He continued to hold her, but the dark web of his tangled hair hid his features. She would give anything to know what he was feeling. Maybe he wasn’t real. It had certainly been too good to be true. She continued to stroke the hard muscles of his back, just to remind herself that he was not a dream.
“Who are you? What are you?” She breathed the words, softer than a whisper, not really intending them for him.
But he heard. He raised his head, and when she brushed the long hair out of his face, his eyes were hooded. His parted lips were drawn back, neither in a smile nor a grimace, but in a pained satisfaction, almost like a runner who had won a race, but had totally spent himself in the effort. For the first time she noticed his teeth. They were very even and very white, and the eyeteeth seemed to be abnormally long and sharp.
“I’m your fantasy,” he hissed, his low voice making the words sizzle like lava sliding over rocks.
She laughed. He had been that, no doubt.
He swept her hair away from her until it fanned the pillow beside her, and he stroked her face with the back of his hand, his touch still as soft and hot as windblown ash from a stoked fire. His eyes dropped from her face and focused lower, and he gently pressed his mouth to the hollow at the base of her neck.
“Your final fantasy.” His lips pressed a line of soft kisses all along her collarbone. “I’m every storm you’ve ever seen on the horizon.”
She laughed again, but it was a smaller sound. She felt his teeth strafe the length of her neck, and her heart seemed to pound from within her throat.
“I’m every moonless night you’ve ever lost your way in. I’m every fever you’ve ever burned with.”
She was silent now, mesmerized by the words and the feel of his tongue over her pulse point.
Suddenly he was off the bed with a hoarse sound like the flame on a candle guttering. “I’m every evil your father ever preached. Now sleep.”
Tia tried to rise from the bed as well, but fell back as if she had been totally consumed, too depleted to wonder about any of the strange words, save his first. I’m your fantasy, he had said, and she had laughed at the tease.
Her final thought before she fell into a deep sleep was that Dallas Allgate never teased.
Eight
TIA SNUGGLED DOWN into the nest of satin petals, then, a moment later, stretched languidly like a cat, arching her back, pointing her toes, and rubbing her cheek against the scented velvet blooms beneath it. Floating just below the surface of consciousness, she had never felt better in her life. She was warm, safe, and swimming in the biggest bed of roses in the universe. She wanted to stay there forever, drifting with the suspended flowers, caressing the soft current, sealed away from all of reality’s noise, violence, and cold. But her stomach rumbled, a shaft of red light touched her face, and she bobbed into wakefulness.
In point of fact the antique bed was overly soft, the kind that produced morning backaches without fail, but even so, Tia was loathe to leave it. Even without Dallas’ solid length beside her, she thought that there was no sweeter sensation than burying herself in the twisted sheets and inhaling their warm, musky scent.
But as the sunlight probed the quiet room with greater force, the harsh realities of her situation prodded her one by one, and reluctantly she sat up and looked around. There was no sign of Dallas. Why was she not surprised?
She dressed and padded softly to the kitchen area, following the aroma of scents too numerous to ignore. She found Gillie, who informed her that Dallas had left early in the morning, before the sun had come up. He hadn’t wanted to wake her, Gillie said, and left the message that business would tie him up for most of the day. Gillie also passed along an entreaty from Dallas for her to wait at Rose Hill for his return, with an emphasis on the danger that existed outside the townhouse walls. Tia had no need or desire to debate with Gillie on that point. She had enough unfinished business to discuss with Dallas to ensure her adherence to his request. In the meantime she would take full advantage of Gillie’s wonderful cooking.
THE BASEMENT intercom buzzed as insistently as an alarm clock. Dallas was slow to wake, and even slower to answer. Yesterday’s interrupted sleep and voyage into the light had depleted him to the point where a second day of only partial sleep was not nearly enough to regenerate his strength. Only the thought that something had happened to Tia or that St. James was getting into some new bother prompted Dallas to answer.
“Yes, Gillie? Is it Tia?” Perhaps it had sunk into her exactly what she had done last night. He wouldn’t be surprised if Gillie told him she was winging her way northward even as they spoke.
