Keeper of the Dawn tkl-4

by Heather Graham

  She lay there feeling the luxury of the silk. She was tense and aroused by simple anticipation. Because he would be with her any second.

  And a second later...he was.

  He came toward her out of the shadows. In the moonlight that bathed the room in a soft glow, he seemed as sleek and agile as a jungle cat. His chest was muscled steel. He was bronzed and beautiful.

  He moved up on the foot of the bed and over her until the heat of his body blanketed her with vivid and electric force. She was achingly aware of the gold sizzle in his eyes, the contours of his face, the hard and masculine feel of him. Then his lips touched hers....

  And she knew that kiss....

  Except that this time it went deeper, then deeper still. His hands moved along her naked flesh and, wherever he touched her, it felt as if a star exploded. With every brush of his fingers becoming more intimate, she burned and writhed beneath him, and touched him in turn....

  “Alessande?”

  She started and snapped up to a sitting position, completely confused.

  It was morning, she realized quickly, reluctantly letting go of the dream.

  She was at Castle House, with light pouring in through the guest room window, and Sailor had just tapped at the door, poked her head in and called Alessande’s name.

  Alessande found herself praying that her arousal hadn’t been obvious—and that she wasn’t naked, as she’d been in the dream.

  She was breathing heavily, and she felt a sheen of sweat on her body, but, thank God, she was clothed.

  “I’m sorry—we have to be up and out. Auditions today.”

  “Of course,” Alessande said. She made a pretense of yawning, and smiled. “I’ll hop in the shower and be right down.”

  Sailor smiled and left her.

  Alessande got up and headed for the bathroom.

  Her shower was very, very cold.

  * * *

  Chelsea Rose was still in the hospital and quite possibly dying.

  The doctors reported that she had not regained consciousness, and they feared that whatever she’d been given might prove to be fatal.

  Meanwhile, Terry Steiner remained in jail, awaiting arraignment. And Mark and Brodie were sitting in front of Bryce Edwards’s desk and listened while he spoke with the district attorney’s office. They were discussing what charges to file against Steiner. If the girl died, he might find himself facing murder charges, with manslaughter as the minimum.

  Edwards hung up and looked at them. “Where are you two on this?”

  Mark reported the events of the previous night.

  “Why didn’t you go after the source?” Edwards demanded.

  “I needed to get Digger to trust me. Then he can lead me to the core of this thing,” Mark explained.

  “Bring him in—he’ll crack,” Edwards said harshly.

  “On the plus side, I got the pills. The lab has them now. As soon as they come up with an analysis, Alessande can get started on an antidote.”

  “And where were you during all this?” Edwards asked Brodie.

  “In the Snake Pit—chatting with every Other I could find,” Brodie said.

  “Did you discover anything?”

  “I did find out that the Hildegard family comes in several nights a week,” Brodie said.

  “Great. An excuse for you two to spend your nights hanging at the Snake Pit,” Edwards said.

  “Barrie interviewed Katrina Manville,” Brodie said.

  Edwards arched a brow. “The costume designer? Because...?”

  “She’s associated with the screenplay we found at the old Hildegard Studio,” Mark explained. “She’s doing costumes for the show. She said Hildegard wanted to do the movie but passed due to budget concerns.”

  “So Hildegard isn’t making the movie. That doesn’t seem to get us anywhere,” Edwards said.

  “But it does,” Brodie told him. “It means that Hildegard was very aware of the screenplay—he might even have started giving actresses copies of it before he decided to opt out of the bidding.”

  “We’re going back to the Snake Pit tonight,” Mark chimed in. “There’s a connection here that passes right through the community of Others. The dead women followed a path that brought them to the House of Illusion and then right past—maybe into—the Hildegard Studio. The ceremony we broke up took place at the Hildegard tomb—in an old cemetery that was wholly owned by the Hildegard family at one time. Meanwhile, we’ve got an old Other-related drug suddenly being sold on the streets to anyone with the money to buy it,” he went on. “So Brodie and Rhiannon are going over to the old studio again this afternoon to see if there’s anything we’ve missed. Alessande and Sailor are reading for a role in Death in the Bowery right now, and Mick and Barrie are digging into the public records to find out who else is associated with the production.”

