Keeper of the Dawn (The Keepers: L.A.)

by Heather Graham

  “I reported that someone drove you off the road, and that you barely escaped with your life,” Brodie told him. “I bought us the time to do this, but, yeah—the lieutenant is going to want a report.”

  “Paperwork,” Mark groaned.

  “Happens to the best of us,” Brodie said. “Let’s head on out. We didn’t find anyone—but so far no one has found us, either.”

  * * *

  Alessande awoke to the gentle touch of a hand on her shoulder. She expected Sailor or Rhiannon or Barrie. She jerked when she saw the face of an elderly man.

  Merlin!

  “I’m so, so sorry, my dear. I didn’t mean to startle you. You were whimpering in your sleep. I knocked, but you didn’t answer, so... But I didn’t wish to scare you.”

  Merlin was an extremely polite ghost. He’d been a lovely man in life, and he was a lovely man in death.

  Without being an Other, he’d been a spectacular magician.

  “It’s okay, Merlin,” she said quickly. “You just surprised me. I was whimpering? I had no idea. I thought I was out like a light.”

  “The mind is a mysterious machine, my dear,” he said. “May I?” he asked, indicating the chair near the window.

  “Of course.”

  Merlin was a talented ghost. He’d learned to use his ectoplasmic strength to great effect. He drew the chair over to her bedside and sat. “I’ve just heard about the events at the Hildegard tomb.”

  She winced. “Merlin, I’ve listened to a dozen lectures already.”

  “Oh, I’m not here to lecture you, Alessande.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m here to warn you,” he said gravely.

  “About?”

  “Sebastian Hildegard,” he said.

  She frowned at that. “Sebastian Hildegard must be pretty well decayed by now—even if he was embalmed. Dead and buried, as they say. It’s his heirs—or whoever is using his tomb—that we need to fear.”

  Merlin shook his head. She smiled, watching him. He was white-headed and distinguished; he would have made the perfect grandfather.

  “No, you don’t understand. I knew Sebastian Hildegard. He wasn’t just an illusionist and a shapeshifter—he was a man dedicated to achieving immortality.”

  “But he’s dead.”

  He shook his head at her naïveté. “Perhaps he can be resurrected. He certainly thought so.”

  Alessande chose her words carefully. “Merlin, we’re all aware of the different powers we have, but even vampires can die. And shapeshifters don’t have the life span that vampires do. Shapeshifters die.”

  “Sebastian did die,” Merlin said. “Look, I know this is hard to believe, but it’s true. Sebastian was into the occult—he studied ancient texts from dawn to dusk. I believe that part of him is still...is still in the atmosphere. Caught somewhere in time and space. And I believe that this cult intends to use the deaths of more young women to bring him back to life.”

  “Merlin, I just can’t believe that’s possible,” Alessande said.

  “Does it really matter if it’s possible so long as people believe it’s possible?”

  Alessande murmured, “I guess not. So we should start by talking with his heirs, right?”

  Merlin wagged a finger at her. “Not you, my dear. The police. The police need to start with the family.”

  “Merlin...”

  “Alessande, you’ve angered the wrong people. You need to stay safe.”

  “I can’t sit around when a girl is missing.”

  “You feel sorry for her,” Merlin said. “And it makes you feel that you need to get involved. Forgive me—I have been eavesdropping. I know what you did.”

  “I really am capable, Merlin. I just wanted to see who was behind the mask before I acted. If I could have gotten to the truth, I—”

  “What truth, Alessande? You’re dealing with shapeshifters. You could have seen anyone—a young mother. A politician. A—”

  She shook her head. “Under the mask and cowl, the leader was showing his—or her—true face. I’m sure of it.”

  “Maybe. And maybe not. He—or she—got away, right?”

  “So you suggest that I just sit here and do nothing?”

  “Yes.”

  Alessande sat up. “Merlin, I don’t intend to endanger anyone else, but I won’t just sit here. When the Celebrity Virus went around, every single Elven out there was susceptible—and the only way to stop it was to go out and do something. I won’t spend the rest of my life being afraid.”

