In Memories We Fear (3 page)

Dropping into the desk chair, he moved his mouse, and the computer screen lit up. Tonight he was determined to find something—anything—to get them all out of this current state of limbo and back into some kind of action.

Opening his Internet home page, he started, as usual, with the online
New York Times
, skimming quickly as his mind had instinctively learned to stop on specific words or phrases. When he found nothing, a memory tickled the back of his mind, and he switched over to London’s
Evening Standard
.

“Anything at all?” A masculine voice with a Scottish accent sounded from behind him.

Wade didn’t even bother turning, but he glanced up.

“Not yet.”

Seamus de Spenser stood looking over his shoulder. Seamus’ body was transparent as always. Though long dead, he looked like a young man, his brown hair hanging to his shoulders. He wore a blue and yellow Scottish plaid draped across his shoulder and held by a belt over the black breeches he had died in. The knife sheath at his hip was empty.

He was Rose’s nephew, and he’d died the same night she was turned—but he’d come back as a spirit, forever tied to her.

Seamus was a key component of their strategy. Once Wade located a possible location, he sent Seamus to investigate. As a ghost, Seamus could zero in on a vampire—or anything undead—once he was in the general vicinity. Unfortunately, he couldn’t stay too long, as his spirit was tied to Rose, and the longer he stayed away from her, the weaker he became.

He and Wade worked well together, but Wade always wondered what they might look like to an outsider . . . the two of them studying the computer screen. Wade, in his early thirties with a slender build, viewed his own appearance as common. His only outstanding feature was a shock of white-blond hair. He hadn’t cut it in more than six months, and it hung down the back of his neck. But how did he look with a six-foot-tall, transparent Scottish Highlander leaning over his shoulder?

“I’ve just switched to London,” Wade said.

In midsummer, they’d come across a strong lead there: a news story about a “wild man” who’d attacked a woman in an alley and tried to bite her. When the police ran to intervene, their own dogs had turned on them, allowing the attacker to get away. Wade had been certain he was onto something. But Seamus hadn’t been able to find anything in London, and he’d come back home on the brink of exhaustion.

“I keep telling you,” Seamus said. “You’re always looking in the major papers. Find a way to access smaller papers . . . from smaller towns.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

Vampires didn’t live in small towns. They needed a large population to hide their feeding practices.

Seamus started to say something else, but he stopped as their eyes hit the same headline at the same moment.

As if unaware of what he was doing, Seamus began reading the story aloud. “‘Late Tuesday night, a second bizarre attack took place in Bloomsbury. According to the police report, although the museum was closed, the sound of screaming brought two security guards running toward the street where they found a “dark-haired man with tattered clothes” pinning a woman against a streetlamp and biting her throat.’”

Seamus stopped.

Wade looked up at him again. “‘Biting her throat,’” he repeated softly. Then he took over reading. “‘Two security guards, whose names have not yet been released, moved to intervene. The man broke off his attack and ran. As they pursued, three cats seemed to come “from nowhere” and attack the guards, leaving bites and scratches severe enough to send both men to the hospital. One is expected to require cosmetic surgery. . . .’

Wade stopped reading as the story moved on to recount the woman’s injuries, complete with blood loss.

“There’s something in this, Seamus,” Wade said, shaking his head. “There must be.”

“I tried before and couldn’t pinpoint anything,” Seamus answered, almost defensively, as if Wade were accusing him of failure. “What if it’s just a madman who
thinks
he’s a vampire?”

Wade tried to keep his tone even. “Then how do you explain the dogs turning on their own handlers in the first story? How do you explain these . . . these cats jumping in to fight off pursuit? No, there’s something here.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Can you search again? Try again?”

Seamus floated a few feet back. “If you think it will do any good, I can go tonight. But I searched the entire city last time and found nothing.”

He didn’t sound hopeful that a new search would bring different results.

“Do you want to tell Rose good-bye?” Wade asked.

“No, you do it for me.”

