Books by Maggie Shayne (80 page)

A hand on her shoulder made her jump so suddenly she almost fell down the stairs. Jamey's other hand steadied her. "I called the police," he told her softly.

"Good. Stay by the front door and wait for them, okay?"

He looked up at her, but didn't agree. He remained at the top, though, as she slowly descended the stairs. Her foot on a different surface told her when she'd reached the bottom. The air was thick with blackness and the strong aroma of spilled wine. Glass shattered and she forced herself to move toward the sounds. "Curtis!" She shouted his name and the noise abruptly stopped. She stood still. "Stop it, Curt. Just stop it—this is crazy."

She waited while her eyes adjusted to the dark. She finally made out his shape. It grew clearer. He stood near a demolished wine rack, and he held a double-bitted ax. Broken bottles littered the floor around him. He stood in puddles of wine. The rack's wood shelves hung in splinters.

"Get the hell out of here, Tammy. This isn't your business. It's between me and Marquand!" He lifted the ax again.

Tamara threw herself at his back, latching onto his shoulders from behind to keep him from doing more damage. He dropped the ax to the floor and reached back, grabbing her by the hair and yanking her from him. She stumbled, hit the wine-soaked floor, but scrambled to her feet again. She faced him, panting less from exertion than fear. "The police are on their way, Curt. You'll wind up in jail if you don't get out of here, right now."

He reached for her so fast she didn't have a chance to duck. He grabbed the front of her coat, bunching the material in his fists. He whirled her around, and slammed her back against what once had been the wine rack. The back of her head hit a broken shelf and red pain lanced her brain. "Where is he, Tammy?"

She blinked, feeling her knees weaken. She pressed her hands to the wall behind her for support, then she froze. She felt a hinge beneath her palm. This was no wine rack. It was a door. What the hell would a vampire want with wine, anyway? Why hadn't she guessed sooner? And when would it hit Curt?

She sucked air through her teeth. "He's not—here."

The back of his hand connected with her jaw, and his knuckles felt like rocks. "I said, where is he? You damn well know and you're damn well going to tell me."

Involuntarily a sob escaped. Tears burned over her face. Curtis let go of her coat, but gripped her shoulders. "Christ, Tammy, I don't want to hurt you. You're under his control, dammit. You'll never see him for what he is until he's gone. If I don't do it, he'll kill us all."

She faced him squarely and shook her head. "You're wrong!"

"He's not even human," he told her.

"He's more human than you'll ever be!"

Curt's hand rose again, but it was caught from behind. "Leave her alone," Jamey shouted.

"What the hell?" Curt looked back, shaking Jamey's grip away effortlessly. Then he turned on him. "You little—"

"Curtis, no!" But before he could hit the boy, Jamey lowered his head and plowed into Curt's midsection like a battering ram. Both went down in a tangle of arms and legs and broken bottles. Tamara grabbed Curt's arm and tried to pull him away.

"Hold it right there!" A strong light shone down the stairs, and footsteps hurriedly descended. A police officer took Tamara's arm and pulled her away, while another lifted Curt, none too gently, then bent over Jamey. "You all right, son?"

"Fine. I'm the one who called you." He pointed an accusing finger at Curtis. "He broke in... with that." He angled his finger toward the ax on the floor.

The cop whistled, helping Jamey to his feet, and turned back to Curt. "Izzat right?" He took Curt's arm and urged him up the stairs, while the second officer herded Tamara and Jamey ahead of him. At the top, in the better light, her officer tugged her into the living room and told her his name was Sumner.

"You the owner?"

"No. I. . . he's out of town and I was keeping an eye on the place for him," she lied easily. Jamey stood aside, not saying a word.

"I'll need his name and a number to reach him." He'd pulled a stereotypical dog-eared notepad from his pocket. "He's en route," she said. "But he should be back tonight."

He nodded, took down Tamara's name, address and phone number, then bent his head and frowned, his eyes fixed to her jawline. "Did he do that?"

Tamara's fingers touched the bruised flesh. She nodded, and saw anger flash in the officer's green eyes. "I need to take Jamey home, and... get myself together. I know you need a full statement, but do you think I could come in later and give it to you then?"

He scanned her face, and nodded. "You want to press assault charges?"

"Will it keep him jail overnight?"

He winked. "I can guarantee that."

"Then I guess I do." The officer nodded, took Eric's name down and advised her to have herself looked at by a doctor. Then he went into the dining room and spoke to his partner. Moments later Curds was led toward the front door with his hands cuffed together behind his back.

"You'll regret this," he repeated again and again. "I'm a federal officer."

"One without a warrant, which in our book makes you just another breaking and entering, vandalism and aggravated assault case." Sumner continued lecturing as they went out the door and along the driveway.

