Twilight Illusions (13 page)

 

She was incredible. So full of mischief tonight, and her sense of mayhem and devilment spilled over. It was contagious. The crowd adored her.

But when the mist swirled around his legs, and the low, driving music began for the finale, he glanced offstage where she waited and saw the twinkle had faded from those eyes. She was serious. She knew there was no comedy in this part of the act. He took a moment to be thankful she had her mirthful streak under control. He held one hand out toward her, and she swirled to him as the volume swelled. He took her hand, and she stilled, facing the audience, just as they'd rehearsed.

With one fingertip on her chin, her turned her to face him. Then, with a flick of his wrist, his fingers fanned before her eyes. The music pumped louder. She let her eyes take on an entranced, blank sort of stare. Then he slipped one arm around her waist, feeling the warmth of her flesh burn his skin. His other hand cupped the back of her head and he bent her backward. Drawing a steadying breath, he lowered his head to her throat, parted his lips, caught her skin between them.

And the lust roared to life.

It wasn't supposed to happen this way. He'd told himself that it would fade as soon as he began his performance. He'd repeated this same act, sometimes while the hunger was paining him, but he'd never been so tempted to make it real. He was sated. He'd fed last night just to kill the rampant desire. Why was it convulsing in his brain?

Her skin was like satin, and salty against his lips. He kissed her throat, and couldn't stop his tongue from stroking a slow path over it. He felt her shudder in response to that, and he heard her whisper his name, for his ears alone, a plea barely audible in her voice. Her scent twisted into his nostrils. The soft thrum of her pulse seemed amplified in his ears. He could feel the rush of blood passing just beneath the skin. His teeth closed just a little, and he heard the startled breath she drew.

Shaking himself, he realized that her hands clutched the back of his head. Her fingers clenched and relaxed in his hair, again and again, as if on their own. Her head tipped back a little farther and the pressure on his head increased. Ever so slightly, she pressed her throat to his sucking mouth. Imploring. Offering. Submitting. His body began to shake. The need engulfed him. Sweat dampened his face.

With a deep growl he hadn't meant to emit, he released her, tugged her arms from around him and lowered her, quickly and roughly, to the floor.

The crowd roared, coming to its feet as one entity. Damien faced them, blinking. For a few brief seconds he'd forgotten their existence. There'd been nothing but Shannon, the taste of her, the desire that suddenly exploded inside him. He'd even forgotten the capsule of stage blood he was supposed to break open and apply to her neck.

She was lying there, motionless except for the rise and fall of her chest as she breathed far faster than she ought to. His gaze was caught for a moment, mesmerized by the subtle lifting of her scantily covered breasts. They were large and round and soft. The valley between them seemed like a magnet to his lips, his face.

He looked away, sweeping the hair that had fallen to stick to his damp forehead with one hand. Without waiting for the curtain to fall and lift again, he swept the satin cloak over his face and whirled.

It was a raven that emerged from the fallen folds of his cloak tonight. It swooped out over the crowd before returning to the stage and then diving off stage right. The curtain came down to thunderous applause.

 

Ah, yes, this was going so well. Anthar watched, having only slipped into the theater in time for the finale. He was convinced Damien had been so engrossed in his pretty assistant that he hadn't even detected the presence of another ancient one. Of course, he never had. Anthar was good at veiling his presence from others. Still, he'd never been this close. Always before, he'd observed from a great distance, shadowed Damien's steps, witnessed his nights with those other two. But Damien had never sensed him there, and he didn't seem to have noticed Anthar's presence tonight, either. That was good. The fool was obviously enamored of the girl, obviously fighting with himself to keep his lust from sating itself on her. It was only a matter of time, then. Just as soon as Damien's will dissolved and he took the beauty to his bed, as soon as he ravaged her body and drank from her throat, Anthar would know. He was never far from Damien, always watching. He'd know when it happened, and then Anthar would move in.