  “This could get dangerous,” Edwards said, frowning. “And you’re involving a number of civilians.”

  “Keepers,” Brodie reminded him.

  Edwards was silent for a minute, pursing his lips. Then he looked at them sternly. “Why are you in my office? Get out there and get this stopped!”

  “He’s in a great mood,” Brodie noted as they left.

  “Yeah—it’s probably a good thing neither of us thought to remind him that he’s the one who asked us to sit down and give him a report.”

  “He knows. He’s just stressed,” Brodie said.

  “Yep. First, he’s got a major problem on the streets, because that drug is deadly for humans. And then he’s got two murdered women and knows we’re in a race against time to save a third—and that somehow the Other community is involved.” He paused, then went on. “Here’s the thing. We’ve got a cult that believes they can bring back a dead shapeshifter magician via human sacrifice. And to keep their sacrificial victims silent, they’re drugging them until they’re ready for the kill. And because the dead women both had Transymil in their systems and it started showing up on the street at the same time the cult surfaced, I think there’s got to be a connection. I’m inclined to change my earlier theory and my guess now is the cultists are manufacturing the drug and selling it on the side to make money. The timing is just too perfect for it to be a coincidence.” He paused. “And I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the Hildegards themselves are involved. Maybe we should be checking into the family finances.”

  “Let’s start with the lab, see if they’ve got that analysis so Alessande will have something to work with,” Brodie said. “And then we can stop by Forensic Accounting—see what they can find out without our having to get a warrant.”

  “What did you think of Alan Hildegard?” Mark asked.

  “I think I’d like to know more about him. And his sister. And the cousin we have yet to meet.”

  “Let’s hope they’re at the Snake Pit tonight.”

  “I wonder how those auditions are going,” Brodie said.

  Mark was aching to know, as well. He was more worried than ever about Alessande’s safety.

  They had picked up the lab results and were on their way to Forensic Accounting when Mark’s phone rang.

  To his surprise, it was Alan Hildegard.

  “Detective, my cousin is here. She’s interested in meeting with you and answering whatever questions she’s able to. When can you stop by?”

  He glanced at his watch. Alessande and Sailor wouldn’t be free for another two hours. Of course, in L.A., the drive to pick them up could take two hours.

  He decided to trust in the great overlords of traffic and glanced at Brodie as he spoke into the phone. “Now, if that’s good for you. Say...twenty minutes?”

  “Perfect.”

  As he ended the call, Mark reflected that it sounded as if Hildegard had almost purred the word.

  * * *

  All Alessande had done before, when it came to acting, was arrive on set, where she was handed her costume and sometimes sent to makeup and hair, after which she followed the herd of extras to wherever the
y were told to go, followed by wait, wait and wait some more, punctuated by occasional bouts of doing some specified action, until the scene was shot to the director’s liking. She had never been bitten by the acting bug and was always glad to get back home to the country, where she could take long walks in the woods, listening to the birds and the gurgling stream that crossed her property. Maybe she had been living a little on the antisocial side, but she’d been around a long time, and it was good to find peace at last.

  The movie business, to her, was anything but.

  Today’s routine was at least different, though, because a real role was up for grabs. She waited in an outer office while Sailor went in to read. A few minutes later Sailor came out and gave her a thumbs-up, and Alessande took a deep breath and went in.

  The room held a long table and, on the far side, four chairs, one of which was taken by Greg Swayze. He didn’t speak to her, though he smiled. A man seated near the center of the row stood.

  “Hello, I’m Taylor Haywood. I’m directing the film. This is Milly Caulfield to my right, casting director, and to her right, Tilda Lyons, associate producer. And Miss Gryffald told me you had a chance to meet our screenwriter, Mr. Swayze, last night.” He nodded toward Greg, sitting to his left.

