Afterimage

by Jaye Roycraft

  “I got it. You want me to be a bloody baby-sitter again.”

  “What I want is your help, monsieur. I don’t ask for that easily.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you do. I’m still in your service, Drago, so just name the place and time, yeah?”

  “Come to Marya’s house right away. By the time you get here I’ll have details.”

  “I’ll be there in an hour.” The call disconnected.

  MARYA SAT AT the dinette table in the breakfast nook, staring at the drawing she had made. It was a gorgeous day outside, warm, clear and bright. She was sitting in her own house with a more cheerful future than she had ever had, and yet, as she studied the drawing, all she felt was dread. The uneasy feeling had crept over her last night at the sight of Philippe and Adelle with Drago, and even now, in the light of day, the anxiety persisted.

  She hadn’t liked Philippe. That was no great surprise. With the exception of Drago and maybe Revelin, she had never held anything but hatred for any vampire. Yet her dislike wasn’t the source of her foreboding. It was something she couldn’t put a cause or definition to. It was just there—slowly destroying all the thoughts of happiness she should be having.

  And no scenario she could picture in her mind could put the dread to rest.

  If Drago prevailed once more—and she was sure he would as he always had—he would be leaving her to return to Paris and his job. The thought of not seeing him again, of imagining him in the arms of other women, tore at her. Even if she could dismiss the selfish feelings of jealousy, there was his pain. She had felt it in his stories, in the images he had transmitted to her mind, and in his eyes. Those blue, blue eyes. A student of color, she knew every association for the color blue. Gloomy and dreary. Strict. Aristocratic and patrician. Risque. Somehow each of them fit Drago. And every one conveyed a pain she knew he’d carry with him the rest of his life. The despair she felt at that thought was as great as her green-eyed thoughts.

  Would it be better, after all, if he lost this final battle? Her father had commented on the existence of the Undead many times in his journal. She knew many of the passages by heart, and one was: The Evil Ones, in creating others of their kind, sow immortality, yet reap nothing but damnation. For surely it must be God’s punishment to damn these creatures to loneliness, shadow, and the endless winter of an existence with no soul to guide it. For all their arrogance and grand trappings, they are but slaves to Mistress Death, and until one such as I can free them, they are forever bound to toil under the whip of destruction.

  Was her father right? Would Drago be better off meeting the True Death? Would he find peace, if not redemption, after hundreds of years of bearing the yoke of his unnatural life?

  A movement at the periphery of her vision startled her, and she raised her head. He was standing in the entranceway to the kitchen, dressed in black jeans and a black-ribbed T-shirt. His hair was combed, but still damp. It might be a selfish thought, but she didn’t want this magnificent creature to die.

  “What? No silk or linen? No power outfit for your meeting with Philippe?”

  He cocked his head. “If I were French, I suppose I would want to go out in style. I’ve no doubt Philippe will be decked out in his finest, but I have no need to try to impress him. Did you think of a place for our meeting?”

  She nodded. “It’s about an hour’s drive from here, but it’s what you wanted—quiet and out of the way. It’s the Grand Gulf Military Park. It’s got hundreds of acres. There’s a museum and some historic buildings, but also lots of trails, camping facilities, and even a pavilion. There are never too many people there at any one time, so you should be able to find a private spot with no trouble. Here. I brought a map in from my car. It’s easy to get to from here.” She showed him the map and traced her finger down the line that was Highway 61. “See? It’s just about thirty miles south.”

  A wide smile brought out his hidden dimple, and a wink brought a return smile from her. “Good girl. It sounds perfect.”

  A half hour later Revelin Scott arrived, wearing faded, flared blue jeans and a sleeveless U-2 T-shirt. He somehow didn’t quite look like a typical ‘good ol’ Suthun boy,’ but with his youthful good looks and irreverent hair, he fit into the Mississippi landscape better than Drago did. Marya couldn’t picture Drago fitting in no matter how he dressed.

  Revelin had brought a pair of two-way radios with him. He gave one to Drago.

