Twilight Illusions (16 page)

Inanna herself could never inspire passion like this! Dammit, what Shannon did to him.

“Damien?”

He whirled, his face, he was certain, twisted in a fierce snarl that would frighten the life out of a god. Eric Marquand didn't seem frightened at all, though. He stood there, nodded as if in understanding. “Are you all right?”

“No, dammit, I'm not all right. Do I
look
all right to you?”

Marquand turned away, as if to warm his hands near the fire. Damien had a sneaking suspicion it was actually to keep his expression hidden. “Are you in love with her yet?”

Damien made a noise halfway between snort and sigh. “That's the stupidest question…Of course not. You think I'm an idiot?”

“I didn't call you an idiot, Damien.” Marquand still didn't look at him. It sounded as if there might be a slight smile hiding in his voice.

“It's physical desire. Nothing more. It's only because I'm spending too much time with her.” Damien stalked into the entry hall, stopped near the door and snatched a coat from a peg on the wall. “I need to take a walk in the cold air.”

“It isn't simple desire, Damien.” Marquand stood beside him. “And walking isn't going to make it go away.”

He thrust his fists into the coat, jerking it around him. “Oh, no? What is, then?” He injected enough sarcasm in his voice not to have it missed.

“Making love with Shannon.”

Damien went utterly still, his back to Marquand. When he spoke, his voice came out as a rasping whisper, hoarse with pain and frustration. “I can't do that. I'm afraid…” He couldn't finish the sentence.

“Afraid you might kill her. I know. A hell of a predicament, my friend.”

“I told you not to call me that.”

“Keep telling me. I might listen someday.” Marquand pulled his own coat on and calmly fastened the buttons, one by one. “Damien, I don't believe you killed those women, and I don't believe you could hurt Shannon even if you wanted to, but I suppose it's best to restrain yourself until we're sure.” He clapped a hand to Damien's shoulder. “For now we'll walk, if you think it will help.”

Damien turned slowly, searched this stranger's face, and felt, for the first time, the unseen bond between them. They were brothers. Marquand was sincere in wanting to help him through this hellish torment. That knowledge shook him to the core. For so long, he'd managed to avoid any kind of closeness, the slightest hint of caring. He couldn't imagine how to act, what to say. He swallowed hard, shook his head. It was as if, after wandering in darkness, lost, alone, without hope, someone had joined him. Someone with a candle.

I don't want this. Dammit, I don't want to care for this man…or for Shannon.

“Too late,” a voice whispered from somewhere. Had it come from his mind or Marquand's? He glanced at the other man for an answer. Eric only smiled vaguely, and opened the door.

 

She couldn't have slept even if she'd wanted to, but she feigned sleep when she heard Damien's key in her door just before dawn. She knew he'd come in to stand over her, stare down at her. She felt his fingertips gently smoothing her tearstained cheeks, pushing the tangled hair away from her face. She smelled him, felt his warmth, heard his breathing. She wanted to open her eyes, to reach up to him. God, she wanted to feel those strong arms around her again, crushing her so tightly against him. Making her feel he wanted to be closer, closer than any two people had ever been. She wanted to feel his heart racing in time with hers, but…

She slammed her mind tight against those thoughts, against
any
thoughts of him. She resisted the urge to move her face against his touch. She could almost imagine his thoughts trying to reach her, his mind telling her to rest today, to stay here until he came back for her, not to wake until he returned.

Strange, the things her mind conjured. She closed it to him, refused to hear the odd things she imagined he was telling her. Refused to think of him at all. A few moments later she felt the satin touch of his lips on her face. And then he was gone.

She stayed in the bed a long time, only rising when the soul of the house screamed its solitude, assuring her that she was alone. She showered, dressed and hurried down the stairs, calling out to Damien just in case. There was no answer.

She'd been a fool. She knew that now. The attraction she felt for the man had distracted her from her purpose, and she'd lost precious time. There was no chance for anything between them. God, she'd known it was wrong even to try. She ought to be glad he'd rejected her. It would save him heartache in the long run. She'd been selfish, thoughtless, to let him know she wanted him. She must have gone temporarily insane.

Not anymore, though. He was keeping things from her, things that had to do with Tawny's murder and with Bachman and this crazy organization, DPI. She had to find out what. How could she hope to track down a killer if she didn't have all the facts?