Wade nodded and looked at Seamus. “We’re onto something.” He paused and, not sure why, he added, “Find him.”

Seamus tilted his transparent head to one side. Then he vanished, teleporting to London.

 

Philip followed Eleisha up Eleventh Avenue to the Gerding Theater at the Armory. Refurbished rock-work on the sides of the building loomed several stories high.

The emotions bubbling beneath his skin were so varied, he wasn’t sure what to think or feel. A part of him was thrilled at the change in Eleisha tonight. She’d always worked hard to keep him entertained—he knew that even if he didn’t acknowledge it. But her methods normally involved finding movies he might like or reading detective novels aloud (so she could do the voices) or playing cards with him.

She had never run along a river, laughing and calling for him to catch her, and she’d certainly never suggested playing a “game” while hunting. He liked that she was trying so hard to please him. He liked being the center of her world.

But this game, along with her spirit of semiwild abandon, was dangerous for him.

Eleisha was cautious and careful and sensible, and for the past few months, he’d clung to her steady nature. He’d been trying so hard to
be
the man she already thought he was. Since returning from Denver, he hadn’t slipped out alone and killed anyone while feeding. He’d denied himself this need for her sake, and for the sake of the underground. He was slowly beginning to see the value of a structured community built on mutual trust.

To his surprise, the longer he’d hunted “her way,” the easier it became . . . and the less often he was hit by a hunger to inflict fear and death. He was gaining control.

Tonight, he feared that by trying to please him, she was unwittingly washing that control away. The first time they’d played this game, he’d been the one to suggest it—practically forcing it on her. But what had started out as mere fun ended with him nearly killing a woman in a dressing room at Macy’s.

For him, the joy of hunting had always culminated in his victim’s death, and he’d been working hard to train himself to view hunting as nothing more than a necessity. Tonight, Eleisha was making it a sport again, and good sport ended only one way.

And yet he couldn’t call this off; he wouldn’t. She was trying so hard to please him, and he loved for her to please him more than anything else. He fought his instincts and vowed to keep himself in control.

“In here,” she said, walking through the main doors.

“You’re hardly dressed for the theater,” he murmured.

“We’re not going to the theater.”

Philip glanced at a clock on the wall of the large main lobby. It was after nine o’clock, and the main shows normally started at eight. He wondered what Eleisha was up to. He’d half expected her to head straight for the nearest gym and point out a lesbian carrying her own hockey stick.

“Down there,” Eleisha said, pointing. “The posters for new shows are downstairs.”

Several people milling about inside the ticket office glanced over, but no one said anything. Eleisha headed for the large curving staircase and led him down to a lower level. They emerged into what appeared to be a smaller lobby with large closed double doors at the far end. Posters for current and upcoming shows lined the walls.

She began looking at the posters. “Intermission won’t be long,” she said quietly, although they were the only two people down here.

He looked at the closed doors and realized what she was doing. There was a show in progress. Even the ushers had gone inside, and she was pretending to be checking out plays to attend in the future. People probably did this all the time. Eleisha’s shabby handling of her own victim may have been embarrassing, but she was certainly proving more creative in picking out his.

The doors opened, and people began pouring out, heading off to get drinks at intermission, use the restrooms, or take advantage of the water fountains. Within seconds, the empty lobby was packed with people, and the silence was replaced with a low roar of voices all discussing the disappointing performance of the lead actor.

At the moment, Eleisha was not paying attention to anything being said about the show; instead, she watched the rush of people carefully. The line at the ladies’ room was already long, but she just kept scanning, and Philip felt his excitement begin to grow. Whom would she choose?

The level of dress here varied widely from women in evening gowns and heels and men in suits, all the way down to a few people in torn blue jeans. The latter annoyed Philip. He believed in dressing up for the theater.

Ten minutes passed, and Eleisha had not said a word. He began to fidget, wondering again what she was up to. The lights flickered, signaling that the show was about to begin.

