Urban Sensation

by Debra Webb

  “Then we do, indeed, need to speak, Detective. Today. Now, if at all possible.”

  Rowen’s fingers tightened around the receiver, but a gut feeling she couldn’t deny kept her from hanging up on the guy. “You’ll have to be more specific, sir,” she said, pressing for something that would give her a hint as to whether or not this guy was just another loony.

  “Your latest victim,” he said in that deep, peculiarly alluring tone that sent a shiver over her nerve endings, “her name was Carlotta Simpson, no?”

  Now he had her attention. Who the hell was this guy? Miss Simpson’s face had already been splashed all over the news despite the police’s inability to contact next of kin. A nosy neighbor had seen to that. But having any aspect of the case verified by a member of Boston PD was another thing altogether.

  “Miss Simpson was one of mine,” the gentleman said frankly.

  Confusion slowed Rowen’s response, had another wave of uncertainty seeping into her bones. “One of yours? I’m not sure I’m following, Mr… What did you say your name was again?” She readied her pen to write this time.

  “Viktor Azariel.” He spelled both first and last just to be sure she got it.

  “In what way were you connected to the victim, Mr. Azariel?” Rowen slipped that one in on him in an effort to catch him off guard.

  “She was one of my donors, Detective. Now, would you like my address?”

  THE DRIVE to the Berkshires, home to some of the most beautiful and historic homes in western Massachusetts, was always pleasant. Rowen had to admit there was something intensely relaxing about getting away from the congestion of the city.

  But then the flyers and billboards posted everywhere she looked drew her right back to what she wanted to forget. Salem witch trials…vampires in Boston. Happy Halloween. New England tourism depended a great deal on what the changing fall colors, as well as the area’s haunting history, could bring in. All of it served as the perfectly wrong backdrop for her case. She didn’t need these exaggerations filtering into her investigation.

  Putting the ghoulish holiday and all it entailed aside, the weather was perfect and she couldn’t help but enjoy the blue sky she rarely saw when on a case. No wonder those who could left work in the city and came here to call someplace home.

  But that Prozac-like feeling of serenity came with a megabuck price tag. If you didn’t have it, don’t bother. Not unlike Martha’s Vineyard and the Hamptons, the good life in the Berkshires was reserved for the rich and powerful. Or at least for those with unlimited credit lines.

  Like many of the affluent residents of the area, Mr. Viktor Azariel had opted for big when building his home. The place was, in fact, a castle. The structure sat in the distance, on a hillside no less, as she approached the turnoff to the property. And she didn’t mean the modern fabricated castle a few in the area had erected in recent years. Nope. Mr. Azariel had purchased his castle in Europe and had the centuries-old structure shipped to the property stone by stone. She found an article on the Net related to the ambitious move. An actual fifteenth-century English Gothic-style manor.

  Rowen stopped at the gate to the seventy-five-acre property and showed her ID. The guard waved her through without fanfare. Coming alone had been her decision. Too much ground needed to be covered to drag Merv or Lenny away from their work.

  As she moved down the long, winding drive, the lush landscape made even a New England born and bred girl sit up and take notice. Forests flanked the property on either side. The leaves had started to turn their fall colors—amber, russet and gold. The final bend in the drive took her upward and to the open area where the grand castle made an exhilarating in-your-face appearance. Rowen slowed to a stop and just sat there and stared. An immense Tiffany glass window depicted a vivid scene with brilliant colors that stood out in stark relief against the cloudy granite and aged limestone of the monstrosity. A gargoyle would have looked right at home climbing the soaring tower from which one could likely see all the way to Martha’s Vineyard.

  “Holy crap,” she muttered.

  She’d done a little research on Viktor Azariel. He was listed as the chief investor of a pharmaceutical research corporation, a Fortune 500 company. He was called a recluse by the two reporters who had been allowed to interview him in the past decade and he refused to have his photograph taken. He had no wife or kids, no family at all as far as anyone had been able to ascertain.

