Jacques tried again when he woke. This time he was unprepared for the images in her mind. Blood. A small human chest ripped wide open. A pulsating heart. Her hands were immersed inside the chest cavity, covered in blood. There were others in the room with her, and she was directing their movements with her mind. She seemed unaware that she was doing so. Her focus was completely on her horrendous task. The ease with which she directed the others suggested that she did so often. The vivid pictures were horrible, and he knew she had been part of the betrayal, was part of those torturing him. He nearly lost the contact, but his indomitable will kicked in. She would suffer for this. Really suffer for this. The body she was torturing was so small, it had to be a child.
The operating room was dimly lit, just the way Dr. O'Halloran liked it; only the body on the table had a bright light shining down on it. Her unusually acute hearing picked up voices outside the room: a nurse consoling the patient's parents. "You're lucky Dr. O'Halloran is working tonight. She's the best there is. She has a gift. Really. When there's no chance at all, she still pulls them out. Your little boy couldn't be in better hands."
"But he looked so awful." That was the terrified, already grieving mother.
"Dr. O'Halloran has been known to work miracles. Truly. Have faith. She just never stops until she saves them. We think she wills them to live."
Shea O'Halloran couldn't have any distractions right now, certainly not a nurse promising parents she could save this child with his chest crushed and his internal organs a jigsaw puzzle. Not when she had spent the last forty-eight hours solid doing research, and her body was screaming at her for sleep and nourishment. She blocked out all noises, all voices, and focused completely on the task at hand. She would not lose this little boy. She wouldn't. It was that simple to her. She never gave herself any other choice, never allowed any other thought into her mind. She had a good team, knew they worked well with her, meshing like a finely tuned machine. She never had to look to see if they were reacting to what she wanted or needed; they were always there for her. If she was able to save her patients, where others couldn't, it wasn't by her efforts alone.
She bent closer to the little boy, pushing out everything but her desire for this child to live. As she was reaching to take the instrument her nurse was handing her, something struck at her. Pain gripped her, consumed her, sweeping through her body like a terrible fire. She had felt such agony only one other time, a couple of years earlier. She had never managed to discover what had been wrong with her. The pain had simply disappeared after nearly twenty-four hours. Now, with a child's life hanging by a thread, depending upon her skills, she did not have the luxury of fainting. Agony gripped her, twisted her insides, and took the breath from her lungs. Shea struggled to control herself; years of forcing her mind to remain under strict discipline stood her in good stead. As she did with every other distraction, she forced the pain out of her mind, took a deep breath, and concentrated on the child.
The nurse closest to her regarded the doctor with complete shock. In all the time she had worked with O'Halloran, admiring her, almost idolizing her, she had never seen the surgeon lose her focus, not even for a second. This time, Shea had stood perfectly still
—
a few heartbeats, that was all
—
but the nurse couldn't help noticing because it was so unusual. Her hands had trembled, and she had broken out in a sweat. Automatically the nurse reached up to wipe the moisture from the doctor's forehead. To her horror, the cloth came away stained with blood. Droplets were beading up, seeping through her pores. The nurse wiped the surgeon's forehead a second time, attempting to hide the cloth from the others. She had never seen anything like it.
Then Shea was once more herself, snapping instantly back to attention. The nurse swallowed all her questions and returned
to
work, the images of what Dr. O'Halloran needed coming into her mind so fast, she had no time to think about the strange phenomenon anymore. She had long ago become used to knowing what the doctor needed before she asked for it.
Shea felt an unfamiliar presence in her mind, felt the dark malevolence beating at her for one more heartbeat before she closed it out; then her attention was completely taken up with the child and the shredded jumble that was his chest. He would not die. She would not allow it.
You hear me, child? I'm here with you, and I will not let you die,
she silently vowed. She meant it. She always meant it. It was as if part of her merged with her patients and somehow managed to keep them alive until modern medicine could kick in.
