Books by Maggie Shayne (169 page)

"You fuck with my family or my friends and you die. Do you understand me?"

"That's quite the threat, coming from a girl barely out of high school." He laughed, a deep, low sound that changed into a racking cough.

Max held the phone away from her ear, looking at it as realization dawned. It was him. The burned guy she'd seen at the fire. He must have seen her after all. He stopped coughing, and she put the phone back to her ear. "Why are you calling me? What do you want from me, anyway?"

"I want you to forget everything you saw last night. Pretend you were never there. Tell no one."

"Fine. I'll be glad to. If you'll tell me what happened there last night."

"I'm not making a bargain with you, Maxine. You'll do as I say. Forget you ever saw me."

"But—"

"Listen to me, you nosy little bitch!" She jerked in reaction to the anger in his voice. "If you so much as
mention
anything about seeing me at that fire to anyone, the next thing you find on your doorstep will be a body. Or a part of one. I'll just shuffle those photos and pick one at random. Are you following me now?"

"Yes!" She paused, took a breath, her outrage completely smothered by her fear. He would hurt her mother, her friends. "Yes, I… look, I don't know anything. I'm no threat to you. And I'm the only one that saw you. I didn't tell them. I didn't tell anyone. They don't know anything." She was shaking. She pressed a hand to the wall because her legs felt so unsteady.

"That's good. See that it stays that way. I'll be watching you, Maxine. And rest assured, I know how. I'm going to hear everything you say and see everything you do. Don't test me."

"I won't."

He hung up the phone.

Maxine wanted to sink to the floor. She looked around her, feeling exposed, vulnerable. She depressed the cutoff, then lifted it again. With a trembling forefinger, she punched the star key, then the six and the nine. Maybe she shouldn't. Maybe he wasn't kidding and would know she had tried.

"The last number that called this line was," the computer-generated voice said. Then it paused as its components worked. "We're sorry. That number is not available." It clicked off.

Swallowing hard, Maxine hung up the phone.

What the hell was she supposed to do now? Was he watching her? Could he see her even now? Were there bugs or hidden cameras in her own house? She searched her mind and mentally wondered what Oliver Stone would do.

She told herself to use her head. To think.

Okay. The guy had been in a fire last night. Wounded, burned. Suffering from smoke inhalation, too, by the sounds of his cough. He must have spotted her leaving, maybe even followed her home, and then followed Jason and Storm. He learned where they lived, went and got a camera, sneaked back and took the shots. Then he returned to Max's home and watched the place. He'd followed her mom to work in the wee hours of this morning and taken that shot of her. Then he'd come back here and dropped the envelope and made the phone call. Not from the pay phone, because that would have been traceable. A cell phone, maybe. She leaned over the answering machine, hit rewind and then play. As the tape played back, she heard traffic sounds in the background and some telltale static.

She stopped the machine, popped the microcassette out. He was on the road, on the move. He would have to be. He would be watching her, yes. If he were CIA, he would know how to plant bugs and cameras. But she didn't think he'd had the time to do those things yet. He probably figured he could scare her enough to keep her on the straight and narrow until he had all his ducks in a row.

Fine.

She went to her room, saved the contents of the CD-ROM to her hard drive, just in case, then tucked the CD and the name badge into her pocket along with the tape and headed out of the house. It wouldn't look unusual for her to walk to campus. She had classes today.

She wouldn't pursue this and put her mother or her friends at risk. She had no doubt the man would carry out his threats and then some. No doubt at all. God knew the government had committed far more serious atrocities and gotten away with them. Especially if the accounts on that CD were true.

But she wouldn't forget. And she would make sure she had plenty of copies of this evidence tucked away in various places. Because someday she would be older and in a position to blow the whistle. Someday when she was established, with a Ph.D. behind her name, and a law license and some clout of her own. Then she would demand some answers.

But not yet. Right now she was just Mad Maxie Stuart, the twenty-year-old college student with the big imagination.

Imagination my ass, she thought. If she had ever needed proof that the government was up to no good in her hometown, she had it now. If that bastard on the phone thought his threats would put her off the scent, he was wrong. His threats were like the validation that had always eluded her. She wasn't a nut. She was right.