  She was startled to see that he was leaning away from her in his chair and staring at her strangely.

  “What?” she demanded.

  “You, uh, you’ve changed,” he told her.

  “What are you talking about?” she asked sharply.

  He indicated the mirror. She hopped from the bed and walked over to the guest room’s full-length swivel mirror...

  ...where she stared at her own reflection and gasped softly.

  Chapter 3

  Mark Valiente figured they were incredibly lucky that Bryce Edwards, a very, very old werewolf, had been transferred over to become their lieutenant in the robbery homicide division. He’d been in Vice for many years, but after some of the recent disturbances in the Otherworld, he’d finessed a transfer.

  They didn’t take long at the station. They explained what had happened, and Bryce put in a requisition for Mark to get another car.

  “I’d been expecting you earlier,” Lieutenant Edwards told them. The werewolf looked like someone’s grandfather or a lean, beardless version of Santa Claus. But he was sharp, and he was in the right position, because he knew the law, people—and Others—through and through. “But now I see what caused the delay.” He studied Mark. “Pretty lucky you were able to fight him off. Were you seen?”

  “The good thing is, if we were and someone called it in, 911 would just chalk it up to a movie being filmed or an overdose of something at a Hollywood party,” Mark told him. “Why? Any wacky calls to the station?”

  “No, except for the one I’m about to get to—which wasn’t wacky, just preemptive,” Edwards said. He slid over a piece of paper. “Alan Hildegard called—he’s representing his kin. Naturally he was extremely disturbed to hear that his family’s vault was used by ‘such maniacs’ for their evil purposes. He wants to cooperate with the police in any and every way possible in regard to shutting down this occult group dedicated to raising his great-grandfather from the grave.”

  “Alan Hildegard,” Mark mused. “He’s running the family interests now? Aren’t there several brothers, sisters and cousins?”

  Edwards shrugged. “Alan is the self-professed head of the family. The oldest son of the oldest son or whatever. He owns the estate. I think one of the sisters lives there, too, and maybe their cousin. I thanked him for his cooperation and told him you were on your way or would be soon. He’s expecting you.”

  “Lieutenant,” Mark said, “we found a screenplay on one of the old soundstages—a new screenplay. We’re going to go and see the author, Greg Swayze—because who knows what it was doing there. He could be involved. At the very least, maybe he has some insight. Additionally, now that it’s been confirmed that Others are involved, we’d like to take over as lead detectives on the murders of Leesa Adair and Judith Belgrave.” He leaned forward. “The media has speculated about a serial killer, of course, but we—the police—haven’t made an official statement. However, with what we know now...it seems that these deaths were at the hand of the same killer or killers. There’s a young Elven woman missing still, and we’re racing against time, hoping to find her before it’s too late. Were Adair and Belgrave here for the Hollywood dream? Would they have been actively auditioning? We need to know this stuff, and it will be a lot easier if they’re our cases.”

  “Way ahead of you.” Edwards picked up two files from his desk and opened one. “Leesa Adair, twenty-nine, graduate of Carnegie Mellon’s theater school.” He flipped open the other f
older. “Judith Belgrave was a waitress in Ramsay, New Jersey, before picking up and heading out here. Hang on, let me check the family interviews....” He skimmed through the file and then looked up at them. “She told her sister she planned on being discovered. Said that in acting, a degree was a bunch of bull—you could act or not, and if you got the break, you could learn while doing. The camera would like you or it wouldn’t. So, yes, it seems that both girls were here following the age-old Hollywood dream.”

  “And,” Brodie said, “Regina and Alessande met on a film set, so—”

  “So someone seems to be targeting actresses,” Edwards said. “But things aren’t always what they seem,” he warned them. “The percentages of actresses out here is sky-high. Every waitress you meet is an actress—along with every female bartender and half the hotel clerks.”

  “Yes, but the women’s descriptions...” Mark said, remembering the briefing they’d all received on the cases. “Tall, blonde and blue- or green-eyed.”

  Elven or Elven-looking actresses.