  “Excellent. Listen, mon ami, when we get there, stay behind and out of sight if you can. I don’t relish my opponents knowing you’re there. If I should need you, I’ll call on the radio. Come up in the car as quick as you can, but then leave the keys with Marya. Marya, if that should happen, take the car and get as far away as you can. C’est compris?”

  “I’ve got it.”

  Shortly after that, Drago’s phone rang. He didn’t bother taking the call in private, but he spoke French, so the result was the same. However, he volunteered the contents of the conversation without her or Revelin asking.

  “That was Philippe. I instructed him to meet me at one o’clock just inside the park entrance. I also told him not to bring Adelle, but I have no doubt he’ll bring her.”

  “He’s never been here, has he? I hope he finds it all right,” she said.

  “He’s a big boy. He’ll find it. We’ll take two cars. I’ll go in Scott’s van, and the two of you will go in my car. Cherie, a word.”

  He led her into the guest room and closed the door. He paced the room once and stopped before her. His features were as solemn as ever. “Listen, Marya, and listen well. This is not a picnic in the park we’re going to. It’s business, and deadly business at that. No matter what happens, you’re to stay with Scott and do exactly as he says.”

  She tilted her head back, not quite a dramatic head toss, but enough to let Drago know she wasn’t happy with his words. “Don’t talk to me as if I were a child. I know what this is about, and I think I proved in Phoenix that I can do as I’m told.”

  He stared at her, and for a moment she thought he would reply in anger, but a small self-deprecating smile curved one side of his mouth. “Bravo, cherie! I always admire those who have the heart to stand up to me.”

  She folded her arms in front of her. “Really? I thought defiance was always frowned upon and insubordination always punished.”

  “There’s a big difference between showing the courage of one’s convictions and the disrespect of disobedience. But I apologize, cherie. You did more than handle yourself well in Phoenix—you saved my life. And I know you understand the importance of this meeting. It’s just . . .” The silky voice faltered, something which Marya hadn’t often heard.

  The anger went out of her, and she ventured a guess at his thought. “Just that you’re concerned about me. But it’s a lot easier for the vampire to chide than to admit to a human emotion like worry, isn’t it?”

  He smiled again. “Perhaps. But promise me . . .”

  She cut him off, nodding her head. “Yes, I promise to behave myself and do everything Revelin says.” It would be an easy promise to keep. She had no real wish to be anywhere near any meeting between Philippe and Drago. Her previous feeling of dread had only deepened, and she knew with a certainty that something was very, very wrong.

  MARYA SAT IN the passenger seat of Revelin’s car, watched the lush beauty of the Mississippi landscape slide past, and tried to let the view instill a feeling of peace into her. The gently rolling hills and green sculptures formed by the ever-encroaching kudzu vine relaxed her. Each time it did, though, she’d turn her head and catch a glimpse of the van behind them, and a reminder of Drago’s mission would disturb the serenity of the moment.

  Revelin drove almost due south on The Great River Road, turning off at last on Grand Gulf Road. Marya, unlike the average Mississippian, cared little about the American Civil War, and had had lit
tle interest in the subject as a child. She had considered the war a gadjikane affair, and not relevant to either her own heritage or present life. However, it had been a subject oft-taught, and even with her passive attention she could not have failed to learn of Mississippi’s role in the Late Unpleasantness. The battle of Grand Gulf, as well as the siege of Vicksburg, of course, had been regaled in each grade, and she had participated in more than one field trip to Military Monument Park.

  “Have you ever been to Grand Gulf, Rev?”

  “No. I’ve only been in Mississippi a month. How well do you know this place?”

  “Pretty well. I’ve been here several times, but not for a number of years. Still, I know the roads through the park and how to get to the main attractions.”

  “‘Attractions?’”

  “The pavilion, cemetery, forts, things like that. Rev, do you know this Philippe?”

  “Not really. I’ve met him a few times at the Directorate office, but that’s about it. I used to work in England for the Circle. I tried to avoid Directorate entanglements as much as possible.”

  “Do you know how powerful he is?”

