Darkness Calls (9 page)

T
he sand beneath her feet was soft and squishy. She dug her feet into it and let it slip between her toes. A moment later, the unhurried lap of a wave washed over her feet, wiping them clean.

She laughed and twirled, arms outstretched as she savored the warm, summer day and thought—today I'm just Diana Reyes, an overworked and overstressed FBI agent taking a much-needed vacation from her current assignment.

Slightly dizzy from whirling, she bent and took a deep breath of the salt-kissed ocean breeze. The air was pure and clean, untainted by the tropical humidity and miasma she had grown up with in Miami.

The sunlight before her was bright, exceptionally so. She squinted against the glare and her breath stopped in her chest. Ryder stood before her, several yards down the beach. He was dressed in basic black. Until now, the scene seemed so real that she hadn't realized it was a dream.

For a moment, she was tempted to turn and walk away, but she wasn't one to run from anything, even in her dreams. She strolled toward him, and the sand beneath her feet shifted into dark, gray cobblestones. All around her, the air grew colder. The sun dimmed and the sky took on a gray pall. When she looked up once more, the sun was totally gone, replaced by dismal dusk and the golden spire of a building that looked vaguely familiar. Ryder still stood, his hand outstretched, spurring her onward.

She hastened her pace and the closer she got, the more she felt…serene and accepted. As she met his hungry gaze, she understood that something existed between them. He would continue to press until she could no longer deny him.

She stepped up to him and took hold of his hand. It was warm beneath her fingers. He murmured her name with such longing it nearly broke her heart. But it was a dream, she told herself, and in her dreams, she was in charge and free to say whatever she was feeling.

“What do you want from me?” She reached up and caressed the side of his face. The bristle of his beard tickled her palm.

He devoured her with his gaze and she swayed toward him. In response, he grasped her waist. His hand cradled the side of her and her skin heated beneath his touch.

“Do you know who you are?” he asked, his voice soft, caressing.

It was only a fantasy, she thought again, and in that wonderful state where anything was possible, she smiled and raised herself up on her tiptoes, leaning into him. “No, but I'm sure you'll tell me.”

He smiled and bent his head, bringing his lips close to hers. His shaky exhalation bathed her lips with heat. “This is wrong,” he murmured, even as he brought his lips to hers and she had her first taste of him.

“Ryder,” she sighed against his hard, sculpted mouth.

Suddenly he wrenched away and glanced down at their entwined hands. She looked, as well. Blood covered their hands and dripped down onto the cobblestones.

He said her name, his voice a low growl. He transformed before her eyes. Long, menacing fangs erupted from his mouth. His eyes glowed with an unusual golden light and his skin paled, becoming almost translucent. His change into a demon wrenched her out of the dream.

She sat upright in bed, breathing heavily. “That was bad, Diana. Really, really bad.” She dragged her hand through her short hair and found it soaked with sweat.

For too long she had suffered from night terrors. When she was a child, her mother and younger brother had been aficionados of motion pictures dealing with monsters and demons. Not wanting to be left out of their Saturday movie adventure, Diana had braved those visits to the cinema. It had inevitably resulted in nightmares that woke her in the middle of the night.

As an adult, she had learned to discount those dreams. Her best friend and college roommate, now an attorney at a Manhattan law firm, had been there more than once when Diana awoke from one of her terrors. Her friend had understood, and on her wedding day many years later, she had pressed a piece of the wedding cake into Diana's hands and told her to stick it under her pillow. With that slice of sweetness and a wish, Diana would dream of her Prince Charming.

And so, as sensible, scientific and serious as Diana normally was, that one last glass of champagne had lowered her resistance enough that she had gone home and shoved the napkin-wrapped piece of cake under her pillow and made her wish. She'd awakened, breathing heavily and shaking, fear hanging over her. No Prince Charming despite the ritual. As always, she had tried to piece together the vague, unsettling images from her subconscious and logically interpret the visions that usually became nightmares.

Tonight's fantasy had started out differently. It was rare for her to dream of anything remotely nice and remember it. Then again, the dream had started out with Ryder in it. That should have given her a clue it wouldn't end happily.

Since their meeting a few days ago, he had plagued her waking thoughts, and now, it seemed, he would also curse her dreams. But she refused to dwell on him or the disturbing imaginings any longer.

Later today she would again be bait. The earlier stakeouts and investigations had yielded little for them to go on. They had a mile-high ream of paper listing possible suspects and they had not substantially narrowed the list. The killer was due to strike again soon, and they were running out of time.

She lay back in bed, closed her eyes and visualized all she had to get done in the morning and then at the club later that evening. As the items clicked into place, she used them like sheep, counting off each one until, little by little, her mental repetition lulled her to sleep.

 

This time Ryder knew the dream for what it was—a harbinger of things to come. She had somehow shared the vision with him, but he was uncertain whether or not she would recognize it for what it was.

