Dark Obsession (3 page)

Then the doorbell sounded, breaking the spell, and Erin started to get up. Slade’s hand shot out and touched her arm briefly. Her gaze dropped to his hand
as if she’d felt the same tiny jolt he had. He heard her gasp softly when she saw the scars. Her gaze flew back up to meet his, and he let his hand fall away from her.

“What else did you see?” he demanded.

“Nothing,” she whispered. “That was all.”

But that was enough, Slade thought grimly. In fact, too damned much.

Erin Ramsey had seen silver eyes glowing in the dark.

* * *

Erin’s hands trembled as she crossed the room to answer the door. She didn’t like to admit that Detective Slade had left her so shaken, so uncertain of her own emotions. She’d never met a man quite like him before.

But, of course, she’d just found her sister—her only family—dead in the backyard. Erin suspected she was still in shock. No doubt that was why Detective Slade had affected her so strangely.

Trying to summon the last vestiges of her courage, she drew open the front door. A woman she had never seen before stood on the other side.

“You must be Erin,” the woman said. “I came just as soon as I heard.” She was tall, towering over Erin by several inches, and she had the most extraordinary red hair Erin had ever seen. It flowed down her back, almost to her waist, and even in the dim hallway light, the thick ringlets blazed with fire. She
was dressed all in black—tight leggings, a loose knit sweater and high leather boots. She hovered on the threshold as if waiting for Erin to invite her inside.

Erin said, “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I don’t know who you are.”

“My name is Racine DiMeneci,” the redhead said. “I live downstairs. I saw Dr. Traymore in the hallway. He told me what happened.” Tears filled the woman’s green eyes. “I talked to Megan just a few hours ago and now…I can’t believe…she’s gone….”

“Won’t you come in?” Erin said, opening the door wider so the woman could enter.

“I won’t stay long,” Racine promised, unobtrusively blotting the corners of her eyes with a lace hankie as she stepped inside. “I just had to tell you how sorry I am. If there’s anything at all I can do—” She broke off when she saw Detective Slade.

He was standing near the fireplace, watching them with the same shuttered scrutiny that had unsettled Erin earlier. He was holding one of the pictures Megan had kept displayed on the mantel, but as Racine and Erin entered the room, he turned and set it down with hardly more than a glance.

Racine looked back at Erin. “I don’t mean to intrude. I probably should have called first, but I hated to think of you being up here all alone. It must have been such a horrible shock. I still can’t believe it myself….” Her words trailed away again as she glanced back at Detective Slade.

Erin wondered what his reaction would be to such an overtly beautiful woman, but she could tell nothing by his expression. Slowly he walked toward them, and even Racine seemed intimidated by his formidable appearance.

“I’m Detective Slade,” he said.

Racine’s gaze flickered with uncertainty as if she didn’t quite believe him. “Do…I know you from somewhere?” she asked almost reluctantly, almost fearfully.

“Not likely,” he said tonelessly. “How well did you know Megan Ramsey?”

“We were friends.” Racine’s green eyes filled with tears again. She dropped down onto the couch, her legs crumpling. Erin sat beside her, and Racine reached for her hand, clutching it in her own. The intimacy of the action startled Erin. She wanted to draw her hand back. She wasn’t used to closeness, to this easy familiarity. She wasn’t used to friendships of any kind, but Racine seemed oblivious to Erin’s discomfort.

Detective Slade remained standing, gazing down at them from behind those mysterious glasses. “When was the last time you saw her alive?”

“Last night. Megan had the lead role in a play at the Alucard Theater, and the director, Roman Gerard, had been spending a lot of extra time, you know, coaching her. But there wasn’t a rehearsal last night so she came home early, around nine, I think. We
spoke for a few minutes, then she said she was going to change her clothes and go back out to meet a friend.”

“Do you know who?”

Racine shrugged. “She didn’t say, but I assumed it was someone from the play. There’s this nightclub down by the river where a lot of actresses and actors hang out. I don’t recall the name of it, but the outside is painted black and the windows are all boarded up, you know, as if it’s deserted or something.”

“I know the one you mean,” Slade said. “Did you ever go there with her?”

