Hunger (49 page)

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Authors: Karen E. Taylor

BOOK: Hunger
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The anger I held in check suddenly exploded. “Max Hunter answered to no one. He was the most heartless son of a bitch that ever lived. He deserved to die as he did. He was not a god, Victor, he was a manipulative bastard who obviously had no trouble twisting you to his purposes.” I paused to collect myself. “How long had you been serving as his Renfield? What sort of rewards were you promised?” I didn't wait for his answer. “He can't control you any longer, Victor. You're free of his evil. The world is free of his evil.”
He stood staring at me in shock. I walked past him and went to the entrance to the office.
“Deirdre, you can't mean that.”
I turned to face him. “I do mean exactly that, Victor. And while we're clearing the air about Max, you should know that he wasn't killed by Mitch.”
My comment disturbed him, and he slumped back against Max's coffin. “But if not Greer, then who?”
I smiled at him, exposing my still-sharp canines. “You knew Max, knew his strength and his power. How could Mitch ever have killed him?”
“But all the reports said—”
“I know what the reports said, Victor. But I was here when Max died, and I know how it happened. Mitchell Greer did not do it.”
“Then who?” he repeated, still confused and shaken.
I laughed a small, bitter laugh. “Never count on constancy in love or friendship among vampires, Victor. I killed Max.”
Confidently, I turned my back on his stricken face and went into the office. Picking up my purse, I called to him. “This has been a most stimulating talk. We should do it again soon.” I opened the door. “Oh, and Renfield”—the scorn in my voice was unmistakable—“lock up when you leave.”
By the time I reached the dance floor I realized that I was shaking uncontrollably. What on earth had possessed me to speak to Victor that way? It was true that he had angered me with his talk of avenging Max's murder and his vehement hatred of Mitch, but I should have gone slower and broken the news gently, not blurted it out as if the truth were something of which to be proud. Clumsily, I pushed through the dancers toward the front door.
“Deirdre, wait.” Victor's voice called out over the blare of the music, and I paused a moment to glance back at him. He was standing in the doorway, watching me, not with anger, it seemed, but with compassion. The faces of the dancers blurred in front of my tear-filled eyes, and one of the gyrating bodies turned toward me and smiled. It was a mocking smile; his face and his cologne were so hauntingly familiar. Somewhere a part of my mind reacted to him with shock, but he didn't speak to me, nor did he seem to recognize me. Instead, he turned his back to me and directed his attention to his partner in the dance.
I shook my head and looked back to find him, but he had disappeared completely into the sea of bodies. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Victor moving toward me, and instantly the dancers' presence was dismissed, the nagging doubts arising within me were erased, and I concentrated only on the fact that I had to escape.
Chapter 20
T
he rain had stopped and I slowed outside the front door for a moment, to decide where to go. I heard the door open behind me and someone tapped me gently on the shoulder. I spun around with a snarl on my lips, but it was only the waitress with my dried clothes. I took them and stuffed them into my purse.
“Miss Griffin,” she said quietly, extending another garment, “I have a coat here that someone left in the cloak room and never claimed. I thought maybe you'd like to borrow it. Fred said you didn't have one.” I smiled and thanked her, threw it over my shoulders, and began to walk.
I didn't really know where to go; I couldn't return to Mitch's place, Griffin Designs did not belong to me anymore, and even had I kept a set of keys for the offices, I was sure Betsy McCain would have changed the locks over the past two years. Sam would probably be at the hospital, and I could spend some time there, but I knew he would want to hear my life story. Then I would still need to find other shelter before the sun rose. And everyone else I had known in this city was either dead or inaccessible.
But I knew I could not stay here, and I needed a place that was close and convenient. I did not want to see Victor again, much less run into that ominous figure from the dance floor. Quickly, I began to walk toward the hotel I had occupied two years earlier. Although I probably would not get the same suite of rooms, they would hopefully have something vacant.
When I got to the revolving doors of the hotel, I suddenly realized who the man at the Ballroom resembled. He reminded me of Larry Martin. But Larry is dead, I told myself, it must have been someone who just looked a lot like him. Larry was tall, well-built, and blond, a description that could match tens of thousands of men in this city. And anyone could wear his cologne. So it was nothing more than coincidence. I could not bear the thought that I might be seeing his ghost in addition to Max's. “One ghost per person is more than enough.”
