by SK Ryder
No one not born into the Striker family was ever told about the Foundation’s true mission because no one who didn’t receive the rigorous early mental training could hope to withstand a vampire’s compulsion to reveal what they knew. Which didn’t mean it hadn’t happened.
“Do you love this girl?” his uncle challenged. “Don’t.”
“What the hell business is that of yours? I can control my emotions fine when I need to.”
“You stupid little prick. You don’t even see it, do you? Love isn’t an emotion you can reason yourself out of for a while. It makes you vulnerable all the time. A vampire—or its slaves—won’t hesitate to turn the people you love into weapons that will destroy your soul. Love is the one luxury we can’t afford.”
Jackson’s mind reeled, scrabbling, trying not to fall into the quicksand pit opening beneath him. His uncle’s smile was thin and sad as he pushed him in.
“If you care for this girl, Jack, let her go. Let her live.”
Chapter 4
What Needs to be Done
“Well, someone’s in bright and early this morning.”
Cassidy forced a smile at Brandi Johansson, the Gazette’s society page maven. Little of what went on among Orchard Beach’s elite residents escaped her attentions, and Cassidy, as the fiancée of the Striker heir, was a special project conveniently located three cubicles away. Of course she would notice that Cassidy arrived at work ten minutes early on this, her second Monday on the job as the Gazette’s newest rookie reporter-slash-errand-girl.
“Couldn’t sleep,” she said, hurrying past. “Figured I might as well come in.” No point belaboring a cat gone crazy, waking her up at the crack of dawn by crashing through the overheated cottage like an elephant on roller skates. Or for that matter, that she moved out of the Striker mansion in the first place. That, she was sure, had a society headline written all over it.
Cassidy had used the opportunity to take her camera to the beach and watch the sunrise. And get to work early, of course. Now that her bank account balance approached negative territory and rent payments loomed in the future, the paycheck, though meager, was critical. The need for a woman to be able to be self-sufficient was the single most important lesson her mother ever taught her—by tragic example. Scholarships and her father’s guilt had paid for her journalism degree. Now was the time to put it to work. Even if the place was the Orchard Beach Gazette, a sleepy little paper mired in the twentieth century.
She checked the coffeemaker and office voice mails before returning to her desk and perusing the stack of black folders in her inbox. “Why do so many people die around here?”
A disembodied chuckle drifted from the next cubicle. “Because South Florida is where people come to die, kiddo.”
“Thank you for that cheerful insight, Larry. Now I feel like the busiest obit writer in America.”
A gray head with a thick walrus moustache poked around the corner and peered at her through horn-rimmed glasses. “It’s called learning the ropes. We’ve all been there.”
“I know.” She sighed and settled into her chair. “I only wish I could contribute something a bit meatier.”
“You did a write-up on the Valieri case for me Friday. Thank you, by the way. I appreciate you jumping in like that.”
A warm flush of gratitude infused her. Larry Speicher, a laid-back optimist with an eye to retirement and a reputation for disappearing early on Fridays, reminded her of her long-dead grandfather. She had liked him from the first rumbled welcome and solid handshake. “You know the only reason Dave assigned me that was because court reporting—” She glanced around and lowered her voice. “—is beneath . . . some people.”
“So what? You showed that you’re willing to do what needs to be done. Keep that up and you’ll go far.”
‘Some people’ showed up right on time. Jim Lawley looked busy just bustling through the front door. He cut a sharp figure in a tailored shirt and slacks, the consummate professional with people to see and places to go. His phone was a permanent fixture in his hand, and he gestured with it as he barked out his good mornings.
When Jim set a course for her cubicle and the kitchen farther down the hall, Cassidy sucked in her breath and held it, preparing for the migraine-inducing cloud of cologne that wafted around him.
“Good morning, Chandler. How’s the coffee?”
Cassidy stifled a groan and schooled her face into good cheer. He wasn’t referring to the coffee in her cup. “Fresh and extra strong. Just the way you like it.”
“That’s my girl.” He patted the edge of her desk, his wedding ring clanging, and disappeared into the kitchen.
“So not your girl,” she said under her breath and logged into her workstation. The coffee machine was her most sacred responsibility to hear Jim tell it, and one of her duties was to set it up every night for a fresh pot at the push of a button the next morning.
Dave McKinney, her boss and editor-in-chief, only nodded as he passed, carrying his quart-sized Florida Gator’s mug. He looked more preoccupied than usual.
Deciding the dead could wait a few more minutes, Cassidy took the digital SLR camera out of her bag and plugged in the USB cable. The pictures she’d shot this morning appeared on her screen. Most were of a breathtaking ocean sunrise, an explosion of color she couldn’t get enough of. The deep blues and fiery reds blending in the water and sky left her in awe and nudged her grudging respect for Florida up a notch.
“Are you doing something different with your hair, Chandler?” Jim’s voice pulled her from her study of one of the other things she had found on the beach.
“Felt like wearing it down,” she said with a shrug. Wearing it down with a whole lot of makeup on her neck, covering up that awful bruise. Though invisible now, it still ached every time she turned her head.
