Twilight Illusions (7 page)

He opened the cabinet and tried to put her out of his mind and focus on the matter at hand, namely applying something to the wound to staunch the blood flow until dawn. He'd sit with his hand on it for the next few hours if necessary, but he'd prefer not to.

There. A roll of gauze. Some adhesive tape. A hairbrush with a few honey gold strands catching the light and glowing at him. It was like a halo around her, that hair of hers. Like something unreal. “Angel hair,” Netty had called it.

Dammit, stop thinking about her!

He peeled the shirt away from his chest, tearing it so he didn't have to ease the pressure on the wound. He tossed the ragged, blood-spattered white garment into her wastebasket. One-handed, he wrestled the little cardboard box open and dumped a pile of gauze pads into the sink.

She thumped the door. “Are you all right?”

“Fine, Shannon. Relax.”

“Let me in. I want to help.”

“I'll be out in a minute.”

“Damn you, Damien—”

“You're repeating yourself, Shannon.” He didn't think the gauze pads would be enough, and glanced around for something more substantial to pack the wound. “Tell me something, will you? Why didn't you bring your gun out there with you?”

“Because I'd have killed the little bastards if I had.” She pounded on the door again, jarring it. “Open the damn door.”

“No.”

“Fine, see to yourself. There's a little brown tin in the cabinet. Pine tar. It's made from the sap of pine trees. An old folk remedy. If you're too pigheaded to see a doctor, then at least use some of it. It'll stop the bleeding better than Super Glue.”

He frowned. There was a slight trembling in her voice, one that belied the careless way she tried to throw her words at him. He spotted the tin, flipped the top off and sniffed suspiciously at the dark brown goop it held. Piny. Okay, it was worth a try.

“Did you find it?”

He thought she'd walked away, left him to fend for himself. She was still standing on the other side of the door, waiting. “Yes. It looks disgusting.”

“Smear it on.”

He nodded, dipping two fingers into the stuff, then removing his hand from the wound just a little. The bleeding began again immediately, but he was able to spot the edges of the graze, and pinched them together. Then he smeared the thick, tarlike substance over the wound.

It was almost instant. The blood flow stopped. Cautiously, he eased the pressure of his fingers. But the flesh didn't pull apart. The tar held it sealed tight. He shook his head in wonder.

“Damien? You okay?”

For such an obstinate thing, she was certainly worried about his health. “I'm okay. Your concoction works wonders.” He pressed a gauze pad to the wound, wrapped a strip around it and taped it in place. Then he ran a little water in the basin and washed the blood from his chest, his arm, his shoulder, his hands. Only when he'd rinsed every trace of the pinkened water down the drain did he open the door. And when he did, she was still standing there. He couldn't have missed the way her stiff stance relaxed slightly when he stepped out.

Her gaze flew over his face, to his shoulder, back to his face again. He saw her worry, her fear for him, and it touched him in spite of himself. Then her eyes moved downward, over his unclothed chest, lower, to the snap of his pants. Her cheeks colored, and he smiled a little, wishing he had the energy to try to read her thoughts again right now.

“Stupid jerk.”

Damien blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You're a jerk, locking yourself in like that. What if you'd passed out in there? Huh? What am I going to do—kick the door in?”

He laughed. She got angrier, so he forced himself not to laugh anymore. “You have a very strange way of showing gratitude, Shannon.”

“
Gratitude?
You think I'm
grateful
to you for almost getting yourself killed on my behalf? What're you—dense? You pull any more crap like that and I'll—” She blinked fast, and turned her back on him. Not before he'd seen the moisture gathering in her eyes, though.

Something in his throat expanded, cutting off his airway. He lifted one hand, and without intending to, settled it on her shoulder. Her hair brushed his knuckles and he shivered. “Shannon—”

She stepped away from his touch, paced to the center of the room, turned, her face expressionless. “I don't think the attempt on my car was related to this other business. Do you?”

He stared at her, wishing he knew why it bothered her so much that he'd helped her. Why it was so hard for her to accept that he wanted to protect her. “I'm inclined to think not” was all he said. “They only shot at you because you charged at them like the cavalry.”

“Yeah, well, if I hadn't they'd have had my wheels.”

