Books by Maggie Shayne (176 page)

"
Nosferatu
!" the Grandmother shrieked, tugging Dante's mother behind her and jabbing her fingers at him again. "Leave us, demon! Go your way and leave us!"

As one, the entire village pulled away from Dante, moving nearer the fire. He shook his head, lifting a hand toward them in appeal. "Please! I am not a demon! I am just as I was before. I am Dante." He found his mother's eyes in the crowd. "I am your son!"

"My son is dead." The words were low, deep, reverberating with pain.

"No!"

"It was Sarafina, wasn't it, boy?" the Grandmother asked him. "She came to you as you lay dying. She passed her curse on to you. Didn't she?"

"No!"

The Grandmother spat on the ground. "We shall see, young devil. For the sun rises soon. Our Dante's soul will find peace when your body burns!"

Dante's mother spun toward the east, and she stared off into the paling sky. Then she raced to him, put her hands on his chest and pushed at him. "Go, Dante! Go now. I cannot bear to lose you twice."

"Mother? I don't—"

"Go! Cover yourself!"

"You do him no favors, child," the Grandmother muttered.

Then Dante felt something he had never felt before. A heat, searing from somewhere deep within him as the first rays of the sun pierced the sky, shooting like arrows from the horizon, stabbing him deeply and burning there. "Ah!" He clutched himself, gritted his teeth. Thin spirals of smoke began to rise from his flesh.

"Run! Into the woods. Find shelter!" his mother screamed.

The burning was unbearable. Dante turned, and ran. The trees offered relief, but only for seconds as he lunged headlong, deeper into the forest, seeking shelter from the sun, his heart breaking, his mind racing, but all of it secondary to the searing pain of his burning flesh. He dove into the first cover he saw, a pile of deadfall, and burrowed deeper, pulling leaves and brash over and around him as he dug to the very bottom of the mound.

And then he sat very still, waiting for the pain to ease, waiting. He had to think. He had to understand why this was happening to him.

But his head was suddenly heavy. Far too heavy, and his eyes, though tear-filled, were closing. He fought to stay awake. God, how could he sleep when his entire world had just been turned on its head? But there was no resisting this sleep. In fact, it didn't seem at all like falling asleep. It seemed, he thought, panic gripping his heart, like dying…

Morgan got up and ran from the theater. Dante, who had been watching the events of his own life play out on the screen in a state of utter disbelief and increasing anger, saw her go, and he rose slowly and followed her.
She
had done this. Somehow that woman knew his secrets. And she had told the entire world.

She was going to have to pay. Tonight.

Lou had read the entire DPI case file on the alleged vampire who went by the name of Dante before they managed to find a theater still showing the flick mat Mad Maxie was so hot on seeing. It had been released a couple of months ago, but now, with a Best Screenplay nomination, a few places were showing it again. Maxie managed to locate one while he read, and then she came and read over his shoulder, since it was two hours before the next showing.

So they both were fairly up on the bullshit in the file as they sat in the theater. Which meant mat he knew, and he knew that she knew, that what was playing out on the screen was pretty much an adaptation of several key parts of the file. Not as dry, of course. Goddamn riveting, actually.

But the high points were the same. Gypsy kid, shot for stealing a goat, transformed into a vampire by an exotic aunt who never aged. Right. The fiction on the screen was cold hard fact, according to this crackpot government agency. The only difference was, the film was slanted in sympathy with the creature. He came off as wounded and lonely, cursed and hunted. The files made him sound more like a vicious animal that needed putting down.

Lou knew damned well he would
never
convince Max that both versions were bullshit. Not now.

"Now do you see what I'm talking about, Lou?"

He walked beside her, back up the carpeted slope out of the theater. Someone bumped into her, jostled her, and he automatically grabbed her upper arm. "All I see is that your top secret information seems to be not so secret after all."

"If that were the case, it would be public knowledge. Some investigative reporter would be all over this stuff."

"What, you didn't see the latest
Enquirer
? I'm sure they covered it. Right next to the baby they found inside an uncut pumpkin, still on the vine, and the rash of alien abductions in Upper Butthole, Nebraska."

She sneered at him. "If it were public knowledge, it would make the
Times
."

"Um-hm."

"Lou, this is real. We've got the same set of facts from two separate sources now. This woman, this screenwriter, she knows more about this than either of us. We've got to talk to her."

He led her to his car, put her in it and got behind the wheel. "I don't want to talk to you about this anymore. Tomorrow morning, I'm gonna call in a few favors."

"No."

"I have a buddy who works for the CIA. Low-level guy, but still…he'll know who to ask about this…this DPI garbage."

"Lou, no."

"I'm a cop, Max. I'm not swallowing a bit of this. It isn't in me to swallow it. Not without proof."

She caught his face between her flattened palms and turned him to face her. She was close to Mm. So close he could feel her breath on his mouth. It smelled like hot buttered popcorn and was every bit as tempting.