  She smiled and said hello to the tribunal that would decide her fate. The director was young—she was afraid to think about how young—but she had heard his name before, which was a good sign. Milly Caulfield seemed to be old Hollywood; she was skinny as a beanpole, dressed in stereotypical business attire, and her glasses were attached to a delicate chain to keep her from losing them. The associate producer, Tilda Lyons, was no spring chicken, and she’d clearly had work done on her face, but her plastic surgeon had been skillful.

  “Excellent look—just right for the part.” Alessande, grateful for her enhanced hearing, heard Tilda whisper.

  “Yes, but can she act?” Milly whispered back. She was apparently not fond of the beautiful-but-dim bombshell types who so often did so well.

  Alessande didn’t really care about the movie, of course. She only wanted to find out why actresses who had been reading the script had been disappearing. But she couldn’t help it; Milly’s implied insult offended her.

  Then it was time for her to read. Haywood handed her the script, and they went straight to the pages she’d read the day before, only this time he read the villain’s lines.

  When she was done, he thanked her. She was expecting that to be followed by “Don’t call us, we’ll call you.” But she didn’t hear those words. Instead he said, “Miss Salisbrooke, let me ask you, would you be interested in any of the smaller parts in the film? There are a number, most with only a few lines but some with fairly meaty dialogue.”

  “Of course, thank you. I’m interested in working on the film in any capacity. I love the screenplay,” she said, and smiled at Greg Swayze, who smiled back.

  “That’s wonderful. We’ll be in touch. I’m sure you realize we’re seeing many actors before we make our final decisions, so you may be asked for a callback.”

  “That will be fine, thank you.”

  She felt awkward. They weren’t mean; they weren’t cold. Still, she felt as if she were standing before a Roman tribunal or something equally daunting.

  She thanked them again, then turned to the door.

  Sailor was waiting for her in the outer office. “How did it go?” she asked.

  “They asked me if I was interested in other parts,” Alessande said. “Is that good?”

  “Me, too. And it’s certainly better than a flat turndown. Come on. Declan is waiting for us.”

  “I thought Mark and Brodie were going to pick us up?”

  Sailor shook her head. “Mark called and said they were held up, so he wants us to go straight to your place. He said they’ll meet us there. He has the analysis for the pills you two bought last night, and he wants you to start working on an antidote as soon as they get there with the information.”

  “How do they intend to manage this? Assuming I can even create an antidote, how are they going to get it into the hospital and administer it to that girl?”

  As she spoke, Alessande became aware that someone was coming up behind them, and she turned to see that it was Greg Swayze. And he was still smiling.

  “You both read very well. Excellent job.”

  “Thank you,” Sailor said.

  “It was the material,” Alessande said. “It was excellent, too.”

  She turned on the Elven charm, planning to bedazzle, and so did Sailor, to the point that Alessande wasn’t sure which one of them he was talking to when he starting speaking again.

  “I was hoping that maybe I could see you for coffee or a drink,” he said, smiling awkwardly. “Not that I’m the power when it comes to making casting decisions—I wouldn’t want you to think I was holding that over you—but just...because.”

  “I suspect you have more power than you think,” Alessande said. “But I’m saying yes because I think you’re a nice guy, as well as talented.”

  Just then she saw that Declan was coming their way. Swayze noticed him, too.

  “That’s Declan Wainwright, isn’t it? Owner of the Snake Pit? Is he here for one of you?”

  “Declan is an old friend,” Sailor said. “A very old friend.”

  “He’s just picking us up—you know what parking in L.A. is like,” Alessande added.

  Declan offered a hand to Swayze and introduced himself.

  Swayze smiled and reciprocated.

  “Nice to meet you,” Declan said. “Ladies, shall we?”

  “Coffee tomorrow?” Swayze asked, looking at Alessande.

  “How about noon. Do you know the Mystic Café?” she asked him.

