Nightside [Diana Tregarde series]

by Mercedes Lackey

  "No,” she admitted.

  "Well, then?"

  She briefly contemplated getting up long enough to take care of the lights—then decided a little waste of energy was worth it, and extinguished them with a thought. “C'mere, you—let's do some research."

  He laughed deep in his throat as they reached for one another.

  * * * *

  She woke late the next morning—so late that in a half hour it would have been afternoon—and lay quietly for a long, contented moment before wriggling out of the tumble of bedclothes and Andre. No fear of waking him—he wouldn't rouse until the sun went down. She arranged him a bit more comfortably and tucked him in, thinking that he looked absurdly young with his hair all rumpled and those long, dark lashes lying against his cheek—he looked much better this morning, now that she was in a position to pay attention. Last night he'd been pretty pale and hungry-thin. She shook her head over him. Someday his gallantry was going to get him into trouble. “Idiot—” she whispered, touching his forehead, “—all you ever have to do is ask—"

  But there were other things to take care of—and to think about. A fight to get ready for, and she had a premonition it wasn't going to be an easy one.

  So she showered and changed into a leotard, and took herself into her barren studio at the back of the apartment to run through her katas three times—once slow, twice at full speed—and then into some Tai Chi exercises to rebalance everything. She followed that with a half hour of meditation, then cast a circle and charged herself with all of the Power she thought she could safely carry.

  Without knowing what she was to face, it was all she could do, really—that, and have a really good dinner.

  She showered and changed again into a bright-red sweat suit and was just finishing that dinner when the sun set and Andre strolled into the white-painted kitchen, shirtless, and blinking sleepily.

  She gulped the last bite of her liver and waggled her fingers at him. “If you want a shower, you'd better get a fast one—I want to get in place before he comes out for the night."

  He sighed happily over the prospect of a hot shower. “The perfect way to start one's—day. Petite, you may have difficulty in dislodging me now that you have let me stay overnight—"

  She showed her teeth. “Don't count your chickens, kiddo. I can be very nasty!"

  "Ma petite—I—” He suddenly sobered, and looked at her with haunted eyes.

  She saw his expression and abruptly stopped teasing. “Andre—please don't say it—I can't give you any better answer now than I could when you first asked—"

  He sighed again, less happily. “Then I will say no more, because you wish it—but—what of this notion—would you permit me to stay with you? No more than that. I could be of some use to you, I think, and I would take nothing from you that you did not offer first. I do not like it that you are so much alone. It did not matter when we first met, but you are collecting powerful enemies, cherie."

  "I—” She wouldn't look at him, but only at her hands, clenched white-knuckled on the table.

  "Unless there are others—” he prompted hesitantly.

  "No—no, there isn't anyone but you.” She sat in silence for a moment, then glanced back up at him with one eyebrow lifted sardonically. “You do rather spoil a girl for anyone else's attentions."

  He was genuinely startled. “Mille pardons, cherie,” he stuttered, “I—I did not know—"

  She managed a feeble chuckle. “Oh, Andre, you idiot—I like being spoiled! I don't get many things that are just for me—” she sighed, then gave in to his pleading eyes. “All right, then, move in if you want—"

  "It is what you want that concerns me."

  "I want,” she said very softly. “Just—the commitment—don't ask for it. I've got responsibilities as well as Power, you know that; I—can't see how to balance them with what you offered before—"

  "Enough,” he silenced her with a wave of his hand. “The words are unsaid, we will speak of this no more unless you wish it. I seek the embrace of warm water—"

  She turned her mind to the dangers ahead, resolutely pushing the dangers he represented into the back of her mind. “And I will go bail the car out of the garage."

  * * * *

  He waited until he was belted in on the passenger's side of the car to comment on her outfit. “I did not know you planned to race him, Diana,” he said with a quirk of one corner of his mouth.