  Obviously whatever he was doing paid extremely well. A Bentley sat in the curved drive near a fountain that likely cost more than her home.

  A well-dressed gentleman waited for Rowen on the steps. She emerged from the car and wondered as she did if this was Mr. Azariel.

  “This way, Detective O’Connor.”

  Since he didn’t introduce himself as the lord of the manor, she assumed he was the butler or other hired help. She hadn’t actually expected the kazillionaire Azariel to meet her on the steps of his castle.

  Once she stepped through those massive bronze entry doors, the ambience completely changed. Rowen was taken aback by the sharp contrast. Outside had been lush and sunny, bright and lovely. All that one would expect in the setting for a lavish estate.

  None of those adjectives could be used to describe the interior. The entry hall was cavernous, the decor, as well as the furnishings, minimal. Even the elegant Tiffany glass of the massive window overlooking the entry hall was darkened by a tapestry. The lighting was meager at best. She felt as though she had stepped onto an alien planet. A weight pressed in around her, as if she’d entered a totally different atmosphere. The air felt thicker…danker.

  And it was so cold. Rowen shivered.

  Yet, the raw beauty of the marble and limestone suggested it had been hand-chiseled by Italian sculptors. The detailed oaken trim might have been crafted by Bavarian wood-carvers. Truly amazing.

  “Mr. Azariel will be with you shortly.”

  The man, butler, whoever, who had not identified himself, waited near another set of massive wood doors. These, too, were intricately detailed. He held one door open, an eerie Norman Bates smile plastered on his lips, and waited for her to enter. She hurried to catch up since she’d fallen a little behind in an attempt to take in and analyze what she’d encountered.

  “Thank you.”

  He nodded before closing the door behind her, leaving her alone in another less than ergonomically inviting space.

  The room she’d been sequestered in appeared to be a parlor or study, though there wasn’t a desk around anywhere. God knew, the room was big enough to hold the entire Homicide Division. A couple of chairs and two settee-type sofas sat near the enormous stone fireplace. A sideboard sat against one wall. The floors were stone, as well. The whole theme was austere and cold.

  Rowen shivered again and wondered why a man with such means would choose to live so spartanly…

  “Thank you for coming, Detective.”

  Rowen spun to face the man who’d come into the room without her realizing it. She hadn’t heard the door open or close. Usually she was much more astute and aware of her surroundings.

  Summoning her wits, she strode straight up to him and stuck out her hand. “Mr. Azariel. I’m Rowen O’Connor, homicide division.”

  For several moments, he stared at her hand as if he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to touch it. Rowen wondered if that was merely one of his reclusive traits. Any one of a number of phobias that instantly came to mind often caused those who could afford the luxury to go into seclusion.

  While he assessed her proffered gesture, she assessed him. Tall, six-three or -four. Broad-shouldered, but not overly large, more lean and muscled versus bulky. His dark hair was long, fell around his shoulders. He wore a white shirt, plain but expensive. Black trousers, but clearly not the kind one would find on the rack. Black leather boots.

  His hand abruptly closed around hers and all thought fled her consciousness.

  “I am Viktor Azariel.”

  His eyes, black as soot, drew he
r in, hypnotized her.

  Rowen blinked, tried to regain her bearings, but there was something about his eyes, combined with his touch, that rattled her.

  One swift downward sweep of his dark lashes and the spell was broken. He drew back his hand and the moment dissolved like so much smoke in a sudden gale. Rowen’s hand dropped to her side.

  Okay, this was not a normal response for her. She struggled to catch the breath that had somehow escaped her without her realizing it. Not enough sleep, she reasoned for the dozenth time. Hunter’s unexpected arrival had likely left her off her game.

  “You wanted to talk?” The words lacked the strength and conviction she usually conveyed, but she’d gotten the question out and, for now, that was all that mattered.

