Bond of Darkness (22 page)

DPS HEADQUARTERS. JULY 10

Steve balanced the heavy filing box on one hip and blocked the conference room's door with her booted foot, determined not to let the fast-moving steel nip her fingers yet again. They kept the room continuously locked now, hiding the towering piles of unanalyzed case files, like glaciers eager to break apart into icebergs. Once the task force had started asking around, far too many cases had come to light.

After that, files had poured into Austin, escorted by hard-faced cops with little to say and a desperate, uneasy hope in their eyes. It wasn't right to have one or two women die in a week from unexplained causes, when the same jurisdiction might see that many in a year. And when they were young and healthy? Hell, she, too, would run out of tests to call for and words to use in the "cause of death" box. Multiply that by four big cities and more than two hundred miles of interstate highway… She'd personally stopped counting at three dozen killings.

She slid the box onto the side table and picked up the log sheet, ready to start checking in its contents.

"How many do you have there?" Mike Morris eyed the innocuous brown and white cardboard suspiciously.

"Two, one of them a suicide. Suicide was a nurse so more toxicology work was done than usual."

"But nothing found." He double-checked his gun and shoved it into his holster.

"Not so far. Finished for the week?"

"Yeah. Put in my forty and the bosses have officially forbidden any overtime. Everybody else is already gone."

"Crap."

"You got it." He grinned, his teeth startling white against his normally somber face. "My wife's helping out at a camp for special needs kids this weekend. Now I can go with her and enjoy the rug rats, too."

She smiled back at him, warmed by his simple joy. Once she'd hoped to be as comfortable around small children as he was. It probably would never happen. But if it didn't—"Show me your pictures on Monday, 'kay?"

"Sure thing. Don't let the cleaning crew walk you out again, hear?"

She laughed and waggled her fingers at him, silently promising not to be that stupid twice—especially after Posada's lecture on working late. Morris was gone a minute later, jauntily whistling the latest Tim McGraw hit.

She finished logging in the new cases and stretched, eyeing the possibilities for a late lunch. Cold cheese pizza, cold veggie pizza, and cold—she lifted a lid—mushroom and meatball pizza. Better options than anything in her kitchen certainly and she'd learned long ago not to turn down pizza if she didn't want to cook. Still, after years of eating little else, she wasn't in a hurry for more.

She tore off a piece of cheese pizza and settled down with her sweet tea to read one last case file before going home. And try not to think about spending another Friday night alone. Or more irritatingly, with Ethan.

This girl was a University of Texas coed, who'd died outside an Austin bookstore. Like all the other case files, hers was most notable for what it didn't contain. The X-rays were very brief, for example, with only the standard set and nothing highlighted. Toxicology had done a full screen and found nothing, including no illegal drugs. She had no known preexisting medical conditions and, thus, nothing requiring further explanations on that form, either. Nothing resembling a real cause of death was mentioned on any of the forms.

And yet there was far too much smoke, given all these deaths with similar modi operandi, not to have a fire.

Steve finished the slice and decided not to tackle the rest. She'd never worked out of headquarters before but Dan's list of suggested restaurants was posted on the back of the door.

Wiping off her hands, she turned the page and read the first observation about the girl, from the forensic investigator who'd gone over the death scene. Most of this was as minimalist as everyone else's report, except he described the deceased in a little more detail than usual.

The girl's head had been arched to one side and stretched back, like several of the others, thus exposing her jugular. A precise drawing was included, showing its exact angle.

Steve stirred, something flickering behind her eyes. But it was gone before she could catch it.

Given the hot weather, the young lady had been wearing a deep, v-necked tee. The investigator's drawing also showed how she looked, with the fabric fallen open and two small, acne papules just above the great vein. The investigator had even helpfully drawn the small sores with a red pen.

Outside, two secretaries were loudly wishing each other a very good weekend, as measured by success in hunting men. Cute men.