  "Urban camouflage,” she replied, dodging two taxis and a kamikaze panel truck. “Joggers are everywhere, and they run at night a lot in deserted neighborhoods. Cops won't wonder about me or try to stop me, and our boy won't be surprised to see me alone. One of his other victims was out running. His boyfriend thought he'd had a heart attack. Poor thing. He wasn't one of us, so I didn't enlighten him. There are some things it's better the survivors don't know."

  "Oui. Drive left here, cherie."

  The traffic thinned down to a trickle, then to nothing. There are odd little islands in New York at night; places as deserted as the loneliest country road. The area where Andre directed her was one such; by day it was small warehouses, one-floor factories, an odd store or two. None of them had enough business to warrant running second or third shifts, and the neighborhood had not been gentrified yet; no one actually lived here. There were a handful of night watchmen, perhaps, but most of these places depended on locks, burglar alarms, and dogs that were released at night to keep out intruders.

  "There—” Andre pointed at a building that appeared to be home to several small factories. “He took the smoke-form and went to roost in the elevator control house at the top. That is why 1 did not advise going against him by day."

  "Is he there now?” Diana peered up through the glare of sodium-vapor lights but couldn't make out the top of the building.

  Andre closed his eyes, a frown of concentration creasing his forehead. “No,” he said after a moment. “I think he has gone hunting."

  She repressed a shiver. “Then it's time to play bait."

  Diana found a parking space marked dimly with the legend “President"—she thought it unlikely it would be wanted within the next few hours. It was deep in the shadow of the building Andre had pointed out, and her car was dead black; with any luck, cops coming by wouldn't even notice it was there and start to wonder.

  She hopped out, locking her door behind her, looking now exactly like the lone jogger she was pretending to be, and set off at an easy pace. She did not look back.

  If absolutely necessary, she knew she'd be able to keep this up for hours. She decided to take all the north-south streets first, then weave back along the east-west. Before the first hour was up she was wishing she'd dared bring a “walk-thing"—every street was like every other street: black brick walls broken by dusty, barred windows and metal doors, alleys with only the occasional Dumpster visible, refuse blowing along the gutters. She was bored; her nervousness had worn off, and she was lonely. She ran from light to darkness, from darkness to light, and saw and heard nothing but the occasional rat.

  Then he struck, just when she was beginning to get a little careless. Careless enough not to see him arrive.

  One moment there was nothing, the next, he was before her, waiting halfway down the block. She knew it was him—he was exactly as Andre had described him, a nondescript man in a dark windbreaker and slacks. He was tall—taller than she by several inches. His appearance nearly startled her into stopping—then she remembered that she was supposed to be an innocent jogger and resumed her steady trot.

  She knew he meant her to see him, he was standing directly beneath the streetlight and right in the middle of the sidewalk. She would have to swerve out of her path to avoid him.

  She started to do just that, ignoring him as any real jogger would have—when he raised his head and smiled at her.

  She was stopped dead in her tracks by the purest terror she had ever felt in her life. She froze, as all of his other victims must have—unable to think, unable to cry
out, unable to run. Her legs had gone numb, and nothing existed for her but that terrible smile and those hard, black eyes that had no bottom—

  Then the smile vanished, and the eyes flinched away. Diana could move again, and staggered back against the brick wall of the building behind her, her breath coming in harsh gasps, the brick rough and comforting in its reality beneath her hands.

  "Diana?” It was Andre's voice behind her.

  "I'm—all right—” she said, not at all sure that she really was. Andre strode silently past her, face grim and purposeful. The man seemed to sense his purpose, and smiled again—

  But Andre never faltered for even the barest moment.

  The smile wavered and faded; the man fell back a step or two, surprised that his weapon had failed him—

  Then he scowled, and pulled something out of the sleeve of his windbreaker; and to Diana's surprise, charged straight for Andre, his sneakered feet scuffing on the cement—

  And something suddenly blurring about his right hand. As it connected with Andre's upraised arm, Diana realized what it was—almost too late.