"Don't tell anyone. Lou, please. It's too dangerous."

He looked at her. She had those huge green eyes, and right now they were scared. He didn't see Mad Maxie Stuart scared very often. When he did, it meant something. Damn, he just wished she wouldn't get so close. Sighing, he lifted a hand and tousled her short red hair, moving her face away from his in the process. "Okay, all right. Fine. I won't say anything."

"And we'll try to trace the screenwriter. Morgan De Silva. And just talk to her."

He sighed, pulling the car up in front of Maxie's house-slash-office. "I'll think about it."

"I'll do it with you or without you, Lou."

"Now, listen, Maxie, you be patient. Give me a few days to sort through all this." He waggled a finger at her, father-like. "And not a word to Lydia in the meantime. Understand?"

"Not a word to Lydia about what, Lou?" a voice asked.

He swung his head around and saw Lydia herself standing on the other side of the car. She had apparently been waiting for Max to get home.

"Come on inside, Lydia," Max called, getting out of Lou's car and heading toward her house. "I'll explain everything. See you later, Lou."

"But… "

"Bye, Lou," Lydia said, sending him a smile.

Lou gave his head a quick shake, wondering how the hell he had managed to lose control of the situation so quickly. "Listen, Lydia, whatever she tells you is pure conjecture. You gotta know that up front."

Lydia rolled her eyes at him and joined Max, walking up the steps to the front porch and across it toward the door.

"Don't either one of you
do
anything without calling me first. Understand?"

Maxie looked at him over her shoulder, sent him a wink. "Of course we won't. Wouldn't be any fun without you."

Then she opened the door, and the two of them went into the house.

Lou went back to his car. But he didn't go home. He went back to the station instead, because that was where he kept all his business-related phone contacts. He looked up the number of his CIA buddy and gave the man a call. As vaguely as he could manage, he asked his friend to find out what he could about an alleged secret CIA unit known as DPI.

Then he drove back to Maxie's house and parked outside to watch the place for the rest of the night.

A soft hand fell on Morgan's shoulder as she sat there on the beach, sobbing.

"Why do you cry?"

It was a woman's voice, deep and rich, slightly accented. Morgan lifted her head and swiped her hands across her cheeks. She could barely see the woman who'd walked up beside her. She was a tall, slender blur. Dark hair, cranberry-colored coat. "Oh, God, you must think I'm an idiot."

"No. I, too, had a very strong reaction to the film. Not as strong as yours, however." She sat down in the sand beside Morgan.

"You… you were at the theater?"

"Mmm. I saw you run off, weeping, and I was concerned."

Finally Morgan cleared her eyes enough to look at the woman who was sitting beside her on the sand. Her wine-colored trench coat reached to her ankles and was buttoned all the way down. Long black boots on her feet, hugging her calves. Her hands were gloved in matching black leather, and her face was partially hidden by exquisite masses of black curls. She wore a lot of makeup. Way more than Morgan would usually find tasteful. And yet she had the presence to pull it off.

She stared out over the waves, not looking Morgan directly in the eyes.

"What made you run from the theater that way?"

Lowering her head, Morgan shook it slowly. The woman didn't seem to know who she was, and she preferred to keep it that way. Her sunglasses and head scarf remained in place, and she was grateful for them. "The story seems very real to me," she said softly. "I've seen it play out a dozen times." More than that, in her mind. "And every time I have the same reaction when his family rejects him that way. Sending him out into a world of darkness all on his own. I guess it just hits me on some level."

"Mmm. Me, too. I was treated much the same way by my family." She turned now and seemed able to lock on to Morgan's eyes right through the sunglasses. "You also, I would guess?"

"Yes." She spoke without meaning to. As if the words were drawn out of her. The woman had stunning eyes. Dark, maybe black, and somehow luminous. The sun had long since set, and the waves lapped gently at the shore beneath a star-dotted night sky.

"Tell me," the woman said, her voice soft and low. Compelling.

"I… was never close to my parents. It was only after they died that I learned I was adopted."

"Ahhh," she said on a breath. "Poor thing. And you wonder, then, about your real family. Your blood." As she spoke, she reached out a hand, gently moving Morgan's long hair off her shoulder, letting it fall down her back. Her eyes slid over Morgan's chin, touching her throat, and the skin there heated as if the touch were a physical one.

"Yes," Morgan said. "I do wonder about them. What they were like."

"Perhaps this history of yours is why you feel such empathy with Dante—the vampire in the film."

"Or maybe it's just that I live in his house."

The woman started, her eyes widening slightly and jerking up to Morgan's again. The spell of her quiet voice was broken. It was sharper now. "Whatever do you mean by that, child?"