It would be nothing to finish the job, to drain her dry. And he'd leave her in the bed where Damien had taken her, and he'd let that bastard find her there, let him believe her death belonged to him. Let him think he'd killed the one he loved.

Ah, the torment, the agony he'd feel then! It would be sheer beauty to see. And then the once-great king would take his own life. Anthar had no doubt of it at all. Gilgamesh the Great would be no more. His punishment, Anthar's vengeance, was at hand.

Anthar rubbed his hands together with glee and made his way out of the theater.

 

“You really are wonderful, Damien. They love you. Listen to them—they're still cheering.”

Damien tried to take in her words without hearing the soft silken sounds of her voice. Erotic the way it stroked his ears, the way he could conjure it whimpering, sighing, crying out his name in the heights of pleasure.

Focus on something else, you idiot. Anything. The crowd, focus on the crowd.

He opened his mind, hoping the sensations of others would drown out his own. He'd feel their adoration, their love. It would be enough. It had always been enough. The only connection in his life, the only emotion he allowed himself. The love of the crowds. He deliberately ignored the voice of Shannon's thoughts, concentrating on those still cheering in the theater. And then his head came up sharply, and he grated his teeth.

Another, like him, was here tonight. Another vampire. God, he'd thought of this explanation for the murders, even tried to convince himself of it. But he hadn't really believed. Not fully. There'd been a big part of him that still believed he was the killer, and there wasn't another one like him for hundreds of miles. But one was here, tonight.

And the bastard was getting closer.

Damien leapt to his feet just as the door to his dressing room swung open. He gripped Shannon's arm, ignoring her questions, pulling her to stand behind him.

The man stood motionless in the doorway, staring at Damien. His eyes were black, his hair as raven as Damien's was. He smiled just a little and nodded, his gaze slipping past Damien to where Shannon stood behind him.

“I enjoyed the performance,” he said slowly, carefully, and there was a slight accent to his words, maybe French. “You're talented, Miss Mallory.”

“Thank—”

“Don't talk to her. Don't even look at her, or I'll tear you apart, right here.” Damien was breathing too rapidly, and the rage that infused him was surprising.

One of the man's dark brows arched upward, as if he were puzzled. “There's no reason to be so hostile, Damien. I only came to talk to you.”

“Then we'll talk alone.”

“I assure you, I can be discreet, if that's what concerns you.” He gave his head a small shake. “Perhaps this was a bad idea. Since you refused to answer my letters, I thought to see a performance, try to get a word with you in person. I ought to have respected your privacy.” He took a step backward.

“What letters? What are you talking about?” Damien demanded.

Shannon wrenched herself free of his restraining hand, thanks to his momentary distraction, and stepped around him. “Don't go.” She slanted Damien a sideways glance. “Honest to God, I've never seen you so rude. What's the matter?” As she spoke she extended a hand, and the stranger took it, brought it to his lips. But when he lifted his head he was frowning.

Damien gripped Shannon's other arm and pulled her away from the stranger. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

But the other man's eyes remained on Shannon, and they were darker than before. “You'd best lie down, Miss Mallory. You aren't well.”

Damien glanced at her, noting for the first time the paleness in her face, the coolness of her skin where he held her wrist. He closed his fingers, and felt the rapid patter of her pulse. And she was beginning to tremble, just a bit.

“I'm fine. Just a little tired.”

The stranger's eyes sought Damien's, and the man shook his head so slightly it was barely a movement at all, as if to say, “She is not fine. Not at all.”

Shannon drew a deep breath, and Damien saw her stiffen her spine. “I would like to go home, though. This theater is cold as a meat locker. Maybe you and Damien could talk there, Mr….”

“Marquand,” he said smoothly, his accent utterly charming and seeming to fit perfectly with his Old World way of speaking. “Eric Marquand, and I think that's a wonderful idea.”

“Marquand,” Damien repeated. He closed his eyes, realizing his mistake, then wondering about it. How long had this Marquand been in town? Long enough to have committed two murders?

Stop being a fool, Damien, and get this woman someplace she can rest. She's on the verge of collapse. Can't you sense it?