“Eleisha,” he whispered.

“Shhhhh.”

A couple carrying nearly empty glasses of white wine came down the stairs, heading casually toward the doors as if wishing to finish their drinks first. Late-middle-aged and balding, the man wore a dark gray suit with silver cuff links. The woman, younger than he, was lovely, dressed in a black silk blouse over a long silver skirt. Diamonds glittered in her ears.

“Her,” Eleisha said, “but you have to draw her away from the man before they go back inside, and you have to leave her somewhere safe.”

He already knew that last rule, but he was surprised by Eleisha’s choice. Philip had no trouble seducing attractive women—that was his usual mode of operation. Did she think it would be difficult for him to lure the woman away from the man before they reached the doors? Or . . . was she simply still trying to please him?

He
was
pleased.

Who wouldn’t be?

He didn’t hesitate and stepped to one side of the lobby as people continued pouring back into the theater. He waited until the man and woman were almost to the doors, and then he reached out telepathically.

He had no idea if she’d even gone to the restroom before going for her drink, but it didn’t matter. She stopped and frowned, glancing down at her black beaded handbag.

“Go ahead to the seats,” she told the man. “I think I left my wallet in the restroom.”

“Your wallet?”

“Yes, you go on. I’ll be quick.”

Philip knew the impulse he’d placed felt natural, as if she would never consider doing anything else, and she hurried over to the ladies’ room, disappearing inside. The lobby was now empty, and the ushers were about to close the doors.

Philip glanced down at Eleisha, and then he walked right into the restroom. The woman was looking inside the stalls in confusion, as if unsure why she’d come. She was the only person here—except for Philip.

She gasped when she looked over and saw him standing there.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I’m in the wrong room.”

He turned on his gift.

Philip’s gift had always made hunting easy, especially in situations like this. He exuded an overwhelming sense of attraction—and his face did the rest. He kept his gift turned down to a minimum, not leaning upon it nearly as hard as Eleisha had.

The woman stared at him, her voice wavering. “I should . . . I need to . . .”

He increased his gift slightly, clouding her mind.

“No, stay here.”

She focused on his face, listened to his accent, and he backed her inside the large handicapped stall. She let him.

Up close, he could see she was a little older than he first thought, but still lovely, with shining brown hair and delicate features. This felt like real hunting . . . the way he used to hunt, and he could feel the tension building in his chest. Hunger hit him like a wall.

He was driven by an urge to pin her against the bathroom stall and turn off his gift so he could absorb her fear before he drained her. He wanted it so badly, he started shaking.

Eleisha should not have suggested this—or he should have refused.

He fought for control. “You’re tired,” he said, “so tired. Go to sleep.”

She dropped into his arms. He crouched, still holding her—still shaking—and forced himself to carefully puncture her wrist with his teeth. Warm blood flowed down his throat, and shadows of her memories passed through him.

He saw a luxurious kitchen with granite countertops. He saw her preparing for dinner parties, smiling at numerous people even though she was tired . . . and drinking more than she should to compensate. Then he saw her sitting alone in a dining room, looking down at the roasted game hens on the table getting cold as she waited for her husband . . . and she drank too much while waiting.

He swallowed just enough blood to strengthen himself, and he jerked his mouth away, closing his eyes and reminding himself that Eleisha was standing just outside the restroom. He had to stop now.

Opening his eyes again, he dug through the woman’s bag and found a bottle of Chanel N°5, which struck him as somewhat dated but pleasant. The glass of the bottle was thick, so he smashed it against the floor, breaking it into pieces. He used one shard to connect the holes between his teeth marks and then dropped it on the floor. Reaching inside the woman’s mind, he altered her memory. She’d come in, found her wallet, noticed the perfume in her bag as she put the wallet away, and decided she needed a small spray. Taking the bottle out, she’d slipped on a wet patch of the floor, shattered the bottle, and landed on some of the glass, cutting herself. Then she’d passed out.