What was she thinking? God, a slip like that could annihilate her budding career. She could never,
never
admit that the character in her films had been someone else's creation—much less that she lived in the home that had once been his. If she did, the rest would come out, too. That she had plagiarized his mad ramblings to create her award-nominated work. She tried a false smile, shaking her head in self-deprecation. "The house in one of the films reminded me a lot of my own, that's all."

"Oh."

She had the distinct feeling the woman didn't believe her. Getting to her feet, she brushed the sand from her clothes, turning her back to the woman as she did so. "I should go, it's getting late and… " She turned back again.

But there was no woman there.

Morgan blinked rapidly, searching the beach in one direction, then the other, scanning the water and the distance back toward town. Nothing. No one.

My God, had she imagined the dark woman? She pressed a hand to her forehead, closed her eyes. "Maybe I need to get away from here for a while. Just for a while." But even as she said it, she knew it wasn't possible. She couldn't leave. It was no longer a matter of simply not wanting to. The moment the words left her lips, she felt sick inside, a sense of panic stirring at the mere thought of leaving here. Leaving…
him
.

"What the hell did you think you were doing with that girl, Sarafina?" Dante demanded, and his tone was harsh. Too harsh, perhaps, as it caused Sarafina's perfectly arched brows to lift in question.

"Then you know her. Mmm. What is she to you?"

"Nothing." He snapped his answer without looking at her, lest she see too much. "What are you even doing here? I couldn't believe it when I sensed your presence in that theater."

Sarafina shrugged innocently, though he knew too well there wasn't an innocent bone in her body. She gave her head a shake, taunting the wind with her riotous hair. "I came to see you. I couldn't help but feel you in the theater as I passed through town, so I went inside. Imagine my surprise when I saw our history being played out on the screen."

He closed his eyes, unable to reply to that. He'd been shocked to his core to see his own life in that film. And it felt far too much like a betrayal. Especially now that he knew the truth. It was Morgan. She had written the screenplay.

Once again a woman who claimed to love him had betrayed his secrets to his enemies. To everyone. To the world.

"Apparently it had an equally upsetting effect on the girl, whoever she is. The way she ran out of there." Sarafina locked her black eyes on his. "I'll ask you again. What is she to you, Dante?"

"She's an innocent mortal, nothing more." He didn't tell her that he had been nearby, listening to every word of her conversation with Morgan. He had fully expected to have to intervene.

"Oh, she's far more than an ordinary mortal, my love. Far, far more." She took his hand, and they walked side by side along the beach, a mile from where Sarafina had been talking to the girl. "But we'll get to that," she said. "Why did you interrupt me when I was having such an illuminating discussion with the whelp?"

"To stop you from ripping out her jugular, dear gentle aunt. She's a local and would be missed."

Truth to tell, he'd been following Morgan with half a mind to do just that himself—to destroy her. But when he'd seen his bloodthirsty Sarafina with her, he'd felt a stab of fear and an undeniable instinct to protect. He had shouted to Sarafina with his mind, and she had responded by rushing to his side in a blur of motion too fast for any human eye to follow.

"It goes to show just how poorly I've taught you, doesn't it?" she asked. "And how isolated you have made yourself all these years. I couldn't have harmed her if I'd wanted to. She's one of the Chosen."

He nodded. "That much I had put together on my own. But I admit I know very little of just what that means, aside from the fact that she shares the same antigen we all do, and that she can become as we are."

Sighing, Sarafina nodded. "I knew she was in the theater before I'd been there a heartbeat," she said. She stopped walking when she came to a large boulder, took a seat upon it like a queen taking her throne. Dante stood nearby, watching her as she stared out at the sea. It was the blue-black hue of wet slate. "We can feel their presence. This much you know. We cannot harm them."

"Cannot?" He pondered that for a moment. "I thought it was more that we tended not to want to. What would happen, do you suppose, if we tried?"

She glanced up at him quickly. "You have some reason for wanting to do the girl harm?"

"I barely know her." He looked away as he said it.

Sarafina shrugged delicately. "If we tried—well, I'm not sure what would happen. The truth of the matter is, we're more often compelled to protect them when we encounter them in passing."

That explained his urge to come between his aunt and the weeping Morgan.

"They have abbreviated life spans, you know."

His head snapped up. Morgan had said as much, but he hadn't wanted to believe it. "No. I didn't know that," he lied, unwilling and unable to let his aunt know how much he and Morgan had communicated in her dream.

Sarafina only nodded. "Mmm. Rarely live beyond thirty mortal years. She looks as though she's deteriorating already." She shrugged.

"What can be done?" he asked, searching Sarafina's face.

"Nothing. Bring her over or let her die. It's a simple choice, really." She shrugged. "They say that for each vampire, there is one of the Chosen with whom the psychic bond is stronger. I've always found it to be so much hogwash. Romanticism and nothing more."

"Oh, do you? You're saying your bond with me wasn't like that?"

