Twilight Illusions

by Maggie Shayne

CHAPTER THREE

 

  The raven soared into the night, its glistening blue black wings spread as it rode the wind, spiraling upward, ever upward. Then, folding those gleaming wings to itself, it dove at dizzying speeds, until anyone watching would have caught his breath in alarm, fully expecting to witness the death of a once- graceful bird. Instead, though, the wings unfurled. The bird slowed, arched upward and, with gentle flapping, alighted upon the rail of a balcony on the twenty-third story.

  * * * * *

  She slammed the apartment door, turned the lock, shot the dead bolt, fastened the chain. Breathless, she leaned back against the door, closed her eyes. The courage, the defiance, had been flawless right up until he'd grabbed her and told her she wasn't leaving. At that moment, with that iron manacle of a hand gripping her arm, those cold, sure words hanging in the air and those unnaturally gleaming, jewel black eyes holding her captive, she'd felt pure, undiluted panic.

  Instantly his image flashed into her mind, a snapshot of the way he'd looked at that moment. What had happened to him? He'd released her all of the sudden, his hands going to his head as if it were splitting in two. His eyes squeezed shut tight in apparent pain.

  And she'd run like a rabbit.

  She'd climbed over the fence to make her escape, no longer caring how many alarms she set off. Her rope and grappling hook still hung from the monster of an oak tree out front. Her Cat Woman hood probably still lay on his front step. She'd forgotten the photos of Tawny and the autopsy report. She'd forgotten everything except that she didn't want to die. When he'd grabbed her arm and told her she wasn't leaving, she'd thought she was about to.

  She squeezed her eyes tighter to prevent the stupid tears that tried to leak through, and shook her head at the bitter irony. Her, running from death. Her, not wanting to die. God, what a joke! Not for the first time, she heard herself cursing fate for its idiotic mistake in choosing Tawny as the victim of this sick killer's whim. It should have been Shannon. Tawny had a future, a life waiting for her. A career. She'd have made it happen, too. Shannon knew she would have. She had a way of willing things to go the way she wanted. Shannon swore and swept a hand over her damp eyes.

  It shouldn't have been Tawny. It should have been me. God, why wasn't it me? At least one of us could have gone on, lived, maybe had a family someday. . . .

  Blinking, she crawled out of the self-pitying puddle she'd stepped into. If she didn't get herself together, it would be her. And it would end any chance she had of bringing Tawny's killer down before her time on this planet ran out. If he was coming for her, it would probably be tonight. Tawny had died the same night she'd volunteered as his assistant. And as far as she could tell, the other woman, Rosalie, hadn't been seen since the night she'd taken her turn in the spotlight. So he would probably come tonight. Probably pretty soon.

  She was tired. Damn, but she was tired.

  Shannon dipped her hand into the fanny pack for the stubby . 38 revolver. It had been with her the whole time she'd been at Damien's. She'd never really been in any danger. She could have dropped to one knee, pulled out the little black handgun and pumped all six rounds into him in under three seconds. Sure, it would've been tough to prove self-defense, when she'd broken into his house and he'd been unarmed. So, she'd have done some time.

  Not a hell of a lot, though.

  She took the gun into the bathroom with her, set it on the little sand-colored counter that surrounded the shell-shaped coral basin. Within easy reach. No one was going to sneak up on her. Not even someone who walked as quietly as he did.

  She stripped off her clothes, quickly and not too neatly, tossing them and leaving them where they landed. Then she stepped beneath the hot, pounding spray and just let it soothe her aching muscles. God, it would be good to take a break from all of this. Relax with a good book, or a bowl of popcorn and an old Bogart movie. Jump in the car that often cost her her grocery money and head south until she hit sand and sun, and just bask for a while. But she knew she couldn't. Not now. She'd set the wheels in motion and she had to see things through to the end. There wasn't a lot of time. She was all too aware of that.

  Even with Tawny's death and all its repercussions, all the questions screaming for answers. Shannon still couldn't stop her mind from wandering where she least wanted it to go.

  Damien Namtar.