“Nice look for you. I like it. Very sexy. I hope that Striker kid appreciates you,” he added with a wink and sipped his coffee, which must have been up to his standards.
Cassidy toyed with the impulse to wipe that patronizing leer off his face with the contents of her own cup. Jim was the golden boy, though. Rumor had it that people got fired if Jim didn’t like them. Staying in his good graces, then, was paramount. Not all of what ‘needed to be done’ applied to beating deadlines. Steeling herself, she took a cautious breath of the cologne cloud.
“Maybe you can help me figure something out, Jim, since you’re such a fisherman.” She swiveled her monitor so he could see the image displayed on it.
Jim gave a low whistle. “What a mess. Where was this?”
“On the beach this weekend,” she said even though the backdrop was obvious. Before he could ask for a specific location—her new backyard—she added, “What do you think would cause that?”
Intrigued by the discussion, Larry shuffled around the partition. “A dead shark, kiddo? That’s not news unless it was murdered by a goldfish.”
“Something did kill it all right,” Jim said, leaning closer. Cassidy leaned away as far as she could without looking like she wanted to crawl out of her skin. “Bull shark, I think. Big mother, too. Definitely an apex predator.” He straightened. “In the ocean anyway. That looks like someone caught it and hacked out its throat with a dull knife.”
“Why would someone do that?”
Larry snorted. “Get some of these rich kids with their fancy toys high enough, there’s no telling what sport they’ll invent next.”
“Whoever it was, they better count themselves lucky for not having lost a limb or their lives. Just look at those teeth,” Jim said.
Cassidy did look. “How do you know they didn’t? It’s a big ocean. There could be a story there.”
Larry hid a smile in his coffee.
“Not if we don’t know who’s missing or injured, and there are no reports of either rig
ht now. But . . . there is a report I need to follow up on ASAP.”
“Something gruesome?” Larry prompted. Jim never looked this gleefully grim unless gore was involved.
“Yes. Just got it on the AP.” He waved his phone. “Another body washed up on Marathon this morning. Female, mid-twenties, on vacation in the Keys. Throat cut. Probably raped, same as the other two. Another one is missing, but no body yet.”
Larry scratched his balding head and heaved a disgusted sigh. “Animals.”
Cassidy shivered. This wasn’t the only killing spree in Florida right now. For several months an ‘especially brutal inter-city gang war’ as the police put it, left the headless bodies of dealers and pimps stashed in shipping containers at major ports around the state. As all of them had rap sheets a mile long, those discoveries rated only a mention on page three at this point. But the victims in the Keys, two hundred miles south, were innocents who were killed in the most horrible way Cassidy could imagine.
“Do they have any new leads?”
Jim shook his head. “I’m going to call some contacts down there to see what I can find out.”
“I can call for you,” she offered. In any way she could, she wanted to help get to the bottom of this horror. The fact that sucking up to Jim could help her keep her job was almost an afterthought.
He shook his head. “No, thanks. This is too big for a rookie. Besides, I think you’ve got obits to write.” He indicated the stack of black folders with a nod. “Better get busy, Chandler.”
“Wait.” Cassidy was on her feet before she knew what she was doing. “This is an important story. Two sets of eyes and ears are going to find more than one.”
“I’ve got it covered.”
Do what needs to be done, she thought. “Mr. Lawley, I’d really like the chance to work with you. You know. Learn the ropes.” Behind Jim’s back, Larry gave her a thumbs up next to his cup.
“Really. Well, I’m flattered. But I work alone.”
“I don’t want to share the byline. I want to learn how a real pro works a story like this.”
Now Larry closed his eyes and shook his head a little. Okay. That last line was laying it on a bit thick. Jim seemed to think so, too, judging by the exasperated look he gave her.
“Miss Chandler. You have no experience and zero local knowledge. I don’t have the time to train you.”
“Everybody has to start somewhere. And why am I here if I’m so underqualified?”
“You’re here because your future father-in-law is this paper’s biggest investor. And that, as they say, is that.” He saluted with his mug. “Good coffee, by the way.”
Cassidy watched him go with her mouth hanging open. The implications hit her like bullets. No one here—except maybe Larry—expected her to learn or contribute anything. They tolerated her for as long as they had to. They did what needed to be done to humor Warren Striker. She fell back into her chair.
Larry looked apologetic. “Sorry about that, kiddo. Jim’s an ass. Don’t let him get under your skin.”
But Jim Lawley wasn’t the problem. It was the Striker patriarchs who had just sucker punched the air out of her lungs. She should have seen this coming. There had been no open positions at the Gazette when she applied and the interview had been cursory at best. Yet she received an offer based, she was told, on the strength of her samples. If it was true that she owed this job to her connection with the Strikers instead, her falling out with them could take it away. All it would take was one phone call to Dave McKinney, and she’d be without a paycheck, without a home soon thereafter. Without her independence. How long before that happened? Right after she finished today’s batch of obits maybe? Had Warren already contacted Dave about her? Was that why her boss looked so distracted this morning?