  “Any vamp chosen for the Directorate, even in the role of an assistant, has to have power and influence, or they aren’t chosen. Not to worry, though. I wouldn’t put the bugger in Drago’s class.”

  “We’re almost there. The entrance is just ahead. Let Drago pass. He can’t miss it from here.”

  With his hand, Rev motioned out the window for Drago to pass, and a moment later the van pulled ahead of them. Revelin dropped his car back, still keeping the van in sight but careful not to follow too closely. When Marya saw Drago pass through the entrance, she told Rev to pull over to the side of the road. A few moments later Rev’s radio crackled.

  “Scott?”

  Rev picked up the radio. “Yeah, Drago.”

  “Philippe’s here. He’s in a silver coupe, and it looks like he’s alone. I’m going to lead him down the road to the historic tour, as Marya suggested. Stay just inside the park entrance unless I call. When I stop I’ll try to give you an exact location. Keep a watchful eye, mon ami.”

  “Understood.”

  Marya and Rev pulled inside the park and into the first parking lot they came across. Rev kept the engine running and the air conditioner on, but the difficult game of waiting had begun. Grand Gulf, once thriving, was now all but extinct. She prayed the same thing didn’t happen to Drago.

  DRAGO STOPPED the van in a deserted spot sheltered by giant moss-covered oaks. Historical markers on posts stood as solitary reminders of events and days long gone. He radioed Scott with his position, exited the van, opened the rear doors, then strolled to Philippe’s car. Philippe swung his door open and flowed out, rising to his full height like a swirl of golden smoke. With his neatly styled copper hair, hazel eyes, and butter-colored brocade vest, Philippe was a vision of sun-drenched elegance. Drago smiled. It was exactly how he had expected Philippe to dress. Drago took a quick look inside the car. Adelle was not there.

  Drago reached out a hand in greeting. “Philippe, my old friend. I failed to say so last night, but it’s good to see a familiar and welcoming face. You brought everything?”

  Philippe’s bland expression hardly looked welcoming, but at least his gaze didn’t have its usual weary, put-upon cast. Instead, his gaze flickered over Drago’s apparel. When a small smile finally curved his thin mouth, Drago suspected it was more in amusement at his uncharacteristic casual dress than in any gesture of welcome.

  “Of course. It’s all in the trunk.”

  “Bring the files into the van, then, where we can be comfortable.”

  Philippe easily hauled a carton of paperwork into the van. “I don’t know what you expect to find, Drago. I tell you, there’s nothing here.”

  Drago looked through the tightly controlled book containing copies of all Drago’s orders. They were all numbered in sequence. He flipped back an entire month, but no numbers were missing or duplicated. “Very meticulously kept, mon ami, as always. However, I saw the faked order that Verkist had. My seal was on it and a very good imitation of my signature. Not only that. The paper was Directorate stock. I’m sure of it.”

  Philippe shrugged. “Anything can be duplicated. Look how easily currency is forged.”

  “That doesn’t help me, mon ami. I need both your insight and some helpful suggestions. Who, for instance, has my seal?”

  No dismissive shrug this time, but a lazy arch of dark brows. “You and I, of course, and Nikolena. And, I would assume, Adelle.”

  “Yes. Adelle has one.”

  “Your chateau has lots of . . . visitors, if I may so delicately put it as such. Perhaps one of them was light-fingered. Or perhaps Adelle . . .”

  “No. What about your office? What’s the possibility someone borrowed my seal when you were away?”

  “I suppose there’s a chance of that. Everything is kept locked, but locks can be picked, just as documents can be forged. Know any picklocks?”

  As a matter of fact, he did. Someone taught well by the mean streets of Dublin. Revelin Scott. Scott had been transferred about a month ago, just before all this madness started. The transfer would have meant a visit to the Directorate head office and an audience with Nikolena. Everyone seeing Nikolena goes past Philippe’s desk. And Scott has the attribute of possession. During his visit he would have had both the skill to steal the seals and paper stock himself and the ability to control another vampire’s mind to do his own bidding. Drago himself had admitted that he had not met a vampire as powerful as Revelin Scott in a long, long time. And I’ve just left Marya in his care.