  “Please.” He indicated the sofas near the fireplace. “Sit down, won’t you?”

  Rowen decided that sitting might be a good thing considering how weak her knees felt at the moment. She turned away from the man and walked over to take a seat. The idea that he followed, probably measuring her from a whole other perspective, only made bad matters worse.

  She sat down on the luxuriously upholstered sofa and waited for her host to do the same. Thankfully, he chose to sit opposite her. And in spite of the fact that a polished wood table spanned the distance between them and they were on equal footing, so to speak, since he no longer towered over her, his presence still intimidated Rowen on a level she couldn’t quite rationalize. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so dominated by anyone.

  “Carlotta Simpson was one of my donors,” he said, drawing her attention back to the matter at hand. “I wanted to make myself available to you in the event I could help in some way to bring her murderer to justice.”

  As she made the trip from Boston proper to the countryside, Rowen had considered what Mr. Azariel hoped to offer to her investigation. She’d mulled over the possibilities of what sort of relationship he and the deceased had maintained and came up with a couple of possibilities. Perhaps Miss Simpson had served as a paid participant in drug tests, the kind where some people actually received a drug and others a placebo. She might have donated, so to speak, blood, eggs, who knew? But that was the route Rowen’s thoughts on the matter had taken.

  “You obviously feel you have something to contribute to the investigation,” she prompted, trying to maintain her boundaries.

  If she got even a fleeting glimmer that he intended to drag this meeting into that dark theory the Reporter had thrown out to the masses, he could forget it. She had her orders, straight from the chief.

  “As I told you on the telephone,” he began, in that accent she couldn’t quite pinpoint, a mixture of British formality and French irreverence, “Miss Simpson is—was—one of my donors.”

  Okay, there was that word. Rowen restrained the urge to shift with her mounting uneasiness.

  “Again, Mr. Azariel, I need you to be more specific. What sort of donor was Miss Simpson?”

  He inclined his head, that dark hair falling to one side, revealing the sharp angles of his face and making her gut clench unreasonably.

  “You saw the mark, no?”

  She tensed. The idea that this could be a trick to get her to spill details that had not been released to the press had already crossed her mind. Those same warning bells were clanging big-time right now.

  “What mark do you mean?” Rowen worked hard to keep her face devoid of emotion, her eyes clear of her thoughts.

  “Let’s not waste time, Detective,” he said bluntly, those unfathomably dark eyes boring into hers, “the flower on her right hip. A dogwood blossom with her designation embedded within the design.”

  Rowen swallowed, resisted the urge to rush forward with the questions crowding into her brain. She had to tread carefully here, couldn’t allow him to see that he’d nailed her one lead. “Are you certain we’re talking about the same woman? Simpson is not exactly an uncommon name. Your donor may—”

  Viktor Azariel ticked off every single detail Rowen knew about Carlotta Simpson. Including some she didn’t, such as the fact that she had no siblings, her parents were both deceased and that she had an appointment with a talent agent in New York the next week. One she obviously wouldn’t be keeping.

  At that precise moment, her cell phone rang. Rowen took a breath to fill her empty lungs. “Excuse me.”

  Needing distance, she stood and moved to the far side of the room. As she dug the cell phone from her jacket pocket, she resisted the urge to draw open the drapes to allow some sunlight to fill the dimly lit room.

  “O’Connor.”

  “Ro, I got some info on the Simpson family.”

  It was Merv, her partner. “Great. Let’s have it.” She told herself that his call was coincidence. Even considered that perhaps the distraction could be helpful to her at the moment.

  “Her parents died in a fire in their Galveston apartment seven years ago. Carlotta was spending the night with a friend. No siblings. She came to Boston for college two years ago. I’m still working on a list of friends from school. Her boss said she was pretty much a loner at work.”

  “Thanks, Merv. I’ll touch base with you later.”

  Rowen closed her phone and stashed it back in her pocket. She blanked her face and shored up her defenses before turning back to her host.

