Books by Maggie Shayne (149 page)

“I despise you!” She wrenched her wrist free of his grasp, and turned to get out of the car.

Jameson held her there easily, preventing that. “Close the door. We’re not quite there yet.”

Scowling at him, she did.

The house was as frightening to me as anything could have been. I was terrified. Alone with a monster who seemed to know more of me than I knew of myself. A man who’d taken me from one prison only to bring me to another. This one looking as if it belonged to a band of witches in old Salem. But it didn’t. It belonged instead to a band of vampires. And perhaps that was even worse.

We drove past a tall iron gate that hung open and seemed attached only by one hinge. Above us, an arch of black filigree spelled the name Marquand. The drive was littered with broken limbs, overgrown with weeds and lined with scrub trees and briars. And then the house itself loomed before us like a giant demon. It was a tower of gray stone blocks, and ivy had crept over most of it. Large timbers had been nailed over the massive front door. The wrought-iron railing was broken, and leaned over the chipped stone steps like a crippled old man leaning upon a cane. Water stains darkened the stone beneath each tall, narrow window, giving the ghastly illusion that the house had been crying. I shivered at the thought. Beyond the house, a sheer cliff tumbled raggedly down to the sea. I could see the black water churning in the distance, and I could hear the breakers smashing against the rocky shore.

And still Jameson drove his small black car farther. He turned off the drive and drove through the brush, and as we went, it seemed a path opened out where none had been visible before. We drove deep into a tunnel made of briars and brush so dense it was impossible to see outside it. Impossible, I realized, to see
inside
it, as well. Ingenious.

And then Jameson shut off the engine. But he left the keys in the switch. For a fast getaway, I guessed. “Now,” he said, looking at me in the darkness, seeing me just as clearly as I could see him, with his velvety brown, tiger-striped eyes, “you can get out.”

Obeying this man made me cringe, but it seemed there was little else I could do. I opened the car door and got out. He was beside me so quickly I gasped in surprise. And again, he took hold of my wrist. I looked down at his hand, wrapped around me, and I knew he could break that small narrow wrist of mine with one simple twist. And at that same moment, it occurred to me that he hadn’t once hurt me. Though he could have, and though it had seemed as if he’d very much like to on more than one occasion, he had yet to cause me any pain. His grip, when he found it necessary to hold me, was tight. Firm. Even unshakable. But not painful.

I thought of the careless cruelty of the one who’d taken me in the alley. He had hurt me. Time and again, without a thought.

It would be a mistake, though, to believe the two were so different. They were the same, both damned, both monsters, demons, servants of Satan himself. I would not let his deceptive gentleness lull me into complacency. I must escape him. And I would.

He led me still deeper into this tunnel of undergrowth, to a wall of the stuff at the very end, and then he pushed some of the branches aside, and stepped forward, and down, pulling me with him.

A staircase…cut into the very earth, and spiraling downward. For just an instant I envisioned the fires of hell awaiting me at the bottom, and I pulled against him.

He turned then, eyes narrow. “It’s all right, Angelica. There’s nothing here to be afraid of. I know all of this seems absurd, but believe me it’s necessary. For our safety. Come.”

Swallowing my fears, I went with him, down into the depths of the earth, and then along a narrow underground passage. We finally emerged from it, passing through a sturdy door and into a larger room, and it was then that I blinked in utter astonishment.

This was not at all what I had expected. A tomblike dungeon, yes. But not this.

The room was large and beautiful. With a stone fireplace at the farthest side, and kindling lying ready on the grate. A fragrant stack of cherry wood stood beside it. The walls had been painted a muted shade of rose, and paintings lined them. Lovely works, and I noticed then that many of them included a fiery sun’s loving rays bathing various land and seascapes. Oriental rugs covered the floors, and a velvet settee, heaped with pillows and throws, stood in one corner. An antique cherry rocker in another. A marble-topped table littered with objets d’art in a third. There were oil lamps everywhere, and doors. More doors like the one through which we’d entered.

