He carefully separated fragile pages, looking for one entry in particular.
23rd March, 1801
Governor King finally got his wish. John is being sent back to England to face court martial. Who would have thought after all this time that John would be brought down because of something so foolish as a duel? Can it be that all my plans have come to naught? Sabra doesn’t know yet. Without John’s sponsorship, I fear for us. If we are separated, it will do to me what no other hardship on this land has done. I don’t know how I’ll go on.
Written before his transformation, Dalys had lamented the loss of his sponsor, John MacArthur. Dalys had seen the man then as determined and strong, to be sure, but also as intuitive and just plain lucky. Dalys had seen it as only prudent to champion such a man, convict though he was.
Dallas remembered well the day MacArthur left, even without the help of the diary.
John extended his hand to Dalys. It was an honor rarely afforded a convict.
“You’ve done well for me, Aldgate.”
“I fear I’d have been more use to you if I’d known sheep rather than horses.”
MacArthur smiled, a sentimentality Dalys had seldom seen. “You’re not a shepherd, laddie. There’s no shame in that.” He paused, and the smile faded. “I can’t protect you once I’ve gone, but I promise you two things. One. I won’t forget your loyalty. You’ve stood by me for ten years, and no freeman has done better. Second. Do not fear. This is not the end of it. I will return. And when I do, I promise I’ll do right by you.”
“I’ll wait, sir. Waiting is what convicts are best at.”
“You won’t always be a convict, Aldgate. This I know.”
“As do I,” said Dalys.
“Well said, lad. Kiss that pretty woman of yours for me, won’t you?”
Dalys would keep that promise. He hoped against hope that MacArthur would keep his.
MacArthur did keep his word, but by then the whole world had changed. How differently Dalys saw John with vampiric eyes. Stripped of his “luck” and braggadocio, Dalys saw the heart of the man—cunning and ruthless.
Dallas scanned the pages in the diary, and found the next entry he sought.
7th April, 1805
MacArthur was true to his word, the pompous ass. He has returned in triumph! I see him now for what he is, a serpent that chokes the life out of this community. I am a great fan of irony. It amuses me that we are now so much alike. Our first meeting since his return was uncomfortable, yet he suspects nothing. He spouts concern for my health and wags his head over my intolerance for the sunlight, yet I know all he feels is disappointment that I can no longer work my miracles with his horses. His grant of 5000 additional acres for sheep breeding gave me the perfect excuse to request to be overseer of the 30 convicts he was given. Sheep and convicts are stupid beasts. The qualities in my touch and voice that now trigger fear and disquiet in the horses make the sheep quite malleable, and the convicts even more so.
5th August, 1806
It is time to leave. Sabra is lost to me, the horses are lost to me, and I grow bored with the posturing of MacArthur and Bligh. Elizabeth calls Bligh “violent, rash, and tyrannical,” but her husband is no better. I smell another mutiny coming. This is John’s war. Mine still awaits me in England.
Dallas couldn’t help remembering his departure from Australia. In a way, it had been as much a turning point in his life as the shedding of his humanity.
Dalys stood at the rail on the forecastle of the Parramatta and watched the horizon swallow the remains of the day. A tiny coral bead hovered, winked, then slipped out of sight, and all that still spoke of daylight were the dusky clouds that stretched, rosy and warm, above the horizon for a few moments more. Soon, they too darkened, and the dawn of night was complete. He drew a deep breath of the balmy sea air, and tried to feel a measure of hope. He had been glad to be done with Australia. It had been all too easy to leave. Even without his newfound power, he was confident he could have convinced MacArthur to free him, but it had been truly child’s play to gain compliance with nothing more than a glance.
He had grown tired of sheep, and had become bored with the convicts and Corps alike. Nothing was a challenge, except the one constant in his life. Survival. And that, with practice, was becoming easier and easier. He needed a new life and new challenges, and England would provide those, and more. Revenge. He hadn’t forgotten Christian St. James. He only hoped the miscreant was still alive.