Jamey looked to be in shock. Tamara went to him and ran one hand through his dark, curly hair. "You have guts like I've never seen, kiddo." He looked up but didn't smile. "I hate to admit it, Jamey, but I'm awfully glad you were here with me."

A smile began beneath hollow eyes. "What's going on? Why did Curtis want to kill Eric?"

She looked at him, not blinking. "A lot of reasons. Jealousy might be one, and fear. Curt is definitely afraid of Eric." She wouldn't lie to Jamey. She wasn't certain why, but he was a part of all of this. "Eric is different—not like everyone else. Some people fear what they don't understand. Some would rather destroy anything different, than learn about it." He still looked puzzled. "Do you know about the Salem witch trials?" He nodded. "Same principle is involved here."

Jamey sighed and shook his head, then grew calmer, and got the adult expression on his face that told her he was thinking like one. "Fear what's different, destroy what you fear."

She sighed, awed at the insight of the child. "Sometimes you amaze me." She walked with him out the door, and pulled it closed. She propped the gate with a big rock, so it would at least look like a deterrent. "You think it'll be all right until I get back?"

Jamey frowned at her. "I don't have any more weird feelings jumping in and out of my brain, if that's what you mean." He smiled fully for the first time.

"You know, Jamey, you probably saved my life in there. If you hadn't called the cops. . ." She shook her head. "And you likely saved Eric's, too, as well as his friend, Roland."

He looked back at the house, with one hand on the car door.

"They're in there, aren't they?" He didn't wait for an answer. "They would've helped us, but they couldn't. If Curt had found them, he'd have killed them."

He didn't ask Tamara to confirm or deny any of it. He just slid into the car and rode home in silence.

Tamara told Kathy the bare facts, while trying to gloss over the worst of it. Jamey envisioned a break-in at a friend's house. He and Tamara arrived just in time to prevent it. The suspect was in custody and all was well with the world. Tamara kept the bruised side of her face averted, and made excuses to hurry off without coming inside for a visit. Kathy Bryant, while flustered, took it all in stride.

Tamara arrived back at Eric's front gate a little after 5:00 p.m.

Eric opened his eyes and slowly became aware of the smell of dirt surrounding him. He rested in an awkward position, not upon his bed of satin but on the rough wood floor of the secret room beneath it. He frowned, his head still cloudy, and squeezed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. He recalled the sudden sense of danger that had roused him from the depths of his deathlike slumber to a state hovering near wakefulness. He'd automatically flexed his forefinger on the hidden button, dumping himself into this place. He was safe and the feeling of mortal danger had passed.

Eric stood on the small stool, placed here for just such a purpose, and reached above him to the handle on the underside of his mattress. He pulled downward, then reached higher to release the lock on the lid. A moment later he swung himself over, landing easily on the floor. He attuned his senses, felt no threat and moved across the room to the coffin Roland had set upon a bier. He tapped on the lid, not surprised when Roland emerged from a concealed door in the bier itself, rather than through the polished hardwood lid.

He straightened, brushed at his wrinkled clothing. "What in God's name has been happening?"

"I'm not certain." Eric stood motionless. "Tamara is here."

Roland too, concentrated. "Others have been. Three-no, four others. Gone now."

Nodding, Eric unlocked the door. They moved quickly through the darkened passage, and Eric unlatched and pushed at the wine rack that served as its entrance. It gave a few inches, then jammed. He shoved harder, forcing it open. Both men took pause when they stepped into the cellar.

The electric light bulb above glowed harshly. What had been a well-stocked wine rack was now a shambles, with only a bottle or two remaining intact. The aroma assaulted Eric, pulling his head around until he saw the plastic pails on the floor, filled to the brim with broken glass and bits of wood. An old push broom and a coal shovel were propped against one pail. The floor beneath his feet was damp with wine. Another scent reached Eric's nostrils and he whirled, immediately spotting the slight stain on the wall near the hidden door, and knew it was blood. Tamara's blood.

He flew up the stairs then, and through the house, skidding to a halt when he entered the parlor.

Tamara lowered the two far legs of a heavy table to the floor. She ran her fingers over the chipped edge, sighed deeply and bent to retrieve an old gilded clock. She brought the piece to her ear, then placed it gently on the marble table. Eric took in the scene around her, realizing she'd already righted much of it. She turned slightly, so he saw the dark purple skin along her jaw, and picked up a toppled chair, setting it in its rightful place.

"Tamara." He moved forward slowly.

She looked up at the sound of his voice, and rushed into his arms. He felt her tears, and the trembling that seemed to come from the center of her body. No part of her was steady. He closed his arms as tightly as he dared around her small waist, and held her hard. Roland had stepped into the room and stood silently surveying the damage.

"Who is responsible for this?" Eric stepped back just enough to tilt her chin in gentle fingers, and examine her bruised face.

"It was. . . it was Curtis, but Eric, I'm all right. It isn't as bad as it looks."

