by Rebecca York
She began to search the grounds around the house, and twenty minutes later she found the car behind a stand of trees.
With a sigh of relief, she climbed in and headed for the city, unsure exactly what she’d do when she got there.
She did know the area of the shoot-out from the broadcast, and she stopped at a gas station to get directions to the general location. When she approached the inner-city neighborhood, she saw that the police had cordoned off the disreputable-looking house and the alley behind it. After finding a parking space nearby, she got out of the car and wormed her way to the front of the crowd of onlookers just as an ambulance was pulling away from the curb.
She turned to an especially eager-looking observer next to her. “I just got here. Who’s in the ambulance?” she asked.
“A guy from the crack house. Got shot by some dude in the backyard.”
“Anyone else hurt?” she tried to ask casually.
The man gave her a speculative look as he brushed his hair back from his forehead. “You a reporter? You want to interview me?”
She forced a laugh. “No. Just nosy.”
“Well, the way I heard it, the dude outside got shot, too. But he got away, and the cops are lookin’ for him.”
“Hmm,” she forced herself to reply indifferently even as her pulse pounded in alarm. Nick was injured and evading the authorities. Maybe that was all in a day’s work for a private investigator, but it was more than her heart could take.
She slipped out of the crowd and headed down the block, then circled around toward the alley. But she could see a police car blocking her way.
Nick could be anywhere, she supposed, but if he’d been shot, she had to assume he couldn’t have gotten very far. She circled the block, looking between row houses and, once she got farther away from the police car, called Nick’s name.
She saw nothing. Heard nothing. And she wondered if she was wasting time here. Maybe Nick had made it back to his car and was on his way to a hospital—or, more likely, home. Maybe the best thing to do was go back to his house and wait for him. But she couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that he needed her. And she had to find him.
She rounded the block again with no success, even peering under the bushes in the tiny front yards in case he had tried to hide in the greenery and was lying there, unconscious.
With a shudder, she drove that image from her mind. Something was drawing her back to that alley behind the crack house Nick had disappeared into. But was there any way she could get in there?
NICK TRIED TO PUSH himself up, but he didn’t have the strength. He was in some dark, damp place. And he couldn’t see very well, which was strange, because his night vision was excellent.
He was waiting for…Jeanette, he remembered. She was so sweet. And so smart, too. She had been educated in a convent, and the nuns had taught her well. But they had also guarded her like the precious jewel she was. In worldly ways she was utterly naive. He had been captivated with her at once.
He’d never been much interested in poetry, but she’d introduced him to the great poets. John Keats, Christopher Marlowe, George Herbert, Alexander Pope.
Shakespeare had become his favorite, and he’d memorized some of his sonnets to recite to her. He knew she’d be so pleased.
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? he’d say.
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
He smiled dreamily, anticipating her pleasure and surprise. He should get up and wash and comb his hair before she arrived. He reached out, felt a wooden panel and tried to push himself up. But the panel caved in.
Bloody hell. He’d broken the damn bed.
Or something.
EMMA APPROACHED the back alley. The cops there were looking the other way, which gave her a chance to peek down it. In the illumination from their headlights, she spotted an object on the ground.
A Stetson. Just like the one Nick had grabbed from the hall rack before going out. He’d still been wearing it when she’d seen the television picture of him fleeing the shooting scene.
She wanted to rush forward, but no way would she get past those cops.
Stumped, she withdrew a bit and sat down on a set of marble front steps. She’d come all this way to help Nick—only to run into a wall.
Frantically, her mind scrambled for a plan. What was she going to do—start knocking on doors and asking if she could go into the backyard and look for a man who’d been shot? Yeah, sure. Then she thought about one of the many cities where she’d lived. Mom had been between marriages, and she’d rented a town house in an older neighborhood. Between their house and the next had been a passageway leading to their backyard. Jumping up, she started down the row of houses again, concentrating on the junctions where each house was connected to the next, looking for something similar.
In the darkness she found one. She wanted to pull out the penlight she carried in her purse, but didn’t want to call attention to herself if anyone was watching. Instead, she stepped into the passage, holding her hands in front of her and walking cautiously toward the patch of gray at the other end.
When she reached it, she heard voices and froze. Someone was in the backyard. The cops?
Then a woman giggled, and a man’s laughter joined in. Apparently she’d been about to interrupt two people relaxing in their backyard.
Silently withdrawing, she headed farther down the block, seeking the next passageway.
HUDDLED IN THE DARKNESS, Nick felt cold seeping into his bones. He didn’t have much time left. He knew he should try to hang on to consciousness, but right now his dreams were better.
Jeanette was with him, smiling at him, raising her lips to his. He bent to kiss her, marveling that she had come back to him after all these years.
“My sweet,” he murmured. “At last.”
A cold chill traveled over his skin as he dimly realized he couldn’t be with Jeanette. She was in heaven. And if he died, he would go straight to the flames of hell, where he belonged.
