Twilight Illusions (14 page)

“And in return, you'll try to find the answer to my unquenchable thirst.” Damien turned in a slow circle and finally sank into a chair. “It's getting worse since I met her, you know. All it takes is her scent to drive me insane.”

Eric laughed. “Yes, well, that isn't exactly the same hunger, my—Damien. I feel that, as well, at a simple glance from Tamara. You know that the desire for sexual release and the bloodlust combine in us, each feeding from the other, until it's impossible to distinguish them.”

Damien's brows lifted and he studied the man again. He really did have a lot of knowledge.

“It's true,” Eric said. “And that kind of frenzied need is only at its worst when the object of it happens to be the woman you love.”

“I don't love her!” Damien roared the denial, shooting to his feet. “And I'm damned well not going to.” He paced in a small circle, trying to contain his rage, trying not to vent all his anguish on Marquand, who was only trying to help. “All right. I'll agree to tell you everything you want to know. But I don't believe you can find a way to solve my problem, so I want you to agree to do one other thing in return.” He returned to his seat.

“Name it,” Eric said quickly, settling into a chair opposite him.

Damien folded his hands to keep them from clenching into fists. “I need help to find the truth about the deaths of those two women. I need all the help you can give me. And if it turns out…if it turns out that I killed them…” He looked at Eric, at his honest, intense gaze. He was beginning to sense that he could trust this man. “Then I want you to destroy me.”

 

He hadn't wanted to believe the things Eric Marquand, the intellectual, had told him. That she was dying. That there was nothing that could save her mortal life. But as Damien sat beside the bed where he'd moved her and scanned the files this CIA person had kept on Shannon, he found only confirmation of what Eric had said. The medical reports were inconclusive. Her red blood cells seemed to be dying, inexplicably. Transfusions hadn't helped. The new red cells died almost as soon as they were infused. And her rare blood type would have made transfusions an all-but-impossible treatment anyway.

The Belladonna antigen. Eric had explained all about it. The Chosen, as they were called by the undead, were humans with the Belladonna antigen in their blood, apparently handed down from a common ancestor. They were the only people genetically capable of being transformed. All the undead had shared the same rare blood type as mortals.

Their other traits were not so easily explained. The way they exuded something that alerted vampires of their presence. The way the undead felt compelled to watch over them, protect them. It was, Marquand theorized, a chemical reaction of some kind.

But as Damien stared at Shannon's pale face, her golden tresses spread over the pillows, he knew that what he felt for her was more than chemically induced. He had to find a way to save her.

The files were thorough, and he read them front to back. They told of her mother's abandonment. Her childhood of being pushed and shoved from one agency to another.

At sixteen, she'd arrived at the last of the foster homes, where she'd met Tawny. And a few months afterward, both girls had disappeared. There was a notation that the man who'd been her foster parent was later convicted of child molestation, diagnosed as a pedophile and institutionalized. He'd committed suicide a few months later.

The bastard. If he wasn't dead already, Damien would have hunted him down and done the job himself.

“What are you reading?”

He looked up quickly, then set the papers aside and leaned over the bed. It was no wonder she wore the crusty exterior all the time. She'd had to develop a shell to protect her from life. He held her hand in both of his, and his initial urge on seeing her eyes open and looking at him was to press his lips to her fingers, her knuckles. Instead he lowered her hand to the bed.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better. Fine, actually.”

But she wasn't fine. She was lying to him about that. She was dying, and she knew it. She'd known it for some time. He felt incredible relief at seeing the color slowly returning to her skin, the sparkle to her eyes, but he didn't let that relief show. She wasn't comfortable with his relief. Or his concern. And it occurred to him that she didn't want him to care about her. She never had. Now he understood why.

He got up, fighting against an insistent lump in his throat that wanted to choke him. He couldn't let her know that he was aware of her condition. She'd probably never forgive him for prying. Besides, talking to her about it meant dealing with it himself, and he wasn't sure he could do that. Not yet.

He'd let himself care about her. He was going to lose her. It was going to hurt. At least now he knew. Maybe he could keep his feelings from growing any stronger than they already had. Maybe he could minimize the damage, keep his head. Find a way to help her.

He flung back her covers and held out a hand. “Come on, get up. You have any idea how long you've been lying around? All last night, all day today while Netty fussed over you. It's night again, and she refuses to go home until she sees you're feeling better. Come on downstairs or we'll never get rid of her.”

She looked uncertain. And then she smiled and slipped her hand into his. He tightened his grip, just a little. “You strong enough, Shannon? Do you want me to carry you?”

Before she could answer, the bedroom door flung wide. Netty stood in the doorway, glanced at Shannon and screamed like a banshee. She ran across the room with staccato steps and folded Shannon in a powerful hug.

She released Shannon only long enough to turn to Damien. “Out with you. She's wantin' a bath and a change of clothes, and then some tea.” She put an arm around Shannon and urged her toward the bathroom. “You're goin' to be just fine, my girl. Netty will see to that.” But Shannon's eyes met Damien's and he felt the warmth in their message.

“Go on now. Your friend, Mr. Marquand, is waitin' downstairs. I'll bring her along when she's ready.”

Damien gathered up the papers he'd been reading and left the room.

 

All the while she bathed and dressed, and sat quietly while sweet Netty pulled a brush through her hair, the knowledge was eating away at her guts. Damien ought to know the truth. He'd been so good to her, and he deserved to know the truth. If he let himself care about her, even a little bit, it would only lead to pain. And he did care, a little. Much as she'd hoped he never would, and much as he tried not to let it show, he couldn't hide the look in his eyes when she'd woken up just now.

