Blood Shadows (2 page)

She needed help.

And it was getting harder and harder to deny it.

She reached for the thin, lightweight computer beside her, drew it on top of her lap, and used the mouse to enlarge the webpage she had opened—and left open—almost two weeks ago: Psychiatric Clinics in New Orleans.

Just pick one, Deanna
, she told herself.
You need help!

She glanced once again at the pictures before her and tried to see them in a new light, maybe, with an eye for self-analysis—it was time for some serious introspection. Setting the laptop aside, she laid the drawings out in order, sort of like a progressively animated comic strip, and then sat back and studied them.

On the far left was the most beautiful man she had ever seen, a tall, incredibly well-built Adonis with deep green eyes and a face so utterly perfect she wasn’t sure God could actually create such a being—let alone endow her with the ability to draw it. His hair was unnaturally thick and silky, and there was a strange air of confidence swirling around him even in the drawing—not quite arrogance, but definitely pride—a regal-like quality. He was simply breathtaking. Actually, more than that: He was arresting…almost disturbing in his appeal.

The next sequence of drawings was more benign, and she drew them the same every time: pine trees, rock outcroppings, skies filled with dark, mottled clouds, and endless miles of forest. Nothing especially interesting or disturbing there. They reminded her of pictures she had seen of Colorado.

She turned to the next drawing, the one immediately to the right of the last forest picture, and she shivered. In this frame, the ground had opened up beneath the handsome man, and he was falling into a dark, endless hole, being sucked into some evil netherworld. The hands that were reaching up to grab him were skeletal and demonic; and, of course, this is where the metaphorical comic strip began to deteriorate and her own mental health came into question: In the subsequent set of photos—the largest sequence that she drew night after night—the ungodly beautiful man was depicted in all kinds of horrific scenarios and positions being tortured.

And by
tortured
, she meant hideously tormented in ways that no stable human being could possibly come up with—let alone draw in such brutal detail—unless that artistically disturbed woman was seriously going insane.

She rubbed her face with her palms as if she could scrub away the anxiety and stared apprehensively at the farthest picture to the right. Something in her gut turned over as her eyes connected with the images.

It was as if it were real.

As if it were happening right now.

As if, right this second, the man was lying facedown against a cold stone, bound by four heavy lengths of chain, with diamonds—of all things—embedded in the links. And God almighty, was he writhing in pain as his flesh was literally torn from his body by a spiked lash. Yet never—not even once in all of her drawings—did the guy beg his tormentors for mercy. For lack of a better term, he took it like a man.

A man forged from iron.

Whoever her phantom captive was, he clearly had the heart of a lion.

Deanna reached out and swept the drawings into a haphazard pile, purposefully disturbing the order in a desperate attempt to erase the madness that had become her nighttime—and more and more often, daytime—obsession.

“Who are you?” she whispered, pleading with heaven-knows-what for just a moment’s peace. “And why are you haunting me?”

One of the earlier-sequenced drawings seemed to rise to the top as if it were trying to answer her question by floating above all the other images…speaking in some cryptic, metaphysical way. “It’s just random, Deanna,” she reassured herself. “From the way you messed them up—you are not She emphasized the last five words while momentarily squeezing her eyes shut. And then she began tapping the back of her foot nervously against the floor in a frenetic, repetitive rhythm as she cringed. “What’s wrong with me…what’s wrong with me…
that
crazy!”
what’s wrong with me
?”

She continued to stare at the most prominent drawing.

“Fine,” she finally spat, reaching for the picture and lifting it up to study it more closely. “I’ll bite. Show me some great hidden meaning, then.” Shaking her head, she whispered, “Show me just how psychotic I am so they can lock me away forever.”

As she turned the drawing over and over, observing it at different angles, she began to notice a strange pattern in the sky: There was something hidden within the shadows of the dark clouds, the ones that loomed ominously over the forested valley, the place from which the man always fell into the black hole. And the hidden pattern wasn’t something Deanna had added to the picture; rather, it was a deliberate omission—white space that remained empty, uncovered by pencil marks.

An outline emerged in the absence of color.

