Books by Maggie Shayne (69 page)

For a moment the stranger didn't move. He stared fixedly at the golden symbol as if frozen. She watched him intently, shivering as her fingers involuntarily touched the spot on her throat, and she recalled the feel of those skimming incisors. Could he truly be a vampire?

The smile returned, sarcastic and bitter. He even chuckled, a sound like distant thunder rumbling from deep in his chest. He reached out to pluck the cross from Curt's hand, and he turned it several times, inspecting it closely. "Impressive," he said, and handed it back. Curt let it fall to the ground and Tamara sighed in relief, but only briefly.

She understood now what the little encounter between her and Marquand had been all about. She resented it. "You're really Marquand?"

He sketched an exaggerated bow in her direction.

She couldn't hold his gaze, embarrassed at her earlier responses to what, for him, had been only a game. "I can appreciate why you're so angry with my guardian. After all, he's been hounding you to death. However, it might interest you to know that I had no part in it. I've argued on your behalf until I'm hoarse with it. I won't bother to do so anymore. I truly appreciate that you chose not to haul Daniel into court, but I would not suggest you attempt to use me to deliver your messages in future."

She saw his brow cock up again, and she caught her breath. "Your guardian? You said so once before, but I—" His eyes widened. "St. Claire?"

"As if you weren't aware of it before your little performance over there." She shook her head, her fingers once again trailing over the tender spot on her throat. "I might even be able to see the humor in it, if I wasn't already on the brink of" — She broke off and shook her head as her eyes filled, and her airways seemed suddenly blocked. "Tamara, that isn't what I—"

She stopped him by shaking her head violently. "I'll see he gets your message. He may be an ass, Marquand, but I love him dearly. I don't want him to bear the brunt of a lawsuit."

She turned on her heel. "Tamara, wait! What happened to your parents? How did he—Tamara!" She ignored him, mounting the ice and speeding to the opposite side, where she'd left her duffel bag. She stumbled over the snow to snatch it up, and sat hard on the nearest bench, bending to unlace her skates. Her fingers shook. She could barely see for the tears clouding her vision.

Why was she reacting so strongly to the man's insensitive ploy? Why did she feel such an acute sense of betrayal?

Because I'm losing my mind, that's why.

Anger made her look up. She felt it as if it were a palpable thing. She yanked one skate off, stomped her foot into a boot and unlaced the other without looking. Her gaze was on Marquand, who had Curtis by the lapels now, and was shaking him the way Curt had shaken her a few moments ago. When he stopped he released Curt, shoving him away in the same motion. Curt landed on his backside in the snow. Marquand's back was all she could see, but she heard his words clearly, though not with her ears
. If I ever see you lay hands on her again, Rogers, you will pay for it with your life. Do I make myself sufficiently clear?

Sufficiently clear to me, Tamara thought. Curt seemed to be in no danger of being murdered at the moment. She put her skates in her bag and slipped away while they were still arguing.

* * * * *

Pain like a skewer running the length of his breastbone, Eric stroked the pink fur of the earmuffs she'd abandoned in her rush to get away from him. She'd left her coat, too. He carried it slung over one arm as he followed the two. Rogers had caught up to Tamara only a few minutes after she'd left. He kept pace with her angry strides, talking constantly in his efforts to end her anger.

"I'm sorry, Tammy. I swear to you, I didn't mean to hurt you. Can't you understand I was scared half out of my mind when I saw you in his arms? My God, don't you know what could've happened?"

He scanned the bastard's mind with his own, and found no indication that Tamara was in danger from him. He did the same after they'd entered Daniel St Claire's gloomy Victorian mansion, unwilling to leave her in their hands until he could be certain. And even then he couldn't leave.

How the hell had St Claire managed to become her guardian? When Eric had left her all those years ago she'd had two adoring parents who'd nearly lost their minds when they'd thought they might lose her. He could still see them—the small Miranda, a frail-looking woman with mouse brown hair and pretty green eyes brimming with love whenever she glanced at her adorable child. She'd been in hysterics that night at the hospital. Eric had seen her clutching the doctor's white coat, shaking her head fast at what he was telling her as tears poured unchecked over her face. Her husband's quiet devastation had been even more painful to witness. Kenneth had seemed deflated, sinking into a chair as if he'd never rise again, his blond hair falling over one eye.

What in hell had happened to them? He sank to a rotted, snow-dusted stump outside the mansion, his head in his hands. "I never should have left her," he whispered into the night. "My God, I never should have left her."