The voice, coming into his mind so clearly it was as if the other man had spoken, took Damien by surprise. He'd never used the telepathy, always kept his mind closed and rarely spoke to others, except to command his victims to remember his visits as a dream.

He shook off the surprise and looked at Shannon again, this time attuning his mind to hers, as well. He felt the queasiness swirling in her stomach, the unbalanced feeling in her head, the cold creeping into her bones. Inanna forbid, not another attack!

“Shannon?”

“Fine…I'm fine.”

But her speech was slurred, and her cold skin began to warm under his hand. He scooped her up and shouldered past the stranger. His questions could be answered later. Now all that mattered was caring for her, seeing her through this episode. Damn, why hadn't he found the time to read those files? Why?

B
y the time Damien's Jaguar sped into the driveway, she was barely conscious, shaking violently, burning with fever. He hit the brakes in front of the mansion, skidding on the gravel. He threw the door open, jumped out and ran to her side. His heart was in his throat as he bent to pick her up. It was bad. Whatever the hell this thing was, he knew it was bad. And it scared him. Maybe he shouldn't have brought her here, though she'd insisted. He ought to have called the paramedics, someone.

He started for the front door at a run…then froze when he saw the man who stood there, waiting. Enough like Damien to be his brother. Apparently, this Eric Marquand was powerful enough to travel faster than Damien could with the car.

The man nodded, grim faced, and opened the door.

Damien strode through, straight into the circular room Shannon liked so well, and lowered her to the sofa. The bold bastard came right in behind him, and Damien whirled. “Get the hell out!”

“Do you want to help her or not?”

His voice was very smooth, very calm. His accent barely noticeable. Damien tried to scan the man's thoughts with his unpracticed mind. He sensed no malice there. “
Can
you help her?”

“I'm not certain.”

“If you hurt her, I'll kill you.”

One dark eyebrow arched higher than the other. “For one so ancient you're very uninformed about our kind, aren't you, Damien? I could no more harm one of the Chosen than you. None of us can. None that I know of, at least.” He glanced once more to the sofa where she lay trembling violently. “Blankets. Heavy ones. Stoke the fire, as well.”

Damien scowled at the man. He was torn between wanting to set himself between Shannon and anyone who might be a threat to her, and his desperate need to help her. She moaned helplessly, and the sound slashed a path right across his heart, laying it open, making it bleed. He hurried to her side, sat on the sofa beside her. For all he knew this stranger could be the murderer. He wasn't about to leave Marquand alone with her. Not for a second.

“You'll find blankets in the closet at the top of the stairs.” Marquand nodded, started to move away. Damien focused the power of his mind on the hearth, and the flames blew higher, roaring and snapping like a torch. The other man stiffened and sent an awed glance Damien's way before he continued up the stairs.

It was an hour this time before she calmed, and then she slept as if comatose. The young vampire had been of some help after all, feeding her some brew he'd concocted to ease her pain, lower the fever, and help her rest. Now he paced before the roaring fire, looking grim and sober.

“Why did you come here?” Damien finally asked, when he could drag his gaze away from Shannon's pale face. She'd be all right now. She had to be.

“If you've read my letters, then you know. I'm something of a scientist among our kind.” He looked at Shannon and shook his head slowly. “I'd been warned against approaching you, but I have so many questions. I'm hoping you can answer them.”

“Nothing more than that?”

Eric glanced at Damien, frowning. “I only came to see your performance, Damien. I've been hearing incredible things about you. My curiosity won out over my caution. Then, naturally, when I sensed this one's distress, I had no choice but to try to be of help.” He tilted his head as he studied Shannon. “Never have I come across one so fair. Golden haired. Most are dark, like us.” His head whipped around then, and that one irritating brow shot up again. “No need for that rush of jealousy, friend. I have a mate of my own. I've no desire to seduce yours.”

“She is not my…
mate,
as you so quaintly put it.”

Marquand's lips thinned. “What are you going to do?”

