding it, her thighs framing his hips, her arms tight around his waist, her hair blowing in the wind.

Sighing, she wandered back into the house and went to the room she had been avoiding up to now.
 
Michael's bedroom.
 
Her hand closed on the doorknob, and she was almost surprised that it gave easily.
 
Then again, why would he lock her out of his bedroom?

What surprised her even more than the unlocked door was the total and complete wall of darkness that greeted her on the other side.
 
The place was black as pitch.
 
She felt the wall for a light switch, found one and flipped it on.

But illuminated, the room was almost as grim as it had been in the dark.
 
There was a bed, perfectly made not a wrinkle or rumple in it.
 
A dresser and matching stand flanked it, but aside from that, the room was empty.
 
It looked as rarely used as the guest room had.
 
And the windows!
 
There were only two in the entire bedroom, and they were covered so tightly that not a droplet of light could penetrate.

She moved closer to inspect the thick, velvet drapes of dark burgundy.
 
Behind them were black curtain panels in a cotton woven more densely than any she'd seen.
 
They were heavy and thick.
 
And behind
those
were blue window shades that must have been custom fitted, pulled down tight.

She pulled the window shade out a just a little, to look beyond it.
 
But the outside of the window was blocked, too, by shutters closed tight.

"I guess he can't sleep with any light in the room," she muttered.
 
Sighing, she carefully smoothed the layers of shade and fabric back into place and turned to go.
 
But paused when she saw that he had left his brown satchel on the bed.

The one with the evidence of Tommy's murder I it, and the laptop computer, and...

Licking her lips, she wondered suddenly if he had the evidence from the other murders in that bag, as well.
 
She glanced around almost guiltily, but that was silly.
 
She was doing nothing wrong.
 
Surely she sad as much right to peruse those files as Michael did.
 
More even.
 
Nodding hard, she snatched the satchel from the bed and darted from the room with it.

She chose to work in the little kitchen, because its sunny front window looked right out on the driveway, so she would see him if he came back.
 
She could also see the back doors and the steps to the beach from here.
 
If she was careful, she would see his approach and be able to shove the files back in the case, dash to his room toss it on the bed and get back out before he opened the door.

As an afterthought, she turned the dead-bolt locks on both doors, just in case.
 
Finally she extracted manila file folders from the bag and began to explore the records inside.
 
Beginning with the one marked Samantha Carlson.

Before lone she wished she hadn't snooped
 
Hell, she was fine reading the reports.
 
The police report said the woman's body had been found by fisherman in a New Jersey river, just as Michael had told her.
 
But the police had found photographs, as well, taken by the killer and left behind at the woman's apartment.
 
There were several snapshots, the instant kind, and she flipped through them one by one, growing colder and sicker with every shot.

The woman was nude, her body marred by stab wounds that the coroner said had not been the cause of death.
 
She'd been bound at the ankles and suspended by the from a light fixture.
 
Her throat was deeply cut, and a pool of blood covered the floor beneath her.

She'd been stabbed numerous times, then strung up and finally her throat had been cut.
 
Her arms were free and probably had never been bund.
 
Mary guessed that from the close-up shot of the arms and hands, covered with blood, probably because the woman had tried to keep the precious fluid from escaping as she'd hung upside down and bled to death.

So that was how he killed them.
 
And that was why Michael hadn't wanted her to know.

She finally found the ability to move again and returned to the written report.
 
It claimed the woman had been stabbed numerous times, either in an effort to subdue her or from a desire to torture her.
 
The killer apparently knew where he could drive the blade without causing immediately fatal injuries.
 
The killer had some sick reason for wanting to keep the victims alive until they bled out.

She couldn't read any more.
 
She closed the folder and returned everything to the brown bag.
 
She glanced outside, seeing no sign of Michael, ad then carried the bag back to his room, placing it on the bed just where she'd found it.
 
She was tiptoeing out of his room, pulling the door gently closed behind her, when a sound shot through her head like an arrow through her heart.

But it was only the ringing of her cell phone.

Sighing, she ran through the house to her temporary bedroom, rummaged in her bag while the phone rang again and again, and finally found the thing, yanked it out, her heart still pounding, and hit the answer button.

"Mary McLean speaking."

"Hi, Ms. McLean, this is Stormy from S.I.S.
 
We've finished your background check, and I thought you should probably know about it as soon as possible."

"What did you find?"

The woman sighed.
 
"First, you should know that I contacted Officer Dunst and got the background on what's been going on with you.
 
I told him nothing, just asked questions.
 
Normally this isn't the kind of information I would pas on to a client I didn't know, but I think in your case, you need the fully story.
 
Can you come out here
 
I'd really rather tell you in person."

She glanced at the clock.
 
"I don't know.
 
Where are you?"

"Two hours north of you, in Eaton.
 
The address is on the card."

Mary shook her head.
 
'No.
 
There's no way I can go that far and get back in time, and I really can't wait.
 
I need to know now."

The woman hesitate but finally began talking again.
 
"All right.
 
But this is going to be a lot to swallow over the phone, especially if you don't already know about... some of the things I'm going to tell you.
 
Michael Gray was indeed an officer of in the Chicago Police Department, and he was indeed shot in the line of duty—by a member of the Capone gang in 1928."

"Excuse me?"

"Officer Michael Gray, Chicago PD, has been dead for more than seventy years."

She shook her head.
 
"There's some kind of mistake.
 
It was probably his father or grandfather, or someone else by the same name."

"He's the only Michael Gray who ever worked there.
 
But given human imperfection, I got my hands on a photo just to make sure.
 
Do you have a fax?"

"No."
 
She recalled the laptop.
 
"Uh, but there's a computer.
 
Can you e-mail it to me?"

"Sure thing.
 
What address?"

She rattled off the address of her online account knowing that she could access it from Michael's computer, but hating the idea that she was going to have to go back to his room an boot the thing up.
 
It was getting late.
 
He would be home soon.

"I'm sending it right now.
 
Call me back if you want us to do anything further.
 
But... Mary you should prepare yourself to face some things you probably never believed in."

"Like what?"

The woman on the other end sighed.
 
"Have you ever seen Michael during the day?"

"Well... no, but—"

"I didn't think so.
 
Listen this is going to sound far-fetched.
 
But, Mary, there's a chance that Michael Gray might be a vampire."

"Vampire?"
 
She laughed, but the woman on the other end of the phone wasn't laughing, so her own died in her throat.
 
"You
are
joking right?"

"No.
 
I know quite a few of them.
 
They exist.
 
And they're nothing like what most people think they are.
 
They tend to be driven to protect people like you."

"People like me?"

"It's got to do with your blood, Mary.
 
Dunst told me you have the belladonna antigen.
 
That's probably why he referred you to us in the first place."

She went cold inside, remembering how often Michael had mentioned that the antigen connected him to her.
 
But surely this was complete and utter fantasy.
 
Vampires?
 
"Okay, sure.
 
Whatever you say.
 
You just send me that photo.
 
I think I can handle this myself from here."