Blood Red Dawn (8 page)

H
e continued to ignore me, giving me time to think, to plan. Now that I knew the truth of the matter, knew him for what he was, what on earth could I do about it? I glanced over at Max again, pretending to sip a glass of that horrid stuff, watching him tend to some paperwork at his desk. What did he hope to gain from all of this? Obviously not my goodwill. He had to be crazy if he thought that I'd stay with him after I learned the truth.

And yet, here I sat, wearing the clothes he bought, living in the shelter he provided, taking my sole sustenance in the drink he provided. Which one of us was the crazy one? Prior to this evening, I didn't know any better, but now that I did, what was I going to do about it?

The phone rang and I jumped. Max crooked an eyebrow and gave me a twisted smile. “Nervous, little one? Expecting a call? Guilty thoughts?”

Biting my lip, I shook my head.

“Hunter here.” Turning his attention back to the call, he listened for a bit. “Good. Good. Are you sure?” Then he glanced back to me for a minute and a slow blush crawled up my neck. “Yes, of course.” His answer was cautious, but I knew somehow they were talking about me. “Where else?”

I struggled to hear the voice of the caller, but the noise from the club outside drowned it out. Max laughed into the receiver. “Yes, I'll be sure to. Thank you for calling so promptly.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “I'd expected to hear from you sooner.” A pause ensued and he drummed his fingers on the desk top. “No. No. You don't seem to understand. I don't care if there are problems. You know what to do, don't you? Perhaps I wasn't clear enough.” He was scowling now. “Look, I don't give a damn how you feel about it,” he said. “You know what you need to do. Just do it. And let me know when it's done.” He hung up the phone.

“That was Derek,” Max stood up from his desk and walked toward me. “He says he put all the packages into your room. And he sends his regards.”

He was lying, obviously. There was no way that conversation could be so easily explained. But I played along with him. “Ah. That's nice of him.”

“Deirdre,” he sat next to me on the couch, “are you upset about something? You haven't seemed well since we got out of the cab. You can't let that little scene in the diner with Terri Hamilton bother you. She's not balanced. She should be locked up somewhere instead of out on the streets, harassing innocent people.”

I shrugged. “I'm tired, Max, that's all. And”—I set down the full wineglass I'd been feigning to drink from next to me—“I don't want anymore of this. I just want to sleep.”

“But it's hardly even midnight. What happened to my little night-owl?”

“She's not here, Max. I think I left her behind with my memories.” Sighing, I stood up and stretched. “Remember that I have been sick. And I need my rest. Good night.”

I felt his eyes follow me across the room. “I'll come in after a while to say good night properly.”

My back stiffened as I opened the door, but I didn't say a word as I entered my little room, I didn't even turn around, but pushed the door shut behind me. The shopping bags full of the clothes we had bought earlier in the evening were lined up neatly against one of the walls. I had been so thrilled with the trip, and now I felt like sending them all back, or opening the door back up and tossing them all into his face. Somehow, I knew that their purchase now made me beholden to Max, made me feel pressured into accepting his properly expressed good night. I shivered and gave a humorless laugh. “Now that's a euphemism if ever I've heard one.”

If the offer had come one of my other nights here, I might have welcomed him with open arms. I'd been so lonely, aching for comfort and touch. But now?

I shook my head and began to unpack the articles of clothing, either hanging them up or folding and laying them into the dresser. Inside both the armoire and the drawers there was a stale floral scent; I closed my eyes and took a deep breath to identify it.

Lavender, that was the scent. Without opening my eyes, I breathed in the aroma again. And the vision of the blonde burst into my brain. If I could believe Max, she now had a name. Vivienne. My mind provided the rest. Vivienne Courbet. I remembered her. It was as if I could feel her hug me, feel the feather-light brush of her lips on my cheeks. I could almost hear her melodic high-pitched laughter, like the pealing of bells. Not wanting to lose the vision, I kept my eyes tightly shut and smiled.

Then the smile faded. Max had said she was dead. Dead? “Not possible,” I whispered. “He has lied to me about so many things. So she might not be dead. Not Vivienne.”

I brushed away a tear and when I opened my eyes, Vivienne was still with me. I wanted to tell someone the good news, that it was all coming back to me. If one or two stars could break through the darkness, others would surely follow. But I dared not tell Max. Nor Derek. They, and now Terri Hamilton, were the only people I knew.