“How did you know?” She'd turned again, walked to the sofa, sank onto it as if she were exhausted.

“I have a remote car alarm. Someone tries to get into the 'Vette, this little device in my purse sounds a warning.” She pushed her hair away from her face with one hand, then paused in the act. “How did
you
know?”

“I…” He glanced away from her narrow, piercing gaze. “I was walking around the building, just checking for anything unusual. I heard them, but by the time I realized what was happening, you were…” He turned to her again, trying to see more than just what her delicate face revealed. “You were kicking the hell out of them. Where did you learn to fight like that?”

“Trial and error, mostly.” She looked past him, and he wondered what she was seeing. “Tawny and I used to practice on each other. Usually ended up a pair of walking wounded, but you have to be able to take care of yourself when you're a kid on the streets. She's as good as I am…I mean, she was. That's why I can't understand why—”

She broke off, met his gaze again, licked her lips. Damien knew what she would have said. Why didn't Tawny fight off her attacker? Why did she submit? The answer was all too simple, really. A vampire doesn't have to attack his victims or struggle with them. He seduces them. They offer themselves, willingly, even eagerly, to his promise of ecstasy.

Guilt reared up inside him, and he couldn't hold her stare. Some immortal had rewarded that willingness, that childlike trust, with murder. Some immortal. But who?

Not me. It wasn't me…

“It
wasn't
you, was it?”

He shook himself free of the instant notion that she'd read his mind, or that he'd spoken the thought aloud. Coincidence. She rose and stepped closer to him, staring up into his face, her eyes narrow, darkening to the color of cinnamon.

“You wouldn't risk your life to save a stranger if you were cold-blooded enough to kill another one. Would you?”

“Of course not.”

But what if I did? What if I killed that innocent girl, and what if this one is next in line? The next time the thirst becomes unbearable, the next time it overpowers my will…Inanna, save me, but already the scent of her, the warmth of her skin, the pinkness of it, is getting to me. I can hear the sweet river of blood running in her veins. I can smell it. And she's so soft, so beautiful…I want her. I want all of her….

“You stayed. I really didn't think you would.”

“What?” He shook free of the voices in his mind.

“When you said you'd come here, watch out for me, I didn't believe you. You surprised me.” She frowned, and paced slowly away from him, head tilting to one side as she walked. She stopped a few yards away, turned toward him once more. “So if you're not going to kill me, then what
are
you after?”

He looked at the floor, shook his head deliberately. “I should go.”

“Why?”

He was turning toward the door, when she asked the question. He stood where he was, his back to her. When her body heat warmed his bare flesh as she moved to stand behind him, he went rigid.

“You agreed with me that the car thieves were probably not related to the murder. So the killer might still try, right? I mean, I'm in as much danger now as I was earlier, right?”

He closed his eyes as her scent assaulted him. “At least. Maybe more.”

“Then stay.”

Oh, but this wasn't right, this roar inside him, urging him to turn around and crush her to his chest. To take her mouth until she gasped for breath and to—It just wasn't right. It hadn't been long enough for the thirst to bring on this need. And it wasn't thirst alone this time, burning through him. It was desire, too. Not the desire that coupled with the hunger, but one born of itself. Or born of her.

Her hand touched his uninjured shoulder. Her small fingers squeezed his flesh. “Look, Damien, you saved my life. Much as I hate to owe anything to anyone, I can't overlook something this big. Last night, when I was sick, you took care of me. I just want to return the favor.”

He shook his head, tore the door open. “You'll be safe by day.”

“
By day?
What—”

“I'll keep watch until then, but not here. From the car. And if you come down there, Shannon, I can't guarantee anything. So stay put.”

“But I—”

“Good night.” He stepped into the hall, closed the door behind him, and with a burst of speed, managed to be halfway down the stairs before she'd yanked the door open again.

 

Okay, so she'd misjudged the guy. Badly. All right, she'd flat out accused him of murder. He'd pretty much convinced her she'd been wrong. Twice he'd appeared out of nowhere right at the moment she'd needed help. So far he hadn't asked a thing in return.