Jacques slept for some time. It didn't matter to him how long it had been. Hunger was waiting. Pain was waiting. The treacherous heart and soul of a woman were waiting. He had an eternity to gather what strength he could, and she could never escape him now that he knew the mental path to her mind. He slept the sleep of immortals, his lungs and heart stopped as he lay in the earth, his body close to the soil it so desperately needed to aid healing, yet a thin layer of wood away. When he awakened, he scratched at the walls of his coffin patiently. He would reach the healing soil someday. He had managed to make a small hole to coax his prey to him. He could wait. She would never escape him. She was his single-minded purpose.
He haunted her. Day or night. It didn't matter to him. He no longer knew the difference when it had mattered so much before. He lived to try to appease his ever-present hunger. He lived for revenge. For retribution. He lived to make her life a living hell during his waking hours. He became good at it. Taking possession of her mind for minutes at a time. It was impossible to figure her out. She was so complex. There were things in her brain that made little sense to him, and the few moments he could stay awake without losing his precious remaining blood did not give him sufficient time to understand her.
There was the time she was frightened. He could taste her fear. Feel her heart pounding so that his own matched the terrible rhythm. Still, her mind remained calm in the center of the storm, receiving quick, brilliant flashes of data she processed so quickly that he nearly missed them. Two strangers were hunting her. Taunting her. He also saw an image of himself, his thick hair hanging in strands around his ravaged face, his body savaged by brutal hands. He clearly saw the stake driven deep within his tissue and sinews. It flashed for a moment in her mind, there was the impression of grief, and then he lost contact.
Shea would never forget their faces, their eyes, and the smell of their sweat. One of them, the taller of the two, couldn't take his eyes from her. "Who are you?" She stared at them, wide-eyed, innocent, totally harmless. Shea knew she looked young and helpless, too small to give them trouble.
"Jeff Smith," the tall one said gruffly. His eyes devoured her. "This is my partner, Don Wallace. We need you to come with us and answer a few questions."
"Am I wanted for something? I'm a doctor, gentlemen. I can't just pick up and go, I'm due in surgery in an hour. Perhaps you could arrange to ask your questions when my shift is over."
Wallace grinned at her. He thought he looked charming. Shea thought he looked like a shark. "We can't do that, Doc. It isn't only our questions, there's an entire committee looking to talk with you." He laughed softly, a film of perspiration on his forehead. He enjoyed inflicting pain, and Shea was altogether too cool, too haughty.
Shea made certain her desk was solidly between her and the men. Taking great care to move slowly and appear unconcerned, she glanced down at her computer, typed in the command to destroy her data, and hit the enter key. Then she picked up her mother's diary, and slipped it into her purse. She accomplished everything easily, naturally. "Are you certain you have the right person?"
"Shea O'Halloran, your mother was Margaret 'Maggie' O'Halloran from Ireland?" Jeff Smith recited. "You were born in Romania, your father is unknown?" There was a taunting note in his voice.
She turned the full power of her emerald eyes on the man, watched coolly as he squirmed uneasily, as he became consumed with desire for her. Smith was far more susceptible than his partner was. Is that supposed to upset me, Mr. Smith? I am who I am. My father has nothing to do with it."
"No? " Wallace stepped closer to the desk. "Don't you need blood? Crave it? Don't you drink it?" His eyes glowed with hatred.
Shea burst out laughing. Her laughter was soft, sexy, a melody to listen to forever. "Drink blood? Is this some kind of joke? I don't have time for this nonsense."
Smith licked his lips. "You don't drink blood?" His voice held a hopeful note.
Wallace looked at him sharply. "Don't look into her eyes," he snarled. "You should know that by now."
Shea's eyebrows shot up. She laughed again softly, inviting Smith to join her. "I occasionally require a transfusion. It isn't uncommon. Haven't you ever heard of hemophilia? Gentlemen, you are wasting my time." Her voice dropped even lower, a soft seduction of musical notes. "You really should leave."