  The image of him floated into her brain again, damn him. He was a murder suspect. Not to the police, granted. But in her mind he was. Right now he was the only suspect. So she shouldn't think about the odd awareness she felt around him, the prickling sensations that encompassed her, the palpable touch of those eyes. "Physical distractions," she muttered, and tipped her head back to let the hot water drench her hair. She inhaled the moist steam, hoping it would put some sense into her head. He was utterly handsome, in a dark, exotic kind of way. Add to that the fact that his performances were always loaded with sexual innuendo, and it was no wonder her libido was responding this way.

  Or was it? She'd thought herself immune to sexual desire. She'd had little experience; the clumsy, drunken gropings of the man who was supposed to be her guardian, the foster parent she'd been sent to when she was sixteen. She'd had no choice about going to live there. Orphans, abandoned children didn't have a hell of a lot of choices, and God knows she'd had none to speak of up to that point in her life. Certainly no choice over what that bastard had tried to do to her.

  From that day on, though, the choices had been all hers. No one had ever told her what to do again. No one ever would.

  Only one good thing had come out of that time in her life, and that was that she'd met Tawny. They'd been sent to the same foster home, from different orphanages. They'd suffered the same abuse, albeit for a short time. They'd fled before the bastard's attempts could lead to the ultimate violation. They'd had little choice. Neither Shannon nor Tawny had trusted authority enough to turn him in then. Whom would they have told? The same pencil pushers who'd sent them to him? And where would they be sent next? Someplace worse?

  Later, Shannon had written a letter to the social worker, recounted everything, even signed her name--but she hadn't told them where to find her. She couldn't risk losing control of her own life again.

  The results of their brief stay with that man had been totally different. For Tawny, there was no more respect for her body. It became a means to an end, and she used it that way, laughing inwardly at the men foolish enough to pay her for something they could get at home free. Idiots, she'd called them. If they were dumb enough to hand over their hard-earned cash, that was their problem. She'd always said the Johns didn't know it, but they were the ones being used.

  For Shannon, it was different. She'd made up her mind that she would never want to be touched by a man. Never. She couldn't even think of sex without remembering the disgust, the humiliation, the stench of his breath. How could closeness with any man ever bring her pleasure? She'd shunned Tawny's methods of survival, taken a menial job cleaning hotel rooms, instead.

  It had been a long time, though. And for some reason, she wasn't recalling all that revulsion when she thought of Damien. She probably should be.

  She sighed and tried to put him out of her mind, but she couldn't. She remembered his performance tonight. Scantily dressed beauties running their hands up and down his body to some frantic jungle beat as he prepared to perform the next feat, seductively touching and caressing him as they fastened chains around him for an escape trick. It was little wonder he had groupies throwing themselves at him. Little wonder he seemed to exude some mystical allure to her. He probably had the same effect on most women, which surely accounted for the gossip she'd read in the fan magazines about the ones who were constantly offering to take him to bed after a show.

  The question of the hour was, did he murder them after obliging them? Had Tawny been taken in by his sex appeal and offered herself as others did? It was something Tawny wouldn't have hesitated to do. Was t
hat why he'd killed her?

  Or maybe the opposite was true. It might be the ones who seemed indifferent to him that suffered the ultimate punishment. Maybe Tawny had turned him down. Maybe that was why he'd killed her.

  But why do it in such a grisly way? And how? How the hell do you drain the blood out of someone, leaving only two tiny wounds in her neck? How do you do it without a drop of blood spilling on the sheets, or the pillows the person is lying on? What the hell do you do with it after you've taken it?

  She lathered her body, rinsed it, washed her hair, and still felt no closer to knowing what had happened to her friend.

  There had been precious few other cases demanding her attention. She'd referred them to larger investigations firms, hating to have to give away business when she'd fought so long and so hard to get established. But this took precedence, and besides, she wasn't exactly saving up for retirement. It wasn't as if she was going to be spending much money. All she needed was enough for the next few car payments, and another month or two's rent, if that. She wouldn't be taking on any new cases. She kept the office open only for her own case now. And when she found Tawny's killer, she'd close it for good.

  She intended to focus solely on Tawny's murder from here on. She couldn't afford a single distraction. She would use every second of the time she had left to--

  Dizziness swamped her and she reached out blindly, clutching the shower curtain to keep from falling. She let her body rest against the cool, wet tiles of the shower stall, held her head with one hand and shut the water off with the other. She waited for the vertigo to pass, but it didn't.

