Keeper of the Dawn tkl-4

by Heather Graham

  “I want to go see Antony Brandt—the medical examiner—too,” Brodie told them. “Luckily he was the M.E. on both cases.”

  “And he’s a werewolf,” Barrie said. “Thank God for small favors.”

  “For now, we should all get some sleep,” Rhiannon said firmly.

  “But she’s out there—Regina is out there, somewhere,” Alessande said. “We don’t have much time left if we want to find her alive.”

  Sailor set a hand on Alessande’s. “I know, but we can’t go door to door looking for her. And everyone here is exhausted.”

  “But—”

  “I think she’s safe right now,” Mark said. “Two nights ago in the cemetery...well, it was a fiasco, basically. It will take them several days to pull themselves back together. And we’ll all be better with rest. Especially you, Alessande. You’ve just discovered your mixed heritage, and you’ve been playing with your newfound talents. If we get ourselves killed, we’ll be of no use to Regina, so we’ve really got to get some sleep.”

  Alessande nodded, accepting their wisdom. “All right.”

  “Tomorrow I’ll take you to your house to get some of your own things,” Mark told her. “But until we get to the bottom of this, you’ll be safer here. We all need to stick together.”

  Mick grinned. “Well, Declan, Brodie and I have already been living on the grounds—and I don’t think any of us plan on changing that.”

  “Nope, not me,” Brodie said. “And like I told you, Mark, Rhiannon and I have a room for you.”

  “So, it’s settled—let’s sleep,” Sailor said.

  They all rose. “Hey,” Brodie said. “Everyone remember to plug in your cell phones tonight. A dead battery will not be an acceptable excuse for falling out of contact.”

  Alessande spoke up. “Before we split up... Merlin and I had a conversation today. He thinks that maybe the someone who believes that Sebastian can come back to life is...Sebastian.”

  “Sebastian has been buried for years,” Mark said.

  “Yes,” Alessande agreed. “But Merlin thinks he’s hung around. And after all, if Merlin can stay here as a ghost, Sebastian’s...essence could still exist, too, just waiting to be resurrected.”

  “There’s a difference,” Mark said a little harshly. “Merlin is a ghost. He doesn’t have a solid form. Not everyone can see him. He doesn’t exist in the flesh. Sebastian’s essence may be out there somewhere, but that doesn’t mean he can literally come back to life.”

  “He was an illusionist, and a shapeshifter, and he studied the occult,” Alessande said. “We don’t know what he might be capable of.” She stared at them each in turn, hoping that at least one of them would acknowledge the validity of her words. When no one did, she quickly turned and left, heading back upstairs to her room.

  * * *

  Dr. Antony Brandt was a werewolf. He was also an excellent medical examiner, and the L.A. Other community was lucky to have him.

  He was a senior M.E. and knew how to arrange things to get the cases he wanted to handle. He left the gang shootings and overdoses to his human coworkers and made sure to take care of any Others who came through the morgue.

  He greeted Mark and Brodie in his office.

  “Thank God your boss, that furry old coot of a friend of mine, put you two on this case. I’d given him a call, but it took that mess out at the Starry Night Cemetery to make him realize this had to be Other-related,” Tony told them. “So far,” he continued, “the victims have been human, but I understand that you suspect that the murderer—or murderers—has now kidnapped a young Elven woman.”

  “We’re trying to find her before you’re required to perform her autopsy,” Mark said.

  “Of course,” Brandt said solemnly. “So, before we go in and I show you the bodies, let me tell you what I’ve learned. Both women were young and in perfect health. They kept themselves toned—ready for whatever a role demanded. It’s a shame—a damned shame.”

  “Both were blonde and blue-eyed, yes?” Mark asked.

  “Like Elven women?” Brandt asked shrewdly.

  Mark and Brodie both nodded.

  “Yes,” Brandt said.

  Mark leaned forward. “Were they starved? Did it appear that they were abused in any way? They both disappeared weeks before they turned up dead, and they had only died a short time before their bodies were discovered.”