Shannon went to the library, glanced around the room once before closing the door. She circled the desk, stopping behind it to give the drawer an experimental tug. Locked, as she'd known it would be. She wasn't unprepared. It was nothing to break into a desk drawer. The letter opener on the blotter was all she needed, and the drawer slid open without any further encouragement.

The papers had been arranged neatly in a manila file folder. So he'd looked at them again. They were supposed to be nothing, a bunch of irrelevant information, so why had he felt the need to go through them one more time? And what was Eric Marquand doing with a packet of information on this strange government agency, anyway? He'd said he'd had run-ins with them in the past. What kind of run-ins? she wondered. She shook her head, grimacing. With his dark good looks and antiquated mannerisms, it wouldn't be surprising if the lunatics had accused Eric of being a vampire, too. Crazy.

She removed the folder from the drawer, closed it and carried it with her to the circular living room. It was a comfort room. Damien was right about that. There was something in its shape and the lighting, the warm colors, the odd furniture, even the artifacts lined up on the mantel, that seemed to hug you close, warm your soul.

Only red-orange coals glowed on the grate. Shannon arranged a pair of small logs on top and blew gently until flames licked to life. Resin seeped and snapped and flared, and for a second she remembered the fire in her apartment building, the feeling of being trapped, the fear. But this place was the opposite of that hell. This place was a haven from anything bad. Or maybe it was Damien she was beginning to think of as her haven.

She went to settle down amid the pillows on the floor, but a sharp glimmer reflected the firelight, stopping her. She knelt, and saw one broken piece, then several, of what had once been an onyx vase.

Frowning, she picked up the larger pieces, then gathered the tinier shards by rolling them up in the rug. Then she shook it outside the door. She checked all the pillows carefully, brushing all the glass away before she made herself comfortable on them.

She tried not to imagine how the vase had been broken. Tried not to wonder whether Damien had been angry or frustrated, or just nervous and clumsy. Either way, she had to be at least partly to blame. And she wondered for the first time if maybe he'd been telling the truth when he'd said that he wanted her. Maybe there was some other reason he'd turned her away. But what?

Enough already. She'd come to the conclusion that thinking about Damien only distracted her from her real purpose here, hadn't she? When would she get that through her head? She sank into the pillows, opened the file folder and began reading.

H
e awoke with the night in the lush third-floor bedroom beyond the hidden door. He opened his eyes, his senses gradually sharpening in response to the usual stimulants. The silken softness of the satin sheets caressed his naked flesh. The plump feather pillow cradled his head. The warmth from the fire in the hearth below radiated into the room through the brick chimney in its center. The beat of the music from the stereo he'd set to turn on at dusk, with the help of an automatic timer, filtered softly from the speakers. He'd chosen Elton John tonight. A song called “Mellow,” with a sultry rhythm that lived up to the title. The electric air freshener spilled the scent of the ocean into the room. The lights came on, dim at first, but brightening gradually.

All of it designed to comfort him in an existence where there was little comfort. He took his pleasures where he could find them. In things instead of in people. He surrounded himself with modern technology, luxurious fabrics, pleasing scents and soothing sounds. As he came fully awake, he knew it wasn't enough. Not anymore. He wanted Shannon. Her heated skin against his, instead of the cool satin. Her erotic scent filling him, rather than the artificial aroma; her sighs of pleasure surrounding him, soothing him more than any music could.

He sat up slowly as his strength filtered into him. His mind cleared its dull haze and began to sharpen. And then he went stiff with the sense of emptiness in the house. She was gone.

He threw back the covers, leapt from the bed, tried the trick of opening his mind to hers, of homing in on her thoughts and feelings to tell where she was. But his mind refused to focus. His brain screamed for action, and he complied. He threw on his clothes and ran downstairs to search the house, already knowing she wasn't there.

Netty awaited him at the foot of the stairs. “She left you a note,” she said, as if reading his thoughts. “In the library, on the desk.”

He shot a worried glance over her careworn face, and then moved past her into the library. Netty hurried along in his wake.

“Were you here when she left?”

“No. I've been in and out today, did some shopping for her, took care of some bills. She was still in bed sleepin' last time I checked in.”

