Blood Sin (17 page)

Alerting the hunters was a cop-out. She knew Josh and Saloman as none of the hunters did, and in spite of everything, when it came down to it, she knew she was the best protection from Saloman that Josh had.

It was turning into a clear, starry night. The breeze was just enough to blow the hair back from her face rather than blasting her into the sea, as it sometimes seemed to attempt. In the distance a few students were celebrating the end of an exam with a shared bottle. A couple of dog walkers moved like pinpricks across her vision. Elizabeth strode in the opposite direction, wanting no companion but the salty wind and the sound of her own brisk footfalls crunching softly in the sand.

Gradually, the knots in her stomach unraveled and her mind quieted. There was only the gathering darkness and the winking of stars, the lapping of waves and the smell of sea and salt. In peace, however brief, she let the thought of Saloman fill her until she almost felt his presence by her side, his long, predatory strides shortened to match her own.

It took several moments to realize he was there in more than her imagination, and for once she simply accepted without question or fear. In silence, she absorbed his company, with no sense of waiting, and he seemed content to leave it so.

At last she said, “Dante knows about you. He and his friends knew about the sword. They’d seen pictures in a book.”

“It’s possible,” he allowed. And for a time, they said nothing more. There was pain in his presence, as there always was, but gladness more than made up for it, because he was here by her side when she’d thought he’d gone. He didn’t touch her, didn’t even take her hand—which was a pity. Ever since she’d first come to St. Andrews as a naive and romantic student, she’d imagined herself walking on the West Sands at dusk, hand in hand with a lover whose face was as vague as his name. It had never happened, and she wouldn’t make the move to let it now.

Saloman said, “We could leave tomorrow night.”

She gazed up at the growing number of stars in the sky, as if hoping the right answer would be there. It was as likely as anything else.

She had little to lose by accompanying him. Her job here was more or less finished. She owed the hunters some research, even some effort to halt Saloman’s seemingly inexorable march toward world domination; and she owed Josh some protection. And if Dante was all Saloman said he was, then perhaps she owed the world some small effort to halt him. If those were the only reasons urging her to go to America, then she’d be on the next plane.

But more urgent than all of those things was her desire for the man—the vampire—walking silently at her side. If she didn’t want to go with him so much, it would have been easier to say yes.

“I can’t work out,” she said, “whether I’m perverse, or the world is.”

“Does it matter?”

She thought about it. The world mattered. Responsibility mattered. And beside those things, the peace of mind of one not very important woman didn’t really count for much.

She said, “We’ll leave tomorrow night.”

Chapter Eight

I
t wasn’t a cold night. In fact, after Scotland, the New York weather was pleasantly balmy. But sitting still for so long seemed to freeze up Josh’s bones. He wanted to get out of the car and jog back to his own apartment for a soak in the tub and a shot of the excellent Scotch he’d brought home with him. Despite the gangland street fights that had broken out across the city the other evening, he was sure this neighborhood would be safe enough on foot. But he was damned if he’d leave before the detective showed up.

Josh checked his watch again, then eased himself out of the car and began to stroll along the sidewalk. In the apartment building on the other side of the road, Dante’s lights were still on. Josh had been watching his apartment for the last two evenings, without seeing anything more interesting than the odd familiar visitor, or the senator leaving to step into his car to go to some function or other. But he could see no harm in provoking him a little.

Josh had a double plan: either to find the sword himself, or badger Dante into returning it with whatever pretense the senator cared to make about recovering it from fictitious villains. Although he was aware that some, including Elizabeth Silk, would call his determination obsession, it didn’t stop him. He needed this keepsake of his father.

Josh crossed the road, darting nimbly between passing, hooting cars, and strolled into Dante’s building. The man on duty in the hall lost his supercilious expression almost immediately and goggled at Josh. “Could you see if Senator Dante’s in?” Josh asked amiably. “I’m Josh Alexander.”

The man pulled himself together enough to make the call and a second later was ushering Josh into the elevator. “Straight to the top, sir.”

Josh nodded and smiled again as the doors closed. He’d have to sign autographs on the way out.

The senator was alone and appeared delighted to welcome him. Josh had never been in this apartment before and guessed by the bare, unlived-in look that the senator wasn’t here much either. Blatantly, Josh looked about him for signs of the sword or the old coat it had been wrapped in. Not surprisingly, there weren’t any.

“I was just wondering,” Josh said, “if there was news of the sword?” The only point they’d agreed on was not to involve the police. For one thing, neither of them wanted to advertise their treasures, and for another, they were both well aware that in this particular crime, Dante’s reach went well beyond that of the Scottish police.

“None, I’m afraid to say,” Dante replied, walking toward a cabinet on which stood a crystal decanter and four clean glasses. “Or of my goblet. But did you hear about poor Bill Cartwright?”

Josh frowned, waving away the drink the senator was silently offering while he poured one for himself. “Bill? Your antiques guy? What about him?”

“He was mugged in Scotland—died of his injuries.”

“Shit,” Josh said, sitting in the stiff leather armchair and trying to work out what that meant. “Shit, that
was
bad luck.”

“Scares the hell out of me,” Dante said heavily, taking the seat opposite him. “I know these things can happen to anybody in any city, but don’t you think the timing’s a little . . . strange?”

Josh closed his mouth. “You think it had something to do with the theft?” He sounded too incredulous, but he didn’t much care. He was damned sure Dante had taken the sword. But the theft itself seemed almost honorable compared to the crime of trying to blame it on your tragically dead friend. He’d expected Dante to blame an entirely fictitious thief. Although if it meant the return of the sword . . .