He closed the huge door through which we’d come, and for the first time, I saw the digital panel on this side of it. He punched some buttons, and a red light came on. It was true, then, what he’d said. I was trapped here, with him.

“You see,” he said, facing me again. “Nothing to fear. Through there is a fully functional bathroom, and you’ll find plenty of clothing in various sizes stocked in the closets. You’ll be able to bathe and put on some real clothes. That ought to feel pretty good after all those months in nothing but this thing.” As he said it, he touched the thin white gown I wore, brushing his hand over my shoulder. And I shivered.

He let his hand fall to his side again, averting his eyes. “Everything you need is right here. There are exits from each room. Tunnels like the one we came through. They each open onto various parts of the property, so if we need to escape, we can. And here—” he nodded at the small appliance built into the wall, a minuscule refrigerator “—is enough sustenance to keep us going.”

I stared at the little door, aghast. “What…what do you mean?”

He opened the door with a little flourish. I’m not certain what I expected. A long narrow vault holding the bodies of his victims or something equally horrendous, I suppose. But instead, I saw stacks of plastic bags like those used in blood banks and hospitals. My shock must have shown in my eyes, because he tilted his head, and sent me a look as if he knew exactly what I’d been thinking. “You see how little you know, Angelica? We don’t feed on the living. That comes straight out of Sunday afternoon monster movies. Why the hell would we prey on innocent humans, when there’s blood readily available elsewhere?” And he slammed the door, shaking his head in disgust. “I suggest you feed. I’m going to shower and change. Don’t try to leave. The doors will not open without the proper codes. Even if you happened on them by chance, an alarm would sound. And if all of that somehow failed and you did escape, you’d only find yourself out in the open with no shelter in reach and daylight approaching. You’d toast in the sun.” He turned as if to leave me alone there.

“And the sun would kill me?” I asked. I couldn’t stop myself from asking. For nine months I’d existed without knowing the first thing about myself. He’d made me realize, in his crude way, how very little I knew. Not even what things might kill me. And these were things I had to understand. The questions that had been boiling inside me at first—the ones I’d buried and ignored in my foolish certainty that none of it mattered, since I’d be human again one day—came bubbling back to the surface with a new urgency.

I was a member of a race I knew nothing about. Like a newborn, unfamiliar with her own body. I wanted to know.

His back went stiff, but when he turned to face me once more, his stern expression had softened. His brows rose in bewilderment. “Yes. Of course it would. My God, Angelica, you don’t even know that much?”

I lowered my head and turned away from those knowing eyes. I’d revealed too much already. Anything I told this creature would be turned against me, I knew that.

He stared at my back for a long moment, awaiting an answer. An answer I dared not give. So instead, I attempted to change the subject entirely. “Where will I sleep?” I asked.

“Ah, yet another of Eric’s marvels. I’ll show you.” He moved past me to yet another door and pushed it open. Then waved a hand so that I would precede him inside. “Not my first choice, of course,” he was saying as I walked into the room. “But when you see the safety of these, you’ll understand. Eric is a genius about these things. He’s installed…Angelica?”

I could not move. I stood rooted to the floor, staring in horror at the two caskets, gleaming at me in the darkness. I could not breathe, I was so terror-stricken. Even looking at them, I could feel myself trapped inside, feel the cramped space closing in on me, hear my own screams and feel my hands beating against the lid, to no avail.

Jameson touched my shoulder, and all my pride left me in a rush. I spun around to face him, falling to my knees and gripping his hands in mine, not caring that I knelt at the feet of a demon. Lowering my head to hide my tears did nothing to keep the sobs from breaking my words into fragmented bits. “I…beg of y-you…” I said, choking on the words. “Do not put me into that box. Please…”

Jameson’s heart tripped to a stop as he saw what his thoughtlessness had reduced this fierce woman to. Kneeling on the floor, clutching his hands and shaking. She was cold as ice. Damn. How could he have been so cruel as to forget where he’d found her?

Sealed in a tiny box and left there for God only knew how long. Left there to die.