  “Sorry for the interruption,” she said as she joined him once more.

  Those dark eyes settled on hers, but he said nothing. There was the slightest hint of smugness in his expression, as if he knew what her partner had called about. Not possible.

  “Let’s cut to the chase, Mr. Azariel.” Beating around the bush had never been her style—unless, of course, it served her needs. “What sort of donor was Miss Simpson? She worked for your corporation in some capacity?”

  For several seconds, Rowen was certain he didn’t intend to answer, but then he surprised her and gave her more than she’d asked for.

  “You don’t want to know the truth, Detective, but I’m going to give it to you for my own reasons.”

  He had to be guessing, putting together the recent headlines and her uneasiness. No good cop ever wanted to deal with crap like vampires in the mist. And that’s what he had to be hinting at. She shuddered inwardly as she considered her current surroundings. Oddly, the man, the place, it all fit too damned well.

  “Miss Simpson donated to my thirst. Without such generous souls, my life would not be tolerable.”

  They’d just crossed that boundary she’d wanted to avoid.

  And now there was no going back.

  Chapter Four

  The night teemed with activity, but it was far from the crowded rush, the blare of horns and scream of a thousand voices filling the daylight hours.

  It had been three long years since Evan had allowed himself to walk the streets of any city.

  But tonight he had no choice but to take the risk.

  After hours of isolation and a second round of medication, he felt braced for the onslaught. He wore his darkest shades. Shielded himself with dark clothing that concealed most of his body.

  He would have to work quickly. Long-term use of the drug was detrimental, if not outright dangerous, considering the side effects, not the least of which was its extreme addictive quality. Despite the inherent hazards, the numbing effects only postponed the agony. But his options were sorely limited.

  Three years ago, his team had come to Boston to investigate reports of increased cult activity involving vampirism. Their investigation had revealed nothing but the usual pop culture fanatics.

  With the exception of one group.

  Evan stood in the shadows at the mouth of the alley where Carlotta Simpson had died. Strips of crime scene tape hung across the opening but he ignored it, stepped cautiously over the sagging barrier and disappeared into the darkness.

  He sniffed the air, smelled the essence of death that still lingered there. The medication had little effect on his sense of smell. If anything, with his other senses
dulled, that one became even keener.

  He leaned against the cooling brick and closed his eyes, allowed the sensations to wash over him. A tremor of fear went through him, making his lungs expel the breath he’d just taken. Carlotta Simpson had known she was being followed. Her fear still echoed in the air like the wail of a distant foghorn. She’d hurried through the darkness as black fingers of horror clawed through the mist that rolled in to fill the vacant path she’d left behind.

  Evan opened his eyes and surveyed the alley on either side of him. Nothing moved. No sound. No presence other than his own. Yet someone was aware.

  He knew Evan was here, in Boston.

  And he’d already taken steps to gain himself some negotiable leverage.

  Evan had hoped to intervene quickly enough to prevent Rowen’s involvement with the evil bastard, but it was too late now.

  That overwhelming sense of doom he’d felt for weeks attempted to cloud his focus. He pushed it aside. It was true he had been out of the field for three years, but he had not forgotten his training, the decade of experience. He was not the one who should be afraid this night.

  The air grew thicker, colder, or perhaps it was Evan’s most deeply entrenched instincts warning him that company was close at hand. A drizzling rain started to fall like tears for the murdered woman whose essence still lingered here in this dark, lonely place.

  A ripple in the fabric of the night announced the coming of the one Evan had known would appear sooner or later.

  Viktor Azariel materialized from the shadows a few yards away, his silk cape wafting behind him as he strode toward the spot where Carlotta Simpson’s body had been found. His intense focus on his goal left him blind to Evan’s presence.

  As Evan watched, Viktor knelt and touched the tainted ground where the woman had fallen. He hovered there for many minutes as rage mounted inside him.

  Well, that answered one of Evan’s questions.