  “I do. I’ll see you there.”

  He turned and went back to the audition room.

  “A friend?” Declan asked, looking at Sailor. “A very old friend?”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t tell him how old.”

  “Not the point,” Declan warned.

  Slipping her arm through his and leaning against his shoulder, Sailor giggled. “Don’t be jealous. I won’t be meeting him, Alessande will. I think she’ll be able to figure out what’s going on with our screenwriter—if anything even is. Don’t you?”

  Declan only grunted. Behind them, Alessande felt a twinge of resentment; Declan should know that she was very adept at what she did.

  “And besides,” Sailor said, “I really would like a part in that movie, and I think Alessande can make that happen for me.”

  As they walked out of the building, Alessande had the curious feeling of being watched. She turned around to look, but she didn’t see anyone.

  And yet she was certain that someone was observing them closely.

  Chapter 7

  Brigitte Hildegard was perched in the corner of one of the settees in the elegant room where they’d met before.

  Alan was standing at the doorway, waiting, as the butler led Mark and Brodie in.

  Charlaine Hildegard, who looked to be in her early thirties, was seated across from Brigitte. There was something about the way she sat there—in one of the high wingback chairs—that was distinctly imperial. She might be the cousin of the male heir in residence, but she was every inch the queen of her domain.

  Her hair was darker than Brigitte’s, her eyes a more intense blue. Her facial structure was classic—and her attitude was arrogance personified.

  Neither she nor Brigitte rose as the men came into the room. Mark felt as if they had stepped back in time to Regency England. Charlaine waited regally for them to come and pay homage to her.

  They obliged.

  “Detectives, this is my cousin Charlaine. If you need to know something about the Hildegard family, Charlaine is the one to ask. And she has agreed to speak with you.”

  Mark refrained from clicking his heels, bowing and kissing the hand that was offered to him. He managed to grasp the hand—with its flawless manicure—and shake it. “
Thank you so much for seeing us, and I apologize for the unpleasant nature of the topic we need to discuss with you, but, as I’m sure you’re aware, two women are dead, and we believe that another was meant to be sacrificed upon your great-grandfather’s tomb,” he said.

  Charlaine wrinkled her nose. “This is ever so distasteful,” she said.

  Yes, he thought, trying not to roll his eyes at her choice of words. Murder could be ever so distasteful.

  “I do hope that you’ve found something with which to charge those people,” she added.

  “At the moment, Ms. Hildegard,” Brodie said, “charges are pending.”

  “At least you have the perpetrators locked up,” she said.

  “I’m afraid they’re out on their own recognizance at the moment,” Brodie admitted.

  “Goodness! What use are the police?” she asked.

  “We believe that they don’t really understand what was going on that night,” Mark explained.

  From her perch on the settee, Brigitte let out a soft groan. “Really, Detective, what was done to our family tomb, that is the real crime!”

  Yes, to the Hildegard family, trespassing in their tomb might well appear to be a far greater crime than murder.

  “Ms. Hildegard, according to newspaper articles of the time,” Mark said, “your great-grandfather was a student of the occult, and he himself professed a belief that he could be brought back to life.”

  She smiled. “My great-grandfather was a showman, Detective. He knew how to entertain, his...dabblings in the occult made him very good at entertaining. I assure you, we aren’t hiding any ancient texts that hold the secrets to life and death—or life after death.” She smiled at him. “As a vampire, you should know far more about that than any of us.”

  “I was born a vampire, Ms. Hildegard.”

  “Well, of course you were. But to the best of my knowledge, only vampires can come back from death in any way, and that’s because, whether by bite or birth, their chemical makeup is different, so they’re not really dead until they have their hearts staked or their heads chopped off.” Her smiled deepened, but there was something taunting about it. “So, no, our family does not have any answers, and whatever performances my great-grandfather put on...well, they were just that. Performances. Now, as to the vandalism at my family’s tomb...you will see that something is done, correct?”