He bent down, closing his hands around her small waist and lifting her until she stood again. When he tilted up her chin, he saw the tears staining her cheeks, and he swore. “Jesus, Angel, of course not. I wasn’t thinking…” Keeping one arm anchored around her waist, he moved her out of that room as quickly as possible. She was still shaking like a frightened rabbit. “No,” he told her. “God, you truly do think I’m a monster, don’t you? You honestly thought I’d force you into one of those coffins, seal you inside the way those bastards at DPI did? How could you think that?”

She closed her eyes, and he could see her battling the panic that had overwhelmed her, fighting for control. “What else would I think? You said I was your prisoner. You said you’d keep me here until we found her.”

“I was thinking of our safety. Eric has those coffins equipped with all sorts of…never mind, it doesn’t matter. I should have thought before I ushered you in there. I didn’t mean to frighten you like that.”

He turned, crossing the first room again to open a door on the opposite side. And this time he entered first, leaving her to follow at her own pace. He went to the nightstand and bent to light an oil lamp. They didn’t need it to see by, but he thought the amber glow made things seem warmer. Less frightening.

She came in, slowly, warily. God, she mistrusted him. He stood where he was and watched her examine the very normal-looking bedroom. A huge canopy bed held state like a royal personage. Rhiannon’s doing, of course. She preferred luxury to caution. Always had.

“Is this more to your liking?” he asked.

She stepped farther inside, turning her head, taking in her surroundings.

“Look,” he said, pointing. “The bathroom is through there.”

She looked, nodded, but her glance returned to the bed. When her violet gaze had first fallen there, it had seemed to Jameson that her muscles relaxed a bit. She sniffed and brushed at her eyes.

Her breath escaped her in a trembling sigh as she closed her eyes. “Yes,” she breathed at last. “This is much better.”

Jameson stepped away from the bed, shaking his head in puzzlement as she came forward, tugged the plump satin comforter down and nodded in approval at the way the bed looked.

“You’d better feed now, Angelica,” he said, his voice taking on the tone of a parent instructing an innocent child. “Dawn is only a short while away, and you need the sustenance before you sleep.”

She nodded, absorbing that information. “Yes, all right.” And she moved past him into the front room again. He heard her open the refrigerator, heard the chink of glass as she located the crystal stored in the cabinet above it. Heard her pouring.

How in the world, he wondered, was he going to manage to hate a woman who needed him so desperately? She knew nothing. Nothing about her strength, nothing about her psychic abilities. Not even how to feed, or what could kill her! It was uncanny. He needed her help to find his daughter, but first she needed his help. To know what she was now, what she had become.

There was no way he could hate a woman who needed him the way this one did.

So he’d try to help her, instead. But the next question on his ever-growing list was how the hell could he manage to help a woman who detested him? She hated him, and his kind. She hated herself, by all appearances. She hated what she was. She didn’t want to learn about her new nature, didn’t want to explore it, didn’t want his help.

Yet she’d taken it when he’d ignored her objections and given it to her. She’d erected the mental barrier around her mind as he’d instructed. She’d fed when he’d advised her to. She’d even asked him a question or two.

Perhaps he could help her. And perhaps she’d realize that he and his kind were no more monstrous than mortals were. Much less so in most cases. And maybe she’d give up her ridiculous notion of taking his daughter away from him. Maybe she’d realize that his own child did not need to be protected from its father.

Or maybe she wouldn’t realize it.

There was so much to think about. But not now. He’d drive himself insane if he tried to solve the puzzle of Angelica now. For now, he’d simply light the fire, and see that she’d fed enough to sustain her, but not enough to make her ill. And then he’d let her rest, while he planned what to do tomorrow.

Tomorrow. When she would awaken stronger, and likely more determined to escape him than ever. Not to mention more able. How would he deal with her then?

One thing, at least. It ought to be easier to hate her when she no longer appeared so helpless.

And that was a good thing. Right now, he was realizing just how dangerous not hating this woman could be. Because when he wasn’t hating her, he was wanting her. And the sooner he rid himself of that particular longing, the better.