  Damn! Why now? Why the hell now?

  She groped for a towel, twisted it around her and staggered out of the shower, pausing only to clumsily pick up her gun before continuing through to the living room. She had to get to bed, had to lie down, rest until it passed. It would pass. It always did. God willing, the bastard wouldn't show up to kill her before it ran its course.

  She needed the bed, and she fought to keep her balance until she got there. She had to huddle into the blankets, because the chills would come next. And then she'd shiver and shake and run a fever until they finished with her. They usually lasted only an hour or so. But they'd been coming more frequently lately. Her body's little alarm clock, reminding her every so often that time was nearly up.

  She made it just to the doorway of the bedroom before she collapsed. She felt her legs melt from her ankles to her hips, and then the floor rose up to greet her. She pulled her arms under her to push herself up, but they'd become useless, heavy, nearly impossible to move.

  The shaking kicked in. Her body jerked with the chills, and she could hear her own teeth chattering. God, she was so cold. She felt the goose bumps rising on her arms and legs. If she could just get to the bed. She'd always had time to make it to the bed. The damned episodes were hitting faster, harder, than before, she realized, as well as more often. She didn't want to think about what that meant.

  But why the hell did it have to happen tonight?

  Concentrating fiercely, she managed to tighten her hand around the gun, though the effort cost her. She broke into a cold sweat, fought to catch her breath. She couldn't lose the gun. She had to cling to it in case he came for her. He'd kill her if he found her defenseless like this. God, she hated being helpless, weak, not in control of her own body. She focused on the feel of the cold wood grips in her hand, made herself feel the trigger, kept her mind on where the barrel was pointed, even as she strained to make her arms function and struggled to pull her shuddering body across the floor. Every muscle in her throbbed and ached in protest, burned with an unseen fire. Then the damned convulsions tried to tear them from the bone.

  Someone bent over her, lifted her, and a familiar scent invaded her awareness. Dusky. Subtle. Somehow erotic. The arms around her, the chest against her, felt familiar and warm and hard. She forced her eyes open, tried to focus her vision, but saw only a blurred outline. It didn't matter. She knew perfectly well who held her, who carried her across the room and lowered her to the bed. Covers were tugged over her, tucked tightly around her. The electric blanket she'd so recently purchased for just this kind of occasion was plugged in, turned on. She knew, because she felt it begin to heat her chilled skin. He gently worked the gun out of her trembling hand and set it aside. His hands, those big, hard, magic hands with their long, elegant fingers, pushed her hair away from her face.

  "Do you want me to call an ambulance. Shannon?"

  She heard the words, heard that soft voice, which had been harsh the last time he'd spoken to her. It was still like velvet music on her ears, but so gruff now. So hesitant.

  She tried to form an answer, gave up and shook her head, instead. Even that small effort took every ounce of energy she could summon.

  "Your family, then?"

  "N-noo. There's. . . no one. "

  "What is it? What's wrong with you?" The low, level timbre of his voice seemed to have deserted him. He spoke quietly, as if he might hurt her ears if he used his normal tone. She felt the strength of his hands on her shoulders. The warmth, of them. The pressure of each fingertip, pressing urgently into her flesh.

  Fear tried to make itself heard in her mind, but there was too much else there in the way. She knew, somehow, that she ought to be afraid of him right now, but she wasn't. And it had to be because of the illness. It must be dulling her intellect, or she'd be scared to death.

  The electric blanket's heat seeped a little more deeply into her body. The shaking slowed. The chills eased, just a bit, but left that aching that made her feel as if a steamroller had just mowed her down. She felt his weight leave the bed, heard his steps.

  God, she was so groggy when these spells came. Why hadn't he killed her yet? Where was her gun? Why wasn't she screaming for help, or reaching for the phone or dragging herself to the door?

  He returned, the bed sinking when he sat on its edge. Pills touched her lips. Then cool water. She swallowed as he held her head up, his long fingers curled around the back of her neck, threading up into her hair.

  "Ibuprofen," he told her. "For the pain and the fever. "

  She nodded. He lowered her to the pillow again. The shaking eased further.

  "Better?"