Eric's anger made the words stick in his throat. "He struck you?" She nodded. He reached around to touch the back of her head gently, and knew when she winced that he'd found the cut. "And what else?"

"He. . ." She looked into his eyes and he knew she'd considered lying to him, then realized it would be useless. "He shoved me against the wall and I hit my head, but I'm fine."

He sought the truth of that statement, probing her mind, wondering if she was truly all right.

"Must have come through here like a raging bull," Roland remarked.

"I've never seen him so angry," Tamara said.

"Nor will you ever see it again." Eric let his arms fall away from her and took a single step toward the door. Roland blocked his path quickly and elegantly. Eric knew he had little chance of moving his powerful friend aside.

"I believe we should hear the tale before any action is taken, Eric."

Eric met Roland's gaze for a moment, and finally nodded. "Remember, though," he said. "He was warned what would happen if he harmed her." Eric turned to Tamara, and noted that as she came to him her gait was wobbly. He slipped his arms around her and helped her to the settee. Roland left the room, and returned in a moment with one of the remaining bottles. He took it to the bar, poured a glassful and brought it to Tamara.

"Take your time," he said softly. "Tell it from the start." He sat in an undamaged chair, while Eric stood stiffly, waiting, wishing he could reach the bastard's throat in the next few seconds.

Tamara sipped the wine. "I guess the start isn't all that bad. I convinced Daniel to drop the research. He agreed when I told him I'd leave forever if he didn't."

Eric frowned. "He agreed?"

"Yes, and that's not all. I asked him to meet you, talk to you. I want him to see you the way I do, and know you would never hurt me. He agreed to that, too."

Eric sat down hard. "I'll be damned—"

"I'm not at all convinced this is a good idea," Roland said. "But I'll leave that for later. Go on with the story, my dear."

Eric saw Tamara sip again, and her hand on the glass still wasn't steady. He sat closer to her. "When Daniel told Curtis he was dropping the research. Curt was furious, but defiant. He said he'd continue with or without Daniel's help. Daniel told him to drop it, or lose his job at DPI. Curt left madder than ever. . . but I still never thought he'd come here."

Eric frowned and shook his head. "How did you know?"

"It was Jamey, the boy I work with. He's something of a clairvoyant, though it's a weak power except where I'm concerned. He knew your name, Eric. He picked up on my nightmares, too. He called me, frantic, and when I picked him up he insisted we come here. He said someone was trying to kill you."

Eric glanced up at Roland, and both men frowned hard. Tamara, not noticing, went on with her story.

"When we got here I heard Curt down below, smashing things. Jamey called the police and I went down to stop Curt. I was terrified your resting place was down there somewhere." She closed her eyes, and Eric knew she had truly been afraid for his life. "I told Jamey to stay by the front door, but he came down, too."

"Stubborn lad," Roland observed.

Tamara's eyes lit then, and her chin came up. "You should have seen him. He charged Curt like a bull, took him right to the floor when Curt tried to hit me again."

"Was the boy injured?" Again it was Roland who spoke. Eric was busy watching the changing expressions on Tamara's face, and reading the emotions behind them. It changed again now, with a silent rage. He felt it rise up within her, and its ferocity amazed him. He hadn't known she was capable of a violent thought.

Her voice oddly low, she said, "If Curt had hurt Jamey, I'd have killed him."

Eric shot a puzzled glance toward Roland, who seemed to be studying her just as intently. Tamara seemed to shake herself. She blinked twice, and the fire in her eyes died slowly. "The police arrived then. I pressed assault charges. He'll be in jail overnight, so you'll have time to regroup." She placed a hand on Eric's arm. "I'm sorry the police got involved. They expect both of us to show up tonight, to give statements."

"I should be angry with you, Tamara, but not for calling the police. For risking your life. You could have been killed."

"If he'd killed you, I'd have died, anyway. Don't you know that yet?" As she spoke she leaned into his embrace, and settled her head on his shoulder. "You have to get this place fixed up. Curt will flash his DPI card around and get himself out by morning."

"Unfortunate for him, should he decide to give up the protection of a jail cell so soon."

"Eric, you can't ... do anything to him. It would only give those idiots at DPI more reason to hound your every step."

"You think I care?"

"I care." She sat up and stared into his eyes. "I intend to be with you from now on, Eric, wherever you go. I'd like it if we were free to come and go as we please, and I could visit Daniel from time to time. I want to enjoy our life together. Please, don't let your anger ruin it before it's even begun."

Her words worked like ice water on his rage. The points she made were valid, and while he still thought St Claire a moral deviate, he knew she loved the man. He glanced helplessly toward Roland.

"I wouldn't want to square off against her in a debate," he said dryly.