“No, sir, she’s fine. She’s upstairs, resting I believe.”
“St. James, then.”
“No, you have another visitor. Someone I think you should see.”
Dallas’ enervation shredded his patience. “I’m not a mind reader, Gillie. Who is it?”
“Alek Dragovich.”
He had to have heard wrong. The lack of sleep was playing havoc with his senses.
“Who, Gillie?”
Gillie’s patience didn’t seem to be in abundance, either. “Al-ek Dra-go-vich. He’s from the Brotherhood.” The emphasis Gillie placed on the word “Brotherhood” was unnecessary. Dallas knew exactly whom Gillie meant.
Drago. But it was impossible. “Gillie, so help me, if this is a game, you won’t live to see another sunrise.”
“Believe me, sir, this is no game. Shall I put the, ah, gentleman himself on the line?”
Dallas sighed. “No. Tell him I’ll be right up. Oh, and Gillie . . . ”
“Yes, sir?”
“Make sure Tia stays put. It wouldn’t do for her to see our visitor.”
“No, I suppose not.” The dryness in Gillie’s voice blew through the intercom.
Drago. Every Undead creation in the world knew Drago. The unlucky ones had met him in person. The lucky knew him by reputation only. Gillie was wrong about one thing, though. Drago wasn’t from the Brotherhood. The Brotherhood was local. They, as well as the Circle and the Coterie, employed enforcers to resolve problems among the Undead. Drago was l’ enforcier, and reported personally to the Directorate in Paris. There were fewer than a dozen vampires in the world more powerful, in both standing and ability, than the creature waiting for him in the upstairs parlor. There were fewer still more hated. It was said that Drago relished imposing harsh sanctions as though they were nothing more than spoonfuls of medicine. Dallas had never met l’ enforcier, but was no exception in his feelings of loathing. To Dallas, who had personally suffered long and hard at the hands of so-called “justice,” Drago was but one more enemy in the world.
Dallas wasted no time in dressing. As soon as he exited his cellar sanctuary he could feel the presence of one of the old ones in the house, and by the time he reached the first floor, he could feel the creature’s power in the air, as tangible as an ion-charged atmosphere following a thunderstorm. Ironically, Dallas could detect very little scent. Drago was so old that he carried the slight musty odor of an unused attic, nothing more. A far cry from the suffocating stink of one such as Conner Flynne.
Alek Dragovich arose like smoke from his chair upon Dallas’ entrance, a move of such boneless elegance as to make the movements of young vampires like St. James and even himself look clumsy by comparison. Drago wore black silk trousers that draped with a fluidity that matched his grace, and a white, long-sleeved shirt of the finest lawn that fastened at the neck with a sapphire collar pin. The creature was tall for one so old, about Dallas’ own height, and his appearance was relatively young, like that of himself—a man in his mid-thirties. But there the resemblance ended. Drago was leaner in build than Dallas and had long black hair tied at the nape of his neck. His smooth face was long and aristocratic, but the focal point of his being, as with all vampires, was his eyes. Yet Drago’s were unique. Black brows tent
ed hooded eyes of the clearest blue Dallas had ever seen on a human or vampire. Neither a pale sky blue nor a dark midnight blue, they were electric bright, like the finest London blue topaz. Color aside, they were empty, save for a pinch of boredom and a dash of arrogance.
“Alek Dragovich. You know who I am?”
Make that two dashes of arrogance. “I know. You’re from the Directorate. You’re l’ enforcier.”
“Excellent. One explanation saved. Call me Drago, then. Everyone does.”
“I expected an enforcer. Not l’ enforcier.”
“Yes, of course. Normally, for a squabble such as this one, you’d be right. But I’ve had my eye on you for some time, Dallas Allgate.”
“I’ve broken no laws, save human ones. I’ve directed no violence toward my own kind. What happened yesterday was self-defense.”
