Books by Maggie Shayne (117 page)

And he'd pray he wasn't worthy of all her fear.

Why the hell did she agree to sit here and listen to him? The guy could talk her into buying swampland in the desert if he applied himself. There was something about him. She walked into the library, took a look around. The room's shape came as no surprise. The curving walls were lined with books, most of them old-looking, with that wonderful, slightly musty smell that old books always have. The sofa and chairs were rich brown leather. New. Their aroma mingled with that of the books, and that more subtle scent that was distinctly Da mien.

She glanced over her shoulder at him. He stood right where he'd been before, watching her intently. It was his eyes--that's what it was. They were so huge and deep and expressive. So dark. Combined with the tenor song of his mellow voice, they were compelling.

"So, talk," she said, trying to sound callous, wishing she felt that way.

She didn't want to think maybe she'd been wrong about him. She didn't want to let her defenses down. And she sure as hell wasn't going to trust the man. She didn't trust anyone. She and Tawny. they'd trusted no one but each other.

"What was that?" His sable brows rose slightly, and his jet eyes probed.

He came toward her, then stopped.

"What?"

"You looked..." He licked his lips, shook his head.

"nothing. Never mind.

It's none of my business. "

"Probably not." She turned and ran her fingers over the dusty spines, glanced at titles. Sumerian Mythology, The Gods of the Ancients, The Epic of Gilgamesh. "I know you think I killed your friend. But since I know myself better than you do, I'm inclined to disagree."

He came up behind her as he spoke. Too close. She felt his nearness like static electricity, raising the fine hairs on the back of her neck. She tried to focus on the titles instead of on the physical effects of being so close to him. A newer volume about Gilgamesh. And another. He had several versions of the same story.

"That in mind, I have to assume someone else is responsible for her murder.

If I'm right, then you're at risk. "

"If you're right? Sounds like you're not even convinced you're innocent."

She turned in time to see him blink when she said it, as if she'd poked a raw spot.

"I thought you might be in danger. That's why I followed you home last night. That's why I brought you here when I saw that you were too sick to defend yourself. I was only trying to protect you."

She met his gaze, fighting to keep her own hard, not let it soften the way her heart had begun to do at those last few words. She swallowed hard. In all her life no one had ever thought to protect her. No one had cared enough to. She'd had no shelter against the cruel realities of life. She'd had to face them all, head-on, and her only protection had been her own strength.

"Yeah? Why should I believe that? You barely know me, why would you want to protect me?"

' "What was the alternative. Shannon? Stay here and let you die? Read about your body being found in the headlines of tonight's paper?"

"Tonight's, tomorrow night's... what's the difference?" Someone would be finding her body one of these days. After this last attack, she figured it wouldn't be much longer.

He frowned, his gaze probing so deeply she had to turn away.

"What do you" -- "Look, I have to go. Is there anything else you want to say before I do?"

"If you go, and there is a killer stalking you, you'll be defenseless."

"I've been called a lot of things, Da mien. Never defenseless, though."

"Shannon" -- "If I stay here, he won't try anything." She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin.

"If he doesn't try anything, I won't be able to take him out.

You get it? "

He blinked twice, understanding dawning in his black eyes. His hands went to her shoulders. Strong hands. Hard and warm and urgent. The urge to lean closer whispered across her mind. Stupid. She must still be slightly off kilter from last night.

"You want him to attack you."

"You're damned right I do."

"That's insane. You'll get yourself killed." He appeared shaken by the idea.

"It's perfectly sane from my point of view. And so what if I do? I'll take the bastard with me."

"You're risking your life" -- "It's not so much to risk. Let go of me."

He looked down at his hands, as if he hadn't been aware of the way they'd been holding her shoulders, the way they'd begun to pull her just a little closer. The way that scared the hell out of her, because she'd been thinking about getting closer to him. Wondering what would happen if she slipped her arms around his muscled neck and leaned against his broad chest. Would he hold her closer, harder? Push her away? Murder her?

His hands fell to his sides. He lifted his ebony gaze to hers. "What do you mean by that? That it's not much to risk?"

Fears crept up on her. She battled them away. She wouldn't talk about it.

She wouldn't think about it. And she damned well wouldn't cry about it.

Her eyes burned, but she blinked them cool again. What was so bad about death? Life hadn't exactly been a walk in the park.

"I'm leaving now. You said you'd let me go. So let me go."

"I'm sorry. Shannon. But I can't."

The rush of anger was a welcome relief after the other things she'd been feeling.

"I knew I couldn't believe a word you said!" She brought her fist into his middle clean and fast and hard, smiling smugly when he staggered backward, doubling over. She turned and ran toward the doors.