As I finished putting away the clothes, I noticed that the bottom drawer wouldn't close all the way. I pulled it out and set it on the bed, then knelt down on the floor. There, in the open space below the drawer, lay a pair of jeans, a flannel shirt, and a bra and panties. I pulled them out and as I did so, a small plastic tape cassette fell onto the floor, clattering slightly. Scooping it up immediately, I looked around the room for a tape player, but there wasn't one. “Damn.”

With Max's impending visit, I couldn't have listened to it anyway, so I tucked it under the mattress. The jeans and shirt I held up to my face and breathed in their scent. They held the aroma of a wood fire and cigarette smoke. And something else, too faint to place as certainly as the others. Whatever it was, though, that scent was one of the most beautiful things I'd ever smelled. And I knew that it was the scent of Mitch. Looking over my shoulder at the door, I folded the clothes back up, wrapping them in one of the bags from my purchases, to keep their scents with them. Then I lay them flat so that they'd fit under the drawer I slid back into place. Tomorrow, I thought, I can try again tomorrow.

Knowing that Max might come in at any moment changed my nighttime routine. Ordinarily, I'd change into my nightgown and read or watch a movie before falling off to sleep. But I thought I knew what he meant by saying good night properly and I needed the protection of clothes, flimsy though they were. Remembering the piece of paper Terri had given me in the diner, I pulled it out of my pocket and tucked it under the mattress with the tape.

I lay down on the bed, fully clothed, turning on the television for background noise and began to make a mental list of what needed to be done. First, I'd have to find a tape player and listen to that cassette. It didn't have to be anything earth shattering to be of value—a song, a voice, something might trigger another memory like the lavender scent did. I'd have to get access to a phone so that I could speak to Terri Hamilton in private. And I'd have to find a way to provide nourishment for myself, so that I could get through without drinking what Max offered.

None of this was going to be easy, considering Max never left my side when I was outside of this room. I needed a way to make him trust me, so that he would ease up on his vigilance. And there was a way, one I hated to even contemplate. The thoughts of Max touching me in any sort of sexual way made my stomach roll. Perhaps there was a time in my past life when I welcomed his advances, but now it just felt wrong. Still, if I allowed him to have sex with me, he might actually believe that I was coming around to his point of view, might think that I could be trusted to be left alone for a short period of time. And a short period of time was all I'd need to get away. This was a big city and my instincts were still good enough so that I could lose myself in the crowds.

The door opened and Max walked in. Here and now, there was no place to hide. “You aren't ready for bed? I thought you were tired.”

He clicked off the television. “You watch too much of this stuff, when you're supposed to be resting. I can hear the sound in my office.”

“I am bored, Max. I've no idea what my life was prior to here, but I'm quite sure I kept myself busy.”

“That you did, little one. Too busy, perhaps.”

Rising from the bed, all thoughts of cooperation flying from my mind in a sudden rush of anger, I gave a loud screech of frustration. “I cannot stand being cooped up in this room, Max. I cannot stand being under your constant surveillance. This is not life. This is limbo. Worse than that, this is hell. It is not home for me, it will never be home for me. I would have refused to share your coffin space when this room was nothing but a crypt. Fancy wallpaper and soft carpeting notwithstanding, this place is still a goddamned crypt. I want out.”

He raised an eyebrow. “A crypt? And when was this place ever a crypt.”

“Don't be stupid, Max. I remember when this room held two coffins, one for each of us.” Then I stopped. Smiled. “Damn, I really do remember that.” Gone was the determination to keep any recovery of memories secret, swallowed up in the delight of regaining my past. “And I remember Victor.” I laughed, “I called him your Renfield. And I did kill you. It wasn't just a dream, I know I did. You goaded me into it. You wanted to die, I think, and couldn't do it yourself. And you'd be dead still if it weren't for Eduard DeRouchard.”

Max shook his head. “Deirdre, I'm concerned with this development. I really am. You seem to be returning to your old delusions. When you were sick, you would talk about all of these strange things you thought you'd done. The fact is, my love, none of that was real. You dreamed it, yes, you dreamed all of it.”

“No. That's not possible. These are real memories.” I was not about to let him talk me out of the truth.

“And what else do you remember?” His voice sounded curt, angry, but I ignored the tone. I didn't care if I angered him. These revelations were too important.

“I remember Larry Martin. Killed in the basement of the Ballroom. Shot.” I stopped again as the scene filled my mind. “Mitch,” I said, unable to control the softness in my voice. “Mitch killed him. To save my life.”

“Mitch? Who is Mitch?”

