by Chris Lange
She got up at some point, still sniffling, and splashed some water on her face to conceal the signs of her despair as best she could. Stepping out of the bathroom, she heard a rattling noise coming from the window.
What the heck? As she squinted and discerned a black shape outside, she knew who her dark visitor was. Raphael, the San Francisco drifter. He was perched on the sill when she opened the window, his pale face contrasting with the color of his clothes, his night eyes glowing, his low voice laden with concern. “You’re crying.”
“Yes,” she whispered, in need of solace, unable to hide her misery.
He observed her without trying to enter. “I can’t come in unless invited.”
“Gosh, I’m sorry. Come on in, Raphael.”
“Thank you.”
He didn’t leap inside. He didn’t jump. He didn’t drop. There was just an ever graceful motion, like a flowing, billowing blur. Then he stood before her, sheathing her in his protective embrace.
She had no more tears to shed so she clung to him, pressing her face in the crook of his robust shoulder, holding on to the dear comfort of his arms. Throes of anguish subduing her mind and body, she shook helplessly while he held her tightly until the tremors ceased.
Somehow, she found her voice again. “I’m so glad you came, Raphael.”
Chapter 18
Raphael loosened his embrace. “I saw the light. I was lurking.”
“Yeah, that’s your thing, isn’t it?” Tracy asked, drawing a deep breath.
“Sometimes.” He released her.
She took a step back, looking at his pale, handsome face. If she chose, she could allay her sorrow in his arms and hurt Garrett’s feelings as much as he was hurting hers right now.
A quick decision, and she could slide her hands across that broad chest. She might be happy with Raphael, even for a brief moment. It was her call. But save an unfathomable, weird sensation deep within her, she didn’t want that.
“Thank you for being here,” she said. “I feel better.”
He acknowledged her gratefulness with a nod, yet his expression darkened in a matter of seconds. “I came to warn you. Someone else is lurking. I was watching out for you when I saw a man across the street. He’s on the lookout.”
Her father’s abductor? It had to be because who else would be observing a house and its residents?
She rubbed her thumb against her index finger. “Is he still there?”
“No. Do you want me to kill him?”
For a fleeting instant, Raphael’s suggestion appealed to her. He’d dispose of the Englishman with the utmost discretion. Unfortunately she wasn’t cut out for murder. Or too chicken.
She took his cold hand. “Thanks for the offer but that’s a last resort. If it’s okay, I’d like you to scare him off though. For good.”
“Scare him off? That’s a lot more risky. I can’t watch this mansion all the time and if he slips past me . . .”
“I don’t think so.” Positive no man on Earth possessed the ability to slip past her guardian vampire, she listened nonetheless.
“Tracy, if he does find a way into the house, I won’t come after him.”
“But I’ve already invited you in. Why?”
His somber gaze darkened toward blackness. Squeezing her hand, he placed a finger across her lips. “I won’t. Not even for you.”
She sensed he wasn’t to be pushed. He didn’t belong to the human race anymore and his reasons were his own. Besides, with Jessica still around, he’d better not come visiting unannounced.
“Okay, but promise me you won’t kill him.”
He watched her pleading expression with a seriousness that raised all the fine hairs on her body. “As you wish.”
He backed away then, letting go of her hand with gentleness before coming to sit on the sill again. Crouched, yet motionless, he’d never looked so like a lethal creature of the night. He did give his assent, yet she had the distinct feeling that the man who abducted her father would go through a rough patch.
“Thank you, Raphael. I hope to see you again.”
“You will. I can smell your scent from miles away. Should you ever need my help again, I’ll be there.”
She closed the window before pulling the drapes tight. Her guardian vampire had soothed her broken heart and she knew he was out there, protecting her. Her father’s abductor might not be holding all the cards.
A sigh passed her lips. She went into the bathroom with her shoulders slumped. As she checked her face in the mirror, an intense pang of sorrow forced her to look hard. She’d be wrinkled in a few years, deep lines of regret and sadness carved in her forehead, around her eyes, at the corners of her mouth.
She might be a mother someday, perhaps even a stay at home mom. She’d take her children to school in the mornings, cook homemade meals for them with the television on, do their laundry, fuss about their small ailments, ground them, and watch them grow up. Her husband, if she ever had the good sense of getting over Garrett, would or wouldn’t help her with her daily chores.
Soon after that her hair would grow white. She’d become a grandmother baking cakes, sewing socks, or bungee jumping from the Golden Gate. A lifetime away, an era apart from the man she loved.
For what it was worth, the wrinkles weren’t visible yet. Her skin was supple and smooth. She wiped her face with a fresh towel and undid the elaborate hairstyle, so disheveled now that the sight made her wince.
She let her hair fall loose on her shoulders, the way it had in twenty-first century, alternate dimension California. She needed a shower, but it was time for dinner.
A servant smiled at her as she descended the grand stairway on her own. Carrying a load of plates, he hurried toward a hallway leading to the kitchens while she made her way to the dining room. A clean, freshly shaved Jake greeted her with a smile when she appeared at the door.