  “No, as I said, they were both in excellent shape. They were not starved, they were not bruised. They showed no signs of being tortured before they were killed by a sharp, sure slice across the neck. They exsanguinated quickly, with loss of blood being the official cause of death.”

  “But there was no sign of any vampire attack?” Mark asked.

  Brandt studied him. “If they were killed by a vampire or vampires, they were not killed for their blood. No one so much as sipped from them. I know how to find the marks, and neither woman had them.” He sighed. “Though I’m always worried about vampire involvement when exsanguination is the presumed cause of death, and that’s why I insisted on taking both cases.”

  “Any signs that either woman fought back?” Brodie asked.

  Brandt shook his head. “No sign of defensive wounds whatsoever. But—and this is very important—they both had Transymil in their blood. Of course, the lab doesn’t really know what they found. They believe the women were given something opium-based.”

  Mark and Brodie looked at one another. Transymil was a potion familiar to many in the Other community, but its use wasn’t sanctioned. It was a sedative and hallucinogenic that had originated in the Transylvania region of Romania, and the plant that formed its base was difficult to grow in the United States. Conditions had to be perfect for it to survive, and even then, the drug was made from the flower, and the plant only flowered for a single week in the spring. Not that timing meant that much; once the drug was transformed into a liquid, it could retain its potency for years. Older Others frowned on its use and fretted over the younger generation using it much as human parents worried about their children becoming hooked on heroin.

  “The lab technicians are reporting they don’t know what they found?” Mark asked.

  “I told you—they believe it to be opium-based,” Brandt said. “And, really, does it make much difference? They think it’s been chemically altered—just as half the drugs on the street are chemically altered. God only knows what street drugs contain these days.”

  True and, sadly, good for the Other community. Transymil’s existence would not be discovered.

  And bad. Very bad. Because Others with a mind to perpetrate evil could carry it off more easily than humans—especially when humans couldn’t even pinpoint the cause.

  “Alessande was drugged when we found her,” Brodie said. “She said that she inhaled it, that it was in or on the bag that was thrown over her head.”

  “I’m guessing that’s how the killer keeps his victims under control until he’s ready to kill them,” Mark said.

  Brandt stood. “Enough talking. Let’s do this.”

  The morgue was huge, which made sense given the population of L.A. alone dictated that it be so.

  They went into a room filled with drawers and shelves and gurneys. There was never enough space for the dead. Some came in and were simply shelved, as if they were condiments in a grocery store.

  But Leesa Adair and Judith Belgrave were in the drawers, and Brandt led them first to Leesa’s body. He pulled the lever, opened the door, slid her out, and Mark was immediately filled with pity. There was something heartbreaking about the body minus the soul.

  She had been beautiful as well as young. The world should have been hers to conquer. Even death couldn’t hide the fact that she’d been filled with hope and humor. Something about her face still hinted at a quick and easy smile. The signature Y-shape of an autopsy incision split perfect skin.

  “Lividity is on the back,” Brandt said. “They were both killed lying down, then moved to the dump sites.”

&nbs
p; Next they examined the earthly remains of Judith Belgrave. Like Leesa, she had been tall and blonde and beautiful. Leesa had possessed a fuller face. Judith, even in death, had classic features and gave an impression of elegance, while Leesa could easily have portrayed the girl-next-door in any film.

  Judith was very much like Alessande, Mark noticed with a shiver of unease.

  “Any questions I can answer for you?” Brandt asked them.

  Mark slowly shook his head.

  Alessande was right; they had to find Regina—before Brandt was forced to open a third drawer to show them another victim.

  “If you think of anything else—that drug would have been good to know about—please notify us immediately,” Brodie said, his tone critical.

  The fact that the victims so closely resembled his own race had to be unnerving for Brodie, Mark realized.

  “And just how was I supposed to put that in the report?” Brandt demanded. “I had a call in to the station, but even then, I have to be careful.”

  “Of course,” Mark said quickly, to smooth the waters.