"Stay put, damn you!" The doors thundered shut as if a gale force wind had driven them. She felt her eyes bulge, the shivering up the back of her neck, the tensing of her spine.

She turned very slowly. He was just unbending himself, one hand pressed to the spot where she'd hit him. He looked angry. "How did you" -- "I'm a magician, remember?" He grunted, standing straight again.

"The--the house is rigged?"

"Something like that."

"You can't keep me here."

"I'm not going to let you get yourself killed. Believe me, Shannon, I don't like this any more than you do. But until this threat is removed, I'm your shadow. Whither thou go est and where thou lodge st and all that.

I'll be there. " He shook his head slowly, as if he'd just reached a decision and wasn't at all pleased about it.

"That's bull. You're up to something. You want something from me. Might as well put it on the table, Da mien. I'm not buying what you're selling."

He licked his lips and the action drew her gaze, sent hot images sizzling into her mind. His kisses. God, what would they feel like?

The thought seared her from the inside out.

"I need to see her body," he said at last.

She blinked, and dragged her attention away from his mouth.

"You what?"

"I want to see your friend."

Shannon's stomach clenched like a fist.

"For God's sake, why?"

He averted his eyes, paced back and forth in front of the bookshelves.

"I have to see for myself how she died. "

She blinked again, a cold foreboding settling in her heart. "What do you think you can tell by seeing her? Do you have any knowledge of forensic pathology? Have you ever studied death, Da mien?"

His head came up, eyes level with hers, and she thought there couldn't have been more pain in them if she'd shot him through the heart.

"All my life," he whispered.

"I must be insane." Her voice was near his ear, a harsh rasp as they crouched in the shrubbery near the rear entrance of Arista's medical examiner's office.

"I've been calling every day to try and get her body released for burial.

They keep putting me off, saying there are still more tests to be run. They wouldn't even let me see her." She parted a tangle of branches and peered through.

Da mien snagged her waist with his arm and pulled her down beside him again.

She was noisy and in constant motion. Clandestine surveillance could never have been one of her strengths as a private investigator, "Sit still," he warned. But then he had trouble following his own advice.

His arm remained around her tiny waist, despite his mind's commands that it move away. Her right side pressed tight to his left one. He could feel the softness of her breast, the curve of her hip, the firmness of her thigh against his. This was insanity.

"I didn't think anyone would be here so late," she said, as if their closeness had no effect on her at all.

"What are they doing?"

A shiny black hearse with a government emblem on the sides, and the letters "DPI" in bright yellow paint, backed up to the door. The driver emerged, walked around the vehicle and opened the back. Shannon stiffened beside Da mien. "They're moving her!"

He tightened his hold on her.

"It could be anyone. Shan- non."

She shook her head hard, meeting his gaze, her own tortured. Then her head swung forward again, as the office door opened. Two men pushed a gurney out into the night, stopping behind the hearse.

"That's the ME." Shannon nodded toward the shorter, pudgy one who wore the white lab coat. The other man was taller, elegant in his movements, solidly built and darkly attractive. He wore an expensive gray suit and a long black wool coat.

"You'll rule it a suicide," he told the medical examiner. His voice carried the ring of authority.

"There's still the PI that found that body" -- "We'll be in touch with her.

Don't worry. We've dealt with situations like this before." The driver and the ME collapsed the gurney and lifted the vinyl-encased body up into the hearse, while the tall man stood with his hands thrust into his coat pockets, watching. His breath made little steam clouds that hid his face. He exuded confidence.

The ME walked back inside, shaking his head and muttering, as the driver slammed the doors. Then the two got into the front seat and the vehicle moved away.

Shannon was shaking all over.

"Where are they taking her? They can't just take her away like this.

Dammit, Da mien, let go of me!"

He held her tighter. She kept struggling until the hearse rolled out of sight, and then it was as if the fight went out of her. She felt limp. Her head lowered to his chest and her hot tears dampened his skin. She clung to him with one hand and rained painless blows on his shoulder with the other.

"You should have let me stop them."

He threaded his fingers in her hair, moved his palms over it again and again.

He knew this pain. He knew just what she felt right now, what she'd felt since her friend's death. Too well. Maybe that was another reason for this closeness he had to keep fighting. The grief. The shared pain.

He held her for a long time while she cried. He hadn't had a chance to look at the body, but he'd been close enough. He'd lowered the walls around his mind for an instant, just long enough to focus on the dead woman. He needed to practice more, to hone his mind better. But he had managed to understand one thing. Tawny Keller's death had been brought about by a vampire.