Jameson never did get around to showering in the wee hours of that morning. He watched her far too long, lost himself somewhere in the long locks of her satinlike hair, or perhaps it was among the glittering facets of her eyes. Nonetheless, he put it off too long, and the day sleep crept over him with the dawn. She’d fed, and then crawled into the oversize bed and fallen asleep instantly, and still he was watching her.

And finally, he managed to pull himself away in time to get to the settee in the front room before he fell asleep at the foot of her bed. Like a devoted servant sleeping at the feet of the mistress he’d die for.

Right.

When the sun went down again, he rose before she did. He headed for the bathroom before even giving her a passing glance. While he was washing beneath the spray, he reminded himself several times that he hated her. And that she hated him. And that the sharing of their blood was what made him crave her so. Dream of her, when the day sleep should be too deep for dreams.

Having convinced himself of that, he emerged from the small bathroom wrapped in a terry robe and rubbing his wet hair with a towel. But he stilled in the doorway when he saw the utter confusion on Angelica’s face. She stood staring into the closet, her brows drawn together, head tilted to one side as her graceful hands flitted over the clothes that hung there. Her skin had more color this evening. The day rest had done its magic in rejuvenating her. She seemed stronger. And the bones no longer protruded from her face. Instead of sharp and angular it was gently oval now, with cheekbones an actress would die for.

“Something wrong?” he asked her, snapping his attention back to the matter at hand.

And she jerked as if surprised by his presence. She really did need to tune in to her newly heightened senses and learn how to use them. She should have sensed him there, felt his eyes on her. Instead, she reacted like a mortal.

“These… these are all very… normal.”

“You were expecting…what? Black satin capes with stand-up collars and scarlet lining?” He tossed the towel onto the foot of the bed as he passed, then stood just behind her, looking over her shoulder at the clothes.

“Of course not.”

“Sure you weren’t. Hell, I only know of one vampire who still wears a cloak, and I think he just does it for the dramatic effect.” He moved past her to pull a violet cashmere sweater from the rack. One of Tamara’s old ones. Modest and demure and sweet, like her. It would fit this woman…in size, if nothing else. And the color nearly matched her eyes, although no man-made dye could ever equal those sparkling amethysts of hers. Jameson blinked and shook himself. “Here. This will do you for tonight.” Then he continued flipping the hangers. “And a pair of jeans to go with it. What size are you?”

“Size?”

“In jeans,” he said, pausing with a pair of black Levi’s in his hands. When she didn’t answer, he turned to look at her. “Well?”

“I’m…not sure.”

Jameson frowned at her. “How can anyone not know what size jeans they wear?” Then he narrowed his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those women who refuses to tell a man her size.”

“That would be the height of vanity,” she said, and she averted her eyes. “It’s simply been quite some time since I’ve worn blue jeans.”

Aha, he thought. A clue to who this mysterious woman had been. “Why is that, Angelica?”

Her head came up sharply, eyes wary.

“I mean, what kind of things
did
you wear? Perhaps I can find something like what you’re accustomed to.”

And it seemed to him in that moment that she came as close to smiling as he’d ever seen her do. Not that she actually smiled. Not at all, but there was a hint of mirth in her eyes. “Nothing you’re likely to find in a vampire’s closet,” she said. “The jeans will be fine.”

But Jameson wasn’t as willing to change the subject as she seemed to think he’d be. “You were wearing a dress of some sort when I saw you that first time. Though…I didn’t have preternatural night vision, then. And it was quite dark. I seem to recall it as black and loose fitting. Kind of like a—‘”

“I’m going to bathe now,” she said, interrupting him, and leaving him with no illusions that it had been unintentional. “I really care very little what I wear. I just want to hurry and begin the search for my child.” And she tugged the jeans from the hanger, turned and quickly crossed the room, closing the bathroom door behind her.

And for the first time, Jameson thought back to that night when she’d nearly killed him.
Really
thought back. Oh, he’d thought about it before. Far more often than he’d like to admit, actually. But he’d always focused on the way she’d felt, pressing tight to him while her avaricious little mouth fed at his throat. The way he’d felt…

Now he needed to get past that madness, and focus on something else. Details. Senses besides the one flaring to life in his libido. He went to the bed, sat down on its edge and mentally replayed all of it, from his first glimpse of her. Her tangled hair. Her dirty face. The sunken cheeks and hollow violet eyes. And the tattered black…dress…or was it a dress?