And when he was done draining England of challenges, the world itself would be his to take.
They had been moments in time that Dallas had not and would not ever forget. He closed the diary and slid it mindfully back to its home on the shelf. He sensed that this new day, too, would be a turning point in his life. The clarity of his vampiric sight would reduce all his problems—Tia, Drago, and St. James—to the only decision to be made. Life or death.
It would be simple, after all.
Fifteen
WHEN DRAGO PUT the big Buick in gear and headed back south on the Trace, Tia’s remaining hopes sank to somewhere around her ankles, where her heart already weighed her down. It was obvious Drago wanted more from her than a “little chat.”
“You never answered me. What are you going to do with me? Take me back to Dallas?”
Drago’s right brow arched, as if he didn’t know the answer and didn’t really care. “Oh, eventually. First, though, I see that another tete-a-tete with Allgate is in order regarding his carelessness in letting you slip away so easily.”
“I wasn’t his prisoner. He didn’t have me locked up.”
“No, more’s the pity. I would have much preferred my morning repose to this little rabbit hunt.”
“You enjoy making light of people’s lives, don’t you? Playing all these little games?”
She stared at his profile and saw all his features, from the high forehead down to the strong jaw, but when he turned his head to answer her, all she could see were the pools of his eyes, so deep you could drown in them, if you didn’t freeze first.
“Do not mistake my manner for my intent, mademoiselle. Many people, both human and Undead, do. It’s a mistake they don’t make twice.”
If that was intended to frighten her, it did, but it didn’t shut her up. “Why do you do this? Meddle in the affairs of others?”
“You were with la police, yes? Then you understand orders.”
“Who gives you orders?”
He smiled, but there was a twist to the sensuous mouth that indicated more bitterness than fondness. “Those who have more power than I, of course. Was that not how it was with you?”
She squirmed at the discomforting thought of a creature more powerful than Drago. “But within those orders you have discretion, don’t you?”
This time he laughed, but it was a soft, self-deprecating sound. “Ah, discretion, of course. Self-restraint and sound judgment—the very essence of l’ enforcier.”
Tia didn’t ask any more questions.
An hour later they were heading for the river and the bridge to Vidalia. Drago had passed the road leading to Rose Hill.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“I need to make sure you’re safe. And, of course, comfortable. It’s not an antebellum mansion, I’m sorry to say, but it’s all I can offer you.”
The “all” turned out to be nothing less than the presidential suite of Natchez’s largest hotel, high on a small bluff overlooking the Mississippi River. One thing she had to say for the Undead. They all lived well. “Compact” and “economy” were words obviously not in their vocabularies.
Drago escorted her into the suite, and though it was barely mid-afternoon, all the heavy drapes were closed, and only one small table lamp was on. Tia almost didn’t see the woman lounging on the burgundy and green sofa.
“Who’s the little chookie, Drago?” asked the woman in a strange accent.
“The object of Allgate’s grande passion,” answered Drago in his finest theatrical voice.
“Really. She doesn’t look like much,” said the woman, standing to get a better look at Tia.
That was enough for Tia to take an immediate dislike to the woman. Tia took a step forward, put one hand on her hip, and sized her opponent up. The woman was at least two inches shorter, but her thin build and high-heeled boots gave her the appearance of height. She had long brunette hair, smoky eyes, and wore a white sleeveless turtleneck and tight rust-colored leather pants. She appeared to be in her twenties, yet there was a hard, worn look to the young face. Tia had seen it over and over in women barely out of their teens who had abused themselves with drugs and unhealthy lifestyles.
“She defeated Allgate’s mark,” said Drago, a fox smile telling Tia he was immensely enjoying the standoff between the two women.
The brunette glanced sideways at him. Her painted mouth turned downward as one dark brow lifted. “That doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Perhaps it’s a failing on Allgate’s part.”
Drago’s smile widened. “Do you think Allgate is weak, ma cherie?”
“No.” There was no hesitation or doubt in her voice.