  Philippe was waiting for an answer. Drago wasn’t ready to make a judgment—not yet. Nor was he ready to reveal his hand. The vampire lie was always best. “Half the enforcers in this country are probably picklocks from Great Britain or Europe, but no one specifically comes to mind. What about you? You see everyone who comes through the office.”

  Philippe nodded. “True, but I don’t exactly hold revealing conversations with any of them. Most who come my way do nothing but complain to me about you.”

  Drago took a deep breath. “Oui, bien sur.” His mind drifted back to Phoenix and Fata Morgana. Scott had saved his life. Why save it then if his intention was to see Drago die the True Death? Or was there some other objective better served by Drago’s death occurring at a different time and place? What motive could Scott even have for wanting him dead? Until a few days ago, he had never met the man. Perhaps Scott wasn’t working on his own, but under someone’s direction. He couldn’t have been working for Evrard Verkist, though. He had betrayed Evrard too thoroughly for that. This is getting too complicated.

  Drago stepped out of the van into the shade of the oak trees and motioned for Philippe to join him. “What about Nikolena herself, Philippe? Does she want rid of me enough to go to such trouble?” He didn’t really believe that Nikolena had anything to do with it, but he wanted to keep Philippe talking while he tried to think.

  “It would be treason for you or me to even consider such a notion. You know that.”

  Drago waved a dismissive hand. “Yes, yes. I know. But this is just between you and me, Philippe. Is she capable of such a thing? A political move to get rid of me without appearing to turn her back on one of her own?”

  “Good God, Drago. Such a thing is unprecedented. Unthinkable.”

  All of it was unthinkable. And yet someone he trusted was behind all this. “Well, Philippe?” Drago turned and faced Philippe, his gaze riveted onto his aide’s face. “What other possibilities are there? No matter how unthinkable?”

  Philippe’s eye caught his. “I’m surprised you haven’t named me as a suspect. Am I not the obvious one?”

  “Too obvious, I should think. Besides, you’re my right hand, my confidante. Part of l’ alliance. My f
riend.”

  Philippe smiled broadly. Only white teeth filled the space encircled by the dark mustache and goatee, prominent among which were extraordinarily long eyeteeth. The display was not lost on Drago. “I don’t know which reference amuses me more, Drago, l’alliance or the human concept of friendship. Tell me, did you consider me your friend or yourself my friend?”

  Drago smiled as well, but showed no teeth. “Such things are mutual, I thought. But you are right. A human notion. Nothing like that binds us, does it, Philippe?”

  Philippe’s smile faded, but his eyes took on the lost passion. “The vow of l’alliance did. At least I thought so. Do you remember 1875, Drago?”

  1875. L’alliance had been three men—Drago, Philippe Chenard, and Ricard De Chaux. Drago had just been promoted from the Coterie to the Directorate. De Chaux held the position of Paramount in the Coterie, and Chenard was the head enforcer for De Chaux’s region of Champagne-Ardenne. Alliances were common up and down the rungs of the hierarchy, but Philippe was right—they had nothing to do with a shared past, friendship, or trust. At best such partnerships were masked with a veneer of camaraderie and dependence, but they existed for one reason only. Advancement. Still, a formal alliance was a serious affair, and any vampire who betrayed his partners usually found himself on the pointy end of retribution. Drago had no trouble remembering Paris in the fall of 1875.

  Three men sat in the salon of the private club operated by the Coterie. Two were Frenchmen, and the third was the adopted French son, the Russian, Alek Dragovich. All three were elegantly turned out—Philippe, perhaps, most of all. He wore a shawl collar, double-breasted waistcoat of buttercream satin, and a small white neck tie. Drago was all in black and white, the only spots of color his sapphire collar pin and lavender gloves. Only the tall, broad-shouldered De Chaux, with his mane of bronze hair uncharacteristically tied back, looked uncomfortable in the pretension to beauty and elegance.