Silver Dagger

by T. L. Sinclare

  SILVER DAGGER

  By

  T. L. Sinclare

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  The world was going crazy, and it was taking her along for the ride …

  Sounds of imagined footsteps followed her down the hall. Her hands shook slightly as she inserted the key in the lock. Panic welled up in her throat. She looked left, then right. She was alone. She jiggled the key, willing the door to open.

  Finally, the lock gave. With a sob, Madeleine slipped inside.

  She slammed the door behind her, leaned against it and stared into the dark apartment. Each labored breath calmed her pounding heart. The realization that she was home safe settled into her body and her mind, allowing her muscles to relax. She shook her head and smiled at her vivid imagination. Pushing away from the door, she stepped toward the kitchen.

  Something stopped her. Like a wall of black air, surrounding her.

  She couldn't see it, but she could feel it. She stepped back. It was behind her. Around her. Frozen, unable to move, barely able to breathe, she opened her mouth.

  A hand reached out from the dark and grabbed her throat, cutting off her scream.

  "Maddie, you've been telling secrets."

  This book is dedicated with love to my mother,

  Eunice Green, and in loving memory to my father, John Green.

  You taught me I could do anything and patiently listened while I told my stories.

  You raised a dreamer and now the dream has come true.

  Special thanks to Wendy Douglas, for keeping me on track and always asking "why?";

  to Gayle Heywood, for listening to the beginnings of my stories for years and always wanting to read the end; and Sylvia Biondich, for unwavering support in whatever I do.

  Silver Dagger

  T. L. Sinclare

  SILVER DAGGER

  Published by ImaJinn Books, a division of ImaJinn

  Copyright ©2002 by Tracy Green

  Trade Size Paperback ISBN: 1-893896-86-2

  Adobe PDF Format: No ISBN Assigned

  PUBLISHER'S NOTE:

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Books are available at quantity discounts when used to promote products or services. For information please write to: Marketing Division, ImaJinn Books, P.O. Box 545, Canon City, CO 81215-0545, or call toll free 1-877-625-3592.

  Cover design by Patricia Lazarus

  ImaJinn Books, a division of ImaJinn

  545, Canon City, CO 81215-0545

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  http: //www. imajinnbooks.com

  Prologue

  England. 1785

  The boy clenched the blade in his fingers, then relaxed his grip. He took a short breath, and, in one smooth motion, pitched his arm back and forward again in an overhand throw. The dagger glittered as it spun through the air and landed, point first, in the wood plank propped against the wall.

  "Very nice, lad. You've got the best knife hand I've seen in years."

  The boy glowed under his father's praise.

  "Now, remember, when you're faced with a vampire, always aim for the heart and always use pure silver."

  His father repeated the same lesson each day, but tonight the child had a question.

  "Why silver, Papa?"

  His father held up one finger. "A silver dagger is the only thing that will kill a vampire. Aim for the heart, then leave it there. That's the only way to know they're truly dead."

  The boy picked up the next knife in the box. "Are there a lot of vampires, Papa?"

  "Too many." The man chuckled. "But fewer today than there were last night."

  The child smiled in return. His father was a great vampire hunter, and one day, he'd grow enough to join him on the hunt.

  "Now, remember, always keep your knives with you. Silver is your only protection. Vampires are evil creatures. Don't give them a chance to get close."

  The boy nodded. He flipped the silver dagger over in his hand and flung it at the target. It penetrated the wood plank, an inch away from the first knife.

  "Very good, Stephen. Very good."

  Chapter One

  Present day

  Madeleine Bryant squinted through the rain at the nervous young man blocking the door.

  He looks too young to be an axe-murderer.

  Don't go there, she warned herself. You don't know these people are axe-murderers.

  It had started as a joke. Danielle had been reluctant to introduce her new friends to Madeleine.

  "They're kind of quiet people," she'd said.

  "Are you sure they aren't axe-murderers?" Madeleine had asked.

  "Yes, cousin, I've fallen in with a group of axe-murderers. That's how we entertain ourselves on Friday nights."

  Madeleine had laughed. She wasn't worried. Danielle was a sensible young woman with a good head on her shoulders. She wasn't going to get involved in anything stupid—like drugs, or heavy duty sex, or white slavery rings, or—

  Madeleine gave herself a mental shake and focused on her mission—find Danielle and get the hell home.

  She'd hoped to be home before the storm hit, but she'd missed that by about five minutes. Five minutes of standing in the rain waiting for this young man to open the door.

  "C-can I help you?" he asked. His body was wedged between the door and the frame, killing any hope of seeing inside the house.

  Madeleine brushed the wet hair off her face and tried to look harmless, nonthreatening. She'd given up on looking professional when the clouds opened up. Rain pummeled the ground, exploding on the brick steps and splattering Madeleine's nylon-covered legs.

  "I'm looking for Dylan," she announced with confidence, though she had no idea who Dylan was. He was a name in Danielle's address book. The flurry of red hearts around his name had to mean something. "Is he around?"