  “I do my part here, but the Others on the force have to do their parts, too,” Brandt said. “So you’ll inform me if something comes up that I should know?”

  “Of course,” Mark assured him.

  A few minutes later he and Brodie were back out in the California sun. Mark was glad. No matter how well it might be maintained, the morgue always smelled of chemicals on top of death.

  “Transymil,” Brodie said. “That’s not good. Not good at all.”

  “It almost certainly means that someone local is manufacturing it, which is bad enough, but now that our cultists have gotten their hands on it...”

  “You don’t think the members themselves are the ones manufacturing it?”

  Mark thought for a minute. “No, actually, I don’t. I think the head of the cult and his followers are here in L.A. You’ve got to be up in the mountains to cultivate the plant, and you need privacy to transform it into liquid.”

  “True,” Brodie agreed. “So, let’s hit the streets. We’ll find some junkies and see what they know.”

  “I have some friends in Vice—I can give them a call,” Mark suggested.

  * * *

  Alessande walked aimlessly around the eclectic living room of Castle House. She knew that everyone was hovering to see to her safety, and it made her feel restless.

  She paused, looking at Sailor. “I think Regina intended to audition for Death in the Bowery and that she was the one who left the screenplay there—right before she was taken.” She resumed her pacing. “And I think I need to audition for that role.”

  Declan shook his head. “You might be recognized.”

  “Okay, aside from you taking that risk, you think she spent the evening at the House of Illusion, bought gas—and decided to break into the old Hildegard Studio to read a screenplay?” Sailor asked incredulously.

  “No,” Alessande said. “I think she met someone at the House of Illusion—someone who gave her the screenplay and sent her to the Hildegard Studio.”

  “Why send her to an empty studio?” Barrie asked.

  “Maybe they said they’d meet her there. Maybe they suggested that she could practice there in secret.”

  “And maybe,” Rhiannon said, “some other person with nothing to do with any of this left the screenplay there.”

  “Both options seem a little far-fetched to me,” Declan said thoughtfully.

  Rhiannon let out a deep sigh of frustration. “I have to go—I’m playing at the Mystic Café this afternoon.”

  “That’s not a bad thing,” Mick told her, and offered her a smile of encouragement. “The local Others know it’s owned by the Keeper of the canyon werewolves, so a lot of them feel comfortable there.”

  “And, at the moment—given what went on at the Hildegard tomb the other night—we need to look at all the Other races, including werewolves,” Declan pointed out.

  “I’ll keep my eyes open and see what I can discover,” Rhiannon said. She hesitated. “I also got asked to play tonight at the House of Illusion.

  “Jerry feels bad about the killings and their connection to the House of Illusion,” Rhiannon said. “I’m sure we can go to him for help, see if he remembers Regina or the dead women.”

  Alessande knew Jerry Oglethorpe, the owner, and the rest of the L.A. Otherworld were rocked by the recent spate of murders.

  “So that’s where we’ll begin tonight,” Sailor said, looking at Alessande.

  Alessande smiled. “All right. I’ll get online and find out where the auditions will be held.”

  “Well, since I’m really an actress, not a waitress,” Sailor said, catching Declan’s gaze and continuing, “I’ll audition, too.”

  As Rhiannon had told them earlier, the auditions were next week, but every minute that went by, Alessande feared Regina was in greater danger. “I’ll let you know about dates and times,” she said.

  “I doubt if they’re going to hold open auditions for the main roles,” Sailor said. “I have an easier way. I’ll call my agent.”

  * * *

  “On the street, we’ve been calling it XF. It’s one hell of a scary drug and it’s showing up in more and more places,” Janet Scaly, an undercover cop in Vice, told Mark and Brodie as they gathered around her desk in an isolated corner of the precinct. She was a little pixie of a thing—literally. She really was a pixie. Barely five feet, with bright blue eyes and dark hair, she had a gamine’s face, which made her perfect for Vice. Her size was deceptive, and she frequently worked undercover, because she looked like a runaway waif ready to play her guitar for money.