“Recent events having raised havoc in our lives, I’m afraid we haven’t been properly introduced. Jake Cooper at your service, my lady. Please, allow me to help you to your seat.”
His natural charm blew away all traces of his vicious ‘other self’ as he bowed to her and extended his hand.
Guns on his hips, as sexy as ever in his tight leather pants, Jake wore a deep blue vest tonight that matched the color of his eyes. He truly was a cowboy from the Wild West but most of all, he had style.
Although he looked just like the jackass who’d usurped his identity, this gunslinger was a completely different man. She could feel it in her gut. His touch was respectful as he steered her to the table before pulling her chair back. “My lady, I owe you my life. My debt to you is eternal.”
Garrett, Weedon, and Jessica were all already seated. Observed by too many pairs of eyes, Tracy felt herself blush like a maiden facing her first naked man.
“You’re most welcome, Mister Cooper, but there’s no need, really. I only did what I thought best.”
“Please, call me Jake.”
He expressed his thankfulness once more before they were served some soup. Whoever the cook was, Tracy suspected he’d have no problem finding a job in a palace.
From that moment on, the meal turned into a jumble of joyful comments, witty remarks, and more or less accurate anecdotes about their adventure. Only one person didn’t take part in the merry celebration.
Nibbling at his food absentmindedly, Garrett seemed to have retreated to a place of his own. He kept silent throughout the meal, apart from an occasional noise of agreement. What did her father tell him?
Although enjoying the friendly atmosphere, she boiled with frustration by the time tea and coffee were placed in front of her. She couldn’t stay in the dark.
She was leaning to the side to ask him something, anything to shake him out of his aloofness when a booming no
ise resounded throughout the room.
The three men jumped to their feet, Jake’s hand hovering over his gun. Her gut constricted. All thoughts of interrogating Garrett departed her mind as she also stood then leaned over and whispered to Weedon, “Where’s White Fur?”
“He went out a while ago.”
Before they could talk further, a man appeared at the dining room door. Well-built and medium height, there was nothing particular about him, except maybe for a haunted glitter in his blue eyes.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. May God bless your souls upon entering His holy realm.” He spoke grandly, as though opening the first act of a play.
Jessica turned toward Jake. “Who’s that guy? What’s he talking about?”
Jake drew his Colt and pointed the barrel at the stranger who tut-tutted and shook a finger at him. “Come now, Mister Cooper, have you forgot all sense of place and duty? For I would very fain speak with you. Come, hold your peace, lest I shall . . .”
He extended his left hand to show them the grenade he was holding.
Jake holstered his gun with great reluctance.
Jessica gripped the arms of her chair, her usually clear voice as frosty as wind in the dead of winter. “You’re him! You’re the man who tried to pass for Jake.”
“Oh gentle lady, I grant indeed your suspicion is not without wit and judgment for I am not what I am,” he answered in Jake Cooper’s voice.
Tracy’s blood froze. Insane as he may be, the man was an awesome impersonator, a vocal dead ringer. Also obviously adept in the art of disguising himself because she could no longer see anything of the gunslinger in him.
Not a trace.
From San Francisco to Gold Run, she’d spent two days in this man’s company without the slightest doubts about his identity. He’d fooled them all, and she feared he wasn’t done with them yet.
“Who are you, then?” Weedon demanded.
The stranger placed his right hand on his heart. “I am Iago, a man of many disguises.”
Nobody showed any signs of recognition.
Come on, guys. Tracy felt her eyes widen while the silence lengthened. Had they never heard of Iago? Wasn’t Shakespeare the most famous playwright in this world?
Shoving his chair back, Garrett took a resolute stride toward the trespasser, his stern face expressing his annoyance. “Sir, I care not a jot for threats nor intruders prancing around with their chests thrust out so far you’d think they were playing a part in vaudeville. Do not play with our lives. Do not mock me in my own house.”
“I, mock you? No, by Heaven.” Iago gestured for him to keep his distance.
Unbelievably, Tracy thought he sounded sincere, as if Garrett’s misconception stabbed at his pride.
“That being so, why are you here of all places?” Tracy asked.
Dropping his pompous posture, Iago, or whatever his real name was, looked at her with malevolence. “Call up her father. Rouse him. He is one of those that will not serve God if the devil bid him. I came to do him service, and he thought me a ruffian. He spoke scurvy and provoking terms against my honor. I do hate him as I do Hell-pains.”
Garrett snapped his fingers just before taking a step forward in spite of the threatening grenade.
“Good Lord, I know you. You were William Richardson’s former assistant in Cambridge. As I recall, he dismissed you for incompetence. Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t tell me you’ve come to seek revenge. This is absurd.”
“Aye, my lord. He that filches from my good name robs me of that which not enriches him.” The impersonator’s elocution and manner were decidedly weird, out of character even in this alternate reality of 1899.
