Twilight Illusions (2 page)

A tap on her shoulder made her spin around, half expecting to see the magic man himself smirking at her. Instead it was the same red-haired man who'd led her offstage. Her purse dangled from one pudgy, freckle-smattered hand. “Damien said I should give this to you. Said all your stuff's inside.”

“Thanks.” She took it, her gaze busy looking beyond the man. “Where is he? I need to talk to him.”

“No chance of that. He's gone already.”

“He's…gone?” She felt exactly like a balloon being slowly deflated.

“Long drive to that palace of his in Tigris. And it's raining.”

“Palace?”

The redhead looked at the floor, shaking his head slow. “Like somethin' outta ‘Life-styles of the Richer-Than-I'll-Ever-Be.' Know what I mean?”

She did. She'd seen the photos in the entertainment magazines, which couldn't get enough of the world-renowned, millionaire magician. Nor could his legion female fans. She tilted her head. “I heard he was a recluse. You'd think he would keep where he lives secret, keep the fans from hounding him.”

“Everybody knows about that place, but there's no danger of him bein' hounded. He's got a security system like Fort Knox.
Nobody
could get in there.”

“Nobody, huh?” She thumbed the strap of her bag over her shoulder and turned to go.

Damien crumpled the letter with its formally patterned sentences that, in his opinion, made it clear to anyone who cared that the author wasn't from this time, and tossed it into the cold ashes of his modern, marble hearth. This Marquand ought to learn to sound as if he belonged here and now. Damien had always thought that was the most important part of fitting into any culture—sounding as if you belonged. No sense drawing attention to yourself.

He grimaced, remembering the last line of the note:
I should like, very much, to be your friend. Friend.
The word disgusted him. He didn't want or need to be anyone's friend. He'd lived through that debilitating pain once, and didn't have the slightest urge to repeat it.

This Eric Marquand, this infant of an immortal, this vampire who called himself a scientist, wouldn't learn much from him, anyway. Marquand had probably gained more knowledge about the undead in his mere two hundred years of existence than Damien had in almost six thousand. Damien had existed in solitude. He wanted no contact with others of his kind, and most of all, no contact with the Chosen.

The Chosen. They scared the hell out of him. This irresistible instinct he knew all vampires felt, to watch over them, to care for them—it shook him to the bone. It threatened his solitary life. He didn't want to care for anyone. Not ever again. The only way to avoid the mental tug of those rare humans was to avoid them, and that was exactly what Damien had always managed to do.

That is, until tonight.

He'd sensed her presence in the audience from the second he'd stepped onto the stage. He'd felt her there, and there'd been that pull, magnetic, powerful. Some demon inside had urged him to see her, talk to her, touch her and feel the power snap between them. He'd felt that urge before, when he'd chanced to cross paths with one of them. He'd always been able to resist it. Not this time, though. He'd wanted to touch her, and he had.

Maybe a little too much. Damien deliberately kept his mind closed, like pulling shutters tight over a window. He didn't want or need to open himself to the thoughts and feelings of others. He didn't care about them, wasn't the least bit curious. But tonight, in the brief moments of physical contact with the woman, he'd felt an avalanche of emotions pouring from her mind to his, emotions so powerful they'd shaken him. He'd felt her pain, her anger. Most of all, her grief. Anu, for a second he hadn't been sure if it was hers or his own, resurfacing to cripple him one more time. It was so similar. The ancient instinct to make things better for her had leapt to life, forced itself to the front of his mind. He'd doused that blazing urge with an act of will, and made a greater effort to shut her out. But it had been close. It had been too damned close.

He'd need to be more careful from now on. And he'd most definitely need to avoid any more contact with this particular woman, who affected him the way no one ever had.

 

She wore a black spandex bodysuit and leggings. A black nylon face mask, taken from a Cat Woman costume she'd bought one Halloween, covered her face. Only her eyes and mouth showed. The thin gloves that covered her hands were black, too, as were the lightweight tennis shoes on her feet. She even wore black nylons so her ankles wouldn't stand out in the darkness.

She'd given the man a chance. She'd phoned his house three times. He'd answered the first time, and as soon as she'd told him who was calling, he'd barked at her not to bother him and hung up on her. It had been busy ever since, and she suspected the hermit had taken it off the hook. Fine. He wanted to do this the hard way, then she'd oblige him. Hell, she had nothing to lose. His refusal to talk to her was a roadblock. She wanted to find out who'd killed her best friend and how. This guy was effectively stopping her in her tracks. Too much like being controlled. Too much like letting someone else pull the strings that ran her life. There wasn't much that could make her angrier, more defensive, more ready to do battle. The last time anyone had controlled her life, she'd been sixteen years old, and the results were not pretty. It hadn't happened again.