Damien strode to the desk and snatched up the envelope with his name scrawled on the front. He removed the sheet of paper, unfolded it, and imagined he could still smell her scent in the ink, feel the warmth of her hands on the stationery.

“Damien.” It was written at the top of the sheet in her small neat hand. He glanced over the paper at Netty, and she nodded once, then turned to leave the room, wringing her hands all the way.

When the door closed behind her, he read on.

There was nothing more, just her name scrawled across the bottom of the page. But as he'd read her words, he'd felt what lay beneath them. Her hurt. Hurt he'd caused. She was ashamed of her actions, ashamed of wanting him. Damn, that was the last thing he wanted her to feel!

And something else, there was something else. Something in the lines about going away that rang utterly false in his mind, and sounded a warning he couldn't ignore.

She hadn't gone anywhere. He was sure of it even before Marquand arrived, breathless, agitated, waving a bit of paper in front of him.

“You have to get out of the house.” He said it without preamble, after barging in. “I mean it, Damien. You're not safe here.”

Damien ignored him, still trying to puzzle out the truth hidden in Shannon's lies.

“Damien, are you listening to me? Bachman knows where you rest. He'll try for you by day as you lie defenseless.”

Finally Marquand's accented words penetrated the haze of pain and loss. “Impossible. No one knows where I rest.”

Marquand thrust the sheet of paper into Damien's hands. Damien didn't have time for this, but he glanced down and read the brief note. “Bachman, he rests in a hidden room on the third floor. The entrance has to be through the second guest room on the right, though I don't know where exactly.”

There was no signature, and the words were typed. No way to judge the handwriting. Damien shook his head in disbelief. His gaze met Marquand's. “Netty?”

Marquand shrugged. “It's possible.”

“I can't believe she would—”

“I can't figure how else the bastard could have come upon this information. But worry about that later, Damien. For now you'd do well to get yourself another resting place, one well away from this house.” Marquand paced the room in a small square pattern.

Damien frowned, studying the sheet of paper in his hand. “How did
you
come upon it?”

Marquand quit his pacing and turned to face Damien. “I simply checked the messages left for Bachman at the front desk of his hotel.” He tilted his head to one side. “Honestly, Damien, you must begin to use your powers more efficiently. It's an elementary matter to use our mental powers to influence the actions of humans. I caused the clerk to leave his station for a moment and retrieved the messages. Simple.”

“If it's so simple, then where the hell is Shannon?”

One of Eric's dark brows quirked upward.

“I told her to rest until nightfall. Mentally. It's worked before. Only this time it didn't. She was gone when I woke up.”

“Interesting.”

“Interesting? It's dangerous.”

“It's possible she closed her mind to yours. The trick can be learned, even by humans, though I've rarely seen it happen. Then again, she'd have no reason to do it, since she has no idea what you are.” His gaze sharpened. “You didn't take my advice and tell her, did you?”

“Of course I didn't tell her.”

Eric shrugged. “Then I can only assume she felt reason to close herself off from you. Have you angered her in some way?”

Damien felt like screaming at the man. He was so damned calm! “Look, the why and how doesn't matter. She's gone and I get the feeling she's in danger. The only thing we ought to be doing right now is looking for her.”

“So, look. What's stopping you?”

Damien nodded sharply and reached for the door handle. He'd begin with the car. It would be easier to track down than the woman. A firm hand on his shoulder brought him up short in the hall. When he turned, it was to see Eric with a pained expression on his face as he rolled his eyes, shook his head.

“Sit down, Damien. Clear your mind. Open it, seek her out.”

“But if she's closed herself off from me…”

“You won't be able to influence her, but you ought to sense her presence, feel her surroundings, discern whether she's safe.”

Damien shook his head slowly. “I'm not sure I can do it. God, Eric, you don't understand. I've never used this psychic ability. Never wanted to.” He glanced up as a thought occurred to him. “Why don't you do it?”

Another irritated sigh. “The Chosen connect most thoroughly with a single vampire, Damien. In case you haven't yet realized it, you are that one for Shannon. I might sense her dimly, especially if she's in peril. But for you the knowledge will come much more easily. Try, please.”

Damien nodded, but doubted it would work. He walked back into the living room, lowered himself onto the chaise and tried to relax and let his mind go blank. He closed his eyes.