Steve turned the page, determinedly not listening to them. She propped her chin on her hand, curving her neck and shoulder against her arm. She'd rather be shacked up with a single, perfect lover. Tall, blond, beautiful as a god…

The autopsy report was just as neat and detailed, full of steps taken, tests run, observations made. It, too, included a series of excellent drawings, showing the deceased's exact condition.

Steve started to flip the page, looking for the full toxicology report—and stopped. There was something about that picture… The neck was wrong. Where on earth were the two papules?

Her pulse moving faster, she double-checked the autopsy report. Nothing about little red sores, whether in a drawing or the written report.

But the forensic investigator specifically described and showed red papules on the neck, above the jugular.

How could they have occurred? And why would they have disappeared?

Two papules. Just above the jugular.

She rubbed her neck—and remembered another time when a man's hands had done exactly the same thing, while his voice had purred enticements in her ear, and her body had trembled in anticipation. His mouth had closed over her throat and he'd bitten down hard, sucking her blood.

Her body jolted yet again, shuddering in an echo of that shattering orgasm.

She'd had two little marks on her throat afterward and nothing at all the next day. Just like this coed.

But she'd always put that down to healing. The coed had died. Could vampiro saliva so accelerate the process that all traces of contact vanished, even without assistance from a living body?

Ethan, Ethan the vampiro.

But he wouldn't murder women! Not Ethan.

She shoved her chair back so hard that it slammed into the boxes behind her. She flung herself out of it and began to stride around the room, barely noticing the boxes she dodged.

Next to this, his execution of Garcia Herrera faded into obscurity.

Ethan was the only vampiro she knew. He had the means to kill all these women, given his fangs and his strength, his ability to create the small bite marks which healed so very quickly. And no two women had been killed at exactly the same time. It was barely—barely!—possible one man could have done all the killings.

But not him! Oh, dear lord, now she sounded like all the other women she'd ever interviewed who denied up until the last minute that their loved one would ever lift a hand in anger to anyone.

Except she was a trained investigator, a professional, a Texas Ranger. She should know.

Of course, there could be more vampiros but she'd never met any, nor seen any signs of them.

She pounded her fists against the uncaring boxes.

Dammit, not Ethan! Not her lover of fifteen years!

She swung around and leaned her back against the files, the silent witnesses to dozens of murders. She was a cop. Above all else, she had to have justice for these women. But how?

Risk everything to bring the truth into daylight, even if it meant talking to Ethan in person.

Steve brought her big Ford Expedition to a decorous stop before the impassive gates, gravel shifting under her tires like the butterflies flitting around her stomach. If she'd had had any other choice, she wouldn't have come, especially when she wasn't even sure she had the right place. After exhausting every other option, she'd finally checked out every large rural property which hadn't changed hands since Texas entered the Union. This was the only one big and secretive enough to hold Ethan and its inhabitants had even agreed to let her in.

She gunned the engine into full roaring life and roared down the winding road, passing through miles of green pasture. Longhorn cattle lifted their heads to watch her, maneuvering their sharp horns with a society matron's grace. Great oak trees and heavy boulders leaned over the road, providing shade and cover for watchers.

Her mouth twisted briefly. Given how her skin was crawling, there were at least a half dozen men observing her every move. Some were probably using security cameras but at least one or two were physically present, undoubtedly somewhere close to the skyline.

Well, they could relax—she hadn't come to kill anyone, although she'd surely like to make an arrest.

The road opened out abruptly into a valley, centered on a surprisingly large complex. Steve's foot came off the accelerator for a moment before she drove on. Boy howdy, the place was big!

An immense, ranch house, three stories tall under a deep mansard roof, was solidly built of limestone blocks. The front was covered with a two-story porch, while the other three sides had a multitude of chimneys. It could have withstood a siege, given its steel shutters, especially if the wooden porch was added after the Indian Wars were over.