She scanned the big hulk of black that was his mansion, and wondered what was so great about this setup, anyway. No motion detector on the fence that surrounded the place. Just an alarm that would sound if the locked gate were tampered with, and a couple of surveillance cameras mounted up top. “Big, fat, hairy deal,” she muttered.

She slipped the coiled rope from her shoulder, tossed the grappling hook to the tree limb that hung right over the fence—how could
Mister Security
have missed that?—and climbed up. Walking farther out on the sturdy limb, she attached the hook again, and lowered herself to the ground inside the fence. Simple. A kid could break into this place.

Two spotlights came on, aimed right at her. She hit the dirt facedown, her heart thudding in her chest like a jackhammer. Damn!

The lights remained on for several seconds before going out once more. So there were motion detectors. Anything moved within their range and those damned lights would come on again, giving her away if they hadn't already. Okay, think.

The sensor had to be aimed at the movement in order for it to work. She was assuming it wasn't aimed right at ground level or the lights would snap on with every rabbit or field mouse or stray leaf that blew past. Okay. It was worth a shot. She hadn't heard a sound from the house so far, so maybe magic man was asleep.

She slithered toward the house on her belly. She hadn't had much of a look at it yet, in this gloomy darkness. She knew only that it was huge, and utterly dark. Not a light glowing from a single window.

She'd try the door first—not that she expected to find it unlocked, but there might be a doggy door or something she could crawl through. As long as there wasn't a doggy to go with it. She crossed her fingers and humped her way up the broad flagstone steps like an overgrown inchworm.

When the door was right in front of her face, it slowly opened, and her vision was filled with a pair of calf-hugging black boots.

“W
hat, exactly, are you doing here, Shannon?”

His anger vibrated in those low, measured tones, but seemed to be held in rigid control. She opened her mouth to answer, still staring straight ahead at his gleaming skintight boots. No words came out.

“Much as I might fantasize about the implications of your present position, I think you ought to get up now.”

She did, quickly, and she felt her face heating beneath the mask.

That's right, the mask. How the hell did he know it was me?

She tugged it off and glared at him. “Look, I tried to talk to you at the theater, but you left. When I called, you hung up. You really didn't leave me much choice—”

“The choice I left you with was to leave me alone.”

His dark eyes burned with some inner fire. Black fire. Dark light. How was that possible? She blinked and shook herself. The wind picked up a little, and it made a deep moaning sound when it passed through the branches of the big oak tree. Perfect October night wind. She faced him, and tried to ignore the shiver of apprehension. How could a man as attractive as this one make her feel so afraid? Nothing scared her. Not even death. Not that she'd admit it, anyway. She couldn't afford to, in her present condition. “I'm afraid I
can't
leave you alone.”

“Why not?”

“Let me in and I'll tell you.” She watched his face, and knew when he didn't refuse that he was wavering. “It's important.”

“It must be.” He glanced down over her attire as he said it, and his sarcasm couldn't be missed. Just when her chin rose and a few choice set-downs jumped to her lips, he nodded once and stepped aside. “Ten minutes, Shannon. Then you either leave on your own or I call animal control.”

She sauntered past him, feeling triumphant, glancing back over her shoulder. “Who do you think they'd pick up? Cat Woman or Batman?”

He grimaced, as if her little joke had been so bad it was painful, but he couldn't hide the twitch at the corners of his lips. She wondered, for a second, why he'd want to. Then she turned to see where she was going, and all her thoughts stampeded from her mind like cattle from a burning barn.

The short hall she'd traversed opened into a circular room that would put the Oval Office to shame. Black marble fireplace with two arched openings. One for the fire and the other to hold the neatly stacked logs. The mantel stretched the length of it, and was littered with artsy objects encased in clear-glass cubes of varying sizes. The floor gleamed, the same swirling black marble as the hearth, accented here and there with colorful Turkish rugs. Their patterns were wild, orderless, vivid. Were those black eyes peering up at her from behind swirls of scarlet and gold? God, these things, with their braided tassels and secret meanings, could pass for Aladdin's magic carpet. One lay near the fireplace, all but invisible under a mound of pillows. Round, square, oval, satin, silk, velvet, blacks and reds and golds.