  The young man bit the edge of his lip. Worry, panic, maybe fear, flashed at her through his deep brown eyes. He leaned forward, his voice dropping with his height.

  "Are you a friend of Dylan's?"

  Madeleine didn't know what being a "friend" meant, but it might get her inside.

  "Yes," she smiled.

  He didn't seem happy about her answer—more resigned than welcoming—but he stepped back and opened the door. "Come on in. Dylan's out but he'll be back soon."

  Madeleine hesitated, suddenly realizing what she was doing. This is probably a bad idea.

  A stranger's house, a rainy night, and a weird man at the door. All the makings of a bad horror flick.

  She inhaled deeply and tried to laugh at her own thoughts. Unfortunately, in all the horror movies she'd watched as a child, only the scantily clad heroine survived to the end—and she wasn't dressed for the part.

  Water dripped off her hair and fell inside her collar. A shudder ran through her body as a single drop drew a trail down the center of her back. The cool night air plastered the wet material of her silk blouse against her skin.

  Horror flick or not, she was going inside. She offered the young man a tight smile and took the final step into the house.

  The door snapped shut behind her. Madeleine fli
nched, and the tiny hairs along her arms stood straight up. It's the cold, she assured herself, knowing it wasn't.

  It was obviously too much to hope that lights would be blazing and a comforting fire would be roaring in the fireplace to welcome her inside. There was only one way to describe the entryway in which she stood—dark.

  Covered lamps and a few well-placed candle sconces lit the hallway with a pale, weak light. It took a few minutes for her eyes to adjust, but that gave her time to finish dripping on the expensive Persian carpet that covered the floor. She glanced down at the ring of water surrounding her legs, and her shoulders sagged. Great. Lets crown my wholly unproductive day by dripping on a stranger's expensive rug.

  She refused to even look at the state of her shirt. It was the last silk blouse in her closet, and it was probably ruined after five minutes in the rain. Her struggling law practice didn't allow for luxuries. Silk would be replaced by polyester.

  A lock of hair fell against her cheek. Madeleine pushed it away. She'd cut her hair short so that it would be easy to maintain. It also meant her hair would be sticking up in all sorts of interesting shapes as it dried. She brushed aside the worry. She wasn't here to impress these people. She was here to find Danielle.

  "Why don't you come on in?" Madeleine jumped. She'd forgotten the young man was still there. "Dylan just ran out to—" He paused. "You know, get something to eat." It sounded like a code phrase he expected her to understand.

  She didn't, but she nodded anyway. "He should do that."

  The young man's lips curled in a mild disgust. "I guess."

  She followed him down the dark hallway, which opened into a huge living room. A long, curved staircase wound up the back wall. The low lighting continued, though the streetlights shining through the windows added a bit more illumination.

  "Have a seat. He'll be back in a few minutes."

  Madeleine nodded and rubbed her hands together to warm them. Cold and nerves sent tremors over her skin.

  Her blouse and skirt clung to her body, providing that oh-so-pleasant clammy feeling. Home was sounding better and better all the time. The small apartment with paint-peeled walls wasn't much of a home, but it was hers. She'd get home, turn on the lights, and crank up the heat.

  Madeleine strolled across the room under the watchful eye of her escort. None of the elegant brocade furniture filling the room looked sturdy enough to handle a dripping wet polyester skirt. Finally, she rested her hip against the back of a chaise lounge.

  "I'm also looking for Danielle. Is she around?" She asked the question casually, but she watched him closely, looking for any reaction to Danielle's name.

  The young man shoved his hands into his pockets and stared at the carpet. Seconds later he raised his eyes and looked at her. There was no flicker of recognition. "I don't think so. Is she a friend!"

  Madeleine shrugged. "Who can tell these days?"

  Her companion just nodded and went back to staring at the rug. Madeleine relaxed a little as she looked about the room. Bookshelves lined the walls, with volumes stacked every way possible in the available space. She'd always been able to tell a lot from a person's bookshelf. This house boasted of everything from Jane Austen to hardcore science fiction. It was a collection that made her fingers itch.

  A neat stack of magazines sat on the end of the coffee table. Her eyes landed on the top copy—a comic book called Vampire Warrior. Blood dripped from the vampire's fangs as a barely dressed woman reclined in his arms. Matching blood dribbled down her neck. Crimson words slashed across the cover—The Draw of Blood. Has Galor Killed His Only Chance for Redemption?

  She stared at the blood red words and felt her chest tighten. Something about the cover was strange. It looked real. Frighteningly real. The vampire's eyes vibrated on the cover, drawing in unsuspecting victims.

  Movement in the corner of the room pulled Madeleine's attention from the strange book. She turned and looked up. A waiflike woman walked slowly down the stairs, her fingertips resting lightly on the dark wood banister. Dull blond hair hung limp around a face that was dominated by the dark circles under her eyes and the tired set of her mouth. She carried exhaustion like a burden.