  “All right, well...I’ll speak with Harvey Olstein and Myra McQueen, and get both cases transferred over to you. I don’t think they’ll mind. They’ve got plenty of other cases on their plates. Then I’ll call over to Missing Persons and tell them you’re pretty sure that the murders and the disappearance need to be seen as a serial event. Homicide feels they’re at a dead end as far as clues go, and Missing Persons has followed every lead, as well. No one knew about the old Hildegard Studio until you two walked in.”

  “We didn’t know about it until we took Alessande to the House of the Rising Sun and got to talking,” Brodie explained.

  Edwards shook his head. “And that girl was in here—being interviewed—half the night and morning!”

  “In her defense, Lieutenant, I don’t think she knew the head of Robbery Homicide is an old werewolf,” Brodie said. “She wouldn’t have known to ask to speak with you.”

  “Old werewolf?” Edwards demanded.

  “Experienced werewolf,” Mark said quickly.

  “Humph,” Edwards said. “Get going, then. Oh, and, Mark, you can pick up another car tomorrow. I’ve asked the auction guys to scrounge around for something you’ll like—can’t guarantee another vintage Mustang, though.”

  Mark nodded. “Yeah, well...hey. It’s just a car, right?” He knew that Brodie was laughing at him. Too bad. He really did like vintage Mustangs.

  “We’ll go to the Hildegard estate,” Brodie said.

  “You’d better get this one solved quickly,” Edwards told them. He shook his head. “I hate it when Others cause trouble. So messy. Damn.” He pointed a finger at them. “Move it!”

  * * *

  By the time the Gryffald cousins, accompanied by Declan Wainwright and Mick Townsend, made it up to the guest room in response to Alessande’s summons, the “change” that had taken place had already diminished.

  “I’m completely confused,” Barrie said. “You changed? Into what?”

  “A giant! An angry giant!” Merlin exclaimed.

  “Elven don’t shift,” Sailor said flatly.

  “You are Elven, right?” Rhiannon demanded.

  “You know I’m Elven!” Alessande said. “And I didn’t change into an angry giant.”

  “Okay, so—” Barrie continued.

  “Angry giant,” Merlin insisted.

  “All right, I’m worried—obviously, or I wouldn’t have called you up here. I...got bigger,” Alessande admitted.

  “Fat?” Sailor asked.

  “No—all of me. I was about seven feet tall...and I did look a little peeved,” Alessande said.

  Declan spoke softly. “Baby shapeshifters and occasionally even shapeshifter Keepers do it sometimes,” he said softly. “When they’re hungry, scared...they suddenly appear bigger. Not giant, but...bigger,” he repeated. “As infants, they can’t control their shifting.”

  They were all staring at her. “I’m not a shifter! I remember my mother, and she was Elven.”

  “But your father died when you were very young,” Barrie said. “Are you just as sure about him?”

  “Stop staring at me, all of you. I feel like a sideshow at the circus,” Alessande said.

  “If we have children,” Sailor said, looking at Declan, “they’ll be...mixed.”

  “Mixed Keeper—fairly common,” Declan said.

  “Who was your father?” Rhiannon asked speculatively. “If he were a shifter Keeper, that might explain why you never showed the ability until now. Think about it. Every living creature—human, Other, animal—gets a quarter of his or her DNA from each grandparent. Sometimes a brown-eyed parent and a blue-eyed parent have a blue-eyed baby, and sometimes they have a brown-eyed one. And sometimes our Otherworldly powers come out later in life,” Rhiannon said.

  “She can’t be half Keeper,” Barrie said. “She’s Elven—we all know Elven when we see one. Besides, if she’d been born to be a Keeper, she’d have the birthmark,” Barrie said. “We’re all born with the mark of the race we’ll grow up to manage and whose talents we’ll share.”

  “There! I have no birthmark!” Alessande said. “And I’m not stripping to prove it.”

  Declan laughed. Mick, a shapeshifter himself, studied Alessande. “Half-breed,” he told her. “You must have the mark somewhere. Somewhere you don’t see.”

  They all stared at her as she insisted, “Hey, I meant it. No pat downs, no body inspections.”