Of course, she wasn't stupid. He wanted something; he just hadn't gotten around to asking for it yet. Nobody helped anybody without a damn good reason. She'd learned that the hard way. Oh, the lovely foster family that had taken her in had seemed hunky-dory at first. All that bull about how they loved children, couldn't have any of their own, wanted to help a down-on-her-luck teenage orphan who had just about run out of hope of ever being adopted.

Right.

Tawny had been with them a month before Shannon moved in. She'd come from another institution, but Shannon had been in most of them by then. They'd never met—a small miracle, since their paths must have crossed a hundred times as they both went through the system. They'd hated each other's guts at first. At first. But then the insanity began. Mr. Grayson had some pretty sick ideas. And his wife knew all about it, but was too much of a mouse to let him know she knew.

Anyone who thought two sixteen-year-old girls couldn't fend for themselves on the mean streets ought to try living with that kind of threat looming for a while. The streets are a breeze after that.

God, to think she and Tawny had toughed it out through hell and high water, only to come to this. Tawny dead. Shannon not far behind her. Why the hell had they bothered surviving at all?

But that thinking was borderline self-pity, so she swiped her mind clean like a blackboard under a damp sponge and started over. Damien. Yes, she'd been thinking about Damien, and whatever it was he wanted from her.

For a second there, she could have sworn it was sex. Something about the way his body went all tight when she touched his bare skin.

But she dismissed that idea almost as soon as she thought it. The guy was an idol. He could have any woman he wanted, just by snapping his magic fingers. Why the hell would he be interested in her?

So there had to be something else. And it would be only a matter of time until she found out what.

Meanwhile, she needed to concentrate on something else. What in God's name had he meant when he said she'd be safe in the daytime?

S
he stopped in at the office for the first time in three days. The legwork had kept her out, tracing Tawny's steps in the week before she'd died, trying to find out who'd killed her, why and how on earth they'd done it in such a macabre manner.

The only lead she'd found was Damien, and she was no longer sure the guy was anything other than an eccentric, world-renowned magician who valued his privacy and went to great lengths to preserve the mystique of his alter ego. She'd tried her damnedest to check his background, but had come up empty. Before exploding onto the scene as the world's most beloved magician, he had, it seemed, no past at all.

“Shannon. Hey, where you been? I was starting to think you'd gone outta business.”

She smiled at Sal, standing in the doorway of the pizzeria, with his clean white apron covering his rounded middle. She hadn't told him, or anyone, that Tawny's murder would be her last case. “Hey, Sal. Not out of business, just busy. What's new?”

“Rent's going up next month.”

“What—again?” It didn't matter. She wouldn't be here next month.

Sal nodded, rolling his eyes. “Probably a letter waitin' for you. Got mine yesterday.”

“This place isn't worth what we're paying now,” she grumbled. She unlocked the door beside Sal's, swung it open, mounted the steep stairway.

Sal came to the bottom and called up to her. “You could afford the rent if you didn't drive such a fancy car, you know.”

“So you keep telling me. It'll be fancier as soon as I save up enough for a paint job.” She'd get that done. She promised herself she'd get that done before she went down for the count.

“That's baloney. You don't look good, Shannon. You eatin' right?”

“I will be today.” She reached the top of the stairs and unlocked her office door, then paused to look down at Sal. “Two slices for lunch, with the works.”

“Everything but anchovies. I know how you like it.”

She smiled, swung her door open and stepped inside. The man sitting in a chair in front of her desk rose, set the file folder he'd been perusing aside, parted his lips to say something, and then thought better of it. His gaze dropped to the revolver she was pointing at his chest. She'd jerked the gun from her waistband in a split second, before he'd even turned fully. He stood very still.

“Who are you, and what the hell are you doing in my office?”

He licked his lips, a quick, nervous little dart of his tongue. And then she recognized him. He was the one who'd taken Tawny's body out of the ME's office last night.

“Take it easy with that thing. I have ID. May I?”

She nodded, a little shiver dancing up her neck. “You pull anything other than a wallet out of that fancy jacket you're wearing and it's gonna have a big hole in the front.”

His hand dipped into the jacket, came out with a small leather folder. He handed it to her, and she took it, never moving her gaze from him. She flipped it open, glimpsed a photo ID from the corner of her eye. She took a quick look, her gaze darting back to him every other millisecond or so. Stephen Bachman. Then she read a little further and blinked.