Frowning, Deanna leapt up from the floor and went to get her magnifying glass in order to take a closer look. As she held the drawing beneath the lens, she bent way over to study the vacant space…and froze.

What in the world?

The spaces were letters.

And the letters spelled very distinct words.

Wondering if she wasn’t about to open Pandora’s box—and whether or not she might be better off leaving well enough alone—Deanna reached for her pencil and flipped over another drawing in order to transcribe the letters on the back, one at a time.

DARK-MOON-VALE-CLINIC.

She sat back and stared at the words, and then she picked up the magnifying glass and verified each one a second time, making sure she hadn’t overlooked anything. Yep, that’s what they said all right: Dark Moon Vale Clinic.

She set down the magnifying glass and shrugged. At least they hadn’t spelled out Sybil or Three Faces of Eve. At least they hadn’t spelled out
Redrum, Redrum, Redrum
over and over and over: “All work and no play makes Deanna a very dull girl,” she whispered, shivering at the inappropriate reference to
The Shining
—a terrifying book written by Stephen King in the 1970s that was later made into a movie. That was later remade at a remote Colorado hotel…

Near the Rocky Mountain National Park…

Just outside the Roosevelt National
Forest
.

Deanna swallowed a lump in her throat, set the magnifying glass aside, and slowly reached for her laptop again. This time, she ignored the intimidating list of local psychoanalysts in favor of trying a different search: Colorado Clinics. When she didn’t find the one from her drawings, she began to breathe easier.
Okay, this is good. The clinic isn’t real.

Even as she thought it, an uneasy feeling grew in her belly, and she continued to try various word combinations in the search engine, absently seeking to discern whether or not the
place
was real, even if the clinic wasn’t.

And there it was.

Right beneath Mountain Hotels and Accommodations:
Dark Moon Vale Lodge
.

Damnit!
she thought, her trepidation growing. It was time to research the place in depth.

Despite some frantic voice screaming deep within the recesses of her mind,
Stop! Don’t go any further. This is one of those forks in the road—one of those ominous moments in life from which there is no turning back—don’t do it!
she was helpless to stop herself.

Because something far deeper within her, something far more fundamental and compelling than fear, was spurring her on, inexplicably drawing her to the suffering man in her sketches. To the haunted eyes of that masculine figure.

And nothing in this world—or the next—was going to keep her from solving the mystery…if, in fact, it could be solved.

Even as Deanna clicked on the link and prepared to read further, she already knew she was headed for Colorado: She was going to Dark Moon Vale.

Somewhere…the victim in her drawings did exist. And she was going to find him even if it killed her.

If she had harbored even the slightest doubt before, it was now completely gone: Deanna Dubois was absolutely—
certifiably
—insane.

one

Dark Moon Vale

The sterile room in the private clinic was as orderly as it was disheartening. Kagen Silivasi dragged his chair closer to his brother’s bedside and rested his elbows on his knees. He let out a gentle sigh and stared at Nachari’s peaceful face, wishing Nachari would open his eyes. “How are you doing today, little brother?” he whispered, knowing there would be no response. “Everything seems to be in order…at least physically.”

Kagen frowned. Nachari had been like a vegetable for three months now: His vital signs were good; his heartbeat was steady; and his complexion remained vibrant and flawless—albeit lacking the young vampire’s customary lighthearted smile—and his eyelids rested gently closed over his typically vibrant green eyes. Wherever he was, whether in this world or the next, he appeared to be at rest.

At peace.

Kagen rubbed his jaw in contemplation, wondering for the millionth time what had gone wrong the day Nachari had traded his immortality to follow their sovereign king beyond the realm of the living, to save Napolean from the Dark Lord Ademordna, who had possessed the king in a plot to impregnate and destroy the king’s
destiny
. Had Nachari followed the evil being into the Valley of Death and Shadows? Had he chosen the afterlife over his ceaseless existence on earth? Or had he been derailed in some other horrific fashion?

Only the gods knew.

And they weren’t talking.