Eric sighed. There was no way in God's earth he could allow Curtis Rogers to get away with what he'd done. But he supposed he'd have to plot a fitting retribution later. There was no use arguing with Tamara. She hadn't a vengeful bone in her beautiful body—except where this boy, Jamey, was concerned. And that puzzled him.

"As for the gate and the door," he said, sensing her lingering worry for his safety, "I can make a few calls tonight and have a reliable crew here by first light."

"But he got in once, Eric," Tamara said.

"Dogs!" Roland stood quickly. "That would solve it. We'll acquire ten—no, twelve—of those attack dogs you hear about. Dobermans or some such breed. Tear a man to shreds."

"I think a direct line to the police department will be just as effective." Eric couldn't keep the amusement from his voice. Roland did possess a brutal streak. "An alarm that alerts the police the moment security is breached. I admit, I hate depending on them for security, but it will only be necessary until—" he stopped, and slanted a glance at Tamara "—until I think of something better. Meantime, why don't we visit the police station and get the unpleasantness over with. We may still salvage what remains of the night. I had such plans. . . ."

* * * * *

How he managed to make her laugh after what she'd been through tonight, she couldn't imagine. But he did. By the time they left the police station he was behind the wheel of what he referred to as her "oddly misshapen automobile," and she was splitting a side over his shifting technique.

The house had been restored to order as much as possible. Roland had left a fire blazing brightly, and a vase stood in the room's center, filled with twelve graceful white roses. A card dangling from one stem drew her attention. She lifted it and read, "My thanks for your earlier heroism, Roland."

She shook her head, and turned when she heard strains of music filling the room. Mozart again. "Your friend is certainly chivalrous."

"You inspire that sort of thing in a man," he told her.

She smiled and went into his arms. "What about these plans you mentioned earlier?"

"I thought you might like to dance."

She tilted her head back and kissed his chin. "I would."

"Oh, no. I couldn't possibly dance with you dressed like that."

She frowned, stepping away from him and looking down at her jeans and sweatshirt. "I admit, I'm not exactly elegant tonight, but—"

"I've a surprise for you, Tamara. Come." He turned her toward the stairs and urged her up them. He led her into the bedroom she'd seen before, and left her waiting inside the doorway while he lit two oil lamps. He turned to a wardrobe, gripped its double handles and opened it with a flourish.

Curious, she moved forward as he reached into the dark confines and removed a garment carefully, draping it over his arms. When he turned toward her Tamara's heart skipped a beat. It was something made for Cinderella. The jade-colored fabric shimmered. The neckline was heart shaped, the sleeves puffy and the skirt so fully flared she knew there must be petticoats attached. The green satin was gathered up from the hemline and held with tiny white bows at intervals all along the bottom, to show the frilly white underskirt.

Her mouth opened, but only air escaped. "It belonged to my sister," Eric told her. "She used to cinch her waist with corsets, but she wasn't as petite as you. I suspect it will suit you without them."

She forced her eyes away from the dress and back to him her heart tightening. "Your sister... Jaqueline. And you've kept it all this time."

"I supposed I am a bit sentimental where my little sister is concerned. She wore that gown the night she accompanied me to a performance of young Amadeus, in Paris."

Her eyes had wandered downward to the glittering silk, but snapped up again. "Mozart?"

"The same. She was not overly impressed, as I recall."

He smiled down at her. "I should like to see you in the gown, Tamara."

She gasped. "Oh, but I couldn't—it's so precious to you. My God, it must have cost a fortune to keep it so well preserved all this time."

"And no good deal of fuss, as well," he said. "But nothing is too precious for you, my love. It will make me happy to see you wear it. Do it for me."

She nodded, and Eric left the room. She was surprised, but didn't question it. She shimmied out of her own clothing, including her bra, since the upper halves of her breasts would be revealed by the daring neckline. She touched the dress reverently, and stepped into it with great care, terrified she'd rip it while putting it on. She slid her hands through the armholes, and adjusted the shoulders. "Eric!"

At her call he returned, and she presented her back to him. Wordlessly he tightened the laces and tied them in place. He took two steps backward, and she turned slowly to face him. His gaze moved over her, gleaming with emotion. He blinked quickly and shook his head. "You are a vision, Tamara. Too lovely to be real. I could almost wonder if you would disappear, should I blink."

"Does it really look all right?" It felt tight, and her breasts were squished so high they were fairly popping out of the thing.

Eric smiled, took her hand and turned her toward the wardrobe doors, which still stood open. She hadn't noticed the mirrors on the inside of the doors, but she did now. He left her standing there and turned to lift a lamp, better for her to see her reflection.

She caught her breath again. It wasn't Tamara Dey looking back at her. It was a raven-haired eighteenth-century beauty. She couldn't believe the transformation. And the dress! It was more like a work of art than a piece of clothing. She glanced gratefully up at Eric, then froze, and looked back toward the mirror again. "It's true! You have no reflection!"