Hearing the impersonator’s fancy words and elaborate turn of phrase, Tracy experienced a strange sensation of familiarity, almost like his speech had been rehearsed.
Focused on her art during her years at San Francisco Academy of Art, she hadn’t been the most assiduous student when it came to literature, but she remembered poring over Shakespeare’s plays, including Othello.
Listening to the intruder, she wondered if he wasn’t reciting lines. Or maybe they’d been created for him. Now that was a thought worth pursuing, providing no madman intended to blow them up.
Mouth dry, she stared at the intruder while Garrett moved to stand by her chair, protectively hovering beside her. “Revenge for your incompetency? That’s by far and away the most despicable motive. William shan’t be disturbed, nor his daughter alarmed.”
Looking at the trespasser, Tracy figured he must have been in yet another disguise when he’d kidnapped her father and took him to Gold Run. His life must be pointless if he had to take on other people’s identities.
But tonight he showed them his real face, at last. Or did he really? More to the point, was it to be a moment of truth?
The jackass sneered, eyeing the hand Garrett laid on her shoulder, staring at them with spitefulness. He twisted his mouth. “Do not put me to it, for I am nothing if not critical.”
“I don’t seek your advice.”
“I confess it is my nature’s plague to spy into abuses. I see, sir, you are eaten up with passion, but shall you marry her? Is it merely a lust of the blood and a permission of the will? To kiss in private? To be naked with her in bed, an hour or more, not meaning any harm? To lie with her, on her? She that is ever fair and never proud, has tongue at will, yet is never loud. What may you be, my lord? Are you good or evil? Come, be a man!”
“How dare you.” Garrett raised his voice, clearly vexed by the man’s uncanny critical assessment of their relationship.
She didn’t glance up when he tightened his grip on her shoulder, but like all the other persons present in the dining room, she kept watching Iago and his weapon—the black grenade that didn’t waver.
“Oh Heaven forgive me, I have rubbed this young quat almost to the sense, and he grows angry.”
He continued speaking with a mocking tone, now dismissing Garrett to direct his gaze straight at her. “What is your pleasure, fair lady? He is a wight of high renown, and thou art but of low degree. What, look you pale? I told him what I thought and told no more than what he found himself was apt and true.”
Whoever he was, Iago didn’t lack perception. He’d revealed himself to be an expert in psychology, actually right on the dot but totally wacko. Garrett must have been drawing similar conclusions because she felt him tense as though he’d do something silly. She eyed the grenade, fear spreading its wings in her blood. In a slow and settling motion, she touched her lover’s fingers.
Iago noticed her move. “Oh, you are well tuned now! But I’ll set down the pegs that make this music, as honest as I am.” He nodded to their laced hands as he spat out his poison.
Yet for all she agreed with their intruder, she had to defend her lover. “Please, don’t tune anything on my account. Garrett can handle his reputation, thank you very much.”
The sarcasm seeping through her tone didn’t seem to impress their enemy in the least. “Reputation is an idle and most false imposition, oft got without merit and lost without deserving.”
“That’s enough.” Jake barked his order with the air of a very pissed-off gunslinger while he took a step toward the trespasser. “You’ve tried my patience. What do you want?”
“Revenge. Death.” Iago backed up to the hallway, waving his hand in a dramatic gesture. He brandished the grenade for all to see, his eyes riveted to Garrett. “Oh, beware, my lord, of jealousy! It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock the meat it feeds on!”
Time seemed suspended as the metallic weapon glowed, lit by the reflection of the flames from the fireplace.
Chapter 19
Tracy found she couldn’t move. A blinding thought stabbed her as she stared at the instrument of death. She’d never feel Ga
rrett’s weight on her body, never feel him rock-hard inside her again. Frozen to the bone, she wanted to rebel against the certainty of it, at the same time plagued by her own helplessness and mortality.
Before anyone could move, a white blur struck Iago, sending them both sprawling in the hallway. The grenade clattered out of reach.
Propelled by the force of the impact, White Fur skidded on the tiles and hit his head against the back wall. Iago stood up like a Jack-in-the-box, unhurt and disgruntled, and rushed out the front door.
Inside the house, Tracy dashed to White Fur, Weedon running alongside her. The animal whimpered, dizzy but unharmed. Jessica retrieved the grenade to make sure the deadly device did no harm while Garrett and Jake went straight for the busted front door, storming into the street.
The wolfdog was back on his paws when the two men came back a few minutes later, empty-handed.
“Goddam it, this whole business is so infuriating. But I swear I’ll get that swine. No matter what, I’ll get him.”
Tracy clasped her hands as much from worry as from standing in the drafty hallway. If Iago was on the loose and still looking for revenge, he might be back anytime. Damn this stupid world. Taking her father to their twenty-first century San Francisco seemed more and more like the best move.
She rounded on the gunslinger. “What happened, Jake?”
“He got away. He had his horse waiting down the street. There’s no way we can catch up with him.”