He remained there in anguish until the sky began to pale in the east. She now thought he'd only used her to make a point to St Claire. She obviously had no conscious memory of him, nor knowledge of the connection between them. She called to him while in the throes of her subconscious mind—in a dream. She couldn't even recall his name.

* * * * *

She paused outside Daniel's office door to brace herself, her hand on the knob. Last night she'd avoided further confrontation with Curt by pleading exhaustion, a lie he'd believed since he knew how little sleep she'd been getting. This morning she'd deliberately remained in her room, feigning sleep when Daniel called from the doorway. She'd known he wouldn't wake her if he thought she was finally sleeping. She'd waited until he left for DPI headquarters in White Plains, then had got herself ready and driven in late, in her battered VW Bug. Her day had been packed solid with the trivial work they gave her there. Her measly security clearance wasn't high enough to allow her to work on anything important. Except for Jamey Bryant. He was important—to her, at least. He was only a class three clairvoyant in DPI's book, but he was class one in hers. Besides, she loved the kid.

She sighed, smiling as she thought of him, then stiffened her spine for the coming encounter. She gripped the knob more tightly, then paused as Curt's voice came through the wood.

"Look at her! I'm telling you, something is happening and you're a fool if you don't see it."

"She's confused," Daniel said, sounding pained. "I admit, the proximity is having an unexpected effect on her, but she can't be blamed for that. She has no idea what's happening to her."

"You think. I think she ought to be under constant observation."

She grew angry fast, and threw the door open. "Do you have any idea how tired I am of being talked about like one of your cases?"

Both men looked up, startled. They exchanged uneasy glances and Daniel came out of his chair so fast it scraped over the tiled floor. "Now, Tam, what makes you think we were discussing you? Actually, we were talking about a case. One we obviously disagree about."

She smirked, crossing her arms over her chest. "Oh, really? Which case?"

"Sorry, Tammy," Curt snapped. "Your security clearance isn't high enough."

"When has it ever been high enough?"

"Tam, please." Daniel came toward her, folded her in a gentle embrace and kissed her cheek. He stood back and searched her face. "Are you all right?"

"Why on earth wouldn't I be?" His concern softened her somewhat, but she was still sick and tired of his coddling.

"Curt told me you met Marquand last night." He shook his head. "I want you to tell me everything that happened. Everything he said to you, did to you. Did. . ." Daniel paled right before her eyes. "Did he touch you?"

"Had her crushed against him like he'd never let go," Curt exploded. "I told you, Daniel—"

"I'd like to hear her tell me." His pale blue eyes sought hers again. They dropped to the collar of her turquoise turtleneck, under the baggy white pullover sweater. She thought he would collapse.

Curtis seemed to notice her choice of attire at the same instant, and he caught his breath. "Tammy, my God, did he—"

"He most certainly did not! Do you two have any idea how insane you both sound?"

"Show me," Daniel said softly.

She shook her head and expelled a rush of air. "All right, but first I want to explain something. Marquand seems to be very well aware of what you two think he is. This meeting at the rink last night, I think, was his way of sending you a message, and the message is lay off. I don't think he was kidding." She hooked her first two fingers beneath the neck of the shirt and pulled it down to show them the blue and-violet bruise he'd left on her neck.

Daniel gasped. "Look closely, you two. There are no fang marks, just a... well, let's be frank about it, a hickey. I let a perfect stranger give me a hickey, which should illustrate to you both just how much stress I've been under lately. Between this sleep disorder and your over protectiveness, I feel like I'm in a pressure cooker." Daniel was leaning closer, breathing down her neck as he inspected the bruise.

He satisfied himself and put a hand on her shoulder. "Did he hurt you, sweetheart?"

She couldn't stop the little smile that question evoked, even though she erased it immediately. "Hurt her?" Curtis slapped one hand on the surface of the desk. "She was loving every minute of it." He glared at her. "Don't you realize what could've happened out there?"

"Of course I do, Curtis. He could've ripped my jugular open and sucked all my blood out and left me dying there on the ice with two holes in my throat!"

"If I hadn't scared him off," Curt began.

"Keep your story straight. Curt. It was he who scared you off. You were shaking me until my teeth rattled, if you remember correctly. If he hadn't come to my defense I might have come into work wearing a neck brace today."

Curt clamped his jaw shut under Daniel's withering gaze. Daniel shifted his glance to Tamara again. "He came to your defense, you say?" She nodded. "Hmm."