She was in his arms, soft and warm and pliable. So slight. He had wondered more than once in the last few days how she survived as an FBI agent, as small as she was. But in that slender, petite frame was the heart and soul of a warrior.

A warrior, but a woman, as well. A woman who answered his passion with her own, her honeyed lips meeting his over and over again, opening to him so he could plunder her mouth and taste her surrender. Her spirit filled him with life, made him want more of the humanity he had avoided for so long. A humanity that could only bring pain.

“Ryder.” She twined her fingers with his.

He held her tighter, wanting to go further, but there was something invading his senses. The smell, the sensation of something wrong.

“Diana, I—” He stopped short and pulled away, blood staining their joined hands. He shook his head, denying what he was seeing, and met her gaze, realizing that she was unaware.

The sticky blood bound their hands together. She looked down, confusion clouding the green of her eyes. Pain erupted through him and he growled her name.

Her eyes glimmered with tears as she grabbed hold of his shirt, her hands fisted against the fabric, trying to hold him to her. Her perfect white teeth bit her lower lip as she battled her emotions.

He couldn't look any longer.

Ryder forced himself from his sleep and, to his surprise, found that he was in vamp mode, his body humming with a need for…He wanted to feed, but he also wanted to satisfy the human desire that had his body hard and aroused.

In the time since he'd become a vampire, he'd had few friends and no lovers. It hadn't been a conscious decision, at first. In the beginning, the uncertainty of his new existence provided too many questions and too few answers. He had preferred secreting himself in his own world rather than dealing with the questions. By the time he had answers to the who and what of vampire reality, the decision to remain alone had already been unwittingly made. His sense of loss as one human after another passed away confirmed that his decision had been the only right one.

Until Diana. She had intrigued him, and what was left of the human in him had responded. But now the beast in him had emerged, as well, he thought, reaching up and feeling the elongated fangs in his mouth.

He had no idea which would win—the human or the demon. Maybe, he considered, as he imagined what it would be like to bury himself in her, there wasn't much difference between the two. He wanted to taste the honey of her mouth and the sweet tips of her breasts. Take a bite of that smooth, satiny skin.

Would she accept him or push him away?

In the short time they had been together, he had come to…care for her. She was bright, determined, beautiful. Able to take care of herself, or so she had told him on more than one occasion.

But if the dream was accurate…

Ryder wouldn't accept that. He couldn't. Fate had screwed him once.

He wasn't about to let it screw him again.

T
he line winding away from the front door was exceptionally long. Information had been leaked, and the papers that morning had hinted that a serial killer might be picking his victims at The Lair. Diana had worried the publicity might drive the killer away. Judging from the line, caution was not the catchword of the day. As always, dozens of young women waited to enter the club, clothed to attract attention.

She walked to the front of the line and whispered something in the bouncer's ear. He let her pass, to the loud annoyance and grumblings of those waiting. As she stepped inside, she was pleased to see that everyone was in place.

Walking to the far end of the club, Diana entered the hall and strode to the security guard's office. She observed the views from the various monitors and spoke to the man responsible for watching the monitors. “You'll have those for me after you close?”

The man nodded, and satisfied with the arrangements, she told the rest of her crew, through the wire she wore, that she was heading back out into the crowd. In the hall, she ran into Ryder. His face was grim.

“Are you sure you want to do this again?”

“You sound like David. I'm sure. This guy is bound to strike soon, and we still haven't come up with anything that'll help us catch him.” She walked down the hall, Ryder trailing behind her. As they neared the door to the main area, he grabbed her arm and turned her to face him.

“Be careful out there, Diana.”

She got the eerie sense that he knew about her fears from the night before. Maybe he was just good at reading vibes, she told herself. She had been a little jittery all day and he must have picked up on that.

“I'll be fine, Ryder,” she assured him, trying to convince herself, as well, that the blood and demon from the dream had been nothing but the workings of her tired mind and too-vivid imagination.

“I'll be watching,” he said. She nodded and headed into the crowd.

 

Ryder kept an eye on her as she flitted from one man to another on the dance floor below.

She moved with an athletic grace, her tight body encased in snug olive green leather pants and a black tank top whose scooped neck and cropped cut showed off too much flesh for his liking. Too many men had likely envisioned how those full breasts would taste. How the muscled gap of skin visible above the waistband of the leather pants would feel.

His own body was hard with the imagining, his blood pumping thickly through him, threatening to bring out the demon. He took a deep breath, but she was too far away for him to smell her and he regretted the distance from the catwalk to the floor below.

She had chosen her position well, he thought. The wash of the lights from the stage made her act highly visible. Despite that, there had been no more than a half-dozen men who had approached. None had lingered for more than a dance or two. He wondered if they had been fellow agents or men drawn to her.