“Don’t have the audacity to try to explain to me what happened yesterday, monsieur. I know exactly what happened, and why. The reason I’ve been watching you is precisely because you’ve broken none of our laws. Good enforcers are needed all over the world. You’re young yet, but promising. Someday you may be chosen. I’m here to make sure that what happens between you and St. James is not a stumbling block on that path.”
“I have no desire to be part of the Brotherhood in any shape or form.”
The neon eyes seemed to bore straight through Dallas. The gaze told Dallas that not showing fear of l’ enforcier was one thing, but that showing too much disrespect was another thing altogether. “As I said, you’re young.” The words were drawn out as slowly and softly as a kiss . . . or a threat.
Dallas got the message. Now was not the time or place to debate his future with the Anti-God of the Undead. “What are you going to do about what happened yesterday? St. James has a vampire hunter.”
“I’m not going to do anything. Yet. And I know about the death’s-head.”
“It’s illegal.”
Nothing in Drago’s piercing stare changed, but Dallas knew nonetheless that he had committed another faux pas. Of course Drago knew that it was illegal for a vampire to possess a vampire hunter.
Drago let it pass. “I will be meeting with St. James shortly. He’ll be divested of the weapon, rest assured. He’ll also be warned to stay away from you. I give you the same warning. If he’s foolish enough to ignore my admonitions, he’ll be investigated and punished accordingly. If he survives, that is.”
“But if I should need help against him, I’m on my own, aren’t I? You won’t help.”
The Ceylon sapphire at Drago’s throat flashed like a third blue eye. “For one who never apprenticed, you manage to grasp the fine points. No, I won’t help you. Or St. James. I am forbidden to lend aid in support of one of our kind over another. All I can do is take away the advantage he has of the death’s-head.”
“And if I prevail, will I be punished?” Any satisfaction derived from killing St. James would be short-lived indeed if all Drago was going to do was finish the job St. James started.
“I’ll be required to investigate. That’s all I can promise right now. But this I can tell you. I may indeed be the Black Death, but, like the plague, I’m unprejudiced in those I touch. I perform my job objectively according to the laws set down by the Directorate. Nothing more.”
As unprejudiced as the plague. That was supposed to be a comfort? Dallas studied Drago’s features with care, expecting some small sign of self-deprecation at such arrogance, but there was no emotion in the antifreeze eyes. “I can ask no more than impartiality in the Black Death,” Dallas replied with a dryness he couldn’t keep from his voice.
“C’est bien! Then we understand each other.”
Drago paused, and something finally flickered in the blue gaze. “One more thing, Allgate. You have a human female in the house. I saw her in the window when I came up the drive.”
It was pointless to deny it. “Yes.”
“The female involved in the scuffle in the boneyard?”
Only a cop, even a vampire cop, could reduce yesterday’s life-and-death struggle to a “scuffle.” Objective? Drago’s attitude seemed to lean more towards disinterest than objectivity.
“Yes,” Dallas ground out.
One of Drago’s arched brows shifted its angle just a little. “’To the victor goes the spoils’?”
“I’m sure St. James would have considered her as such. I don’t.”
“Ah.”
Drago said nothing more for a long moment, but Dallas felt the judgment of his eyes.
“You surprise me, Allgate. I’m not often surprised. I can’t tell you what to do or what not to do with humans. But, a piece of advice from one who has survived the trials of a dozen lifetimes. Ours is a lonely existence. Most of our kind, in the cynicism of their years, would tell you that an affaire de coeur between a human and one of us can only result in a chagrin d’amour. Perhaps so, but don’t avoid affairs of the heart. Such afflictions make eternity bearable. Nothing else does. Certainly not revenge.”
With that, Drago rose and, with a bow of his head, took his leave.
Dallas sat for a very long time before he descended to the cellar to finish his sleep. Had a five-hundred-year-old bloodsucker just advocated love with a human? Dallas didn’t know what shocked him more—that, or the fact that he actually found himself almost liking the most hated brute creation on Earth.