"And," Tamara went on, almost as an afterthought, "he took the crucifix right out of Curt's hand. It did not even burn a brand in his palm, or whatever it's supposed to do. Doesn't that prove anything?"

"Yeah." Curt wore a sulking-child look on his face. "Proves vampires are not affected by religious symbols."

Tamara rolled her eyes, then heard Daniel mutter, "Interesting." She felt as if she, even with her strange symptoms, was the only sane person in the room.

"I know you think we're overreacting to this. Tam," Daniel told her. "But I don't want you leaving the house after dark anymore."

She bristled. "I will go where I want, when I want. I am twenty-six years old, Daniel, and if this nonsense doesn't stop, then I'm..." She paused long enough to get his full attention before she blurted, "Moving out."

"Tam, you wouldn't—"

"Not unless you force me, Daniel. And if I find either you or Curt following me again, I'll consider myself forced." She felt a lump in her throat at the pained look on Daniel's face. She made her tone gentler when she said, " I'm going home now. Good night."

Her mental cries woke him earlier tonight than last. Eric stood less than erect and squeezed his eyes shut tight, as if doing so might clear his mind. Rising before sunset produced an effect in him not unlike what humans feel after a night of heavy drinking. Bracing one hand upon the smooth mahogany, his fingertips brushing the satin lining within, he focused on Tamara. He wanted only to comfort her. If he could ease the torment of her subconscious mind, though she might not be fully aware of it, she'd feel better. She might even be more able to sleep. He couldn't be sure, though. Her situation was unique, after all.

He focused on her mind, still hearing her whispered pleas.
Where are you, Eric? Why won't you come to me? I'm lost. I need you.

He swallowed once, and concentrated every ounce of his power into a single invisible beam of thought, shooting through time and space, directed at her.
I am here, Tamara.

I can't see you!

The immediate response shocked him. He hadn't been certain he could make her aware of his thoughts. Again he focused.
I am near. I will come to you soon, love. Now you must rest.
You needn't call to me in your dreams anymore. I have heard—I will come.

He awaited a response, but felt none. The emotions that reached him, though, were tense, uncertain. He wanted to ease her mind, but he'd done all he could for the moment. The sun far above, though unseen by him, was not unfelt. It sapped his strength. He took a moment to be certain of his balance and crossed slowly to the hearth, bending to rekindle the sparks of this morning's fire. That done, he used a long wooden match to ignite the three oil lamps posted around the room. With fragrant cherry logs emitting aromatic warmth, and the golden lamplight, the Oriental rugs over the concrete floor and the paintings he'd hung, the place seemed a bit less like a tomb in the bowels of the earth. He sat himself carefully in the oversize antique oak rocking chair, and allowed his muscles to relax. His head fell heavily back against the cushion, and he reached, without looking, for the remote control on the pedestal table beside him. He thumbed a button. His heavy lids fell closed as music surrounded him.

A smile touched his lips as the bittersweet notes brought a memory. He'd seen young Amadeus perform in Paris. 1775, had it been? So many years. He'd been enthralled-an ordinary boy of seventeen, awestruck by the gift of another, only two years older. The sublime feeling had remained with him for days after that performance, he recalled. He'd talked about it until his poor mother's ears were sore. He'd had Jaqueline on the brink of declaring she'd fallen in love with a man she'd never met, and she'd teased and cajoled until he'd managed to get her a seat at his side for the next night's performance. His sister had failed to see what caused him to be so impressed. "He is good," she'd declared, fanning herself in the hot, crowded hall. "But I've seen better." He smiled at the memory. She hadn't been referring to the young man's talents, but to his appearance. He'd caught her peering over her fan's lacy edge at a skinny dandy she considered "better."

He sighed. He'd thought it tragic that a man of such genius had died at thirty-five. Lately he'd wondered if it was so tragic, after all. Eric, too, had died at thirty-five, but in a far different manner. His was a living death. All things considered, he hadn't convinced himself that Mozart had suffered the less desirable fate. Of the two of them, Mozart must be the most serene. He couldn't possibly be the most alone. There were times when he wished the guillotine had got to him before Roland had.

Such maudlin thoughts on such a delightfully snowy night? I don't recall you were all that eager to meet the blade, at the time.

Roland! Eric's head snapped up, buzzing with energy now that the sun had set. He rose and hurriedly released the locks, to run through the hall and take the stairs two at a time. He yanked the front door open just as his dearest friend mounted the front steps. The two embraced violently, and Eric drew Roland inside.