Da mien still wasn't certain if that vampire was him.

Shannon straightened, swiped her eyes so hard it must have hurt her.

"Something's going on, Da mien. Those men were feds or something--the ME wouldn't lie about a cause of death unless he had no choice. I know that.

He's a suit, but an honest one. "

Da mien nodded his agreement, but was as baffled as Shan- non.

"I don't understand this any more than you do ... unless..."

Her head came up sharply.

"Unless what?"

He shook his head.

"I was going to say, unless they actually believe in the existence of vampires, but that's unlikely, isn't it?"

She shrugged and looked away. But Da mien wondered. If he hadn't kept himself so closed off from others of his kind, he might know more. Was the federal government aware of their existence?

What in hell was this DPI?

Shannon touched his arm.

"I want to go home. Take me home now."

He saw her clearly in the darkness, her red, swollen eyes, the track of each and every tear she'd shed, burned into her pale ivory flesh.

"You'd be safer at my house, I think."

She shook her head so hard her hair flew.

"I can take care of myself. Take me to my place or I'll go somewhere and call a cab. It's up to you." She sniffed loudly.

He helped her to her feet, encircled her shoulders with his arm and walked with her around the building to the sidewalk, toward where he'd parked his car. The chilly October breeze whisked over them, and he hoped it cooled her burning cheeks.

"If you insist, I'll take you to your apartment. But you still might be in danger. Shannon. I'll just have to park myself outside the building and try to watch over you from there."

"Sure you will. And pigs will fly, too." She went to the passenger door of his gleaming black car. One of his indulgences. A Jaguar. He liked it, liked driving it fast, liked the new smell of it. When that smell wore off, he'd immediately buy another. He had few enough pleasures in this life.

She opened the door and stood there, staring over the car at him.

"So are you gonna drive me, or not?"

"I'm gonna drive you."

-Da mien sat in the car near the front of her apartment building. It wasn't much of a building. Tall, narrow. Too few windows, and fire escapes with huge sections missing. The ugly red bricks looked ready to crumble. The security was nonexistent. It wasn't a slum, but he didn't like the idea of her living here.

She came onto the balcony twice, glancing down at his black car. He shivered a little when she leaned on the iron rail. The damned thing probably wasn't in any better shape than the rest of the place. After that he saw her part the curtains a few times, and he knew she was looking, checking to see if he was still there. Almost as if she expected him to leave.

Maybe she'd be better off if he did.

Da mien couldn't bring himself to believe he'd killed those other women, but he couldn't ignore the possibility, either. He didn't know whether this change in his hunger was normal, something every immortal felt with age. He didn't know if others had killed without even being aware of it.

Was something like that possible?

He thumped his fist on the steering wheel as the questions tormented him.

Traffic and people passed by. Lights in buildings blinked off one by one as this less-than-elite section of Arista went to sleep.

He wished now that he hadn't avoided all contact with others of his kind, wished there were someone he could ask about these things, and about this DPI, whatever it was, and the murder of Tawny Keller. Da mien ought to know.

As far as he was aware, he was the oldest of any of them. He ought to have the answers, but dammit he didn't.

He thought of the letters he'd received from the one who called himself a scientist, Eric Marquand. If anyone could shed some light on all of this it might very well be that young, curious man. Da mien grimaced at the idea of asking for help. The very thought of contacting Marquand made him squirm with unease. He'd existed alone, in a vacuum for so long now. His only emotional ties were the safe ones he felt with his crowds of fans.

When they stood and cheered for him it was almost as if time melted away, almost as if he were an adored ruler again, a beloved king, basking in the unconditional love and loyalty of his people. It was the adoration of those crowds that had driven him to perform all these years. A man could only do without love, connections, for so long. The audiences gave him enough to sustain him. It was the only love allowed into his solitary life, and it was enough. It had to be enough.

He shook his head slowly. No, he'd try to solve this thing on his own.

He'd only use Eric Marquand and his studies of the un dead as a last resort.

And in the meantime he'd watch over Shannon, keep any harm from coming to her.

A job that would be a lot easier if only he could listen to her mind. The idea of trying it again sent a bolt of phantom pain throbbing through his temples. Still, it was one of the benefits of being who he was. He ought to use every tool he had to solve this puzzle, to keep her safe.

He braced himself, and very slowly, began to lower his defenses to allow the myriad vibrations outside to filter into his mind. He consciously kept a thin veil in place and focused all his energy on her, putting her image firmly in his mind's eye. He tried to attune his senses to hers, to feel what she felt.

