Twilight Illusions (20 page)

 

Damien didn't go after her. He couldn't. His grief over what he'd done, preserved her life, transformed her into something she couldn't begin to understand, his knowledge that he'd acted for reasons purely selfish, nearly paralyzed him with pain. He hurt, he ached, for her. For what she was suffering right now. The confusion. The fear. And yet he couldn't bring himself to regret what he'd done. He couldn't be anything but glad that she was alive when he rose tonight, instead of lying cold and lifeless, forever still on the chaise. That was the alternative. That was what he could have risen to see tonight, would have, if he hadn't acted.

So he didn't regret it. He only wished he'd done it differently, explained things to her earlier, before the decision had to be made, allowed her to choose.

He started after her, only to find his way blocked by a solid form. His eyes met Eric's and found understanding, even sympathy, there. “Let her go, Damien. She needs time. She has to explore this new realm she finds herself inhabiting, grow accustomed to it.”

Damien shoved Eric aside and strode on. “How can I let her go? You said yourself what kind of bastard this Bachman might be. You think I want to see her captured for live study by that animal? And what about this rogue vampire that's on the rampage? How do you know she's safe from him?”

Eric kept pace easily. “I didn't say we couldn't watch her. We'll keep her in sight, but from a distance. Damien, you have to give her a chance to accept this on her own. You've forced it down her throat and she's choking. Can't you see that?”

Damien stopped. He turned to stare at the other man. Then felt his own shoulders slump in concession. “You're insightful, Eric. I'll give you that.”

“I'm glad you think it. For I have a few other notions. I haven't wished to involve my mate in this for fear of the risk.”

“Risk?”

Eric nodded. “I'd no idea what sort of temper you possessed when first I approached you, Damien.”

“And now?”

“No worse than most. I believe Tamara can be of help to your Shannon.”

“That might be true.” Damien walked on, but his pace was slower. Part of his mind remained focused on Shannon, felt her tears, her confusion. Another part listened intently to what Eric suggested. “There's still Bachman, and this rogue we've discovered.”

“I wouldn't bring her here if I had a choice, Damien. But the fact is, she's coming, whether I like it or not. She'll be at the house I rented within the hour.”

Damien only looked at him, brows raised in question as he waited for Eric to finish.

“She worries about me. She found out about Bachman's presence here, and nothing could stop her from joining me.”

Damien blinked, wondering what that kind of devotion must feel like. “You're a lucky man, Marquand.”

“That I am.”

“Go on to your house, then, and wait for your fierce protector. I'm going back to the mansion to watch over Shannon.” At Eric's frown he added, “From a distance.”

S
he tried not to notice how fast she was walking, or that she didn't get winded, or that her heart didn't even speed up. She ignored the fact that, while she felt the cold as she never had before, felt its crisp touch on every inch of her body, she didn't
feel
cold, or uncomfortable with it. She didn't get goose bumps or shiver. She tried to pay no attention to the incredibly flavorful
taste
of every breath she drew, or the scents of every plant and animal she passed, and of the air itself.

God, but she'd never been so aware!

When she reached Damien's house, she climbed the gate with no trouble, wondering about this new agility and strength. She walked inside, resisting the astonishing differences. The colors in the Turkish rugs that she'd never seen before. The intricate patterns. The smell of the fire. The taste of the wood smoke.

It would overwhelm her if she paid attention. She felt she could sit for hours and explore her heightened senses. The flames in the hearth…

My God, the flames. Look at them!

She stared, paralyzed by the beauty of the dancing tongues of light and energy and color. She had to force herself to break away.

Not now. Not now. She wanted only to gather up her belongings, toss them into her car and drive far away from here. Far away from Damien and Eric Marquand and this entire nightmare she'd fallen into.

She started through the round room, not intending to pause at all, when something stopped her. Some inner knowledge she couldn't understand made the hair on her nape stand up. And she went still, trying to find the source. Finally she turned around. Her gaze went to the arched doorway on the other side, and Bachman stepped out from his hiding place just beyond the beads, his gun pointed right at her.

Some hysterical person inside her began to laugh. It began as a chuckle and grew, gaining strength until she was gripping her middle with both hands, tears pooling in her eyes. She could easily have let it go on until she sank to the floor and the laughter led to hysteria and the hysteria to madness. But she didn't. She caught hold of herself. She stopped the laughter and eyed the weapon. “Bachman, what are you doing? You want me to take that one away from you, too?”

“Where is he, Shannon?”

She shrugged and wiped her eyes dry. “Not here. But you must already know that. You've been searching the place all day, haven't you?”

He frowned, scanning her face, and she stiffened, wondering what he saw. She waited, her breath halted.