Roland paused in the center of the room, cocking his head and listening to Mozart's music. "What's this? Not a recording, surely! It sounds as if the orchestra were right here, in this very room!"

Eric shook his head, having forgotten that the last time he'd seen Roland he hadn't yet installed the state-of-the-art stereo system, with speakers in every room. "Come, I'll show you." He drew his friend toward the equipment, stacked near the far wall, and withdrew a CD from its case. Roland turned the disc in his hand, watching the light dance in vivid rainbows of green, blue and yellow.

"They had no such inventions where I have been." He returned the disc to its case, and replaced it on the shelf.

"Where have you been, you recluse? It's been twenty years." Roland had not aged a day. He still had the swarthy good looks he'd had as a thirty-two year old mortal and the build of an athlete.

"Ahh, paradise. A tiny island in the South Pacific, Eric. No meddling humans to contend with. Just simple villagers who accept what they see instead of feeling the need to explain it. I tell you, Eric, it's a haven for our kind. The palms, the sweet smell of the night—"

"How did you live?" Eric knew he sounded doubtful. He'd always despised the loneliness of this existence. Roland embraced it. "Don't tell me you've taken to tapping the veins of innocent natives."

Roland's brows drew together. "You know better. The animals there keep me in good stead. The wild boar are particularly—"

"Pigs' blood!" Eric shouted. "I think the sun must have penetrated your coffin! Pigs' blood! Ach!"

"Wild boars, not pigs."

"Great difference, I'll wager." Eric urged Roland toward the velvet-covered antique settee. "Sit. I'll get refreshment to restore your senses."

Roland watched suspiciously as Eric moved behind the bar, to the small built-in refrigerator. "What have you, a half dozen freshly killed virgins stored in that thing?"

Eric threw back his head and laughed, realizing just how long it had been since he'd done so. He withdrew a plastic bag from the refrigerator, and rummaged beneath the bar for glasses. When he handed the drink to Roland, he felt himself thoroughly perused.

"Is it the girl's nightly cries that trouble you so?"

Eric blinked. "You've heard her, too?"

"I hear her cries when I look inside your mind, Eric. They are what brought me to you. Tell me what this is about."

Eric sighed, and took a seat in a claw-footed, brocade cushioned chair near the fireplace. Few coals glowed in this hearth. He really ought to kindle it. Should some nosy human manage to scale the gate and breach the security systems, they might well notice that smoke spiraled from the chimney, but no fire warmed the grate.

Reading his thoughts, Roland set his glass aside. "I'll do that. You simply talk."

Eric sighed again. Where to begin? "I came to know of a child, right after you left last time. A beautiful girl, with raven curls and cherub's cheeks and eyes like glossy bits of coal."

"One of the Chosen?" Roland sat forward.

"Yes. She was one of those rare humans with a slight psychic connection to the un dead, although, like most, she was completely unaware of it. I've found that there are ways of detecting the Chosen, aside from our natural awareness of them, you know."

Roland looked around from where he'd hunkered before the hearth. "Really?"

Eric nodded. "All those humans who can be transformed, those we call Chosen, share a common ancestor. Prince Vlad the Impaler." He glanced sharply at Roland. "Was he the first?"

Roland shook his head. "I know your love of science, Eric, but some. things are better left alone. Go on with your story."

Eric felt a ripple of exasperation at Roland's tightlipped stance on the subject. He swallowed his irritation and continued. "They also share a rare blood antigen. We all had it, as humans. It's known as Belladonna. Only those with both these unlikely traits can become vampires. They are the Chosen."

"Doesn't seem like an earth-shattering discovery to me, Eric. We've always been able to sense the Chosen ones, instinctively."

"But other humans haven't. Some of them have now discovered the same things I have. DPI knows about it. They can pinpoint Chosen humans, and then watch them, and wait for one of us to approach. I believe that is precisely what has happened with Tamara."

"Perhaps you need to back up a bit, old friend," Roland said gently.

Eric pushed one hand through his black hair, lifting it from his shoulders and clenching a fist in the tangles. "I couldn't stay away from her, Roland. God help me, I tried, but I couldn't. Something in her tugged at me. I used to look in on her as she slept. You should've seen her then. Sooty lashes on her rosy cheeks, lips like a small pink bow." He looked up, feeling absurdly defensive. " I never meant her harm, you know. How could I? I adored the child."

Roland frowned. "This should not trouble you. It happens all the time, this unseen bond between our kind and the Chosen. Many was the night I peered in upon you as a boy. Rarely to find you asleep, though. Usually, you were awake and teasing your poor sister."