He licked his dry lips. He had lived for over a hundred and fifty years. He thought of his childhood. Of his tutors. Of riding across the fields on a fast steed. Of sneaking down to the river to swim with his beloved brothers even though their father had expressly forbidden them to risk its dangerous currents.
He remembered a deliciously hot summer in south ern Italy when he’d been sixteen and lost his virginity. He thought about his first hot-air balloon ride. And his first biplane.
He had always craved danger and excitement. And he had already lived more years than any man had a right to claim. But he didn’t want it to end under a stairwell in a dark, dank basement.
MOVING DOWN the row of houses, Emma found another passageway, just as dark and just as forbidding as the first one.
But she plunged in, moving more quickly this time.
When she emerged from the passage, she was standing on a brick patio dotted with lawn furniture and planters. Rose bushes. Columbine. Day lilies. A clematis climbing a pole near the back door of the house.
Fighting the tightness in her chest, she called Nick’s name.
When he didn’t answer, she turned to leave. She’d just stepped back into the little alley when she heard a groan. Nick!
But then she heard voices at the other end of the alleyway. The cops! They were coming closer, apparently checking the backyards.
Oh, Lord, were they about to find Nick’s hiding place? She turned and took a step back toward the house, and she heard his voice drift up to her like a whisper carried on a spring breeze.
“Jeanette!”
Jeanette. The name of his lost love. Was he so badly hurt that he was hallucinating? Where was he?
“Nick!” Desperately, she scanned the area and she spotted a door ajar under the back stairs. It must lead to a basement. She hurried to it.
“Nick, are you down there?” she whispered urgently.
“‘When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes…’” she heard him say so
ftly. He was there!
It took her a moment to recognize he’d recited the first line of a Shakespearean sonnet, one her tenth-grade English teacher had made the class memorize.
“Nick? Answer me,” she called softly into the darkness, trying to make her way down the unlit steps. Behind her she heard the gate at the back of the patio rattle.
Damn! The cops.
Frantically, she turned back to close the warped door behind her and stumbled down the dark stairs, one hand against the wall to guide her.
Chapter Nine
Nick fought to clear the fog from his brain. There was Emma Birmingham, standing at the bottom of the steps.
Emma. Not Jeanette. They weren’t in nineteenth-century France. They were in twenty-first-century Baltimore. In a tight spot.
The cops were after him. And her, too—unless he did something about it.
He tried to sit up, and he heard her gasp.
“Nick? Is that you?” she whispered.
“Yeah. Reach out for me.” She stretched out her arm, and he caught her hand. Then, with what little strength he had left, he pushed at the panel behind him. It wasn’t part of a bed, as he’d thought in his dream. It was some kind of storage compartment. Big enough for two people, he hoped.
“Nick, what are you doing? The cops are coming!” she whispered urgently.
“Get down on your hands and knees. Hurry. Come with me!” he whispered.
Without hesitation, she dropped to all fours and followed him through the darkness into a tightly enclosed space.
As he attempted to slide the wooden panel back into place behind them, he couldn’t hold back a low groan of pain.
“Oh, Nick, is it bad?”
“Hush,” he whispered, “or they’ll find us.”
EMMA ACHED to examine his wound. But she clamped her lips together, obeying his orders.
She remained still in the darkness, hearing heavy footsteps from the patio above them. Beside her, she felt waves of tension radiating from Nick’s body.
Through a narrow gap around the panel behind which they were hiding, she saw the beam of a flashlight knifing into the stairwell and swinging around, inspecting the area. Her breath stilled as she waited for footsteps to come down the steps.
Sure enough, one of the cops came partway down, and the light grew more intense.
She waited for him to come all the way down, pull the barrier aside and expose them to his flashlight beam.
He stayed where he was.
Then he turned and went back up the steps.
“See anything?” his partner asked.
“Nah. Just some tools.”
“Let’s try the next yard.”
The footsteps receded. But Emma didn’t let out the breath she’d been holding until she heard the gate hinges squeak again.
Beside her, Nick slumped against the wall.
Fumbling in the darkness, she found his hand and clutched his fingers. “How bad off are you?” she asked.
“I’m fine.”
“I don’t think so.” With her free hand she fumbled for her penlight and turned it on to inspect him.
He made a groaning sound. “Don’t!”
“Sorry.” She quickly aimed the beam away from him and at the wooden panel they were closeted behind.
“The Compte de St. Germaine is going to be livid,” he said.
“What?”
“You were under his protection.”
“Do you mean that Jeanette was under someone’s protection?” she asked carefully.
“You know your father paid him to find a suitable husband for you.”
His mind was obviously in another time and place. She pressed her fingers to his forehead, expecting to find him burning up. Instead, he was cold as ice.
“I think you’re in shock. How bad is your wound?”
He cleared his throat. “What makes you think I’m wounded?”
“I saw the shoot-out on television. And an onlooker said you’d been hit.”
“Television? Bloody hell!”