“CIA?”

“One of its subdivisions.”

“Which one?”

“That's not important.”

She narrowed her eyes, scanning the card more carefully, trying to see whether it was genuine or a fraud. She had no way of knowing. She gazed at him again. Tall, broad-shouldered. He had an athletic build to him, and his dark hair curled a little at the ends. Gray suit, spotless white shirt. Telltale bulge beneath the left arm.

She wiggled the gun barrel. “Put your weapon on the desk, Mr. Bachman. Slowly.”

He nodded, removed his gun, a shiny nickel-plated 9 mm Ruger, and set it on the desk. She stepped forward and picked it up, tucked it into the back of her jeans. “How'd you get in here?”

He smiled a little. “I told you. I'm CIA.”

She held his gaze, nodding, and then took the file folder he'd been reading. It contained her notes on Tawny's death. She frowned hard. “Why is the CIA involved in a murder investigation?”

“Oh, come on, Ms. Mallory. We both know this is no ordinary murder. May I sit now, or do I have to be standing in order for you to shoot me?”

She nodded, moving behind her desk as he sat. She took her own seat. “Just what the hell is going on?”

The man stared hard at her. “You're the one who found her. Why don't you tell me?”

“What do you want from me, Bachman?”

“You're going to tell me all about Tawny Keller. And all about yourself. And everything you think you know about this case.”

She smiled slowly. “Why would I do that?”

He shrugged, pursed his lips. “Because we both want the same thing. To catch her killer. And because if you don't, I'll have your private investigator's license pulled before noon.”

“Sure do know how to sweet-talk a girl, don't you? Tell you what. I'll tell you everything I know, if you'll answer me one or two questions first.” She
wasn't
going to tell him a damned thing. For all she knew, he could be a fraud. Then again, maybe not. He certainly had clout with the ME's office.

His eyes narrowed. “If I can. What do you want to know?”

“Why I can't get Tawny's body released to me. I want to give her a funeral.” She knew he had the answer to that question. She waited.

That tongue darted out again. “Settle for a memorial service. Buy a marker, if you want. You won't get the body.”

“Why?”

“It's now the property of the federal government. That's all you need to know.”

He might as well have slapped her. “What the hell have you done with her, Bachman? I know she's been moved. Where is she?”

“Good little private snoop, aren't you? How'd you know we moved her?”

She bit her lower lip. She wouldn't show weakness, turmoil, nothing. Not to this suit. “ME's been giving me the royal runaround. I had a suspicion. You just confirmed it.”

He nodded. “Not bad. But I can't tell you where she is. Sorry.”

He glanced at his watch. “You want to move on to the next question? I don't have all day.”

She fought with her temper and won. Voice level, cold, she asked him, “How did she really die?”

“Blood loss.”

“I know that. I mean…how?”

He stared hard at her. “Damned if I know.”

It was such a blatant lie he might as well have been wearing a sign. He made sure she knew he was lying. So smug. The bastard.

“My turn, Ms. Mallory. You've been seeing a doctor—four times in the past month. What's the problem?”

She felt her brows lift. “There
isn't
any problem.”

His head tilted sideways. “I thought you were going to cooperate.”

“I am. I didn't feel well, got checked out. There was no problem.”

“I can verify this more easily that you'd believe.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

He studied her for a long time. He wasn't sure if she was being flippant or blatantly honest, she could tell. Good, let him wonder.

“You've seen a lot of Damien Namtar in the past couple of days.”

She blinked, then stopped herself from registering her surprise in any other way. “Have I been under surveillance?”

“Not yet.”

“Him, then?”

His lips thinned. “I need to know why you've been seeing him.”

So the CIA was watching Damien. She wondered if he knew it. “I'm a fan,” she told Bachman. “Is there something I should know about Mr. Namtar?”

“I'm not altogether sure you don't already know.”

The puzzled expression she felt twist her brows was genuine. What the hell was that supposed to mean? “Do you think he had something to do with the murder?”

“Anything's possible.”