  “Our chemists tell us that it’s from a rare plant that originated in Eastern Europe, and it’s still relatively new here, so a lot of Others don’t know about it yet. Given where it originated, the vampires seem to be the ones growing it.” She looked at Mark apologetically. “No insult intended, it’s just, you know, it is from their part of the world. Anyway, that doesn’t change the fact that we’re trying to find the source and stop it.”

  “How is it being used on the street?” Mark asked.

  “Date rape—it’s the newest date rape drug,” she said. “A few drops in your drink, and you’re rendered anything from unconscious to unable to function, depending on your body weight. Pretty scary stuff—we had one junkie die. I think XF was the major factor, but it was hard to tell, there were so many drugs in her system. Sad. We’re here in the city where dreams come true—but so do nightmares.”

  “Do you know who’s selling the stuff?” Mark asked.

  She gave him a long, dry look. “If I knew, don’t you think they’d be under arrest?” She shrugged. “Hang out around the Hotel Clinton—it’s a pay-by-the-hour. We found the latest dead junkie there in room 333.”

  “Thanks,” Brodie told her. “Sounds like a little surveillance is in order.”

  They left Janet and the station, and headed down to the seedy area that hosted the Hotel Clinton. Brodie flashed his badge at the desk manager, who barely looked up as he nodded.

  Mark sat in a chair and picked up a newspaper, and Brodie headed across to a worn-out sofa that faced an ancient TV.

  They waited, and they watched.

  * * *

  “It’s my understanding that you’ve already done some screen work,” Lisa Morgan, a talent agent at the ITC Group, said to Alessande. “Who represented you?”

  Alessande looked over at Sailor sitting next to her, thankful they could get in the very same day to see Sailor’s agent and mentally crossed her fingers that the woman would take Alessande on. “I’ve only done extra work, actually. But when I heard there was an open call for this film, I had to give it a try,” she told the woman.

  Lisa Morgan was perfect for Hollywood. Her age was impossible to determine, but she had obviously had work done on her face—the telltale stretching was there. But it had been good work, and she cut an impressive figure. She wore a tight-fitting business s
uit, the skirt short but not too short, and four-inch heels, and her expertly dyed hair was swept up in a sleek chignon. Alessande made a point of catching her eyes to read her mind, hoping to learn something useful.

  I’m not at all sure about this... The woman is really tall. And I don’t know... They’re friends, both wanting to read for the same role. Hmm. What the hell...maybe...

  “All right. Let me see what you can do.”

  She reached into a drawer and took out a copy of the screenplay.

  Death in the Bowery.

  “You want me to read right here, right now?” Alessande asked.

  “You want to be an actress, right? You’d better get used to cold readings,” Lisa said flatly. “Let’s go. Sailor, you be the villain—the rich banker, Martin Reilly. Alessande, you take Jane Adams, and then we’ll switch it around. I want you to read from a scene toward the end of the screenplay. Jane is an orphan, poor but respectable, and she knows that Martin is a killer. She’s trying not to let on that she knows, while he seduces her into going with him up to the room in the whorehouse that he owns—the room where he kills. Got it?”

  Alessande nodded, and they began to read. Sailor easily took on the persona of the male villain, and Alessande found it easy to respond to her in character.

  Halfway through the scene, Lisa had them switch parts, and once again Alessande was impressed by Sailor’s talent.

  When they were finished, they looked across the desk at Lisa, who nodded. “All right, I’ll set up the auditions. I’ll text you tomorrow with your times.”

  Alessande grinned as she and Sailor left the office. “I can’t believe we’re both in,” she said.

  Sailor laughed. “Yeah—you, me and a thousand hopefuls from around the world. But at least we’ll get our chance to read.”

  “Will we meet the screenwriter there?”

  “Most of the time, I’d say no. The writer is at the bottom of the totem pole—except that this one is Greg Swayze and he’s the man of the moment. He might be there. But Brodie and Mark are cops. They can get in to see him.”

  “Cops don’t necessarily get people to talk,” Alessande said.