I went through the doors and registered at the desk. The clerk looked at my clothing, the cheap waitress uniform and borrowed coat, and his upper lip curled slightly, as if he were thinking that I did not belong here. But when I paid for my room for three nights in advance with cash, and gave him a liberal tip, his attitude turned from condescending to obsequious. When he handed me my key, I smiled at him.
“Does Frank still work here?” I asked, realizing that I had never known the doorman's last name.
“Yes, Miss Griffin, but tonight's his night off. Do you want to leave him a message?”
Two years down the road, and here I was, back where I had started from, but now I was looking for companionship from my old doorman. The thought was pathetic, and I shook my head. “No, no message, thank you,” I said sadly. “But please see that I am not disturbed during the day tomorrow—no maids, no calls, and no visitors.”
He agreed, and I took the elevator up alone to my single room. The first thing I did was change back into my jeans and sweater. Then I called room service and ordered three bottles of their best dry red wine. I was halfway through the first bottle, when I decided to call the Ballroom.
Fred answered the phone and recognized my voice instantly. “Deirdre, where are you? Ron's been looking for you and so was Victor. I didn't see you leave.”
“Never mind, is Ron still there?”
“Yeah, he's at the bar.”
“How about Victor?” My voice trembled a bit when I said his name.
“No, he left. Although I could probably get hold of him if you want.”
“No.” My voice was harsh. “I don't want to talk to him again tonight. But I will talk to Ron, if you would be so kind as to get him.”
“No problem.” I could hear him set the phone down and waited for a few minutes.
“Deirdre? Where are you? We had an appointment, remember?”
“Yes, Ron, I remember. That's why I called. What phone are you talking on?”
“The one in your office, why? What's going on? Why all the intrigue?”
I sighed and took another drink of my wine. “No intrigue, Ron. Victor and I had a slight disagreement and I just decided to leave.” Slight disagreement? I thought. Now, there's the understatement of the century. Telling a man that you murdered his best friend is hardly slight or a disagreement.
“I see.” Ron's voice sounded noncommittal. “Do you want to reschedule?”
“No, I thought you could come to me, if you don't mind.”
Ron gave a short laugh and his voice lowered sensually. “Deirdre, you should know by now that I'm happy to see you anytime, anyplace, but”—a trace of exasperation entered his voice—“you do have to let me know where that is. When you didn't show, I called your other number to see if you were on your way. A very disgruntled and very drunk policeman informed me that he didn't know where you were, but if I found out, I should let him know. He was pretty offensive about it.”
“Damn,” I said softly.
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing. Are you sitting at my desk?”
“Yeah.”
“Inside the top drawer are copies of all the documents we should need. Bring them with you.”
“Got 'em.”
I gave him my address with strict instructions to tell no one where I was, and hung up. Then I called down to the front desk to let them know I was expecting a visitor.
Ron arrived within an hour of my phone call, carrying a bottle of Merlot and his briefcase. “Fred sent this over”—he held the wine in the air—“with his best regards.”
I looked at Ron suspiciously. “You told him where I was?”
“No, just that we'd be meeting tonight. He also asked me to tell you that Mitch called three times.”
“Great.”
Ron set his briefcase down on the table and took off his overcoat. “It doesn't sound great. Should I assume that Mitch is Mitchell Greer—the cop that killed Max Hunter? And that he's also the same cop you've been living with, the one I talked to on the phone tonight?”
“Yes, that is true.” I gave him a sharp look. “What the hell difference does it make?”
“No difference to me, I guess.” Ron shrugged. “I'm just trying to keep the players straight. You're not in trouble with the law, are you?”
I laughed humorlessly. “If only it were that simple, Ron. A night in jail might do me some good.”
“But I'd bail you out.” He sat down in the chair opposite me and opened his case, taking out the folder containing Max's will. “I read this over before I came; it all seems pretty straightforward to me. Either you take the money or you don't. All that needs to be done is to get your notarized signature saying yes or no. We can't do that tonight, of course, but I can make those arrangements at a later date. Maybe you'd like some more time to think about it. But”—he smiled at me—“as your attorney, I advise you to take it, it's a lot of money.” He reached for the bottle of wine I had already opened. “May I?”
At my nod he poured himself a full glass and drank it. “You know,” he said, his voice distant and small, “I guess I should've known about you and Greer.”
“But I told you—”
“No,” Ron interrupted. “You told me you were involved with a policeman, but you never mentioned his name. And for some reason it never occurred to me until tonight that it could be the same guy.”
“I am sorry, Ron, I thought you knew. And,” I repeated, “what the hell difference does it make? It's over.”