“A couple of times.” Racine hesitated. A strange darkness passed across her features, a mere flicker, but it left Erin with a vague feeling of unease, a nagging little worry that there were more things in this room left unspoken than were being revealed.

Racine’s gaze met Erin’s, then she glanced away. She took a deep, shuddering breath and said, “Lately, Megan seemed to go there quite a lot. At first she said it helped her to understand the character she was portraying in the play. Then later, I think…I think she became obsessed with that club and with things that were, you know…not quite normal….”

“What do you mean?” Erin asked quickly.

“The supernatural,” Racine said, avoiding Erin’s gaze. “People go to that club pretending to be…vampires.”

An eerie chill stole up Erin’s spine. “Are you saying
that Megan went there because she believed in vampires?” A memory of the last conversation she’d had with her sister flashed through Erin’s mind. Megan had seemed fascinated by
Demon Lover,
Erin’s latest novel. She’d asked Erin countless questions about her research for the book, but at the time Erin had given it little thought. It wasn’t until later, when she’d begun to suspect her sister was in trouble, that Erin had thought back on their conversation. She could hear Megan’s voice now, as clearly as if she stood in the room with her.

“Do you believe in vampires, Erin?”

Erin’s own response had been automatic. “Of course not.
Demon Lover
came from my imagination, Megan. He doesn’t exist.”

“But what if he does?” Megan had insisted.

As the dialogue floated through her mind, Erin’s gaze moved upward, almost against her will, to Detective Slade. Even though she couldn’t see his eyes, she knew his gaze was on her, as well, and she felt an almost physical jolt.

His mouth had tightened into a grim line, giving his face an even harsher, more formidable appearance. Abruptly he reached past her and picked up his coat. His hand skimmed her arm, and a dangerous shiver sliced through Erin.

“Someone will be talking to you again later today,” he said. “We’ll need statements, but I won’t trouble you anymore tonight. In the meantime, I advise
you both to exercise caution. Don’t go out alone after dark. Don’t open your door to strangers and don’t invite anyone inside. We’re dealing with a murderer here. A vicious monster who is still out there somewhere. Until he’s caught, no one is safe. And I mean
no one.
”

He’d addressed the warning to both of them, but Erin sensed that he was staring at her. How disconcerting, how very frustrating not be able to see his eyes. What was he thinking? Was this just another routine case to him? Would he walk out that door and forget all about Megan? Would he forget Erin? Somehow the notion left her feeling bereft. His presence dominated the room, and now that he was making preparations to leave, the apartment seemed empty already. Lonely. Forbidding. Frightening.

The nightmares were closing in again.

Erin followed him to the door as he shrugged into his coat. The collar was turned up, shading the lower part of his face. The dark glasses hid the rest. She might have been looking at a mask.

She reached for the knob just as he did. Briefly his fingers closed over hers. His hands were huge and strong-looking—not cool and smooth like Racine’s, but warm, vital, competent hands. Even the scars—those horrible scars—seemed to give him an air of permanence, of immortality. He had been burned, she thought. Badly. But he had managed to survive.

And now Erin had a sudden, chilling premonition
that her life had been placed in those battered hands. The feeling was oddly comforting. And frightening.

As if reading her thoughts, he said in his dark, liquid voice, “I’ll be in touch.”

And somehow Erin knew he would be.

* * *

“Detective Slade? May I have a word with you?”

Slade slowed his steps as the old man appeared out of the shadows in the backyard. “Dr. Traymore, isn’t it?”

“At your service,” he said with a slight inclination of his head. There was something old-worldly about the way the man dressed, the way he talked. Slade had a strange feeling of foreboding as he stared at him. “I take it you’ve questioned Miss Ramsey?”

Slade nodded absently. Yes, he’d questioned her. He’d lingered far longer than he should have. The moment he’d set eyes on Erin Ramsey, Slade had known she was going to be trouble. She would want answers, and Slade suspected she wouldn’t rest until she had them. And what would she do when she found out he’d known her sister? Where would she take the information?

He’d been through an investigation once, years ago. He didn’t care to repeat the process. One way or another Erin Ramsey would have to be satisfied, before her suspicions could be aroused.