“All we need now is Rhiannon with her incense and candles,” Eric muttered. Damien opened his eyes, lifted his brows. “Nothing, just talking to myself. Concentrate, Damien. Focus your mind on Shannon. Put a picture of her in front of your eyes. Bring her to life inside you until you can feel her touch, smell her scent.”

Damien closed his eyes again, and found it remarkably easy to bring Shannon to mind. It only took recalling the way her mouth tasted, its warmth, its depth, its heat. He shifted uncomfortably, but kept his focus. The sense of danger increased with his every thought.

 

It was incredible, that's what it was. It was absolutely incredible. No sane person would take any of it seriously, because none of it could possibly be true.

But it
seemed
true. Shannon had read the notes on the organization known as DPI. The Division of Paranormal Investigations. It was a secretive organization, one whose purposes the taxpayers and most of the politicians in D.C. knew nothing about. And its sole reason for existence, according to Marquand's notes, was to seek out and destroy vampires, though they claimed it was to discover their secrets through research. Marquand held the organization responsible for murders, kidnappings, torture.

Of vampires.

He claimed his own wife—no,
mate,
that was the term he'd used—had been abducted by the ruthless scientists. That she'd been subjected to horrible experiments just because they knew of her association with him. And that was when she was still mortal. Before he'd transformed her.

Still mortal? He'd transformed her?

Shannon had been shaking all over by the time she'd finished reading and replaced the papers in the desk. Marquand must be as crazy as Bachman. He actually believed himself to be a vampire. He
actually believed
it. Shannon wondered if he really even had a wife, or if this beautiful Tamara mentioned in the file was just a figment of his obviously sick imagination.

But Damien believed it, too. He must, or he wouldn't still be associating with the man. He'd have had the guy committed by now.

She had to stop thinking about it, had to stay alert. She'd left the mansion in her car, knowing how noticeable it was, and she'd driven slowly, for a couple of hours, all over town, hoping to attract the notice of the killer. Then she proceeded to her office, driving so she could easily be followed.

Once inside, with the lights blazing an invitation to all comers, she checked to be sure the gun was loaded and ready. And she sat down to wait.

The killer,
the perfectly human
killer, would come for her. At least, she hoped he would. She couldn't have made it much easier for him. He'd come tonight or not at all, and if he did, she'd be waiting. She'd deal with Damien and Marquand and Bachman and their misguided delusions later. Right now, she only wanted to stop a killer, avenge Tawny, and she sensed her time was running out.

Death was a dark shadow that had been stalking her for a long time now. But tonight it felt closer than ever before. She could feel its clammy breath chilling her nape, feel its gnarled claws reaching out to her.

She had to get the bastard tonight.

She didn't have to wait long before footsteps sounded on the stairs outside. She stood up, lifted the gun, watched the doorknob turn.

But it wasn't the killer that quietly walked into her office. It was Stephen Bachman.

She lifted the gun anyway, pointing it squarely and steadily at the left lapel of that gray tweed jacket. He ignored it, walked up to her desk and took a seat.

“You ready to come over to my side yet, Shannon Mallory? Or are you going to wait until they make you their next victim?”

She blinked. He studied her steadily, just waiting.

“At least I know you're not one of them. You were driving your fancy car all over, right under the blazing sun.”

“And you were following me.”

“Smart girl. So why'd you leave him? You finally have sense enough to get scared?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I'm talking about monsters, Shannon. Not the kind that lurk under a little kid's bed, but real adult monsters. Beings that live by killing. Animals that feed on fear and death. You know about Damien now, what he really is. You wouldn't be here if you didn't. Humans mean nothing to him, to any of them. We're disposable, here only to fill their twisted cravings.” He leaned back in the chair and tugged on his flawless cuff. “You're damned lucky you got out when you did.”

“You're crazy if you think I believe any of this.”

“Any of what?”

“You know what. That Eric Marquand and Damien are…vampires. There's no such thing and you're nuts if you think there is.”

“I don't think. I
know.
” He tilted his head. “So the newcomer
is
Marquand. I thought it was, but I'd never seen him up close. We've been watching him longer than any of them. Almost had him once. Damien, we didn't know about. Not until the murders. I've only had him under surveillance since I got the report on that first body.”