Twilight Illusions (6 page)

He saw her clearly in the darkness, her red, swollen eyes, the track of each and every tear she'd shed, burned into her pale ivory flesh. “You'd be safer at my house, I think.”

She shook her head so hard her hair flew. “I can take care of myself. Take me to my place or I'll go somewhere and call a cab. It's up to you.” She sniffed loudly.

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

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

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

She opened the door and stood there, staring over the car at him. “So are you gonna drive me, or not?”

“I'm gonna drive you.”

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

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

Maybe she'd be better off if he did.

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

He thumped his fist on the steering wheel as the questions tormented him. Traffic and people passed by. Lights in buildings blinked off one by one as this less-than-elite section of Arista went to sleep.

He wished now that he hadn't avoided all contact with others of his kind, wished there were someone he could ask about these things, and about this DPI, whatever it was, and the murder of Tawny Keller.
Damien
ought to know. As far as he was aware, he was the oldest of any of them. He ought to have the answers, but dammit he didn't.

He thought of the letters he'd received from the one who called himself a scientist, Eric Marquand. If anyone could shed some light on all of this it might very well be that young, curious man. Damien grimaced at the idea of asking for help. The very thought of contacting Marquand made him squirm with unease. He'd existed alone, in a vacuum for so long now. His only emotional ties were the safe ones he felt with his crowds of fans. When they stood and cheered for him it was almost as if time melted away, almost as if he were an adored ruler again, a beloved king, basking in the unconditional love and loyalty of his people. It was the adoration of those crowds that had driven him to perform all these years. A man could only do without love, connections, for so long. The audiences gave him enough to sustain him. It was the only love allowed into his solitary life, and it was enough. It had to be enough.

He shook his head slowly. No, he'd try to solve this thing on his own. He'd only use Eric Marquand and his studies of the undead as a last resort. And in the meantime he'd watch over Shannon, keep any harm from coming to her.

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

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

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

She wasn't in the apartment.

He stiffened in his seat as he felt her thoughts. Anger. Alarm. Urgency. Something about her car. She was running…a rear exit. A parking lot.

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

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

But Shannon's small hand shot up and gripped the man's wrist, stopping the tire iron's descent. Her knee jammed hard into his groin, and the man grunted loud, doubled over. The tire iron clanked to the broken pavement. Damien froze for a shocked instant as Shannon spun backward, smacking her heel across the man's chin and laying him flat on his back. It happened in two clicks of a second hand.

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

He held his hands up in front of him, backing away. “Okay, lady. Okay, you win.” As Damien hurried forward, the thug helped his partner to his feet, and the two ran into the darkness. He heard their rubber soles slapping. They didn't go far, though.

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

She nodded, but didn't say anything, still trying to catch her breath. Damien turned to look at the unpainted car and shook his head. He was going to blast her for risking her life over a hunk of scrap metal, when he heard the unmistakable click of a hammer being pulled back. His head went up, and his piercing night vision showed him one of the two thugs, holding the gun, pointing it at Shannon.

Damien whirled toward her, propelling himself forward just as the blast shattered the night. He felt Shannon hit the ground hard underneath him. And he felt a searing pain burn through him.

 

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

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

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

Damn him to everlasting torment!

Ah, but this time would be different. This time there
was
something more. Just the something Anthar needed to hurt him in the most devastating way possible.

But he must proceed with caution.

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

Another test was in order.

 

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

“They're gone,” she said, and shoved at him. “You can get off me now, Damien. I don't know why you came rushing out here like some knight on a charger, anyway. I can take care of my—” She'd pressed her hands to his shoulders to move him off her, and touched the warm dampness seeping through his shirt. He felt the shock that passed through her body. She sucked in a coarse breath. “Damien?”

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

Shannon bent to help him, sliding an arm around his waist and holding him firm. “Damn you straight to hell, Damien, you've gone and got yourself shot. What's the matter with you, jumping on me like that?” She walked toward the building's back entrance, pulling him along with her.

He glanced down at her, almost giddy with relief that he'd knocked her out of the way in time. “That gun was pointing toward your head. Was I supposed to stand there and let them shoot you?”

“Yes!” She reached out to open the door, then held it with her hip while she helped him through. “Dammit, you're probably going to bleed to death.”

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

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

“You're pale. Did it bleed much?”

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

She narrowed her eyes and stared at the spot where he pressed his hand to the wound. “It's not nothing—it's a bullet. We'll call an ambulance from the apartment.”

He shook his head, but studied her determined face, noting the strength in it. “Why did you rush out there in your nightgown, Shannon? Why risk your life, when calling the police would have been just as good?”

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

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

The doors slid open. She tightened her grip on him and started into the hall. “Not just a Corvette. A 1962 Stingray, mag wheels, four barrel carb and an engine that would blow your black Jag's doors off.”

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

“Abso-freaking-lutely.
Nobody
messes with my car.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

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

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

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

“That's a lot of blood for a scratch, Damien.”

“I'm a heavy bleeder. I'll be fine.”

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

He ducked her hand. “Oh? Then you're admitting that I probably just saved your life?”

She straightened, propping her fists on her hips. “Yeah, for what it's worth, you probably did.”

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

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

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

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