Ryder was certain that none of those who had approached had been the killer. As alluring as Diana had been, the murderer needed more to entice him into action. Ryder had no doubt about that. The darkness of the murders, the torment the killer wrung from his victims, was punishment. Payback for the sexual games the women played. Games the psychopath both enjoyed and resented.

He suspected that Diana's show on the dance floor hadn't come close to the level necessary to pique the murderer's interest, much less his anger.

Ryder intended to help her by changing that.

 

His strong hand slipped around her midsection, drawing her away from the agent who had been dancing with her.

She turned and met Ryder's gaze. “What are you doing?” she asked as he pulled her close, his arm encircling her waist.

“Dance,” he commanded in low tones.

Because she couldn't risk making the wrong kind of scene, she did as he instructed, bringing one hand to his shoulder and moving against him to the sounds of the alternative rock band on the stage.

He could move, she thought, admiring the way his big body shifted to the beat and the natural grace of him as he pressed against her.

The hand at her back inched up slightly beneath the hem of her shirt, his rough palm flush against the damp skin at the small of her back. It sent a sensual shiver through her. One she didn't want to acknowledge.

“Ryder.”

He bent his head and whispered, “He needs to see more, Diana. You know that.”

To anyone watching it would look as if he was sharing an intimate whisper and she had to keep the farce going. Pressing her cheek against his, she whispered, “Why do you think that?”

He brought his other hand to her waist and spanned its width. He slowly backed her toward the stage, his muscular body insinuating itself between her legs. His arousal pressed against the softness of her belly.

She was about to protest once more but he bent close and shifted his hands to the middle of her back. Then he turned her slightly so that virtually everyone in the club could see what he was doing.

“He likes the watching,” he whispered into her ear, nuzzling his face against hers, his movements those of a lover enticing a partner. “He's done that a lot in his life. Watched…waited.”

He brought one hand to the center of her back and urged her nearer while he shifted his other hand to just below her breast. With her arms around his shoulders, it wouldn't take much for him to reach up and…

Diana battled the response of her body, shuddering as he bit her earlobe and continued with his soft, sexual commentary. “You're aware of that, Diana. I'm sure it's in whatever little notes you've made that you haven't shown me.”

He cupped her cheek and ran the pad of his thumb over her lower lip as she challenged, “He gets off on it. Do you?”

“I get off on you,” he answered, and brought his lips down to hers, offering not a moment for her to refuse.

He moved his mouth against hers, hard and hot, stealing her breath away until she had no choice but to open to the invasion. One arm roughly encircled her waist, hauling her tight against him while with the other hand, he cupped the back of her head, making her a prisoner.

She murmured a protest, and he tempered his response, his lips and mouth becoming tender and inviting, urging her to answer him. She bit and sucked at his lower lip, then reached up with her hands and held on to his shoulders as everything around them fell away.

Finally, she shifted slightly, breathing heavily, but he didn't stop, moving his head down to the side of her neck.

Her skin was damp with arousal and Ryder couldn't resist the invitation. He buried his head against the juncture of her neck and shoulder, against the pounding pulse point that proved her need. His own pulse was jumpy, starting to grow into a steady rush that signaled his change. He battled against it, sucking the saltiness of her skin, drawing on her until she was moaning and clinging to him.

He needed more.

He drew his one hand down to her buttocks and cupped her, bringing her tight against his erection.

She didn't resist. Her body was pliant, and a soft moan escaped her as he continued with the pull of his mouth against her skin. He was near his undoing, but he held on and continued.

When she came to her senses, there'd be hell to pay.

 

“Holy…Reyes is gonna feed this guy his privates,” David heard in his earpiece. More chatter followed, including a groan or two and assorted expletives from those close enough to see the show.

He cursed beneath his breath, angered by the liberties Ryder was taking with Diana but unable to do anything. He ripped his gaze away from the scene on the floor to discover that heads were turning to watch the spectacle. Some stole only a glimpse before shifting away. Others lingered for a little longer, then moved to their partners as if wondering, “Why not me?”

One or two showed disgust. Maybe that was what the killer was feeling, he thought, and singled out one young man at the bar who seemed a little too interested, despite the presence of a partner nearby who was making herself quite available. In a flash, disgust became lust as the young man turned his attentions to his companion.

The man was young, mid-twenties at the most. The woman seemed to have about a decade on him, if not more. She had a used look about her and her hand was busy on her partner. David had no doubt about what the woman was doing. And yet despite that, the young man's head turned to watch Diana and Ryder once or twice more before he gave his full attention to the woman with him.

David continued his surveillance and then, as the couple rose and walked toward the exit, he instructed that they be followed. There was something about the young man that struck him wrong, but he couldn't say what. Maybe it was the look of abhorrence and fascination he gave Diana and Ryder over his shoulder.

The young man nodded to himself before walking out. Almost as if he had been confirming something.

David reaffirmed his instructions for additional surveillance and headed toward the dance floor.