She had been right all along.

And she could be patient.

5 Years Later

Dante woke to the sounds of crackling flames and the smell of smoke. It was so like a fragment of his oldest nightmare that for a moment he believed it was just that, a dream memory come to haunt him, and he didn't stir. But then he felt the heat and the sting in his eyes. He sensed the angry flames and knew they were real.

He sat up fast, too fast, then had to blink in order to clear his swimming head. Night had not yet fallen, he realized dully. He was still weak with the languor of the day sleep. His limbs felt heavy as he turned himself sideways in the large bed and let his legs fall to the floor. They tingled in rebellion when he put weight on them, but he lumbered anyway, stark naked, across the lush carpet, toward the bedroom door. He didn't go far. He didn't have to. Flames snapped and snarled beyond the door, and its gleaming finish began to bubble and sweat.

Dante's nose burned with the smell, and his mind whirled with questions. This was not a coincidence. He turned toward the window, tugging back the heavy draperies, then ducking to the side as the sunlight seared his exposed skin. It hung low in the sky, that blinding yellow death, but it was there, dammit. If he went outside, he would roast.

If he stayed in here, he would do likewise.

The door groaned ominously, swelling inward before its pregnant belly burst, giving birth to hungry flames. Smoke wafted in like a great black ghost. His flesh sizzled. Growling deep in his throat, Dante tore the drapery from its rod, wrapped it around him like a shroud and dove through the glass.

The ground didn't give an inch but met him brutally, knocked the breath from his lungs, jarred his teeth and rattled his bones. He rolled, got to his feet and ran blindly as he felt the sun heating his skin through the fabric. There was motion to the left of him, then an impact as he slammed bodily into what felt like a car. Brakes squealed, and someone shouted a curse to the accompanying blast of a horn, but Dante just kept moving. He had to peer through the opening in the fabric to see where the hell he was going. Across the pavement, yes, this was right. He ran flat out, off the road, across the weed-strewn parking lot, his bare feet blistering with every searing step as he raced toward the shore. The sunlight beyond the drapery was beginning to penetrate now, and he could feel his flesh blister. Damn, damn, damn. Head down, bare feet pounding, drape clutched around him like a cloak, he ran.

There was a sound. A whirring sound, and then something skewered his arm. It felt as if a red-hot blade had driven straight through. He stopped dead at the stunning pain, groping beneath the drapery with his one functioning hand and feeling a shaft, like a dowel, embedded in his upper arm, warm, thick blood pulsing from the point of entry.

"I got him!" someone shouted. A man's voice.

A
dead
man, Dante thought viciously. He forced himself to keep moving. Then his feet touched water and he pressed onward, sloshing to knee depth, then mid-thigh. The cool salty wetness was like heaven on his flesh. God, he was baking. A few more yards and he pitched himself headlong into the Atlantic and swam deep. He let go the drapery, but it hung, tugging at the shaft in his arm until he tore it free. Pain screamed through him, but there was no time to acknowledge it. He swam, as deep as he could go, and still deeper, until he couldn't feel the sun heating his skin any longer.

Then he rolled, his body brushing the sand and shells and assorted litter on the bottom and stirring up a watery cloud as he looked above him, toward the surface. The sky beyond the water was still pale, but growing ever dimmer. The water cooled and soothed his heat-razed flesh, but his arm was alive with pain, and in a moment he realized the clouds in the water were taking on a pinkish hue. He glanced down at his arm. High on the outside, halfway between shoulder and elbow, the bolt he'd all but forgotten was still piercing him. Blood oozed steadily from around it, blossoming in the water.

The maniac had shot him with a crossbow.

Dante lifted his arm and saw the bolt sticking out the underside. Lovely.

Gripping the bolt with one hand, he pulled it free, swearing the damned thing was a mile long, grating his teeth at the intensity of the pain as it slid through his flesh. Jesus! Mortals would never know pain like vampires did. Never.

He dropped the bolt to the ocean floor, but the blood still flowed. And it would continue to flow until he bled out, unless he found a way to stanch it. The wound would heal only with the day sleep. If he lived that long.