“Neither do I. It’s a puzzle.”
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” said the woman, her voice dry. She cocked her head at Tia. “What’s the chook’s name, Drago?”
Tia cut Drago off. “I can speak for myself. I’m Syntia Martell. And you are?”
“Well, I can see that if she’s going to be staying here we’re going to have to teach the chook some manners. I’m Juliana Sage. I’ll answer to ‘Juliana.’”
“Or ‘ma cherie’?” added Tia.
Drago’s grin displayed very white teeth. It was the first real smile Tia had seen on the creature’s face. However, no such affectation transformed Juliana’s features. If anything, her hard face took on a more brittle cast, and her eyes, as opaque as Drago’s were clear, glittered with dark lights.
“You will show me respect, Miss Martell. If you don’t, I can promise that the short time spent here will seem very long indeed,” said Juliana.
Drago sighed. “Would you excuse us for a few moments, cherie . . . Juliana? I’ll give mademoiselle her first lesson in proper deportment.”
Juliana glared at both Drago and Tia, then, with a forced curve to her copper-red mouth, glided out of the room into the adjoining bedroom, shutting the door.
“Sit, mademoiselle.” The voice was not gentle, and the word “please” was as noticeably absent from the request as his smile of a moment ago.
Tia sat in a large armchair across a cherrywood cocktail table from the sofa, deliberately avoiding the possibility that she and Drago would end up seated next to each other. She was just as angry as the two vampires seemed to be, and the strength of the emotion gave her fuel against Drago. “I am not going to take etiquette lessons from you. Just tell me, why am I here with that . . . thing?”
Drago stretched out on the sofa, his feet up and crossed at the ankles. “You know what she is?”
“Of course. It’s obvious. She’s a witch.”
Drago’s smile flared anew. For a second he looked almost human, but he tamped it before he answered. “She’s a vampire, and quite a powerful one. She’s here to keep an eye on you while I’m gone. And it wouldn’t do to overly antagonize Juliana. She has a good measure of control, but like her patience, it has limits. Don’t test them. You will lose, mademoiselle.”
“You’re not leaving yet, are you? Dallas won’t be awake for hours.” She didn’t know why, but if it came down to a choice between staying with Drago or Juliana, Drago somehow seemed the lesser of the two evils. At least there was a small part of his arrogant, irritating manner that could pass for charm. Juliana was just plain nasty.
“No, mademoiselle, I’m not leaving yet. Juliana and I have business to discuss. In the meantime you’re free to amuse yourself with whatever the suite has to offer. If you’re hungry, let me know and I will order room service for you. All I require is that you behave yourself. Do I make myself clear?”
Tia sighed. What choice did she have? “Yes, very clear.”
“And you will show Juliana respect.”
She hesitated. Kowtowing to the disagreeable creature in the next room was the last thing Tia felt like doing.
Drago’s antifreeze gaze caught hers and held it. Though the table separated them, Tia felt like he was right next to her. The air conditioner was on high, and the room was comfortably cool, but it was hard to breathe nonetheless.
“Think carefully, Tia. This is not a game. There is nothing in her job description, or in mine, for that matter, about the protection of human life.” His voice was so soft as to barely be heard, but there was more warning in the blue eyes than in either his words or tone.
That he had used her first name instead of “mademoiselle” was not lost on Tia. She leaned back in the chair, fighting the familiarity he seemed intent on fostering, but it didn’t help. His presence filled the entire room. “I understand. I’ll be civil. Just keep her away from me.”
“Does that mean you prefer my company instead?” he asked, both brows raised.
“No!”
He laughed softly, an acknowledgment of the lie.
Still wearing his fox smile, Drago rose and rapped at the bedroom door, and Tia and Juliana traded places. Before Tia could pull the door shut, though, Juliana braced it open with her body.
“Wait a minute. Drago, did you check her purse? She might have a mobile phone.”
“No, come to think of it, I didn’t.”