"My bond with you was
nothing
like that, Dante. You were my family. My nephew. The only one of my clan with any kind of link to me. I loved you because of that." She stared out at the sea, and the wind lifted her curls from her shoulders. "No, this other bond, this one that is spoken of in whispers among the undead, is said to be intensely more. It manifests itself as an extreme psychic link between the minds. Some claim a vampire can communicate mentally with their special mortal, and he or she with them. It also creates an extreme sexual hunger between the two that becomes even more heightened should they share blood."

She swung her gaze to Dante, and he quickly averted his eyes. "Is she living in your house, Dante?"

He schooled his expression, guarded his thoughts. "Yes."

"Then where are you staying?"

He did not want her seeing the inside of Morgan's house, he thought. She would realize Morgan was the one writing the stories for the screen—a secret it would be difficult to keep for very long anyway, if Sarafina were to stay in town. But the longer, the better. He thought that if anyone could get past the instinctive distaste for harming one of the Chosen, it would be Sarafina. And she would, if she knew the truth. She would kill the girl and let the consequences be damned.

"A cave. Nothing that would suit you, love."

She crooked a brow. "There is a house for rent only a mile or so from here. Shall we procure it for our use?"

He nodded vaguely, thinking how very badly he wanted to see Morgan tonight, wondering how the hell he was going to rid himself of Sarafina in the meantime.

"Then that will be our mission tonight," she said. "Tomorrow night, we'll see that film again. All of it, this time. And we must find out who is telling our tales to the filmmakers, and how he got the information. Apparently a native of this place, if the theater marquee is correct. Though likely he's moved to some glamorous city by now."

"He?" Dante asked, frowning.

"Morgan… something or other. I'll get the full name tomorrow." She smiled at him. "But tonight, that house. It's quite isolated. We can stay there tonight, and no one will be the wiser."

Dante nodded slowly, thinking as he did. "Go ahead of me," he whispered. "See about the house. I'll join you by dawn. I have… to feed."

She crooked her brow at him. "The house will be ready. It's a mile north, on that road that runs along the coast. A once proud Victorian that has been painted a ghastly yellow, with pink-and-green trim."

He nodded, recalling the exact place she meant.

"Frankly, I'm surprised you didn't rent it for yourself already."

Why would he? He'd been living beneath the feet of the woman his body craved. And now he knew for certain why he craved her so, but that did nothing to ease the hunger.

"I require very little in the way of comfort, 'fina."

Leaning close, she clasped his collar in both hands and kissed him on the mouth. "Come before dawn, love, or I'll come looking."

"I will."

She left him. He waited until his senses could no longer detect her anywhere nearby, and then he went to find Morgan. He couldn't play with her anymore. He needed answers. Now.

It was 4:00 a.m. when Lou's cell phone bleated, jerking him out of what had damn near been a little nap. He'd been sitting in his car all night, watching Maxie's place. He thought maybe Lydia was sleeping over, because she hadn't left yet. And hell, he didn't blame her, if Max was telling her vampire stories in there.

He picked up his phone. "Yeah?"

"Malone, where the hell are you?"

He frowned at the familiar voice of his longtime partner, back when they'd had the manpower to put two cops in every car. "Denny?"

"They've been looking everywhere for you, Lou. Listen, you'd better get over here, pronto."

"Jesus, I'm not due in for another… " He glanced at his watch.

"Not the station. Your place, Lou. There's been a break-in, and… it's not pretty."

He frowned, and a tiny sliver of ice jabbed him in the chest. He knew just by Denny's tone that he would get no more than that over the phone, so he didn't bother asking. "I'll be right over."

"If, uh, you've been with anyone tonight, you might just want to bring them along, too."

Lou blinked, drawing the phone away and staring at it, then bringing it slowly back to his head. "Are you suggesting I might be in need of an alibi, Den?"

"Might not be a bad idea."

Lou swore softly. "What the hell is going on over there?"

Too late. Sgt. Dennis Kehoe had already disconnected.

Someone tapped on Lou's car window, and he damn near jumped out of his skin. It was only Maxie, though, grinning at him and holding a coffee cup in her hand. He set the phone down, rolled down the window.

"If you want to spend the whole night watching me, Lou, you could just say so. It's not like I'd object. But it would be more fun if you'd do it from closer range."

He stared up at her as she shoved the cup into his hands. "So you know I've been here ever since I dropped you off?"

She shook her head. "You left for twenty minutes or so right after. Remember?"

"Shit." He did remember. That drive to the station, the phone call to his friend at the CIA. Hell.

"What's the matter, Lou?"

He glanced at her, noticed she was still dressed. If you could call it that. She never wore much. Thin-strapped T-shirts that were tight fitting with smart-ass remarks across the front, or loose silky blouses that were even sexier. If it got cold, she tossed a jacket over them. "Where's Lydia?"