“What
can I
do?” Damien's stomach twisted into a knot. “You can see for yourself how sick she is. But she refuses to let me take her to a hospital. Hell, I don't even know what's wrong.”

Eric searched his face in apparent disbelief. “Have you never known one of the Chosen before, Damien?”

“Of course not!” Damien spun away from Shannon, shoving a hand roughly through his hair and pacing the room's length. “Dammit, Marquand, you think I
welcome
this attachment? This fierce need to protect and watch over her? What does it come to, except pain and loss? I hate feeling anything remotely like this.” With his audiences, he could accept the love and still remain distant. Somehow, it wasn't enough anymore.

Eric only stood, unbearably calm, and stared into the flames. “You have much to learn, my friend.”

“Don't call me that. I have no friends. I don't want to have any.”

Eric shrugged. “As you say. Still, there is much you need to know. About her, for example. How old are you, anyway?”

“Almost six thousand years.” He heard the man gasp. “You can see you're just a child in comparison.”

Eric came forward, gripped Damien's arm. “Were you the first?”

The light in the man's eyes was nearly blinding when he asked the question. “Why are you so curious?”

Eric's hand fell away. “I don't know. I've spent my entire existence questioning, seeking answers, experimenting.”

“And I've spent mine in seclusion—except for the performances. I want no closeness at all.” He glanced at Shannon. “She had to come to the theater that night. I'm afraid she might be dying. God help me, what if she's dying?”

“She may well be.” Damien shook his head in instant denial, but the stranger went on. “None of the Chosen live beyond their fortieth year. None I've known of, at least, and I've tracked many through their lifetimes. This medicine I've developed is specifically to ease their discomfort at the end.”

Damien's gaze was drawn inexorably back to her still, pale form on the sofa. The only color in her face were twin cherry blotches on her cheeks, from the fever. “I didn't know…”

“All right, my questions can wait. Yours are obviously more important right now. As I told you, Damien, I'm a scientist. The brutal truth is that these symptoms are what all of the Chosen ones experience near the ends of their lives. She's younger than most. Then again, her coloring is unique, as well. I'm certain that unless she is transformed, she'll die.”

Damien swallowed hard and battled the bitter tears that fought to the surface of his burning eyes. He wanted to scream. To rant, to curse the gods. But he'd done all that once, long ago. It hadn't done any more good then than it would now. “How long?”

“How often do the attacks come?”

“This is the second time in under a week.”

Eric nodded. “She has little time left, then. Days. Perhaps less. An attack will come, and she'll sleep, as she's doing now. Only it won't be sleep. It will be coma. And she won't wake from it. There is nothing to be done. The medication will keep her relatively comfortable.” He moved forward, placing a hand on Damien's shoulder, squeezing gently. “I'm sorry, Damien. She won't suffer, I promise you.”

Damien shook off the hand and walked slowly toward her. He fell to his knees beside the sofa and caught her warm hand in both of his. “I can't do this again. I can't watch her die.”

“Damien, there are few mortals in this world who'd be emotionally stable enough to live as we do. It's not an option to be taken lightly—”

“The alternative is to let her die.”

Marquand came forward, his steps soundless, stopping just behind Damien. “Would she want this? Does she even know it is possible?”

Damien said nothing. He only let his eyes trace the exquisite bone structure of her face. The delicate line of her jaw. The cheekbones. The satiny skin that covered them. And those lips, so full and plump, and slightly parted now as she rested. He couldn't bear to see her robbed of life. Not her, not the most vital, the most utterly alive person he'd ever known.

“She won't die this time, Damien. She'll recover. You'll have time to explain this to her, give her a choice. She'll need time to accept it as a viable alternative, time to consider the implications. It has to be her decision.” He shook his head slowly. “And it will have to be made soon.”

Damien felt a burning dampness flood his eyes. “Tell me something, Marquand. I think I already know, but tell me anyway.”

“Anything,” he said gently.

“Did you kill two women in Arista?”