He reached down to the sea's bottom, scooped up a handful of the muddy sand and, mustering every ounce of tolerance he had, packed the stuff into the hole in his arm. The pain was excruciating. He howled with it, but in the depths, who could hear? He packed the sand in from both sides of the wound, then plucked a handful of coarse seaweed and wound it around his arm. Using his teeth and one hand, he knotted the rope-like stalks.

He was weak from the pain, his lungs starving for air, and though he would not die for the lack of it, it was nearly impossible to convince himself not to inhale.

When he looked up again, the sky was dark, and he whispered a silent thanks to whatever sorts of angels watched over the undead. He pushed his feet into the ocean bottom, just a little. Slowly, very slowly, he let himself float to the surface. When his head broke through, he sucked in a deep breath. It felt heavenly, filling his lungs, clearing his head. He pushed his dripping hair off his face and scanned the shoreline.

"He's got to come out sooner or later."

Dante followed the sound of the voice to its owner, a man who stood on the shoreline, waving a flashlight around over the surface of the water. He was looking seventy-five yards too close to the shore. Thinking like a mortal, applying mortal limitations to a creature who laughed at them.

"If he does, he'll kill us both," said another man. "The sun's gone down."

"But—"

"We failed. You have to know when to admit defeat and walk away, Raymond. Otherwise you won't live long enough to try again. After dark, they're in control. You understand? The night is our enemy."

Gazing through the darkness, Dante spotted the second man on the shore. The left side of his face, between the cheek and the eye, was mottled and scarred, pulling the eye itself into a grotesque pout. Higher, there was a pink patch where no hair grew on his head.

"Put the light out," the scarred man ordered.

The other one, Raymond, obeyed. "How can he stay in the water that long? Huh? I didn't think they could breathe underwater like freaking fish or something."

"They can't. But it would take a very long time for one to pass out from lack of oxygen."

Dante pulled his arms through the water, moving silently, steadily closer, eager to rip out their throats and drain them dry. He'd lost a substantial amount of blood. He could replenish himself at their expense. The two were certainly courting his wrath.

But before he could reach them, they hurried away. He heard doors slam, a motor start up, and then saw the lights of a car as it left him. No longer bothering to move slowly or quietly, Dante swam until his knees dragged in the sand. Then he got to his feet and waded out of the cold ocean. As he stood on the shore, ankle deep in the water, stark naked and cold as stone, he looked back toward the flaming torch in the night that had been one of his favorite homes.

"I'm going to have to kill those two, whoever the hell they were."

"Dante?"

He knew that voice, and he waited there, dripping wet, his arm screaming in pain, until Sarafina stepped out of the shadows. She was beautiful, as always. Dressed in a full skirt of black lace, scalloped at the bottom. A white peasant blouse pushed down to bare her milky shoulders. Colorful silk scarfs at her waist and in her black, curling tresses, trailing her like comets' tails whenever she moved. She wore too much makeup. Always had. Thick black liner and dark shadow gave her a menacing appearance, and the long, curling bloodred nails added to that. But she was a Gypsy. She embraced the stereotypical image that went with the blood. It was her gimmick.

She moved closer, gripped his shoulders, making him wince, and kissed his face, his mouth. He felt her warmth and smelled a fresh kill on her breath.

"You're all right?" she asked when she finally released him.

"I've got a hole in my arm, but it will keep. The bastards burned my house."

"Did you see them?" she asked.

He nodded. "They're gone now, or they'd be dead."

"Did one of them have a scarred face?"

Looking at her sharply, Dante nodded. "You've encountered them?"

"Him, at least. He was following me one night in Rome. I'd have ripped out his throat if he hadn't realized I'd spotted him and run like a rabbit."

Dante sighed. "The man is a pest."

"The man needs killing."

Rolling his eyes, Dante managed a smile, in spite of his pain. "You think every mortal needs killing, Sarafina."

"Thirty of our kind have been murdered in their sleep, Dante. And other fires like this one have come close to claiming more. Someone knows our secrets." A chill went through him—at her words, or because of the cold, he wasn't certain which. "Let's go someplace where I can get dry," he told her. "We'll talk there."

"Yes. You'll draw a crowd soon enough, standing out here naked."