“You've been crying. Why?”

She blinked, nearly limp with relief. He didn't see the change, he couldn't. Mindful of the marks on her neck, she lowered her head. When she lifted it again her hair hung down the front of her shoulders, hiding the wounds. “Oh, Bachman, why didn't I listen to you?” She let a few new tears dampen her lashes. “I thought I loved him, you know. But he left me. Just walked out.”

“And you don't know where he went?”

She shook her head sadly. “I hate him now.” It wasn't true. She didn't know what she felt for Damien anymore, but it wasn't hatred. She didn't think it ever would be.

Bachman nodded, but didn't put the gun away. His face softened a little. “Shannon, come with me to the institute. We might be able to help you there.”

It was a lie. She knew it the second the words left his lips. She wasn't even certain Bachman
knew
it was a lie, but she did. Amazing. Not the slight intuition she'd felt when he'd lied to her before, but a glaring neon sign flashing in her mind. “Are there others there, others like me?”

He nodded, and for an instant she glimpsed a frightening image. Men and women imprisoned in cell-like rooms. Strapped to tables. Desolation in their faces.

She licked her lips. “I don't know.” Fear gripped her heart. He might honestly think he could help her, but she knew he couldn't. If she went with him, she'd become a prisoner, a research object, a guinea pig. She took a step away from him. “I'll think about it, though. Give me until tomorrow to—”

His eyes narrowed and the gun's muzzle lifted a fraction. He shook his head. “No, Shannon. You're coming with me now.”

She felt herself go cold all over.

“I'm not leaving here without you,” he said softly, dangerously. “I wanted to wait until I had him, but he's gone. My chance to get him is gone. But I'm not going back to White Plains empty-handed. And I'm damned well not leaving you here to die.” He shook his head. “Besides, I'm not sure you don't know where he is. Maybe I can convince you to tell me.”

“I told you—I don't know. He's gone. He's not coming back.” She defended Damien instantly and without any hesitation. Yes, she was angry with him for what he'd done to her. But this was instinctive and had nothing to do with the other.

“He'll come if you're in trouble, I think. I didn't want to do it this way, Shannon, but if I were to, say, shoot you, I think he'd know. I think he'd be here in a matter of minutes. Seconds, maybe.” He worked the action of the gun.

Fear rippled through her and her mind sought wildly for an answer. But the sixth sense she'd felt before seemed to have deserted her. Was he bluffing or would he really do it? She couldn't just stand there and let him shoot her. She held her hands in front of her, palms out. “No, don't. I'll go with you. I'll tell you where he is—I will.”

Bachman nodded, his frown altering, softening. “I figured you'd change your mind. Don't worry about him, Shannon. He won't suffer. That's if I decide to let him live long enough to take him in. I might not. He's a murderer. Someone has to stop him. Someone has to stop them all.”

Then there were others. Others like Damien, hunted and persecuted by people like Bachman, and maybe even killed. Just as Eric Marquand's notes had said. It was too horrible to believe.

She lowered her head, chin to chest, and forced a couple of sobs. She took one faltering, weak-kneed step toward him, then another. She swayed sideways, catching herself on a table. Her palm pressed to her forehead and her eyes closed.

He strode to her, gripping her forearm none too gently. It hurt, though she didn't think he meant it to. Her skin seemed more sensitive than before. When he squeezed her arm, pain shot all the way to her shoulder.

She lifted her other hand, settled it on his shoulder as if for support. Her fingers clenched hard into his flesh. Her knee rose and connected. She'd expected him to double over in pain, giving her time to escape.

Instead he launched into the air, propelled by the simple lifting motion of her knee into his groin. He screamed aloud, a hoarse, gravelly yell, and he sailed backward, hitting the floor five feet away. The gun skittered across the marble tiles to stop near the hearth, well beyond his reach.
Then
he doubled over.

Shannon's hand flew to her mouth, and she felt as if her eyes would pop out of their sockets. “Did I do that?” she whispered. “Ah, hell, this is so frigging strange.”

He struggled to his feet, rage in his eyes, even as Shannon thought that those thugs who'd tried to steal her car ought to try it again now. If they thought she'd given them what for last time…She halted that speculating as Bachman stood, took one staggering step forward, lifted a shaking hand, forefinger extended.

“You…you're one of them.”

“Not by choice,” she muttered. “Look, Bachman, why don't you just get the hell out of here before I really hurt you, okay?”

He glanced toward the gun, took a step toward it. She leapt, easily covering the distance in a single, gazellelike move, and put herself between Bachman and the weapon. He thrust a hand into a pocket and emerged with a blade. “Come on, Shannon. Come over here and try that again.” He was panting, breathless, obviously in pain.