Turning away, she fisted her right hand into her left, feeling the enormous diamond ring she wore only because she didn’t want to risk losing it. Now she realized that she stood to lose more than the ring if she took it off. Coming to a decision on the spot, she moved it back to her left hand. If Jackson insisted she keep it, the clunky thing might as well help her keep this job long enough to establish herself as something more than the biggest investor’s future daughter-in-law.
“You okay?” Larry wondered, his tone gentle.
Cassidy flashed him a half-hearted smile over her shoulder. “Oh, sure. I guess that’s what I get for overdoing the brown-nosing. Like you said. He’s an ass.”
While Larry retreated to his cubicle cave, she sat and continued scrolling through her images. Another subject of her early morning photo safari was a giant sea turtle laying her eggs. Deciding on the best of this group, she dragged them over to the image share folder.
Then she put her camera away, took a fortifying gulp of coffee, and headed for Dave McKinney’s office. To do what needed to be done.
For a long time after waking, Dominic remained motionless, crumpled against the door of his sanctuary, considering the odd mixture of relief and disappointment churning in the pit of his gut. He still existed.
And he was not alone.
The scent of her living presence permeated the musty air. Country music drifted down the hall together with the sounds of kitchen activities. Dishes and cutlery clattered. A lid clanged onto a pot. Outside, waves hissed up on the beach and insect song filled the tropical night. It all felt warm and familiar, like faint echoes of long ago nights in busy kitchens, of pristine beaches, laughter, and wine.
Dominic pushed the memories away. He could ill afford to be distracted now with an unknown quantity preparing—he sniffed and his nose wrinkled in distaste—processed cheese foods in his kitchen. If she was here to annoy him with her atrocious cooking and musical choice, she had succeeded.
The motorcycle leathers creaking around him, he unraveled the cramped position his body had held during the day. He might have overreacted this morning. She was not here to end him. No mortal who knew this place as his lair would have to bother moving in and setting up house to accomplish that. A morning visit to drag his oblivious self into the yard would suffice.
But did she know he was here? Did she know what he was? Where was the blood-drinker who marked her?
“What’s the matter, buddy? You hear something?” Cassidy’s muffled voice sounded as warm as her aroma and as soft as the thump of her heart in his heightened senses. Less enchanting was the sharp hiss of the cat, followed by the animal bolting upstairs.
“Oh, c’mon, Eddie, you big chicken. If there’s another snake in here, at least show me where it is.” Bare feet padded down the hall. Shooing noises echoed from the bathroom beside his room. Drawers opened. Something knocked about. “I know I got them all. And the bugs.”
Dominic listened, hypnotized by the sound of a human voice in his sanctuary.
“God, I hope I got them all.” The laundry closet door opened. Hesitation. A weary sigh. “Fine. Geckos can stay. But you guys have to eat the bugs.” Her warm-blooded scent dissipated as she retreated. A chair scraped across the tiles. Utensils clinked.
He lingered in the darkness. Answers. He needed answers, and the only one who could provide them was Cassidy. Disposing of her then was out of the question. In theory anyway. In reality, the odds were stacked against her. Even well-fed, the beast would not want to pass up such a convenient opportunity. If she knew any kind of fear in his presence, what slim control he maintained would evaporate.
That she would be terrorized by a strange man appearing in her home dressed in leathers and his hair caked with blood was a given.
Chapter 5
The Way of the French
There was a naked man in her house.
Cassidy looked up from her dinner and laptop as he emerged from the locked room at the end of the hall. He stretched at leisure, yawned, and scratched the back of his head. Just whe
n she thought the vision couldn’t get any more bizarre, the naked man smiled.
She stopped breathing.
“Bonsoir, Cassidy,” he said in a velvety French voice. With a little wave, he disappeared into the guest bath. The door clicked shut. The shower came on.
A clump of mac ‘n’ cheese plopped to the table from her halted fork. She sat back and put the fork down, but didn’t clean up. “What. The. Hell.” If not for the water running, she would have doubted her own eyes. “What the hell?”
She shut the laptop, silenced Radio Denver, and marched down the hall. A split second before she knocked on the bathroom door, she thought better of demanding explanations of a strange man in the shower. Instead, she peered into the gloom of the back bedroom. The light filtering down the hall from the kitchen revealed little more than a twin bed. Black leather clothes lay piled on top of unmade cartoon character bedding, and silver-buckled boots accompanied a pair of flip-flops on the floor. Hot, stale air squelched from the interior, heavy with old wood and creeping mildew and something almost out of place. Something . . . cool?
In the bathroom, the shower cut off. Cassidy rushed back to the kitchen on bare toes, unwilling to be caught snooping even if she did feel justified in trying to figure out what was going on under her own roof. Had he been in there all day? Was he there yesterday when she all but turned the place upside down scrubbing it and evicting the wildlife? And the maid service this morning? They’d made enough noise to wake the dead. Answers. She needed them, and he better be able to cough up some in a hurry.
She hovered by the table, food forgotten, wishing she wore something a little less revealing than her running shorts and sports bra. She still felt damp from her run on the beach earlier to burn off the mounting anxieties about her job. Her future hung by a thread—even after her heart-felt discussion with her editor—and now this. A naked man surfacing in her house like a mushroom popping up on a lawn. Was there no end to the wacky twists and turns of this day?