For an instant the rush of sensations surrounded him, but he forced himself to bear it. He grated his teeth against the bombardment and concentrated harder. Gradually, the intensity eased, quieted, lightened. He sifted, searched, sent his mind out in search of hers.

She wasn't in the apartment.

He stiffened in his seat as he felt her thoughts. Anger. Alarm. Urgency.

Something about her car. She was running. a rear exit. A parking lot.

Da mien was out of his car like a shot and speeding around the building. He saw her there, her feet and legs bare and cold in the autumn chill. She wore a short blue nightgown that shimmered like silk, but wasn't, and her hair was pulled up into a bushy blond ponytail that bounced wildly as she ran over the pavement.

He looked in the direction she ran, and saw two young men crouched at the door of a primer brown Corvette that had to be as old as Shannon was. One of the men turned as Shannon approached, and he laughed. She never slowed her pace. The thief started toward her and lifted his hand. Da mien saw the tire iron he held. He lunged forward, knowing as he did that he couldn't reach her in time. Already the two stood close, and the man's hand swung down, no doubt about to crush her skull.

But Shannon's small hand shot up and gripped the man's wrist, stopping the tire iron's descent. Her knee jammed hard into his groin, and the man grunted loud, doubled over. The tire iron clanked to the broken pavement.

Da mien froze for a shocked instant as Shannon spun backward, smacking her heel across the man's chin and laying him flat on his back. It happened in two clicks of a second hand.

The second man turned toward her, pulling a gun from his tattered jeans.

Before he leveled its sights on her, she kicked it out of his hand, sending it sailing in an arc and then skittering across the pavement. He swung a fist at her, but she ducked, and when she straightened, she brandished the tire iron the other one had dropped.

He held his hands up in front of him, backing away.

"Okay, lady. Okay, you win." As Da mien hurried forward, the thug helped his partner to his feet, and the two ran into the darkness. He heard their rubber soles slapping.

They didn't go far, though.

He gripped Shannon's arm, still dazed by what he'd seen. "Are you all right?"

She nodded, but didn't say anything, still trying to catch her breath.

Da mien turned to look at the unpainted car and shook his head. He was going to blast her for risking her life over a hunk of scrap metal, when he heard the unmistakable click of a hammer being pulled back. His head went up, and his piercing night vision showed him one of the two thugs, holding the gun, pointing it at Shannon.

Da mien whirled toward her, propelling himself forward just as the blast shattered the night. He felt Shannon hit the ground hard underneath him.

And he felt a searing pain burn through him.

Anthar watched as he always watched--witness to every breath the pagan drew--and smiled slowly to himself. The bastard. The insolent, blasphemous bastard. Da mien the Eternal. Whatever he called himself now, it didn't matter. He'd be gone, vanquished, destroyed by his own hand. Conquered by his own emotions. And soon.

The thugs whose small minds Anthar had implanted with the notion of stealing the woman's car were bumbling fools, yes. But at least one of them had fired his weapon at her. And the heathen had thrown himself in front of the bullet.

Finally, after endless millennia, the bastard cared for another living soul.

Anthar had waited so long, tried so often to hurt him this way. But Da mien kept to himself, cared for no one. Not even the women he took on occasion, while Anthar watched from the shadows, his presence so carefully cloaked even Da mien couldn't sense him there. Da mien drank from those women so gently, so careful not to harm them. Sickening, gutless worm! So tenderly he would use them that Anthar would become convinced there must be some feeling there. But alas, none ever came. When those women had died, Da mien the Eternal hadn't even been aware of their passing.

Damn him to everlasting torment!

Ah, but this time would be different. This time there was something more.

Just the something Anthar needed to hurt him in the most devastating way possible.

But he must proceed with caution.

Damn, but it wouldn't do to take the bitch too soon. He had to test Da mien's feelings yet again. He had to be sure the oldest immortal alive would feel the ultimate pain, shame, remorse. He had to be sure.

Another test was in order.

They were gone. He heard them run and then nothing. Da- when's body lay heavily on top of Shannon's. She was on her back. He was angled across her chest, his head near her left shoulder.

"They're gone," she said, and shoved at him.

"You can get off me now, Da mien. I don't know why you came rushing out here like some knight on a charger, anyway. I can take care of my" She'd pressed her hands to his shoulders to move him off her, and touched the warm dampness seeping through his shirt. He felt the shock that passed through her body.

She sucked in a coarse breath.

"Da mien?"

He moved, but slowly. It hurt to do it. He sat up, and she jumped to her feet, bending over him. His white shirt was stained crimson. He pressed one hand to the front of his shoulder and tried to stand.

Shannon bent to help him, sliding an arm around his waist and holding him firm.