She held her hand up, telling him to stop. “Don't do this,” she said softly. “Don't…”

“You think I
want
to?” He moved nearer, still brandishing the blade. She backed away, but he advanced. “I could kill you, you know,” he rasped. “One little nick, honey, and then I could stand here and watch you bleed.” She gasped. “Give it up, Shannon. Don't make me do it.”

He lunged, and the blade swept toward her. She jumped back again and he missed—perhaps deliberately, she couldn't be sure—but now her back was against the mantel. There was no more retreat. Nowhere to go. He stood in front of her, grim-faced, and she recalled Damien's having told her how easily she could bleed to death.

Bachman lifted the blade. He pressed its pointed tip to her throat. “Say you'll come with me Shannon. Don't make me hurt you.”

She'd die before she'd go with him. She had to do something. Her hand groped behind her, moving slowly, so as not to alert him. It bumped the glass cube that enclosed one of Damien's artifacts. She lifted the glass, set it aside and clenched her fist on the section of stone tablet.

And in that instant, that very instant as she felt the pressure of the cold blade increase, felt its tip press harder into her flesh, she sensed as clearly as if he'd spoken it, his intent to kill her unless she cooperated. And to kill Damien, as well. She knew only one thing. She didn't want to die. Damien had been right about that.

In a surge of strength brought on by panic, a surge she didn't try to gauge or temper, she swung the stone forward, catching him in the side of his head.

He fell sideways and his body slammed to the floor so hard she thought he'd cracked the marble. He didn't move, of course. She blinked, felt the bile rise up in her throat, wanted to retch. She tore away from the wall and ran to the door, flinging it open, racing through it—and colliding hard with a broad chest.

“Shannon—”

His arms closed around her, and she sagged against Damien, clinging to his neck, sobbing. “I think I killed him. Oh, God, I think I killed him.”

“I'm sorry, Shannon. I came as fast as I could, the second I sensed something wrong, but—”

He broke off, threading his fingers in her hair, lifting her into his arms. He carried her back through the house, holding her face to his shoulder as they passed through his comfort room. He took her up the stairs, laid her gently on the bed. “Shannon, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say.”

She searched his face, his beloved, beautiful face, and she didn't know what to say, either. Her fingers clenched, and she realized she still held the stone. She drew it up to her chest, rolled slowly to her side, facing away from him, and closed her eyes.

Sighing, Damien covered her with a blanket, and left her alone.

 

Damien went downstairs to check on Bachman's condition, but the man was gone. Shannon hadn't killed him after all. It would be a relief to her to know that.

Eric's voice came from the doorway. “Are you all right?”

Before Damien formed an answer, his lovely young mate came forward, with all the grace of a ballerina in the midst of a dance. She drew a flask from a pocket inside her coat, and offered it to him. “Here, Damien. You're white as chalk. Drink.”

“Tamara, love, that isn't—” Eric began, but he paused, searching Damien's awestruck face. “What is it, my friend?”

A burden floated away from Damien's shoulders. “The need. The thirst. By the love of Inanna, it's changed. Altered. I don't feel…” He smiled softly at Tamara and took the small flask from her hands. He drained it, and by the gods, it assuaged the emptiness inside him. It satisfied his thirst as thoroughly as it had thousands of years ago. He didn't feel that raging need to take from a living being. Not even a twinge of it.

Eric studied his face, reading all of these thoughts, Damien knew. “Amazing,” he whispered.

“Not so amazing.” Tamara tilted her head, sending spirals of raven curls over her shoulder. Her black eyes glittered with knowledge and Damien shot her a searching glance. “I know about your problems feeding, Damien. Eric and I don't keep secrets. But honestly, you men are so dense about some things. Every species has to procreate. Nature gives them all urges that, when followed, lead to mating and reproduction. Is it so farfetched that we're burdened with the same urges? The need to drink from the living gets stronger, more maddening, more demanding, until you perform the ritual, the creating of another one of us. Then the need vanishes.”

Eric shook his head in blatant amazement. “So, we must transform one of the Chosen once every thousand years or so, in order to preserve our sanity.” He smiled, then laughed. “Makes perfect sense, Tamara.”

Her brows rose in perfect arches. “Sure it does.”

Damien paced to the chaise and sank into it. “One problem less to deal with. Why do I still feel like hell?”

“You ought to rest. It's nearly dawn. And your Shannon should be moved from that bedroom, with those big windows.” Pretty young Tamara wrinkled her nose. “Although I don't think she's quite ready yet to wake up in a coffin.”