Taking his arm, Sarafina led him to a black limousine that was parked around a bend in the road, put him into the back seat and slid in beside him. Dante almost smiled at the extravagance.

The driver said nothing of the sopping wet, naked man his employer had apparently plucked from the waves. He didn't even look directly into her eyes when she spoke to him. He was well trained, Dante thought. Very
well
. Maybe too
well. Pushing
a button so the glass partition opened just slightly, Sarafina said, "Take us to the apartment, pet. And turn up the heat back here."

The driver's only reply was a nod as the glass slid closed again. Then the car was in motion.

Sarafina picked up a large crocheted shawl and proceeded to rub Dante's shoulders, chest and hair with it. "I think it's that dreadful DPI," she said. "They have to be behind this."

Dante sent her a quelling glance, then jerked his head toward the man in the front.

"Oh, don't be ridiculous, love. He can't hear me with the partition closed, and even if he could, he wouldn't repeat a word."

Dante glanced again at the man in the front. He was very pale, very thin. His eyes seemed hollow. He couldn't see the man's throat, but the fact that he wore a turtleneck beneath his navy-blue jacket spoke volumes. Dante looked at Sarafina again. "You're not supposed to use them as slaves, 'fina. It's bad form."

She shrugged. "At least I don't kill them outright. Unless they displease me. Stop changing the subject. What do we do about this organization?"

He shook his head slowly, debating whether to put the poor mortal out of his misery when the ride had ended. Then again, what good would it do? Sarafina would only find another whose mind she could bend to her will. The more often a vampire drank from a mortal without killing them, the more addicted the mortal became, until he was little more than a mindless subservient worm, like the driver, craving only the feel of his mistress's fangs sinking into his flesh.

"DPI was destroyed five years ago," he told her. "The government stopped funding the project after that. It no longer exists."

"Then who is hunting down vampires?"

He shrugged, looking away.

"More interestingly, who is giving them their information? How do they know where we rest, where we hunt, where we live? Even DPI, with all their research, didn't have this much information on our personal lives." She dropped the damp black shawl on the seat between them. "That is the person we need to find, Dante. Whoever it is, we need to kill them… slowly, I think. I'd like to see them writhe for a while first."

She pushed a button, and the glass between the front and back seats slid open once again. She leaned closer to it. "Your wrist, my pet. Your mistress is hungry."

Smiling wanly, the driver lifted his arm, poked his hand through the opening. The sleeve of his jacket was already rolled back, and several puncture wounds littered his forearm. Gripping his forearm with both of hers, Sarafina sank her teeth into him and sucked at him for a long while. Dante looked away but couldn't deny the hunger stirring inside him.

She lifted her head, licked her red lips clean. "Would you like some, Dante? My pet is quite delicious."

"You're cruel, Sarafina. Kill him and have done with it."

She lifted her brows as if wounded, then turned her attention back to her driver. She licked his forearm clean of the trickles of blood left behind and gently rolled his sleeve down again. "Here we are, love. Pull over right here."

He nodded, pulling the limo to a stop. Then he got out, came back and opened her door.

They were on a highway. Traffic rushed past in a blur of lights and motion. Sarafina didn't get up. Without so much as looking at him, she said, "I want you to do something for me, love."

"Anything," the driver whispered. He was a tall man, Dante noted. Dark hair sprinkled with gray, a thin, angular face and a beakish nose.

"I want you turn around, and walk out into the middle of the highway."

The driver stared at her, not directly at her eyes, but somewhere below them.

"Sarafina—" Dante began.

"Do it now," she said.

Dante closed his eyes and swore under his breath. The driver turned and stepped out into the oncoming traffic. His body was hurled about a hundred feet when it was struck. By then, though, Sarafina was behind the wheel and driving away.

She never even looked back.

"I just don't understand why you won't move back to L.A., Morgan. You have everything you wanted. You could return in triumph now, just the way you always said you would."

Morgan paced across the marble tiles of the great room, heels clicking with every step. She wore a loose-fitting teal blouse and matching pants in brushed silk that whispered over her skin when she moved. She loved the way it felt. "I like it here," she said. "Come on, David, even you have to admit I've done wonders with this place in five years' time."