I stared at him, either he was a better actor than I'd ever have imagined, or he was totally insane. “Mitchell Greer. My husband.”

Max thought for a moment, as if he were dragging the name up from the dregs of his mind. “You mean Detective Greer? He was here a few years ago, investigating some murders in the area. I hadn't realized you'd met him. He must've made a strong impression on you to feature in your delusions.”

“They are not delusions, Max, they are the truth.” My voice was not as sure as it had been just a minute earlier. What if Max weren't the crazy one after all?

“He's still working in the city, as far as I know, Deirdre. Would it make you feel better if I arranged for him to come and talk to you?”

My heart rose. Mitch? Here? Oh, just to see him again would be heaven. He was the someone I'd been missing. But what sort of game was Max playing now? Why would he risk the confrontation? I shook my head slightly and raised my hand, palm facing him. “Wait a minute. What did you just say? Bring Mitch here? Why on earth would
you
do that?”

“So that you can finally put all of this to rest. I want you back, little one, all of you. Just the way it used to be.”

“It was never that way, Max.”

“It was, Deirdre. And I can prove it.” He put his hand into his pocket. “But we'll do that tomorrow. For now, I want you to sleep.”

I didn't see the hypodermic in his hand until it was too late. But as the needle slid into my arm, I had another memory. He had done this to me before, on a hillside in another country, overlooking a restless ocean.

I wanted to reach out and rake his face with my nails, wanted to hurt him, to kill him, to make him let me go.

But the drug he'd pumped into my system worked too quickly for me to do anything but give a dismayed cry.

“Why?” My eyes grew heavy and I dropped onto the bed. He touched my arm and I hadn't even the strength to push him away. “Why?” I asked again, my voice not loud enough to be heard.

“It's for the best, Deirdre. You'll see.”

 

I
can't say Sam's revelation that he'd been the one who developed the poison that afflicted Deirdre came as much of a surprise. Using him made good sense, from the point of view of the Others, as well as providing a certain irony to the proceedings that both Eduard and Max could appreciate. As for his fear that I would be angry about his involvement, he was dead on about that. I was furious that he'd not been long-sighted enough to see the consequences, but I decided that I couldn't afford to allow myself the luxury of anger. Too much depended on him. When we recovered Chris and Deirdre, they both might need medical treatment. And it wasn't as if we could just check them into a regular hospital—too many questions would be asked.

Vivienne returned to her seat shortly after Sam had made his confession. She smiled at him and winked at me, making the motion of wiping her mouth after a particularly tasty meal. The steward appeared at the entrance from the galley and began to take orders for drinks. He may have been a little paler than when we'd boarded the plane, but seemed none the worse for wear. I chuckled to myself. Viv probably supplied him with a lifetime's worth of erotic dreams in those few minutes she was gone.

She curled her legs underneath her in the seat and snuggled underneath a blanket, resting her head on Sam's shoulder. He kissed the top of her head and I turned in my seat to stare out the window, remembering other flights from England. Damn, I missed her. Only gone two days and already her absence made a huge gap in my life. And now with Chris gone I felt totally alone in the world. I gave a grim chuckle, thinking I should have throttled Maggie when I had the chance and saved all of us a lot of heartache.

The steward made his way to my seat and I ordered a double scotch on the rocks. I nursed the drink through most of the flight, drifting in and out of my thoughts. My traveling companions noted the choice of drink and left me alone.

The flight itself was easy sailing across the ocean, but there was a weather delay in touching down in New York and we ended up circling the airport for almost two hours. Our baggage seemed to take an unusual amount of time to be unloaded and, following that, the line to go through customs was lengthy, winding around in a serpentine pattern. Once we reached the officials, they decided to search all of our luggage. By the time we'd gotten everything back into order and hired cabs to take us all over to the airport hotel in which Vivienne had booked our rooms, there was only about an hour left before dawn. As much as I wanted to search for Deirdre during our stay over before the flight to New Orleans the next night, I reluctantly acknowledged that it was much too risky to take a cab into the city and hope to accomplish anything worthwhile at all before sun up. And where on earth would I start looking? I really had no idea if she was even in this city. In reality, she could be anywhere. If I had taken her, I'd have hidden her well in the least likeliest place.

No, there would be no search for her tonight. Finding Chris and Maggie had to be my first priority anyway. As much as I hated being separated from Deirdre, and as concerned as I was about Max's intentions (if indeed the soul inside Steven DeRouchard's body was Max's) I had the greatest confidence in her ability to take care of herself. Even without a memory, she had her instincts to fall back on. And, I smiled to myself as I closed the curtains and crawled into bed, her instincts for how to handle Max had always been dead on.