There had been beads of some sort, clutched in her bony hands.

Beads she’d been worrying or playing with, and that she’d dropped abruptly when he’d spoken to her. Beads…and she’d held them, one by one, between her fingers. Held each one, caressing it, and muttering before she moved on to the next. And they were…

My God. Rosary beads? And the black dress could have been…a habit. Jesus, was it possible? Had Angelica been some kind of…of nun in life? In life, yes, even up to the very moment when she’d been brought over, or she wouldn’t likely have still been wearing the habit.

She’d called him a heretic. She’d spoken of vanity. And she was so damned concerned about God and Satan and good and evil, and being damned. It made sense. Lifting his head very slowly, Jameson stared at the closed bathroom door. Beyond it he could hear water running, and the nearly inaudible sound of singing, her singing, very softly so he wouldn’t hear. “Amazing Grace.” And then the sound of Tamara’s hair dryer drowned out her song.

He was still sitting there when she came out, wearing the jeans and the sweater he’d given her, sometime later. And he was still reeling from what he thought he had learned about her. And more determined than ever to know the truth. And yet part of him tried to get in the way of his curiosity. It was the part of him that knew full well she wore nothing beneath the sweater. He hadn’t given her a bra, wasn’t even sure Tamara kept such things around down here, and wouldn’t have known what size to choose if he’d found a cache of them in the closet. His eyes were drawn to her breasts, and the cashmere clung to them because of their dampness. And he could see her shape very clearly underneath. Her nipples poking out into the fabric in reaction to its rough, yet soft texture rubbing against them.

He licked his lips.

She stopped halfway across the room, and froze there, waiting. And when he realized she was looking at him, looking at her, he forced his gaze upward and met her eyes. And he knew she was only pretending to be offended over where he’d been staring. Because he could see the awareness flaring in the violet depths. The arousal. The hunger.

He licked his lips again, and told himself to get to the matter at hand. Was she…had she been…what he thought she had?

He cleared his throat. “I was wondering, Angelica…if perhaps I should be addressing you as
Sister
Angelica?”

She took the question well, he thought. The swift intake of breath and slight widening of those eyes the only clue she’d been dealt some kind of blow. “If I had taken my solemn vows, I would have been Sister Mary Elizabeth. Since that day never came for me, I’m still simply Angelica.”

“If not exactly angelic.” He quipped. Then he saw her wince and almost regretted it. “So you were a novitiate?”

“Something like that.” She came forward, and finally resumed pulling the brush through her now gleaming and utterly glorious hair. It was incredible, that mane of hers. Thick and wild and long. The hair of a goddess. Or an Angel. A dark angel. “Of what order?”

She turned, still brushing. “Why is it you ask so many questions about me, Vampire? You hate me, blame me for all that’s happened. So why do you want to know?”

“You…bore my child. Isn’t it natural for me to be curious?”

“Nothing about you is natural.”

“And you know that for sure, do you? Are you sure you were just a novice nun and not God Almighty Himself?”

Her head snapped toward him. “How dare you!”

“ ‘Well, you certainly pass judgment as if you were, as much as you try to deny it. I was merely checking.”

She got up, paced away from him in quick, angry strides. She was stronger now. Maybe just a little bit more herself. Having sustenance had helped even further to restore the shape of her face, and the gleam to her hair. And the sparkle to her eyes. And the spring to her step.

With her hair flying wild, and her eyes flashing, wearing sinfully tight-fitting jeans, and an equally revealing sweater, it was easier to imagine she’d been a centerfold than a sister.

Jesus, he wanted her.

“I want to go now. I want to find my baby. I’m tired of you and your prying. What will we do to find her? Where will we begin?”

He stared at her for a long moment. It should be easier to hate her now that she was strong and well. It should be. Why wasn’t it?