"Damn you straight to hell, Da mien, you've gone and got yourself shot.

What's the matter with you, jumping on me like that?" She walked toward the building's back entrance, pulling him along with her.

He glanced down at her, almost giddy with relief that he'd knocked her out of the way in time.

"That gun was pointing toward your head. Was I supposed to stand there and let them shoot you?"

"Yes!" She reached out to open the door, then held it with her hip while she helped him through.

"Dammit, you're probably going to bleed to death."

He was not going to bleed to death. Actually, the wound was minor except for the excruciating pain it caused. Debilitating, momentarily paralyzing pain.

His shoulder still screamed with it. But he'd expected that. One of the few things he did know about his kind was that sensitivity to pain--to any physical stimulus--increased with age, just as the strength and psychic powers did. As for the tendency to bleed dry, it didn't concern him too much. He could keep pressure on the wound until dawn. It wasn't bleeding all that badly. It would heal with the regenerative sleep. Any injury would.

What did concern him, besides the pain in his shoulder, was the feel of her small arm anchored around his waist. The way she held him tight to her side as they entered the elevator, the urgency in her eyes when she looked up at him. Her smell. Her warmth.

"You're pale. Did it bleed much?"

"I'm always pale. And no, it's nothing."

She narrowed her eyes and stared at the spot where he pressed his hand to the wound.

"It's not nothing--it's a bullet. We'll call an ambulance from the apartment."

He shook his head, but studied her determined face, noting the strength in it.

"Why did you rush out there in your nightgown, Shannon? Why risk your life, when calling the police would have been just as good?"

"What're you, kidding me? My car would have been long gone by the time the cops got here. Do you know how long and hard I work just to keep up the payments on that car?"

"Corvettes don't come cheap." Not even primer-coated ones whose rust spots had been sanded off, he supposed.

The doors slid open. She tightened her grip on him and started into the hall.

"Not just a Corvette. A 1962 Stingray, mag wheels, four barrel carb and an engine that would blow your black Jag's doors off."

He smiled. He couldn't help it, and the pain didn't stop it. "Your dream car?"

"Abso-freaking-lutely. Nobody messes with my car."

"I'll keep that in mind."

She stopped outside her apartment door and pushed it open. She hadn't locked it and that bothered him almost as much as the hole in his shoulder, but he refrained from commenting on it. He'd seen firsthand why she kept insisting she could take care of herself. She hadn't done half-badly at it.

She pulled him inside, kicked the door closed, and didn't let go of him until she'd eased him onto the sofa. And when she did, he felt the absence of her touch like another wound in his flesh. She hurried back to the door, locked it. So she wasn't completely careless with her own well-being. Then she knelt in front of him and reached up to tear the sleeve away from his shirt.

She tried to push his hand aside so she could look at the wound.

"It's barely a scratch." He kept his hand where it was.

"That's a lot of blood for a scratch, Da mien."

"I'm a heavy bleeder. I'll be fine."

She scowled at him.

"Hey, you jumped in front of a bullet for me. The least I can do is take a look at it." She reached for the shoulder again.

He ducked her hand.

"Oh? Then you're admitting that I probably just saved your life?"

She straightened, propping her fists on her hips.

"Yeah, for what it's worth, you probably did."

"At no small risk to my own?" He prompted. She said nothing, but tilted her head to one side.

"Well?"

"All right. Okay, I'll give you that much. So what's your point?"

"That I'm not planning your murder, for starters." He got to his feet, not waiting for her reply, and walked to the bathroom. He was a bit weaker than usual, a response to the amount of blood he'd lost. Good thing he'd had the presence of mind to put the pressure on right away. It wouldn't take much to incapacitate an immortal as old as he was.

He closed the door behind him. One place he did not want to spar with Shannon Mallory was in her bathroom, where mirrors abounded. But he felt her presence there, even though he'd locked her out. It was in the still-damp towel slung over the shower-curtain rod. And in the clothes she'd been wearing earlierin a little heap on the floor. And in the scent she favored. Subtle. Not floral or fruity. More enticing than that.

Herbal. Like exotic incense or some rare spice. It clung to everything, even the air was tinged with it.

He opened the cabinet and tried to put her out of his mind and focus on the matter at hand, namely applying something to the wound to staunch the blood flow until dawn. He'd sit with his hand on it for the next few hours if necessary, but he'd prefer not to.

There. A roll of gauze. Some adhesive tape. A hairbrush with a few honey gold strands catching the light and glowing at him. It was like a halo around her, that hair of hers. Like something unreal.

"Angel hair," Netty had called it.