  Her eyes could not stay open, no matter how she strained to look at him, to see what he was thinking, what he'd do next, whether there was murder in his jewel black eyes.

  "You care to tell me how you planned to take on a crazed killer in this kind of shape?"

  He sounded angry. She wondered why.

  "Did-didn't. . . plan this. "

  "Is it better? Is it easing?"

  She started to fall asleep, only to feel his hands tighten on her shoulders and lift her from the pillows.

  "Tell me!"

  Her eyes flew wide. Here it was, her fogged mind told her. The end. And they'd find her in the morning the way she'd found Tawny. Drained of her blood, lily-white, eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Dying of one of these attacks didn't seem so terrible when she considered the alternative.

  She had to do something. She focused her mind, the strength of every muscle, into one small act to save herself. One all but limp hand swung outward, toward the nightstand. That was where he'd put her gun, wasn't it? She connected with the lamp and heard it crash to the floor.

  He stilled, then gently lowered her back down to the pillows. Her vision was clearing. She saw his black eyes search her face, saw him reach out. Then his hand was pressing something hard and cold into hers.

  "This what you're after?"

  She closed her fist around the cool wood grips, breathed again.

  He pushed a hand through his dark hair. "Keep it, if it will ease your mind. Shannon. But I didn't come here to kill you. "

  * * * * *

  She drew the handgun close to her chest, covered it with her other hand, relaxed a little. The barrel pointed in his general direction. H
er finger just barely touched the trigger. Her eyelids drooped. She popped them open again.

  "It is getting better, isn't it?"

  She nodded. "What. . . why are you here?" Her voice was slurred, as if she'd been drinking. "If you d-didn't come to kill me, then why. . . " Her lids tried to close. She fought to keep them open. It was getting harder.

  He smiled a little. "You can barely stay awake. It's all right, Shannon. Sleep a while. "

  "No. Not. . . until you. . . you leave. . . " She licked her lips, forced her gaze to fix on him, to get her message across. "Get the hell out. "

  * * * * *

  Damien had seen her eyes spit golden fire at him. And for just a second she'd reminded him of his oldest friend, the only man who'd ever had the nerve to stand up to him, and he smiled.

  She was afraid, but she had the courage of Inanna. She saw him as a demon, but she challenged him to battle. Much as he'd once done. She was like him. And like Enkidu.

  Damien licked his lips, hearing the ragged, shallow way she breathed as her body surrendered to sleep's unstoppable invasion.

  The demon he'd once sought to vanquish had been death itself. But fighting death was a sad exercise. Death always won in the end. Hadn't he searched endlessly for the key to immortality, only to find, instead, a perpetual living death?

  He did not want to do it. With the will of every second of his nearly six thousand years, he did not want to do it. But he left the bedside, went to the little bathroom and dampened a cloth with cool water. He brought it back to bathe her heated face, her sweat-slick forehead, her fiery-hot neck. He'd keep an all-night vigil, not out of affection or even a passing fondness, but out of simple decency, and in a sort of remembrance.

  The sight of her burning up with fever, shaking helplessly on the bed, brought back the worst moment of his existence, when he'd watched his best friend die in such a similar way. He'd felt so helpless then. Crying out to the gods for mercy, only to have them answer in vengeance.

  He reminded himself that Shannon was not his friend. She was a stranger. And these were not death throes racking her slender body, but simple fever chills. Already they were easing.

  "Don't. . . "

  He glanced sharply down at her, but she wasn't talking to him. At least, he didn't think so. "It'll help the fever," he told her, and settled the cool cloth on her forehead again.

  "Don't touch me. " She whimpered, and twisted in the bed. "Tawny, make him stop!"

  Fat tears rolled down her face, and Damien couldn't help the lump that came into his throat when he saw them, though he knew it was stupid, senseless. He didn't care about this woman.

  He touched her face. "It's all right. Shannon. No one's going to hurt you. "

  It shocked him when her small hand shot upward to cover his where it rested on her cheek.

  "Don't leave me," she whispered. "I'm so afraid. . . "

  She wasn't talking to him. She was asleep, still burning up with a fever and half out of her head. She was dreaming. She was not talking to him.