She tipped her head to one side. “Where did you get that curse from, anyway?”
He laughed, but the laugh turned into a groan. Still, he managed to say, “I read historical novels. One of my hobbies, you know.”
“Like reading Shakespeare.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you… Do you know who I am?” she asked carefully.
“Of course. You’re Emma. Emma Birmingham.”
“Yes. But a little while ago you thought I was some one else.” She tried to read his expression but in the dim light was unable to. “Let’s take a look at your wound.”
She reached for the front of his jacket, but he caught her wrist before she could make contact with the dark leather. “No!” he barked.
“Nick, you’re hurt. We have to tend to that,” she pointed out.
He raised a hand to stroke her hair. He was trembling, but he leaned forward to nuzzle her neck.
“Nick?”
“I’m sorry,” he said in a gritty voice.
“Sorry about what?” she asked. But then she forgot the question. Her limbs felt oddly heavy, and her mind was suddenly muzzy. Why was it so difficult to manage a coherent thought?
“What’s…happening to me?” she asked, hearing her own voice sound faint and far away.
“You’re still recovering from getting hurt the other day. You’re exhausted. You need to sleep.”
“No. I need to help…you.”
“You will. You’re the only one who can.”
She wanted to ask him what he meant, but the thought simply drifted away, and she leaned forward, her head falling against Nick’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry.”
Hadn’t he said that before? “About what?” she asked blearily.
“Taking advantage of you.”
He skimmed his lips over her cheek, her eyebrow. At the same time, his hand moved downward, stroking her neck, her shoulder, the top of one breast.
She felt peaceful yet aroused. “Are you…going to make love with me?”
He chuckled softly.
Had they done that before? They had done something in his bed. But she couldn’t exactly remember what, not when her mind was full of cotton candy.
He tipped her head back and pressed his lips to her neck again, and she felt a jolt of fear. His teeth… What was he doing with his teeth?
“Nick…don’t.” She tried to struggle, but he held her fast.
“Emma, please…”
“No. Stop.” Her alarm gave way to a deep sense of calm. Then intense pleasure. And then she was simply drifting on a wave of arousal….
AT THE REFUGE, Damien Caldwell switched off the television. It was clear that the reporters were reduced to repeating the same bits of information over and over.
At least he knew the basics. Someone had tried to sneak up on a crack house in Baltimore and whoever it was had gotten into a shoot-out with the people inside.
He was pretty sure who was involved. The basic setup looked like the handiwork of Nicholas Vickers, “private investigator.” The vampire crusader. The guy who thought he was better than Damien Caldwell because he came from a rich and privileged background, while Damien was the son of a camel driver who had sold him into slavery.
He snorted. Two years ago Mr. Vickers had set up shop out in Howard County. Since then the so-called private detective had become a one-man vigilante-justice service.
Damien had been keeping track of him for quite some time. Before the bastard had come to the Baltimore area, he’d been out in San Francisco for a while, until he got into some trouble with the police.
After that he’d changed his name and resurfaced in Maryland. Damien knew it was no coincidence that Vickers was living within seventy-five miles of his own pleasant enclave on the Miles River. Close, but not too close.
Sooner or later, Vickers would come after him. And he wanted to be ready. So he welcomed any chance he got to acquire more info
rmation. The television news report was certainly a piece of luck.
Damien laughed, then leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers together across his middle.
The modern age was beyond anything he could have imagined. He’d wanted to check up on Nicholas Vickers—and there he was on television. Too bad for Vickers that he couldn’t just stay in his carefully secured Victorian home and mind his own business. It appeared he’d been wounded. With any luck the bastard would bleed to death, and leave him alone for good.
WITH NO FINESSE and a feeling that bordered on desperation, Nick sank his fangs into Emma’s neck. He feared he barely had control of her mind. But he had to satisfy his terrible craving for blood—a thirst more horrible than he ever could have imagined. He was so depleted that his veins and arteries were near collapsing, the tissues of his body turning dry as chalk.
But as her blood flowed into his mouth, he felt his sense of control return.
He had been so greedy for sustenance that he barely cared what woman he held in his arms. She could have been Sandy, the blonde from the bar. But as his senses came back, so did his appreciation of Emma Birmingham. Her scent. The feel of her pliant body in his arms. The soft roundness of her breasts as he caressed them. And the sense of connection with her. It had started with the dreams. Then she had come looking for him, asking for his help. But she was in Baltimore tonight because she’d wanted to help him.
He was profoundly grateful for that. No, beyond grateful. He felt so much more—emotions he barely dared to acknowledge.
He ached to give her pleasure, to pay her back for his life with at least that much. But he knew there was no time for that now.
They both had to get out of here before the cops came back. So he took only enough blood to give him the strength to stand and walk and to defend them both if need be.
When he pulled his fangs from her flesh, she made a sound of protest. “Come back to me,” she whispered.
“No. That’s enough.” His tongue stroked over her skin to seal the wounds, then he laid her on her back.