Kagen cleared his throat and tried to put some pep into his voice. “So, let’s see: What’s new today?” He spoke to the sleeping vampire the same way every morning, casually and with deliberate hope, praying his faith would one day get through. “Oh yeah, we worked out a new schedule for you.” He absently took Nachari’s hand. “It looks like Nathaniel will be hanging out from two to eight every evening; Marquis will sit with you from eight to three AM; and, of course, I’ll get up with the chickens to be here every day from three until noon.” He tried to chuckle but it sounded as insincere as it felt. “Nurse Katia will take the noon-to-two shift, just to give us a short break, but don’t worry, Jocelyn, Ciopori, and Kristina will be dropping in on a regular basis during that time…more than likely to talk your ears off.” He absently brushed an errant lock of hair from Nachari’s forehead. “Braden would come more often, but we’re trying to protect him from too much exposure to the situation—limit his time in the clinic and keep him busy.”

He set his brother’s hand back down, and then he shrugged away his guilt.

The two-hour window—120 minutes without Kagen, Marquis, or Nathaniel at Nachari’s side—still felt like too much time: Nachari needed to know that his brothers were there every second, pulling for him, standing by him, willing him to live.

That they fully expected him to return to the family—both mentally and physically whole.

It was the women who had finally convinced the Silivasi brothers that they simply couldn’t spend every waking hour at Nachari’s side, that their fatigue also projected a tangible energy; and if they didn’t take a break, make an effort to fortify their own souls, none of them would have anything left to give Nachari. Pretty wise, Kagen thought. Nevertheless, two hours out of twenty-four were all the Master Healer would concede. Luckily, the women were wise enough not to push it any further.

A smile warmed his expression, and he chuckled softly. “Speaking of the women, Marquis is treading on some very thin ice these days.” He leaned in conspiratorially and lowered his voice. “Ciopori finally drew a line in the sand about Marquis’s constant roughhousing with Nikolai—after all, the child is all of what? Just over four months old now?” His voice deepened. “So what did Marquis go and do? He gathered all of Niko’s rattles, hollowed out the centers, and filled them with lead.
Lead.
Basically, he turned them into barbells, so every time the boy teethes and reaches for a rattle, he’s forced to lift weights.” Leaning back in the chair, he crossed one leg horizontally over the other and placed his arm on the back rest. “Nathaniel thinks Ciopori is going to kill him this time when she finds out. Frankly, I think she already knows but is waiting for the best time to use it as leverage.” He leaned in as far forward as possible and added, “If you ever repeat this, I’ll deny saying it, but Marquis no longer runs things over there…even if he thinks he does. I swear to you on my honor, our newest sister has that male wrapped around her little royal finger.” He smiled without restraint. “It’s priceless. It truly is.”

All at once, the steady line on the monitor dipped for a moment and a shrill beep sounded, drawing Kagen to immediate attention. His breath caught as he checked the screen, processed all of the numbers quickly in his head, and prepared to jump at a moment’s notice if necessary. After thirty seconds or so passed without incident, he relaxed his shoulders and chalked it up to the normal fluctuations of technology. And then he sternly chastised himself for overdramatizing the moment.
By the gods, he had never been this antsy before with a
patient.

Of course, Nachari wasn’t just any patient…

Still, Kagen couldn’t help but wonder whether or not he was even capable of providing his youngest brother with ongoing, competent care anymore. Clearly, he could not remain objective, rational, or detached. Perhaps he could no longer see things from a true healer’s perspective.

Perhaps he should have another healer step in for him.

The second the thought crossed his mind, he dismissed it.

Good, bad, or indifferent, there was no way in hell Kagen Silivasi would ever relinquish Nachari’s care to another. The mere thought made him cringe. Nachari would either wake up, come back to the land of the living with gusto, or he would slip away quietly—or not so quietly. Either way, it would be with Kagen at his side.

Kagen rose from his chair.

He crossed the room and opened one of two windows that looked over the whitewater river below. A crisp breeze swept through the night, bringing with it the fresh smell of pine and juniper, clean mountain air. As the invigorating scent filled his nostrils, he inhaled deeply. He thought he had worked through most of his guilt. At least he had tried to put it in its proper place—which wasn’t in the Dark Moon Vale Clinic, interfering with his one-on-one time with his patient. Even if the patient was his beloved brother.