“It could make a difference to The Cadre. They'll be losing a great deal of money, a fortune, in fact, to a woman romantically involved with the person who killed one of their most prestigious members. I could conceivably see that they might want to contest the will.”
“Fine.” I poured the rest of the wine into my glass, drained it, and opened the second bottle. “I told you before, I don't care about the money. If The Cadre wants it, then let them have it. I don't really want to discuss the will, or explain my actions to you or anyone else. And I especially do not want to talk about my doomed relationships with Mitchell Greer and Max Hunter. Right now I just want to do my damnedest to get drunk and forget that any of this complicated mess ever happened. Care to join me?”
“But what about Greer?”
“I don't want to talk about him. As far as he's concerned, he wishes he never met me.”
“Then he's a damn fool.”
“And so was I. Why I thought I could be happy involved with a, well, a man like him, I will never know. But we were not going to talk about this.”
“That's right, we weren't.” Ron hesitated, watching me intently as I drank.
“So,” I said, filling another glass, “are you going to help me finish this wine or not?”
“And when that's all gone?”
“What the hell, we'll just order more. Didn't you know? I'm a very wealthy woman.”
Ron and I wound up in bed together again. Not intimately this time, both of us were fully clothed and he seemed content to merely lie next to me with my head cushioned on his shoulder. Neither of us was very drunk, but we had reached a warm, comfortable high. We didn't talk much, and what we did say was not important. He told me about law school and some of his more interesting cases. I told him about England, how much I missed the quiet neighborhood pub and my favorite brand of port. I talked about books that I had read and he talked about movies he had seen. Before we realized it, it was nearly five in the morning.
“I guess I'd better get going,” he said, shifting his weight slightly so that he could get up.
“Do you really have to? You're welcome to stay as long as you like. This has been very pleasant; it's been too many years since I've had someone I could just talk to. I don't really understand why, but I feel completely comfortable with you, as if you could know the worst about me and not ever care.”
“Unlike some people, I assume, who know the worst about you and do care?” Ron reached over and lightly touched my cheek.
“Oh, he says that it doesn't matter, but deep down inside we both know that it does.”
“And what is this deep, dark secret that is so horrible?” His voice was calm and comforting, and I was tempted to tell him.
Instead, I laughed. “It doesn't matter. So, will you stay?”
He met my eyes; his expression was hard to read. “Well, I don't really have anything pressing on my calendar for tomorrow. So, if you beg me, I might stay.”
“I never beg.”
He laughed. “I'm sure you don't, but you could ask me nice.”
“Ron.” I tried to smile at him, but began to cry instead. “Stay with me, please. I don't want to sleep alone today.”
“Don't cry, Deirdre. Of course I'll stay. I told you before that I was a soft touch for a lady in distress.”
“Thank you.”
He moved back to me and pressed himself up against me.
“Have you ever fallen in love with someone,” I asked him, sniffing a bit, my head buried in his chest, “knowing from the very beginning that it would never work out? And knowing that you would never get over them, no matter how hard you tried?”
He reached down and cupped my face between his hands, drawing my eyes to his. “And we're back to Greer again, aren't we?”
“Yes, I'm afraid so. I'm sorry.”
“So am I.”
We lay quietly for a long while, and I thought that he had fallen asleep. I began to drift off into sleep myself, but before I did, I thought I heard him whisper.
“Yeah, I think I have.”
 
I open my eyes to utter darkness and I realize that my limbs are restricted, that I am completely encased in a wooden box. But before the panic can overwhelm me, I feel the soft touch of Max's mind and recognize the experience as a dream. “Learn,” he whispers; we melt down and merge together in the body lying in this coffin.
The year is 1850; it had been an uneasy ocean crossing, but I know now that we have docked and soon my casket will be unloaded. Not soon enough, I think, for I have been a long time without food. My body is hollow and insubstantial; just the slightest thought of blood causes me to gasp and bite my lips. It is no help; by now they are bloodless, dry, and cracked.
Not for the first time do I wonder why I attempted this journey, why I freely accepted this agony. I had been warned; Leupold had told me what I would suffer, but I would not listen.
Or could not listen. The truth was that I could not bear one more day in his presence and would gladly accept any torture to escape from his influence. The gratitude I initially felt when he saved my life had dissipated quickly when I discovered how he had procured that reprieve, but it had taken centuries of following in his footsteps to fully realize the brutal hatred with which I now regarded him.

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