“It strikes me he was keeping bad company.” Dante sipped his drink and set it down on the polished table beside him. “Bill was in financial trouble, you know. I think to solve his problems, he might have made a deal with some unsavory people and then stolen from you and me upon their order. Something went wrong when he tried to deliver, and they killed him, taking the sword and goblet with them.”

Uneasily, Josh regarded the strong, open face opposite, and almost believed. Dante was frowning with anxiety, a hint of shame in his piercing blue eyes for thinking and passing on such suspicions. Unhappiness lurked around the lines of his thinned mouth. Either the senator was genuine, or he was a bloody good actor.

Josh already knew he was a bloody good actor.

“I suppose you have more evidence than conjecture?” he said.

Dante inclined his head. “I have. Although it’s not conclusive.”

“Care to share?”

Dante smiled slightly. “Actually, no, Josh, I wouldn’t. But I haven’t given up on this. I’ll let you know at once if I discover your sword. You know how bad I feel about such a thing happening in my house.”

“Yes, I believe I do,” Josh said ambiguously. He stood up. “Surprised you’re still in New York,” he observed. “I thought you’d have gone straight back to Washington.”

“I’ve got a few things to attend to here first. Keep in touch, Josh.”

Josh nodded, deliberately turning away before the senator could offer to shake hands. He doubted he’d ever forgive Dante, either for the trick on Elizabeth or for stealing the sword. Not unless the bastard gave it back.

Josh descended in the elevator, signed the doorman’s autograph, and headed outside. A man sheltering in the doorway said, “Evening, Mr. Alexander.”

“Ah. Good evening,” Josh returned politely. He glanced about him to make sure they weren’t being overheard. “He’s up there now. I need to know every visitor he has, and everywhere he goes.”

“Yes, sir. You said.”

“Thanks,” Josh muttered with a nod, and strode on toward his car.

Elizabeth didn’t think she’d sleep at all on the long transatlantic flight. With Saloman at her side, she needed all her wits about her all the time. And in any case, sitting so close to him that they almost touched, she felt a constant zing of electricity, keeping her in a permanent state of excitement. But somehow, the hum of the engines and sheer tiredness must have gotten to her, for she woke from one of those light, dreaming half dozes to feel the slow, powerful beat of his heart under her arm.

Her cheek lay on cool silk over hard flesh. She’d fallen against him as she slept, her head tucked under his neck, her arm across his chest. How long had she been like this? It didn’t matter; she should straighten immediately and apologize. . . . Except it felt so good. She could allow herself this moment of secret happiness. If he thought she was asleep, she could soak up his familiar, distinctive scent, the hard strength of his lean, muscled body, the sheer joy of being close to him.

His hand stroked her hair, settling on her nape, and pleasant little tingles ran through her head and down her spine. She opened her eyes, drinking in the sight of him, even if all she could see was his shirt buttons and the long, pale hand resting in his lap.

I could get used to this. Oh, but I could . . .

It wasn’t just the present moment that caused the upsurge of yearning. It was being in his company so long. He’d stayed in her flat since their encounter on the beach. She’d slept in her own bedroom while he played music and watched television, and even used her laptop in the living room. She’d maintained the distance between them so well that he made no effort to join her.

And the next day, when she’d come home from work after negotiating with Richard for early leave, he’d still been there. Since she had no idea what to say to him, the silences were long, and yet gradually they’d ceased to be uncomfortable and talk had begun to flow naturally, talk of things that had nothing to do with vampires or swords or ruling the world.

For long periods, he’d lain on the sofa with his eyes closed, and she had the impression he was communicating telepathically. She didn’t ask who with. She didn’t want to know.

She realized it was dangerous falling into this . . .
comfort
with him, but she had hoped that so long as she maintained the physical distance, perhaps she’d survive taking this risk.

And now she’d let that slip too. His hand moved over her hair and settled on her back, lightly holding her. As if he cared. As if she still meant more than the love of a moment in a very long life.

She closed her eyes.
Why do I need to believe that? Many women must have lived and died loving Saloman. I wonder how many he actually noticed. Will he care when I die?

Appalled by the direction of her thoughts, she sat up, mumbling, “Sorry.” His hand slid away. Fortunately, the stewardess passed, offering drinks, and by the time her orange juice was delivered, she was able to look him in the eye again. She could even stretch out her legs and say with appreciation, “First class is good.”

“Glad to help,” he said, a hint of humor gleaming in his dark eyes. To all intents and purposes he’d existed for only a few months in the modern world, and yet nothing seemed to faze him. Not high-powered business or transatlantic flights. He looked completely at home.

She sipped her juice, watching him over the rim of her glass and counting the times she’d ever seen him disconcerted.

Once. Only once, when she’d thrown down the stake with which she’d meant to kill him and kissed him instead. It had lasted only an instant, but she treasured it as much as the fierce, urgent loving that had come after.

Heat began to spread through her body. Before it could reach her face and betray her, she said with a hint of desperation, “Is this
really
the first time you’ve been to America?”

“Since I awakened, yes. I’m sure your hunter friends have told you that is the case.” He spoke in Romanian, no doubt in consideration of his fellow passengers, who could conceivably overhear.

She wondered if he knew the hunters “lost” him for long periods. But of course he did. It was entirely deliberate, to give his “character” of Adam Simon a head start. Elizabeth ignored the twinge of guilt about not yet telling them about his new identity. She had a feeling Simon was the business connection of Saloman’s that Mihaela was pursuing, and she should have saved her friend the trouble by just informing her outright that Simon was Saloman.