He'd gone through the agony of losing a friend. So had she. So had the mighty Gilgamesh myriad years ago, and it had brought him to a grief that had devoured his soul. She knew now, since their conversation about the epic by the fire, that Damien's grief was a lot like Gilgamesh's. He'd survived a loss that should have crippled him. What would happen if history repeated itself? He couldn't get through it again—she was sure of that. So the only answer was to tell him now, before he let himself care too much.

Is that the way it is with friends?

Enkidu's dying words echoed in her ears. For a second she heard them, as if she'd been there when they were spoken, in a voice gone weak and gravelly with physical pain, instead of having heard them read with that same emotion by Damien, identical agony racking his voice.

Netty helped her down the stairs and left, wishing her good-night before grabbing her coat and leaving for the evening. Seemed every time she saw the woman, Netty was leaving. Of course, that was because she'd been keeping such odd hours since she'd come here. Up all night, sleeping all day while Netty bustled around the place.

Shannon moved toward the library, with her heart breaking. God, how much she would like to have one night with Damien, one night to explore this electric pull he seemed to emanate for her, to discover the secrets of passion. To let him teach her all of them. It wouldn't be fair to him, though. She couldn't allow herself to get close to him, not physically, not emotionally. She had to warn him of the grim future, and then let him go. Let him distance himself from the pain, avoid it.

She stopped near the library door, startled to see two dark heads leaning over the desk. Damien looked up, saw her and shot to his feet. In less than a second he'd crossed the room, and for an instant she was sure he would sweep her into his arms. He'd hold her tight to his chest, his trembling hands clenched in her hair, and she'd hear his ragged sigh, feel his muscles slowly relax.

He'd never held her that way before. Except by accident, when she'd fallen from the chair. Her response would be automatic and irresistible. Her arms would wind around his waist. Her face would press into the white shirt, and her eyes would fall closed. When she inhaled, his scent would fill her, and when she exhaled she'd feel the warmth of her breath spread through the material beneath her face.

The fantasy died when he reached her and stopped. He stood away from her, his hands on her shoulders as if she might fall without support. He was touching her, but it was impersonal. A matter of courtesy rather than passion. And since she was determined to keep her distance from him, she ought to be grateful for it.

“You all right?”

She swallowed hard, nodded. But she wasn't. And she had to tell him she wasn't. “Fine, now.”

“You shouldn't be up, Shannon. You need to rest—”

“There'll be plenty of time to rest when I'm…later. I feel fine now, really.” She glanced past Damien, noticing the man she'd met just before she'd collapsed sitting at the desk, watching the two of them. “Hello again. I'm afraid I don't remember—”

“Marquand. Eric to you. You look a good deal better than when I last saw you.” He rose and came forward as he spoke in that odd, old-fashioned way of his. His trousers were knife pleated, his jacket cut short, and both were spotlessly black against his crisp white shirt. “I'm glad you're feeling better.”

“Thank you.” She glanced toward the desk, the papers that littered it, and frowning, hurried forward. “What's all this?” She fingered the sheets, reading the bold print. “DPI?” She looked quickly toward Damien, then back to Eric Marquand. “Then this government agency is for real?”

Eric nodded grimly. “The Division of Paranormal Investigations,” he explained. “A subdivision of the CIA and, I believe, the employer of your acquaintance, Mr. Bachman.”

She turned slowly, staring first at Eric and then Damien in blatant disbelief. “
Paranormal
investigations? As in ghosties and ghoulies and things that go bump in the night? Is this where my tax money is going? But I thought the guy was just burned out and—”

“It's a bunch of hogwash, Shannon.” Damien came forward, scooping the outspread papers together into a neat stack and dropping them into a desk drawer.

“But why are they investigating you? And why me, for God's sake? There's nothing the least bit paranormal about me.” Neither man spoke, though Shannon waited expectantly. Then she recalled the questions Bachman had asked. He'd been interested in Tawny's murder. He'd taken possession of her body. He'd…

“You're saying that what was in Bachman's files was true, not just a lunatic's ramblings. This agency really does believe in vampires. Not only that, but they think there's one on the loose in Arista.”

Damien opened his mouth, but Eric beat him to the punch line. “Yes, they do.”

She felt her jaw drop and her eyes widen. She turned to Damien. “They think it's you, don't they?”

“They use government funding to investigate seemingly paranormal events,” Damien explained calmly, sending Eric Marquand a look that could have wilted fresh roses. The look Eric shot back was almost as bad. They obviously disagreed over how much to tell her. “I imagine their main goal is in uncovering hoaxes, Shannon. Maybe they'll be able to find out how Tawny's death was staged to appear so much like some vampire's handiwork.”

She frowned, shaking her head. “Are you sure that's all it is?” Her gaze sought Eric's, but he averted his eyes, saying nothing at all. She shot Damien another, probing, stare. “Because, Damien, if this Bachman's opinion is representative of the whole agency, then these people are serious. Your image could be digging you into a bottomless pit. On the other hand, it ought to be fairly easy to humor them. I'm telling you, fanatics can be dangerous, and this crew would have to be pretty fanatical to believe…”

She turned from him, pacing the floor. “You could fix it, though. Stage a press conference in broad daylight. Offer to undergo a series of tests, blood work, whatever. Get a photo op on the arm of a priest, that type of—” She stopped mid-tirade, stood in one spot and gazed from one man to the other. “What? What's wrong with you two, why are you watching me like that?”

“I'm going to leave now,” Eric said softly, and the look he sent Damien was filled with unspoken messages.

“Eric, why are you involved in this, anyway?”

He smiled at her. “I've had a few run-ins with DPI before. I thought I might be of some help.” He turned, nodded to Damien and left.