Eric absorbed that information with dawning understanding. "You never told me. I'd thought you only came to me when I was in danger."

"I'm sorry we haven't discussed this matter before, Eric. It simply never came up. You only saw me those times you were in danger. There was little time for discretion when a coach was about to flatten you, or when I pulled you spluttering from the Channel."

"Then you felt the same connection to me that I felt for her?"

"I felt a connection, yes. An urge to protect. I can't say it's the same because I haven't experienced what you felt for the child. But, Eric, many young ones over the centuries have had a vampire as a guardian and never even known it. After all, we don't go to them to harm, or transform, or even make contact. Only to watch over, and protect."

Eric's shoulders slumped forward, so great was his relief. He shook his head once and resumed his story. "I woke one night to sense her spirit fading. She was slipping away so steadily I was barely able to get to her in time." The same pain he'd felt then swept over him now, and his voice went lower. "I found her in hospital, her tiny face whiter than the sheets tucked around her. Her lips... they were blue. I overheard a doctor telling her parents that she'd lost too much blood to survive, and that her type was so rare no donors had been located. He told them to prepare themselves. She was dying, Roland."

Roland swore softly.

"So you see my dilemma. A child I'd come to love lay dying, and I knew I alone had the power to save her."

"You didn't transform her! Not a small child, Eric. She'd be better dead than to exist as we must. Her young mind could never grasp—"

"I didn't transform her. I probably couldn't if I'd tried. She hadn't enough blood left to mingle with mine. I saw another option, though. I simply opened my vein and—"

"She drank from you?"

Eric closed his eyes. "As if she were dying of thirst. I suppose, in a manner, she was. Her vitality began to return at once. I was ecstatic."

"You had right to be." Roland grinned now. "You saved the child. I've never heard of anything like this happening before, Eric, but apparently, it worked." He paused, regarding Eric intensely. "It did work, did it not? The child lives?"

Eric nodded. "Before I left her bedside, Roland, she opened her eyes and looked at me, and I swear to you, I felt her probing my mind. When I turned to go she gripped my hand in her doll-sized one and she whispered my name. "Eric," she said. "Don't go just yet. Don't leave me."

"My God." Roland sank back onto the settee, blinking as if he were thunderstruck. "Did you stay?"

"I couldn't refuse her. I stayed the night at her bedside, though I had to hide on the window ledge every time someone entered the room. When they discovered the improvement in her, the place was a madhouse for a time. But they soon saw that she would be fine, and decided to let the poor child rest."

"And then?"

Eric smiled softly. "I held her on my lap. She stayed awake, though she needed to rest, and insisted I invent story upon story to tell her. She made me sing to her, Roland. I'd never sung to anyone in my existence. Yet the whole time she was inside my mind, reading my every thought. I couldn't believe the strength of the connection between us. It was stronger even than the one between you and me."

Roland nodded. "Our blood only mixed. Yours was nearly pure in her small body. It's no wonder... What happened?"

"Toward dawn she fell asleep, and I left her. I felt it would only confuse the sweet child to have contact with one of us. I took myself as far away as I could, severed all contact with her. I refused even to think of seeing her again, until now. I thought the mental bond would weaken with time and distance. But it hasn't. I've only been back in the western hemisphere a few months, and she calls to me every night. Something happened to her parents after I'd left her, Roland. I don't know what, but she ended up in the custody of Daniel St. Claire."

"He's DPI!" Roland shot to his feet, stunned.

"So is she," Eric muttered, dropping his forehead into his hand.

"You cannot go to her, Eric. You mustn't trust her, it could be your end."

"I don't trust her. As for going to her...! have no choice about that."

* * * * *

Even while Tamara was arguing with Daniel and Curtis, he'd been on her mind. All day she had been unable to get that mysterious stranger—who didn't seem a stranger at all—out of her thoughts. She'd only managed to cram him far to the back, to allow herself to concentrate on her work. Now that she was home, in the secure haven of her room, and now that she'd wakened from her after-work nap, she felt refreshed, energized and free to turn last night's adventure over in her mind.

She paused and frowned. Since when did she wake refreshed? She usually woke trembling, breathless and afraid. Why was tonight different? She glanced out at the snow spotted sky, and realized it was fully dark. She normally woke from her nightmare just at dusk. She struggled to remember. It seemed to her she had had the dream—or she'd begun to. She remembered the forest and the mists, the brambles and darkness. She remembered calling that elusive name.