Juliana stripped the bag from Tia’s shoulder before Tia could react. “Wouldn’t do to have her calling Allgate now, would it?” Juliana rummaged through the bag and immediately pulled the Colt out, pointing its barrel at the ceiling for Drago to see. “Well. Bit of a worry, this.”
Drago’s gaze appraised the gun, then slid to Tia. The smile was gone from his face. Juliana tossed him the gun, and he caught it with one hand while still watching her. With a dexterity she had never seen, he locked back the slide, ejected the round in the chamber, and caught the cartridge in his hand before it fell to the floor. His gaze still fastened on hers, he rolled the cartridge between his thumb and forefinger, his fingers touching only the casing. Very deliberately he lifted the round and ran the tip of the bullet down the side of his face, almost like a caress. Tia saw a wince twist his features before he blanked his face again, and she knew the caress had been painful.
“Silver.” There was no charm at all in the quiet voice. “Who gave you the gun, mademoiselle?”
The room was so still she could hear her heart beat. There was no point in lying, even if his eyes had allowed her to. “Dallas gave it to me in Rodney to use in self defense against St. James.”
“You’re no longer in Rodney, and our bad boy is far away, licking his wounds. Why do you still have it?”
She felt like a prisoner being interviewed, then realized that was exactly what she was. “Gillie gave it to me when I left this morning. For self defense.”
“Against . . . ?”
“You or St. James.”
“Allgate’s servant gave you this today. Not Allgate himself?”
“No.”
He released the pressure of his gaze, and Tia drew a long breath. He removed the magazine from the Colt, reinserted the loose cartridge into the clip, then flipped both the weapon and clip back to Juliana. “Dispose of these.”
She snatched them easily. “You disappoint me, Drago. I would never have expected such carelessness in l’ enforcier.”
“How fortunate I am to have you here, ma cherie, to correct my errors.”
&n
bsp; The soft voice made Tia shiver, and she was glad this last had not been directed at her. Juliana looked about to say something in reply, then obviously thought better of it. Instead, she threw the purse back at Tia. Tia caught it and closed the bedroom door, thankful for the respite from the two sets of vampire eyes. She was about to sit on the bed when she heard the voices resume in the next room. She moved back to the door to listen.
Juliana’s voice, aroused in anger, was easy to hear. “At first I was honored to have been asked to assist the great enforcier Alek Dragovich, but I’ve really landed in it this time, haven’t I?”
Tia couldn’t hear Drago’s reply, but it must have been short, because Juliana’s voice went on. “Nikolena’s not going to like this one bit.”
“All to the good, cherie.” If Drago said more, Tia couldn’t hear.
The volume of Juliana’s voice rose even more. “How can you say that? Your authority is only through her good graces. You’ve got one dead, one good and knackered, and now this. You think the Directress isn’t going to be a little put out over this?”
“Ca ne fait rien. Nikolena’s been put out for almost two hundred years. She’s not happy unless I displease her. But you, ma cherie, I brought you here for a very specific purpose. But if you’re not happy, you’re free to return to the outback any time you want.”
“Sydney is not the outback,” Juliana retorted, but her voice had noticeably lowered.
Tia heard no more of the conversation after that.
Frustrated, she threw herself down onto the king size bed. She still didn’t know what she was doing here. She had asked Drago more than once, and he had neatly dodged her questions, admitting only that he was going to take her to Dallas “eventually.” She had no idea what he meant to do with her in the meantime.
Alek Dragovich. She silently rolled the name around her tongue with distaste. A Russian-sounding name and a French accent. Nothing about Drago made any sense. She knew he was a vampire, and one of considerable power in the vampire community. By his own admission, he did some kind of internal policing, but that was about all she knew. She tried to recall everything Dallas had told her about Drago. It hadn’t been much. All Dallas had said was that he was a “lecherous old bastard” and that he had connections in high places. She wished now that she had asked Dallas more questions about him, but it had been apparent that Dallas cared little for Drago and even less about discussing him.
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