“All in all, you've bought yourself a pile of trouble, Max, old man,” I said.

 

I didn't actually sleep much that day, being too keyed up about the tasks ahead of me, too worried about Chris and Deirdre. Had it not been for the soft talking coming from Sam and Viv's room next to mine, I'd have knocked on their door and asked her to put me to sleep, as she had that last night in Whitby.

I'd never become accustomed to the reversal of sleep patterns and being a vampire could be boring at times. When I was with Deirdre, the waste of the daylight hours didn't bother me one bit. We always found something to do, something to talk about. But without her, the hours just dragged on. I'd been a vampire for over four years now, and for the most part it wasn't a bad life, far preferable to the alternative of dying that night back in my old apartment.

Still, the restrictions of the lifestyle disturbed me more than I'd ever have let on to Deirdre. The avoidance of sunlight, the furtive feedings, the feeling that one must keep watching over one's shoulder, feeling all powerful at one point and completely vulnerable the next: all of that took a heavy toll on me. I understood now, much better than when I was human, the difficulties of the life and how easy it would be to fall into despair or degeneracy. As a result, I had tremendous respect for the accomplishments of Vivienne or Deirdre or Victor or even Max. That they'd lived as long as they had without going totally insane from lack of sunlight or lack of human touch, from the loneliness or the ultimate separation from all that one loved, amazed me.

I'd never have considered vampirism as a viable choice, though, had Deirdre not been one. The rush of sheer power was invigorating and exhilarating, true; the shape-changing, the euphoria of feeding, the intensification of emotions and senses made it a thrilling existence, but I still wasn't sure it could compare with sitting on a beach somewhere watching the sun rise.

Or,
I thought as I got back out of bed and started to read the room service menu,
a steaming plateful of fettuccine alfredo with extra garlic.

Looking into the mirror, I gave myself a twisted smile. “Greer, you've got to be the only person alive who'd seriously consider trading immortality for a serving of pasta.”

Since sleep seemed impossible, I flipped through the television channels a few times with nothing catching my attention. Then I sat down at the desk and began to make a list of all the people I knew that Deirdre knew in New York City. It wasn't a very long list, especially since I left off almost all of the Cadre. The list consisted of only two names: Betsy, the woman who bought Griffin Designs, and Max, who might not be alive. And if alive, he might not be here. The simple fact that it seemed right that Steven DeRouchard was also Max Hunter didn't make it true. Then again, I'd always been good about playing hunches and I'd have put good money down on this one without a worry in the world.

Picking up the phone book, I found the number for Griffin Designs and dialed.

“Good morning, Griffin Designs. How may I direct your call?”

“I'd like to speak with the owner, please. Betsy . . .” I hesitated for a moment, realizing that I completely forgot her last name. Fortunately the woman supplied it for me.

“McCain. And who may I say is calling?”

“Mitchell Greer. I'm Deirdre Griffin's husband.”

“Hold please.”

I barely had time to identify the Muzak song when Betsy's voice shrilled in my ear.

“Mitch! My God, it's been years. Are you in town? Is Deirdre with you? I'd love to see her. Did you know that her daughter stopped here a few years ago?” She paused for a second to give a hoarse laugh. “Imagine her having a daughter. And at first I thought the girl was Deirdre. Amazing resemblance, isn't it?”

I shook my head. Nice to know some people never changed. Betsy was a brassy, fast-talking, cut-throat business woman. I never liked her much, to be honest, but she was the only hope I had right now.

“I'm in town, yes, Betsy. Staying over at the airport right now and I'll be taking a plane to New Orleans this evening.”

“Lovely place, New Orleans, very romantic. A vacation for the two of you? A second honeymoon maybe?”

“Well, not really, Betsy. Here's the problem. Deirdre isn't with me. And I'm not sure where she is. I was hoping that you might have seen her recently.”

“Haven't seen hide nor hair of her. You two have separated?”

“Not willingly, Betsy. It's kind of a complicated situation and hard to explain on the phone.”

“Oh.”

That one word carried a lot of suspicion and wariness. It was as if I could hear the thoughts running through her mind.
They'd had a quarrel or Deirdre had run off with another man or Mitch was a lousy control-freak bastard who was a bad husband.
Or worse, I shuddered a bit, remembering her hand on my knee at our wedding dinner, maybe she was thinking that I was now on the market.