Before he’d been distracted by the way she looked, and then by who she might have been in the other life, he’d been trying to decide how best to warn her about the possible nature of their child. He hadn’t come to any perfect conclusion, but he knew he had to say something. Give her some kind of preparation, just in case.

“Before we begin,” he said, slowly, “there’s something…I’m not certain you’re aware of. Something you need to prepare yourself for, Angelica.”

Her brows furrowed. “You’re frightening me, Vampire. Whatever it is, just tell me and let’s be on our way.”

Jameson licked his lips, averting his gaze. He’d been wrestling with the possible nature of his child for days. It had been a blow when he’d first realized the implications. But he’d been among friends. People who loved him and explained it gently, and who would be there for him no matter what.

It would be far worse for her. She was alone, except for a man she despised more with every breath she drew.

Bracing himself, he met her eyes. Brilliant now, glowing like amethysts in candlelight. Breathtaking. “There has never been a child born to a vampiress before. None…that I’m aware of, at least.” She blinked. That was all. “Angelica, we have no way of knowing… what we’ll find, when we find our baby.”

“What…we’ll find?”

“Whether she’ll be mortal…or immortal. Or some cross between the two. Whether—”

“No.” She took two staggering steps backward, then gripped the back of a chair, her fingertips digging into the fabric.

“I hope to God she’ll be a normal child, Angelica, but we can’t be certain until we see her. It would be tragic if—”

“Your kind,” she whispered. “They never grow older?”

Again, she confirmed his suspicion that she knew nothing about her own race. “No. Our kind never grow older.”

“She’d be trapped inside the body of a newborn for all of her life?” She shook her head from side to side, rapidly. “No, it’s too horrible. It can’t be.”

“It might not be. I only…I only wanted to warn you. In case…”

She lifted her chin, and met his eyes, her own wide and clear and filled with fierce determination. “God won’t do this. Not to her. It’s enough…sweet Jesus, it’s enough to punish me. But not my baby. She is a healthy, normal little girl. She is. I know it.”

Had he thought her weak? Physically, perhaps. But never in any other way. Not her. She looked like an avenging angel just now. And he found himself nodding in agreement with her. “You’re right. She’s fine. I’m sure of it. I’ve been worrying for nothing.”

And in that very brief moment, when their eyes met and held, something passed between them. A connection was made. They touched on some level. And then she looked away and the feeling vanished.

“Do you have any sort of plan?” she asked him.

“Just a starting point. This woman who contacted my friend Tamara to tell her about the child…Hilary Garner. She works for DPI, but apparently even she couldn’t stomach them using a child this way. I have her address. We’ll go there tonight, talk to her. She might know where they’ve taken the baby…and she might be willing to tell us.”

“And if she isn’t?”

Jameson gritted his teeth. “Then we’ll convince her.”

Hope surged in my heart as we neared the building where the woman lived. I sought with every part of me for some sense that my daughter was near, but felt nothing. Still, I clung to that hope. This woman would know something. And she would help us.

Surely that had been her intent all along, or she never would have contacted Jameson’s friend. Jameson…

He was not living up to my expectations of him. He’d taken me from that horrible place. Fed me from his own body. Even…oddly enough…tried to comfort me when I’d been terrorized at the sight of those coffins. And he seemed as determined as I was to rescue our child.

Our child. It was wrong to keep referring to her in that way. “She needs a name,” I whispered, half to myself.

Jameson turned to stare at me, brows lifted, then lowering as he understood. “Yes, she does. Do you have something in mind?”

I tilted my head. “When I was alone, chained to the walls of my cell, or trapped in that box waiting for my guards to feel the urge to release me, I talked to her. I sang to her and cradled my belly in my arms and pretended to hold her. I called her Lily. That’s the way I envisioned her. As perfect and flawless as a beautiful lily. And Amber, because she was a mystery as old as time. A child born to a vir—” I bit my lip, then. But too late. My loose tongue had given away yet another of my secrets.

“Born to a virgin?” His eyes widened in disbelief. And then he smiled. “It’s almost…holy. The first child born to a vampire… is born of a virgin.”