With an effort, Slade shrugged off his growing dread of the days to come, letting his gaze roam the
backyard, automatically focusing on the crime scene. The CSU team had finished their preliminary work, and the body was en route to the morgue. The only thing to indicate the violence that had taken place earlier was the yellow ribbon that still cordoned off the area. By morning, it would most likely be gone, as well. He returned his gaze to Dr. Traymore. “I presume Detective Abrams has spoken with you already?”

“Oh, yes. He questioned me thoroughly. I’m to come down to your station later today to make an official statement. I’ll tell you everything, Detective Slade, no need to be concerned about that. But I’d like to ask you a question now, if I may.”

“What is it?”

“Who did this?” Traymore made a vague gesture with his hand toward the yard. “Or should I say ‘what’?”

“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be standing here talking to you, now would I?”

“I think you have clues,” the old man insisted. He took a pipe from his overcoat pocket and busied himself filling the bowl. “I think you know exactly what you are dealing with here. This is not the work of a psychopath, a ‘Looney Tunes’ as your colleague so eloquently put it. Something far more dangerous is at work here. An animal who hunts the night. A predator who is voraciously hungry. A creature who is diabolically
evil. You and I both know there will be more killings before this is over, Detective Slade.”

A gust of wind swept through the trees overhead and blew down Slade’s collar. A chill crawled through him as he stared at the old man’s careworn face. The hazel eyes returned his regard without wavering. Dr. Traymore seemed to be looking through the dark lenses of Slade’s glasses, straight through his eyes into his soul. Slade suppressed a shudder. “Who are you?” he asked coldly. “What do you want?”

“I’m many things,” the old man evaded. “A scholar. An archaeologist. A man who has traveled the world searching for answers. I think you can give me those answers, Detective Slade.”

“I’m just a cop,” Slade said, “and if anyone’s going to be asking questions around here, it’s me.”

“You’re more than a cop, as we both know.”

“And you’re wasting my time. I’ve got an investigation to conduct, so if you’ll excuse me…” Slade brushed past Dr. Traymore and started across the yard.

“Does the word
nosferatu
mean anything to you, Detective Slade?”

Slade stopped. The whole world seemed to stop. He could feel his heart pounding inside his chest as he turned slowly to face Dr. Traymore. Fog curled around the old man’s head like a misty blue halo.

He smiled. “I thought that would get your attention.” He walked through the light drizzle toward
Slade. “You see, I’ve known of the existence of these creatures for a long time.”

“You’ve been reading too many Stephen King novels,” Slade said. “Or Erin Ramsey novels,” he added with irony.

The old man chuckled as he shoved one hand into the pocket of his heavy overcoat. “I assure you, the books I’ve been reading are not modern-day fiction. They are hundreds of years old, written in German and Russian, as well as Latin and ancient Greek. I’ve even seen hieroglyphs in the Valley of the Kings that depict the rising of the undead to feast on human blood. For years I’ve studied the mysteries of the un-dead. I’ve learned their habits. I know what they must have in order to survive. I know their needs and their strengths and their weaknesses. I even know what it takes to kill them.”

“Go home,” Slade ordered, frustrated that yet a new problem had presented itself to him. It was another worry that would have to be taken care of. “Obviously you need your rest.”

Traymore shook his head. “You don’t fool me, Detective. I know you’re worried. We both are, because if I’m right and certain precautions aren’t taken, Megan Ramsey could come back. And if that happens, her sister will be in a great deal of danger.”

Almost reluctantly, Slade’s gaze lifted to the window of Megan Ramsey’s apartment. Framed by the light, Erin stood there, her eyes—those deep, blue
eyes—reflecting, not shock any longer, but fear, as if she somehow
knew
. As if she was standing there, watching and waiting for what was to come.

A finger of dread slid down Slade’s spine. When would it all end? he thought. How many more people would have to die before the evil could be stopped?

* * *

Erin stood looking out the window, gazing down at the exact spot where Megan’s body had lain. She saw Detective Slade talking to the old gentleman who had called the police for her earlier, and as she stood looking down at them, Slade’s head lifted and he seemed to be gazing directly at her.

Erin gripped the cross hanging from her neck, automatically seeking protection as she felt fear stirring within her. For the first time since she’d found Megan’s body, it hit her just how alone she was now. Deeply alone. Terrifyingly alone. There was no one she could turn to for help.