“Complicated? I guess it is. But if you can't explain on the phone, we could maybe meet for lunch? Amazingly enough my schedule for today is completely clear and I'd adore to see you again.”

“I'd love to, Betsy, but I'm afraid I can't. I'll take a rain check, though.”
When hell freezes over.

“Hold on for a second, Mitch, I've got another call.”

I listened to the hold music again, still not able to identify the song, a different one this time.

“Mitch? Look, I'm sorry. I'd love to chat for a while but I've got an emergency here. If I happen to see Deirdre, I'll let her know you're looking for her. How long will you be in New Orleans? And where can she reach you?”

I checked the itinerary Vivienne had drawn up for us. “I've no idea how long we'll be in New Orleans. But I'm staying at the Hotel of Souls.” I gave her the number, she repeated it back to me.

“Got it,” she said. “You have a safe trip. And don't be such a stranger in the future, okay?”

“Okay. And thanks, Betsy. Talk to you soon.”

The whole conversation killed no more than a few minutes, even counting the time I spent on hold. I lay back down on the bed and tried to clear my mind of all worries and thoughts. Eventually, I slept, but only fitfully, waking every hour to check on the slow progression of the clock.

Relieved when the time finally reached four o'clock, I got out of bed and took a shower, which helped to fight the grogginess.
When this is all over,
I told myself while shaving,
I'll sleep like one of the dead.
Technically, though, there was something to be said for classifying me in that category right now. But I didn't feel dead, just tired and angry.

The phone rang. “Yeah?”

The call sounded far away, scratchy. “Mitch?” I didn't recognize the voice.

“Yeah, this is Mitch. Who is this? Deirdre? Is it you, sweetheart?”

There was no answer, but the caller drew in a ragged breath. “I've changed my mind, Mitch. You need to find me. You need to help me. Chris is gone. And God help me, I can't do what I need to do unless you come to me . . .”

“Maggie? Where are you?”

She made a noise. She sounded like a wounded animal and I couldn't tell if she was laughing or crying. “You should know where I am,” she said finally, her words halting and quiet. “You're the detective, aren't you?”

“I know you went to New Orleans,” I said. “Are you still there?”

“Yes,” she breathed the answer.

“And Chris? Is he with you? Is he okay?”

“I don't know,” she said, “I don't know.” She paused, then started again. “I don't know, I don't know, I don't know . . .”

I interrupted her, keeping my voice as calm as possible. She was panicked enough for the both of us. “How can you not know, Maggie?”

“Ooohhhhh.” She dragged out the word. “Please. Don't ask me anymore questions, Mitch. I can't answer them. My head hurts. Just come.”

The line went dead and I stared at the receiver for a moment before hanging it up. When I did, it rang again instantly.

“Maggie?”

“Maggie? Why would I be Maggie? And why would you even need to ask me that? This is Viv, of course.”

“Sorry.”

“Mitch,
mon amour,
you sound strange, you must have been dreaming. Are you awake now? Are you decent? And if not, shall I get rid of Sam and we'll fly away together?”

“Good morning, Vivienne. Sleep well?”

“Always. It's one of the benefits of having a clean conscience.”

I managed a laugh. “Or none at all.”

“Oui,”
she giggled, “that is also a possibility. We have coffee over here and croissants for Sam, dirty rat that he is.” I heard his mock protest through the phone. “We've a bit of time until the flight. Would you care to join us?”

“Give me a few minutes to dress and I'll be right over. Can you give Claude and Lily a call as well? We need to make plans. And I need to tell you all about the call I just got.”

I threw on a clean pair of jeans and a black T-shirt, ran my fingers through my tangled hair. The black dye I'd used to cover my now natural gray was fading away, but the roots still showed. When everything returned to normal, I'd do something about that.

Normal. I took one last look in the mirror and sighed. What was normal? Certainly not the life I led. And if what Sam said was true, it never would be. What sort of life would Deirdre and I have, if any? And Chris? Where was he? What had Maggie done to him? I couldn't bear the thoughts of her killing him or hurting him in any way. He had to be alive. But what did that mean in his case? How would Chris adjust to being back among the living? Would he become one of the Others and breed children only to murder them at birth to preserve his life?

I hoped I'd taught him better. But what sort of fatherly example did I set? Being a vampire hardly exemplified family values.

I tried to silence the questions as I stowed away the few items I'd removed from the duffel bag.
If there were answers,
I thought, picking up the bag and going out the door to Viv's room,
I couldn't find them on my own.