A chaise lounge the color of goldenrod, and big enough to hold a crowd, held court to one side of the fireplace. Its shimmery fabric would glow with the firelight when there was a fire. There was a couch, but it wasn't really. It had no back. The plump red cushions angled upward at either end, curving over scrolled wooden arms. Long strands of red fringe hung to the floor all the way around it. The wooden legs and trim were engraved with obscure shapes and symbols.

She blinked and gave her head a shake.

“Not what you expected?”

It was as though an icy wind had just blown over her, the way she shivered.

But it wasn't an icy wind. It was a warm breath, and four simple words spoken softly, close to her nape.

She drew a breath, closed her eyes, calmed herself. She wouldn't let the man's mystic demeanor shake her. After all, it was only part of the act. A persona he put on and took off like the satin cloak he wore. An image. He took it further than she'd anticipated, but that wasn't proof he'd taken it to the ultimate extreme. Was it?

“Perfect setting to keep the image intact, Damien.” She continued scanning. There were two wide, arched doorways, at ten o'clock and two o'clock if the fireplace was noon. Neither of them had a door. Instead they were draped with countless strings of beads that looked like onyx. “Although,” she went on, trying to keep the amazement from her voice as she found one wondrous item after another, “I don't know why you bother. I was told few people ever get past the front gate. So, who are you trying to impress?”

“The room is for me. I like it this way.”

The walls and high ceiling were plastered, their surfaces rough, like stucco, and slightly yellowed, as if very old, although she was sure they were new. The lights were recessed into the walls, with half circles of intricate plaster work shading them from below. The effect was a muted glow that seemed to emanate naturally from above.

She stepped closer to the mantel, eyes widening as she looked more closely at the items within the glass cubes. Small figures of bearded, almond-eyed men. What looked like a billy goat standing on its hind legs, apparently plated in gold. A chipped piece of pottery shaped like a glass, with animals and designs painted in dulling colors and perfect symmetry. An uneven, rather rectangular hunk of stone with line after line of tiny, detailed marks. Writing? “Are these things as old as they look?”

“That depends on how old they look.”

She faced him, frowning. “They're artifacts, aren't they? You collect them. But where do you find things like this, in some pharaoh's tomb?”

“Nice guess. Try a bit earlier and a little farther south.” She bit her lip, racking her brain, but he cut her off. “It doesn't make any difference, Shannon. I've given you ten minutes, and you've wasted the first three gawking at my living room. Are you going to tell me what it is that drove you to dress in that ridiculous outfit and break in?”

Her anger returned, and with it, her awareness of why she was here. “You think it's some silly thing, don't you? That I'm an obsessed fan and all I want is an autograph or a souvenir of
Damien the Eternal.
”

He tilted his head to one side, crossing his arms over his chest as if waiting patiently for her to get to the point. It was infuriating. She unzipped the small fanny pack that was snapped around her hips. The manila envelope she pulled out wasn't sealed. “How often do you do that levitation routine, using an audience member as a volunteer, Damien?”

His gaze dipped to the envelope, then met hers again. “It's new. Tonight was only the third time I've done it. I like to keep the act varied.”

“This was the third time,” she repeated. “Do you happen to remember your volunteer last week?” She pulled out the photos, not giving him time to answer. She kept her eyes on his, careful not to glance down at the pictures she held out to him. She'd seen them too many times already.

He looked at her for a long moment, brows creasing. She saw some kind of war going on in those glittering black eyes. When he took the stack, his fingertips brushed over hers and she shivered. She turned away from him, paced to the piece of furniture that looked like Cleopatra's bed and sat down.

She refused to look at him. She gazed, instead, into the cold hearth, noticed the crumpled bit of paper there, wondered what was on it and whether he'd leave the room long enough for her to get a look.

She never heard him approach, so it shocked her when his hand closed around her wrist and he jerked her to her feet. His grip was like iron, and he glared down at her with a fire in his eyes that was potent, and dangerous.

“What in hell is this garbage?” His other hand clutched the photographs.

Fear should have taken over. That it didn't wasn't on account of her unshakable courage. More that she had nothing to lose. Nothing at all. What was the worst he could do to her? Kill her? So he'd beat the disease to the punch. Big deal. It was laughable.