He was silent for a long moment. “You're right. You know the answer to that already. I don't kill, Damien.”

Damien dropped her hand, stood and faced the young one. “No, I didn't think you did. I would've known, I think. So this—” he lifted his palms up “—this curse. It's not even an option I can offer her. Not really.”

Eric Marquand shook his head quickly as if trying to clear it. “Why not?”

“You've got no idea, do you? No, of course not. You're so young, so innocent. Where do you get your sustenance, Marquand? Animals?”

“Blood banks, and what difference does it make?” He scowled at Damien. “Where do you get yours?”

Damien paced from the sofa, deliberately keeping his back to them both. “Humans. The need…” His jaw felt tight. He lowered his head, covered his eyes with one hand. “Dammit, it gets stronger, more powerful with age. It becomes a living thing, impossible to resist. And only living blood appeases.” He heard the words thickening in his throat, his voice becoming hoarse. “I can't see her die, but I can't condemn her to live like this.” He lifted his head, found himself facing the tiny figure of Inanna. Her half smile seemed smug, knowing. He removed the glass, clutched her figure in his fist, raised his hand. “Damn you. Damn the world and everyone in it!” His trembling fist clenched tighter and the figure he held crumbled to bits beneath the pressure. He felt his face contort, and he bowed his head, pressing his fist to his brow as the dust and bits sifted through his fingers.

Marquand came forward. “Get hold of yourself, Damien. You have to explain this to me. Please, for her sake if nothing else. Are you saying…you kill?”

He didn't seem as much repulsed as he was fascinated. He stood beside Damien near the fire, studying him intently.

Damien lowered his fist, flung the remnants of the statue into the fire. “I didn't think so.” He thought of the two women who'd ended up dead, and his fear that he'd been responsible. But he wouldn't divulge his deepest terror to this stranger.

“You needn't tell me, Damien. I hear you clearly.”

Damien started, then twisted his head to stare at this stranger. “Damn you, stay out of my head!” He wasn't at all used to being around other beings capable of reading his thoughts. He'd mastered the art of keeping others' thoughts and feelings out of his mind, but never of guarding his own. There'd been no need.

“No matter,” Eric said lightly, and Damien knew he was glad to have changed the subject. “It's easily learned. I'll help you. Tell me now, when did the need become so powerful? At what age did it become necessary to take from the living?”

Damien shook his head, devastation racking his body. Why didn't this child take his questions and leave him to suffer alone? Suffer? It wasn't a strong enough word. This was Enkidu all over again! The grief would kill him this time.

“I only ask because I want to help you.”

“No one can help me.”

“Dammit, Damien, don't be so…Enkidu? Is that the name you just—”

Damien whirled to face him. “Stay out of my thoughts, fledgling, or you'll go up in a ball of white-hot flames.”

To his utter shock, the young man smiled. “Rhiannon said you could do it. I wasn't sure I believed her.”

“Who the hell is Rhiannon?”

“Rhianikki, princess of Egypt. Only around three thousand years younger than you. Until now she was the oldest vampire I knew. But she's never exhibited this lust you claim. I mean, she does occasionally sip from the living, but only because she so enjoys driving Roland to the edge of frustration. That's why I asked when this powerful thirst took over.”

Damien looked up slowly.
Roland.
He recalled the name. He'd helped a vampire by that name a couple of years ago. Poor bastard had been drugged and left for the sun. And Damien had gone to him, despite his vow of solitude. But he'd gone in disguise.

“Damien?”

He started, recalling the question. “Certainly more than thirty centuries ago.” He searched Eric's face.

“You see? If it hasn't affected her, then there must be a reason. Something she's done or been exposed to that you have not. Perhaps I can find out what it is.”

Damien's eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What is it you want from me, Marquand?” Hell, he sounded like Shannon now, questioning Marquand's motives.

“I want you to talk to me. Tell me everything. How you were made, by whom, when. I want to know if it's true that you can alter your form, and that you've accomplished flight. I want to know how you do these things. I want—”