  “Where do people never see themselves?” Rhiannon asked, looking at Barrie.

  “Um, the butt?” Barrie suggested.

  “Stop!” Alessande protested.

  Rhiannon laughed. “I wasn’t thinking of anything quite so—well, quite so whatever. I was thinking the bottoms of the feet.”

  “It wouldn’t be too intimate or personal a question if we were to ask to see the bottoms of your feet, would it?” Declan teased.

  “Knock yourselves out,” Alessande said, sitting at the foot of the bed and lifting her legs.

  They all stared.

  And then they looked into her eyes.

  “What?” Alessande cried.

  “Shapeshifter,” Barrie said softly. “You may be Elven, but you were also born to be a Keeper for the shapeshifter community.”

  “She’s right. It’s faint, but the mark is there,” Declan said.

  They all backed away, still staring at her. “Your mother never told you that your father was a shapeshifter Keeper?” Sailor asked her.

  “No! I thought it wasn’t even acceptable for Others to...well, you know, have relationships with different races of Others until just recently,” Alessande said.

  “Acceptable or not, I’m sure it’s happened throughout time,” Rhiannon told them. “People have always intermingled—whether it was socially acceptable or not.”

  “And,” Sailor added thoughtfully, “while we may all want to believe we’ve magically become open-minded, the play Avenue Q has it right. Everyone is a little bit racist.”

  Alessande winced, her lashes veiling her eyes. Yes, she admitted to herself, it was true. She herself had been down on Mark Valiente for being a vampire.

  “Do you think they hid their relationship, afraid of what other...Others might think?” Barrie asked.

  “My mother died when I was seven. Maybe she meant to tell me when I was older,” Alessande said. “Maybe she didn’t want me knowing—afraid of how I’d be accepted in the Elven world if I let it slip.”

  “If you think about it, this is really a great thing,” Barrie said. “You have the power of the Elven and the power of shifting, too.”

  “I can’t shape-shift. Whatever happened was a total accident. And that’s bad—really bad,” Alessande said.

  “No, we’ll work on it. You need to practice, learn to concentrate,” Mick told her.

  “You have Mick, Declan and me. We’ll help you,” Barrie assured her.

  Alessande looked at them. And then the magnitude of what was happening slowly swe
pt over her. She hadn’t known how to mind read or teleport as a small child; she’d learned from her mother and then from her stepparents. It was like learning to walk, to talk....

  “You won’t be a shapeshifter,” Mick said.

  “You’ll still be Elven,” Sailor assured her.

  “You’re just destined to be a Keeper, as well,” Rhiannon said.

  “Which means that you can master the ability to shift,” Barrie assured her.

  And if she could do that, Alessande thought, how much more effective would she be to enter the world of illusionists—and the bizarre cult that had grown up around Sebastian Hildegard?

  * * *

  The Hildegard estate was a relic of old Hollywood, set on a hill and guarded by heavy iron gates—much like the House of the Rising Sun.

  Sebastian Hildegard had built the place with materials brought over from the Bavarian section of Germany and had filled it with antiques from the same region. It looked like a truly Gothic version of one of Mad King Ludwig’s fairy-tale castles.

  As Brodie maneuvered the car toward the drive, his phone rang. “Rhiannon,” he told Mark briefly, pulling over to take the call. He frowned as he listened, occasionally asking cryptic questions. “Really?...Is that possible?...What does it mean?”

  When he hung up, he was silent.

  “Well?” Mark demanded.

  “It’s Alessande.”

  “Is she all right?” Mark asked, wondering why his heart had started pounding so suddenly when he found her to be such a nuisance.

  “She’s fine. She—she changed.”

  “Changed clothes? Changed religions? Political parties? What do you mean, she changed?”

  Brodie turned to stare at him. “Apparently she was talking to Merlin and became very upset. When she did, she suddenly grew a foot taller and looked like an angry giant—Merlin’s words, according to Rhiannon. Anyway, they discovered a birthmark on her foot.”

  “What?” Mark demanded. Keepers were born with birthmarks. “The woman is Elven. I’ve never seen anyone who looks so Elven in my whole life.”