  She looks like Danielle. The thought shook Madeleine as she watched the other woman. Danielle had sworn it was lack of sleep causing the pale skin and dark circles. She'd followed that statement with a dreamy smile and a knowing giggle. Madeleine wondered again if it wasn't drugs. She hadn't pressed Danielle for information about this new boyfriend. It hadn't seemed important at the time—young love was always intense.

  Then Danielle hadn't come home. Now, Madeleine wished she'd asked the question.

  She took a deep breath and told herself not to worry. Danielle's a sensible girl. Madeleine stared at the pale woman. A sensible girl with strange friends.

  The woman glanced into the living room. The surprise on her face was clear even through the dim light. She hurried down the steps and rushed to the young man's side.

  "Nick, who is she? What's she doing here?"

  "She's a friend of Dylan's."

  They made no attempt to drop their voices, so Madeleine made no pretense of not listening.

  "Did you invite her in?"

  "Well, sure. I couldn't leave her—"

  Madeleine could see the moment of realization and the spike of fear that followed.

  "Oh my God."

  "He's coming down," the woman warned.

  Tension bounced between the couple. They both straightened where they stood, like students in the principal's office. Madeleine felt the muscles in her own neck tighten in sympathy.

  "Nicholas."

  Madeleine jumped as a deep, masculine voice invaded the room. That one word sent shivers down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold. She looked up. And gasped. A man stood halfway down the staircase.

  She had only a moment to register the fact that she hadn't seen him enter. The thought disappeared seconds after she conceived it, replaced by his image. Dressed completely in black, he filled the room with his presence.

  He was tall, well over six feet, she thought, though it was hard to tell with him standing on the stairs. His black boots probably added an inch to his height. He seemed intent on ignoring her, so she took the opportunity to check him out. She let her gaze wander up his legs, strong powerful thighs wrapped in black denim. The black turtleneck molded to his chest and arms.

  His black hair, brushed off his forehead, framed his strong face. His cheekbones were etched lines creating tempting shadows and hiding secrets. She couldn't see his eyes—he was looking at Nicholas—but even from across the room she felt their strength.

  He was stunning. Handsome, yes, but beyond the mere physical beauty was strength. Power.

  He doesn't look like an axe-murderer, she thought, trying to jar his image loose with a bad joke. It didn't work.

  He didn't look like an axe-murderer—he looked far more dangerous.

  Nicholas raced to the bottom of the stairs.

  "I'm so sorry. I forgot. She said she was a friend of Dylan's and—"

  The newcomer raised his hand. The groveling stopped.

  "It's not an issue."

  Nicholas spun around to look at Madeleine. "You mean she's a—" His shoulders dropped. Panic and guilt crossed his face.

  "Yes, she is." He moved down the stairs and stopped at Nicholas' side. "Thank you for bringing her to me." Madeleine tensed at the quiet threat behind the words.

  He turned and entered the living room. Madeleine swallowed deeply and pressed her shoulders back, quietly preparing for his approach.

  "Cassandra, make our guest some tea." He glanced down at the drips left by Madeleine's drenched skirt. "And perhaps she'd like a towel." He appeared more concerned about the state of his carpet than her comfort, but at this point, she didn't care. "Nicholas, go with Cassandra."

  The young man's eyes screamed volumes at Madeleine as he walked away. But she had no idea what he was trying to say. She watched
him leave, curious about the fear and warning that resonated through his body.

  When she turned back, he was in front of her, staring down at her with glowing blue eyes and cool interest.

  "How can I help you?" The question came out with no emotion, no real curiosity. Madeleine pressed her lips together in a tight smile. She hadn't made it through law school or corporate dinner parties by being intimidated by arrogance.

  "And you are?"

  A flicker of smug amusement lit his face. "I'm Stephen. This is my house."

  "Oh." Great. Offend the owner. Good move. "I'm Madeleine Bryant." She offered him her hand. The move was automatic. Eight years as the perfect corporate wife had trained her for polite situations.

  Stephen stared down at her hand but made no attempt to take it. Madeleine pushed her shoulders back and pressed her arm slightly forward. And dared him with her eyes. After a moment that bordered on rudeness, he reached out and took her hand in his. And she knew she'd made a mistake.

  Heat exploded from the point of contact, spiraling up her arm and through her body. Madeleine stared at their hands, stunned that sparks weren't visible. It wasn't a handshake—it was a caress, subtle and small. Seductive. Her body began to melt.

  She lifted her eyes to his. Triumph stared back at her. She snatched her hand away and pressed it against her stomach.

  An enticing fire flickered in the depths of his eyes, calling to her.

  "Again, Ms. Bryant, how can I help you?"

  "I, uhm, I—" Images of Stephen and a woman rolling around naked on a satin-covered bed sprang into her mind—clear, stark pictures. Heat spread through her body. The woman in the fantasy tilted her head back to accept Stephen's kiss on her throat. Her face glowed with ecstasy. Madeleine gasped. It was her!

  The image faded and she realized she was still staring at him. The right corner of his lip curled up ever so slightly, as if he knew what she'd been thinking. She felt her face flush.