Smith scratched his head. "Maybe we've got the wrong woman. Look at her. She's a doctor. She's nothing like the others. They're tall and strong and have dark hair. She's delicate, petite, a redhead. And she goes out in the sunlight."
"Shut up," Wallace snapped. "She's one of them. We should have gagged her. She's turning you with her voice." His eyes slid over her, making her flesh crawl. "She'll talk." He grinned evilly. "Now I've scared you. It's about time. You'll cooperate, O'Halloran, the hard way or the easy way. Actually, I prefer the hard way."
"I'll bet you do. Just what do you want from me? "
"Proof that you're a vampire." Wallace hissed.
"You've got to be kidding. Vampires don't exist. There's no such thing," she goaded, needing information and willing to acquire it from any source, even if it meant prompting men as sick as these two.
"No? I've met several." Wallace grinned his evil grin again. "Perhaps a friend or two of yours." He threw several photographs onto the desk, his eyes daring her to look at them. His excitement was palpable.
Keeping her face blank, Shea picked up the pictures. Her stomach lurched, bile rose, but her training didn't let her down. The photographs were numbered, eight of them in all. Each of the victims was blindfolded, gagged, manacled, all in various stages of torment. Don Wallace was a butcher. She touched a fingertip to the one tagged with a number two, experiencing a sudden, unexpected wrench. A boy no more than eighteen.
Quickly, before tears could well up, she flipped through the rest of the photographs. Number seven was a man with a mane of jet-black hair
—
the man haunting her dreams! There was no denying it. No mistake. She knew every angle and plane of his face
—
the well-cut mouth, the dark, expressive eyes, the long hair. Anguish welled up. For a moment she felt his pain, a sharp agony of mind and body driving out all sane thoughts until there was only room for pain, hatred, and hunger. She brushed the pad of her thumb over the tormented face lightly, almost lovingly. A caress. The pain and hatred only grew stronger. Hunger became all consuming. The emotions were so strong, so alien to her nature, she had a strange feeling that something or someone was sharing her mind. Disoriented for a moment, Shea dropped the photos onto the desk.
"It was you two in Europe a few years back, the 'vampire' killings, wasn't it? You murdered all those innocent people." Shea made the accusation calmly.
Don Wallace didn't deny it. "And now I've got you."
"If vampires are such powerful creatures, how did you manage to kill so many of them?" Sarcasm dripped deliberately to egg him on.
"Their males are very competitive." Wallace laughed harshly. "They don't like one another. They need women, and they don't like to share. They turn on each other, place someone into our hands. Still, they are strong. No matter how they suffer, they never talk. Which in some ways is fine, since they can mesmerize with their voices. But you'll talk, Doc. I'll have all the time in the world with you. Did you know when a vampire's in agony, it sweats blood?"
"Surely I would know that if I were a vampire. I've never sweated blood in my life. Let's see if I have this straight. Vampires stalk not only humans but also each other. The males betray one another to you human butchers because they need females. I thought they could just bite women and turn them into vampires." Sarcastically she was ticking off each item on her fingers. "You want me to believe I'm one of these fictitious creatures, so powerful that my voice alone can enslave this strong man here." Deliberately she gestured toward Jeff Smith, flashing him a gentle smile. "Gentlemen, I'm a doctor. I save lives every day. I sleep in a bed, not in a coffin. I am not the least bit strong, and I have never sucked anyone's blood in my life." She glanced at Don Wallace. "You, however, admittedly have tortured and mutilated men, even murdered them. And evidently you derive great pleasure from this. I don't believe you two are cops, or officials of any law-abiding agency. I think
you
are the monsters." She turned her emerald eyes back to Jeff Smith, her voice low, seductive. "Do you really think
I'm a
danger to you? "
He seemed to be falling forward into her beckoning gaze. He had never wanted a woman more. He blinked, cleared his throat, and stole a slow, calculating look at Wallace. Smith had never noticed that greedy, cold look on his partner's face before. "No, no, of course you're not a danger to me or anyone else."