TIA WOKE UP when she heard the car come up the drive. Even though a day had passed and nothing had been on the news about a dead body showing up in the cemetery before its time, she was still afraid the cops were going to show up. And if St. James was still alive, she was just as afraid he’d come around to pick up where he left off. With everything that had happened in the past few days, nothing more could surprise her.
She was wrong. Tia blinked at the vision that exited the burgundy luxury car with the fluid grace of a gymnast. The man looked like the black sheep of the St. James family. Though not quite as outrageously dressed as St. James himself, the man’s attire was more than a little over the top for Natchez on a Thursday afternoon. The man had long, jet-black hair and a face that had a world-weary, bad-boy cast to it that either spoiled or enlivened his patrician features, depending on how you looked at it. Didn’t Dallas have any normal acquaintances?
The black-haired man, as if knowing she was peering through the window, looked up at her with a haughty lift of one brow, never breaking his stride. Tia decided the dispassionate look definitely corrupted any natural good looks the man had.
She wondered if Dallas was home to receive a visitor. After an excellent southern breakfast and a very thorough tour of the house, she had lain back down for a nap when the visitor’s arrival had awakened her. Had Dallas come home while she had been sleeping?
She was tempted to leave her room and listen for voices when a diplomatic knock sounded at the door. She sighed. It had to be Gillie. She pulled the door open. It was.
“Mr. Allgate has a rather important visitor downstairs. He asks that you respect their, ah, privacy.”
Another mystery. Great. “And what did you think I was going to do, Gillie? Listen at a keyhole?”
The brow the old man quietly lifted told her he wouldn’t put it past her.
She decided to change the subject. “Do you think Dallas will be free after his meeting? I’ve been waiting all day to talk to him.”
“Perhaps. I can’t say for sure.”
She frowned at Gillie. “Excuse me for asking this, but does any of this seem strange to you?”
“Strange, miss?” Gillie’s face was all innocence.
“Yeah. Hiding women upstairs. Strange visitors. People who want to kill him. You know, that kind of thing.”
“Hmmm. Yes, well, I have to admit this week has been more eventful than usual. Still and all, life with Mr. Allgate is never, ah, bo
ring. And, in spite of what you may think, the man is worth it.”
Tia pounced. “Gillie, would you answer some questions for me? There’s so much he hasn’t told me.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Tia. He lives a very private life. For me to divulge any, ah, confidences, would be highly improper. Can I bring you anything while you wait?”
It was as neat a blow-off as any Tia had ever heard, or had ever come up with herself. “No, thanks, Gillie.” She couldn’t help smiling in appreciation.
Gillie smiled back, a small fox smile with just a hint of teeth showing.
Tia sat by the window and fidgeted for fifteen minutes, wishing she had asked Gillie for a drink to help pass the time. Finally she saw Dallas’ visitor take his leave down the steps to the driveway below. Turning his head, his gaze shot up at her, and he winked. If a man could duplicate a Mona Lisa smile, this one could. And did. She wanted to throw something out the window at him.
How could he? Dallas had obviously said something to the man about last night’s liaison. For a man so private with his own affairs, he was free and easy enough with her reputation. Well, one more thing to add to her list of subjects to be discussed. When Gillie came up and informed her that Dallas wouldn’t be available to her until eight in the evening, her patience detonated in an explosion of pointed words at Gillie.
“Does he think the sun rises and sets with him? I’ve been sitting here all day waiting for him, doing absolutely nothing. Does he know that?”
“Yes, Miss Tia, he’s well aware that you’ve been waiting for him. It’s for your safety he asked you to stay here. If you’re tired of this room, you’re free now to enjoy the rest of the house. Perhaps you’d like to try the library? Something there might interest you.”
Gillie had already shown her the room, but she hadn’t looked closely at the books. She wasn’t a big reader, but maybe she could find something on Natchez, Rose Hill, or the Allgate family history. And as long as she had Gillie’s blessing to be in the room, she couldn’t be accused of prying. She descended to the small first-floor room at the rear of the house and studied the titles in the shelves built into the walls.
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