Bachman was talking, but he wasn't saying a damned thing. The briefcase he held caught her gaze. “Maybe I should watch myself, then.”

“Maybe you should stay away from him altogether.”

Was that a warning? What did this bastard know?

“I'm already familiar with your background, and the victim's—”

“Tawny. Her name was Tawny. Use it.”

He snapped open the briefcase on his lap, flipped open a notebook. “Whatever. You were wards of the state, assigned to a foster home in Flatbush. Then both ran away. It's what went on between then and now that's tough to document. She was obviously a whore. How did you survive? Same game?”

She pulled the man's own gun from the back of her jeans, worked the action and pointed it right at his nose. “Your time's up, Bachman. Get out.”

“I'm not finished.” He closed the notebook, then the case.

“You'll be more than finished if you don't leave—now.”

He nodded. “Fine. There are other ways to find out what I need to know.” He reached for the folder on her desk. She squeezed the trigger. The bullet shattered an ashtray two inches from Bachman's hand. He froze, turning to stare at her. It was anger not fear she saw in his eyes. “I could have you in jail for that.”

“I could blow your brains out and say I mistook you for an intruder. Leave the file here, and go.”

His eyes darkened, but his hand fell to his side. He stepped toward her. She opened the door and moved aside. In the doorway, he turned to face her. “You keep quiet about your friend's death, Ms. Mallory. It's going down as suicide and the first time you say differently, you might just disappear yourself.”

“If you think I'll let it die, you're wrong.”

“You have no choice in the matter. And I mean what I say. You don't know what you're dealing with here.” He glanced down at the Ruger she still held and opened his hand. “My gun?”

“Not anymore.” She slammed the door in his face.

It took her all of five seconds to decide to follow him when he left, and as she did, she racked her brain for answers. Bachman must be legit. The ME wouldn't have cooperated otherwise. So why was the government so interested in the murder of a prostitute? The
way
she'd died. It had to be. But
how had
Tawny died, exactly? How had someone put those marks on her throat, drained her blood? And why?

She had a feeling Bachman knew. But the son of a gun wasn't talking.

 

Damien pored over the pages of the newest translation, searching…always searching. But for what? No matter how many stone tablets were uncovered in the sands of Iraq, no matter how many cuneiform symbols told the story of Gilgamesh the hero, Gilgamesh the king, there would never be one recording the true end to the tale.

He slammed the book closed, tossed it to the floor. His eyes burned, but he blinked them clear again. Rereading the stories never failed to reignite the pain. Stupid. It was long gone now. Netty cleared her throat, drawing his attention.

“You have a guest.”

At Netty's side in the library doorway, Shannon stood staring at him. She shifted the backpack that hung over her shoulder, glanced past him to the book he'd just thrown. “If it's a bad time—”

He shook his head quickly and got to his feet. “No. Pet peeve, that's all.”

“She looks so much better tonight, doesn't she now, sir? More color to her cheeks.” Netty patted Shannon's arm. “I'll bring ya a hot toddy. Just the thing for this chilly autumn night. Warm your bones.”

“That's really not—” Shannon broke off. Netty was already hurrying away with those abbreviated, high-speed steps of hers. Shannon shook her head, smiling a little.

Damien couldn't take his eyes off her. But when her gaze met his again it was troubled. “What's wrong?”

She licked her lips. “Look, I don't know why the hell I'm even here. Except maybe I owe you. That and that I've got good instincts. I had to have, the way I grew up. Not so much who to trust and who not to trust. More like who'd slit your throat and who'd just rob you blind.”

He frowned. She was rambling. Nervous. “You don't trust anyone.”

“Right.”

“You said you and Tawny learned to fight on the streets. I meant to ask—”

She shook her head, stopping him. “It doesn't matter.”

“Yes, it does.” He stared at her; those huge amber eyes seemed to reach out to him. “Where was your family?”

She looked at the floor. “My mother dumped me when I was a baby. I don't even remember her.”

“Then you were adopted?”

Her lips twitched a little. “They tell me I was a sickly kid. Skinny, asthmatic. I grew up a ward of the state, saw lots of institutions, a few foster homes. I met Tawny in one of them.” She turned a little away from him, fingered the strap that was anchored over her shoulder.