  Even so, he knew he'd stay with her. How could she possibly defend herself in this kind of state? If it was true that some maniac was preying on the women who'd assisted him on stage, then she was in danger.

  He did not want to believe that was possible. And yet, part of him did. Because if someone else hadn't killed that other one, it must have been him. And it couldn't have been him.

  He barely recalled her face. There'd been so many over the centuries, so many who'd sated his eternal hunger. Young, beautiful, all too ready to sink with him into a well of ecstasy. But he'd never killed them. Never. He hated death.

  He forced himself to remember Tawny. She'd come to his dressing room after the performance. She'd slid her warm palms slowly over his chest and stood on tiptoe to kiss him. And she'd tucked a piece of paper into the waistband of his pants before she'd slipped away. Her address. And he'd known he would visit her there. The bloodlust that night had reached the height of its power. He couldn't fight it anymore. He'd fought it through the entire evening, forcibly wrenching himself from the luscious dancers who were his assistants in the act. Dragging his gaze away from their pulsing jugulars time and time again, as the roar in his mind grew deafening, and the hunger writhed inside, and his will weakened.

  So he'd gone to her. She'd been half-asleep in her bed, and he'd awakened her with a kiss, but never spoken a word. She'd stripped away her nightgown and pulled him down to her in the rumpled sheets, hidden by the darkness of midnight. And as he'd pierced her body with his, as he'd assuaged the burning hunger at her throat, as he'd reached the precipice of blinding, urgent desire, there was that instant of insanity. That single heartbeat in time when he was no longer inside his mind.

  And when he'd pulled away from her he'd felt the same flood of guilt he always felt. He'd stared down at her lying still, sinking into sleep. He'd pulled blankets over her, and silently commanded she recall the experience as nothing but a dream. Then he'd fled into the night, his conscience too raw to stay there another second.

  Now he paced, beside the bed of another beautiful woman, Tawny's friend and would-be avenger. And he questioned the accuracy of his own mind. She had been sleeping when he'd left her there, hadn't she? Or had she been dying? Was there a chance he'd taken too much, that he'd snuffed out a young life? He'd believed the spark of decency that his soul still had left wouldn't allow him to sink to that level. And he knew, beyond doubt, that he did have a modicum of decency left. If he didn't, he wouldn't be here with Shannon right now. He'd leave her to whatever fate had in store and save himself the anguish of starting to care. It was a big risk. He knew that more every time he looked at her.

  He pushed the golden blond hair away from Shannon's face, felt the silken texture of it between his fingers, against his palms. He'd make sure the threat to her was eliminated, even if he himself turned out to be that threat, and then he would run to the farthest reaches of the globe and never, never set eyes on her again. Never so much as think of her again. And he'd do it without letting himself care about her. Damien Namtar cared for no one. It had been that way for centuries, and that was the way it would stay.

  He could see, though, that he had little choice except to try to find out what had happened to Tawny Keller. For if he had become a man who could no longer exist without taking the lives of others, he knew he had to end it.

  All of these things circled like a cyclone in his mind as he sat with her, watched over her, took care of her. He was doing exactly what he'd sworn he'd never do. Taking on the roll of protector to one of the Chosen. Acting on impulses that were purely physical, instinctive, like a goose flying south in autumn.

  It was only as dawn approached that he realized he couldn't leave her there alone, unprotected.

  * * * * *

  Anthar watched that building and a smile curved his lips. Just before dawn, the being once called part man, part god came out, carrying the woman in his arms. Unconscious? Or asleep? Perhaps entranced? Whatever, it didn't matter. The pagan had come to care for someone. . . again. He rubbed his hands together in glee. It was too perfect. Too utterly perfect. Ah, the destruction of Gilgamesh--soul and body, mind and spirit--was at hand. At last, the tools to carry it out had been given. He'd awaited them long, but patiently. For it was not possible to completely demolish a man who cared for no one. The caring, that was the key. . . the weakness.

  As long as it truly was caring.

  Anthar dared not attempt to read the pagan's thoughts, lest he tip his hand. It was vital he remain undiscovered, unknown, unsensed, as he observed Damien's every move. He had to be sure before he could proceed.

  A test, then. Or several. Whatever was necessary to be sure. And then the slow torture and ultimate destruction would begin.