Pergolas, covered in fruiting vines, framed the stone walkways connecting the dozen other buildings. She could make out a barn, a chapel, at least one dormitory, and more. Was that a pistol range—with an armory beside it—off there to the south? Had she heard automatic weapons firing?

All in all, it was an independent, self-sufficient world, not a small-time, arrogant bastard's little property.

Her fingers tightened on the wheel, cats' claws inside her skin urging her to turn around now.

She bit her lip. She'd have to apologize to Ethan somehow about her reaction to Garcia Herrera's death—or he'd never talk to her. She'd also have to not think about him as a lover—which would be a first when seeing him in the flesh.

Her hands, without any instructions from her brain, stopped the big truck in front of the house and turned off its engine. The sudden silence ripped cold air through her lungs, shocking her back to the here and now.

She sucked in a long breath, reminding herself of who she was and who she represented. Stephanie Amanda Reynolds, Texas Ranger. Almost two centuries of Texas law enforcement in her veins. Not just a woman who'd been wretched without her lover.

She wrapped her fingers around her father's battered leather briefcase, which held the cases' summaries, and unlatched the truck door. It opened sweetly for her, obedient as a bolt action rifle.

She stepped down to face two men, both with the subtle reserve and smooth movements of those who've spent far too long practicing with weapons. They were dressed casually, wearing rock concert T-shirts and jeans, above cowboy boots. If they meant to reassure her by not overtly displaying their guns, they failed, given the number of possible hiding places for one on their bodies.

"Reynolds? This way, please." They took her past the house and into the storm cellar, one walking in front of her and the other behind. They set a fast pace, too, giving her very little time to consider her surroundings, while they went down two, three, four flights of stairs.

Why had she forgotten how much Ethan loathed the sun? Had she truly been foolish enough to hope she'd see him the minute she arrived?

Steve's lips stretched across her teeth, while she called herself a thousand names for fool.

Except for the lighting, the underground hallways could have been found in any expensive office building or lawyers' offices. Soft carpeting covered the floors, deadening any sound. They were superbly furnished, down to the high-quality maps and artwork which decorated the walls. Snatches of conversation drifted through like smoke from the few rooms before fading away.

Her party passed a pair of metal detectors without pausing, an oversight she decided not to mention. On the other hand, how much chance did she really have of pulling a gun on Ethan, given his superior speed?

Metal detectors were easy to identify. The number of intersections and doors, left and right turns, were not. She'd have bet a month's pay her escorts were trying to befuddle her.

The few men they encountered, all openly wearing pistols, silently made room for them. Their hard eyes swept over her but they said nothing, simply pressed against the wall or stepped into a doorway. Steve nodded politely to them but kept silent as well. Were they vampiros like Ethan?

They finally arrived at a pair of smoothly polished, double doors, gleaming like satin under a single overhead spotlight. Her leader knocked once, paused, and knocked again.

"Enter," called Ethan.

Her throat was ridiculously tight. She straightened her shoulders, threw her head back, and marched inside without waiting for either of her far-too-careful escorts to show her the way.

The buildings above ground came from limestone blocks, as rugged as the men who strode below them. This room was smoothly polished, with satin-soft plaster rippling over the walls. Great wooden cabinets rose from floor to ceiling, intricate and subtle as a boatbuilder's art. Oversized leather chairs offered comfortable seating near an oval glass table. An oriental carpet warmed the hardwood floor, while skylights and French doors mimicked daylight.

Its sole occupant, even more masculine than the others, was definitely the king of this domain, standing arrogant and tall in his white starched shirt and crisply pressed jeans. His expression was impassive, his eyes green and gold chips of ice under those thick golden lashes. Lord, how she'd always envied him that gaze.

How the hell could she have forgotten how beautiful he was? But he'd changed in the past month. His eyes were deeper set, fine lines fanning from their corners. Deep grooves bracketed his once-curving mouth and his cheekbones were higher, more angular. His stubborn jaw was more blatantly carved from intransigent bone, not soft skin.