“Don't you recognize her, Damien? I'll admit, it's tough with her skin white as candle wax and her eyes glazed over like that. Still, her hair is the same. Tangled, but basically the same. She was an actress, you know. At least, she wanted to be.”

His grip tightened. “What kind of sick prank are you trying to—”

“You
do
remember her. Good. It's no prank, Damien. Tawny Keller is dead. She died in her bed, a few hours after she performed for the last time, as your audience volunteer.”

His gaze narrowed. His grip on her arm eased, then his hand fell away. He turned slightly, shook his head.

Shannon reached into the fanny pack again, pulling out several stapled-together pages. “Don't believe it, huh? Well, try this, then.” She thrust the papers under his nose. “Medical examiner's report, autopsy results.”

His gaze rose to hers again. Anguished. She had the brief sense that he was bleeding inside, but it vanished as fast as it came.

“How did you get these things? Are you a cop?”

She squared her shoulders. “Not a cop, a PI.” He hadn't taken the papers, so she tossed them aside. They spread their pages like wings and fluttered to the floor. Silence stretched tight between Damien and her. She didn't want to live it again, didn't want to feel it again. “I found the body.” The memory rushed over her, even though she fought it with everything she had. Pounding on Tawny's door. Worried because she hadn't answered the phone, and they always talked first thing in the morning. The door hadn't even been locked. God, she was careless!

Shannon felt a cold hand grip her heart as she recalled walking in, calling, hearing no answer. But she'd known, she'd felt that dread even before she'd entered the bedroom and seen what no one should ever have to see.

She turned to hide the pain from him and paced away. “They're keeping the whole thing quiet. There'd be a circus if the apparent cause of death leaked to the press. But I saw her. I knew. I traded my silence for the photos, the reports. I've worked with this ME before, and he's a stickler for the rule book. He wouldn't have let me have these things if I'd given him a choice.” She stared into the darkened fireplace, battling tears and eventually winning. “They threatened to pull my license if I got involved in this, but I don't really give a damn. She was my best friend.”

He cleared his throat. “I'm sorry.” He'd moved closer to her, stood right behind her now. He must walk like a cat. “But I still don't see—”

She whirled on him, poking his wide chest with a forefinger. “Don't you? She bled to death, Damien. And the only injuries found on her entire body were those two little marks on her throat. You tell me how the hell anyone could do that to her,
and then
you tell me who
you'd
suspect if you were in my shoes.”

He closed his eyes as if he were in some kind of physical pain and turned slowly away from her. “It's impossible. There had to be some other injury, or—”

“Read the damned autopsy report if you don't believe me. The cause of death is listed as extreme blood loss. They can't explain it. If this were an upstanding citizen instead of a hooker-slash-actress, they'd be probably call the FBI.” She closed her eyes. “But it was just Tawny. Just some nobody who grew up on the streets and did what she had to do to survive. Just my best friend since I was sixteen years old. I'd have never lived to see seventeen if it hadn't been for her.”

He said nothing, only stood with his back to her, one hand shielding his eyes.

“The police think I'm crazy. They say there's no evidence to point to you. But I'm
not
crazy. I'm good at what I do, and right now the only goal in my short, miserable life is to get to the bottom of this.” She sniffed, and tried to erase the waver from her voice. “I'm trying to track down the woman who volunteered to be your assistant the week before Tawny did. Rosalie Mason. But you know something, Damien? I'm not having much luck. And my gut tells me I'm not gonna find her, or if I do, she won't be in any shape to tell me a thing.”

She heard his slow, long sigh. “So, you came here to accuse me of murder. You've done that. Maybe you ought to leave now.”

“Rosalie was a prostitute, too, you know.” She paced back and forth in front of the fireplace, ignoring his words, going a little faster with every lap. “She attended the show that night with a john. No one's reported her missing. No one wants to talk to the cops about where she might be. They're ignoring the fact that she just isn't around anymore, because no one cared. But it's different with Tawny. Someone cared about her. And I'm not letting this go.”

“Go home, Shannon.”

His form appeared in front of her, stopping her pattern. She stared up at him.

“So, which is it, Damien? Are you insane enough to believe you
really are
what you pretend to be onstage? Or is this just a publicity stunt? A few vampire killings while you're in town to entice the populace. Oughtta work wonders at the box office.” Her brows drew closer as she studied him. “How much did Tawny suffer before you killed her, Damien? Just how the hell did you
do that
to her?”