  "Andre—he has nunchuks—they're wood,” she cried out urgently as Andre grunted in unexpected pain. “He can kill you with them! Get out of here!"

  Andre needed no second warning. In the blink of an eye, he was gone.

  Leaving Diana to face the creature alone.

  She dropped into guard-stance as he regarded her thoughtfully, still making no sound, not even of heavy breathing. In a moment he seemed to make up his mind, and came at her.

  At least he didn't smile again in that terrible way—perhaps the weapon was only effective once.

  She hoped fervently he wouldn't try again—as an empath, she was doubly vulnerable to a weapon forged of fear.

  They circled each other warily, like two cats preparing to fight. Then Diana thought she saw an opening—and took it.

  And quickly came to the conclusion that she was overmatched, as he sent her tumbling with a badly bruised shin. The next few moments reinforced that conclusion—he continued scatheless while she picked up injury after painful injury.

  She was a brown belt in karate—but he was a black belt in kung fu, and the contest was a pathetically uneven match. She knew before very long that he was toying with her—and while he still swung the wooden nunchuks, Andre did not dare move in close enough to help.

  She realized (as fear dried her mouth, she grew more and more winded, and she searched frantically for a means of escape) that she was as good as dead.

  If only she could get those damn ‘chuks away from him!

  And as she ducked and stumbled against the curb, narrowly avoiding his strike, an idea came to her. He knew from her moves—as she knew from his—that she was no amateur. He would never expect an amateur's move from her—something truly stupid and suicidal—

  So the next time he swung at her, she stood her ground. As the ‘chuks came at her she took one step forward, smashing his nose with the heel of her right hand and lifting her left to intercept the flying batons.

  As it connected with her left hand with a sickening crunch, she whirled and folded her entire body around hand and weapon, and went limp, carrying it away from him.

  She collapsed in a heap at his feet, hand afire with pain, eyes blurring, and waited for either death or salvation.

  And salvation in the form of Andre rose behind her attacker. With one savate kick he broke the man's back; Diana could hear it crack like a twig—and, before her assailant could collapse, a second double-handed blow sent him crashing into the brick wall, head crushed like an eggshell.

  Diana struggled to her feet and watched for some arcane transformation.

  Nothing.

  She staggered to the corpse, her face flat and expressionless—a sign she was suppressing pain and shock with implacable iron will. Andre began to move forward as if to stop her, then backed off again.

  She bent slightly, just enough to touch the shoulder of the body with her good hand—and released the Power.

  Andre pulled her back to safety as the corpse exploded into flame, burning as if it had been soaked in oil. She watched the flames for one moment, wooden-faced, then abruptly collapsed.

  Andre caught her easily before she could hurt herself further, lifting her in his arms as if she weighed no more than a kitten. “Ma pauvre petite,” he murmured, heading back toward the car at a swift but silent run. “It is the hospital for you, I think—"

  "Saint—Francis—” she gasped, every step jarring her hand and bringing tears of pain to her eyes. “One of us—is on the night staff—Dr. Crane—"

  "Bien,” he replied. “Now be silent—"

  "But—how are you—"

  "In your car, foolish one."

  "But—"

  "I can drive."

  "But—"

  "And I have a license. Now, will you be silent?"

  "How?” she said, disobeying him.

  "Night school,” he replied succinctly, reaching the car, putting her briefly on her feet to unlock the passenger-side door, then lifting her into it. “You are not the only one who knows of urban camouflage."

  This time she did not reply—because she had fainted from pain.

  * * * *

  The emergency room was empty—for which Andre was very grateful. His invocation of Dr. Crane brought a thin, bearded young man around to the tiny examining cubicle in record time.

  "Godalmighty! What did you tangle with, a bus?” he exclaimed when stripping her sweatsuit jacket and pants revealed that there was little of Diana that was not battered and black-and-blue.

  Andre wrinkled his nose at the acrid antiseptic odors around them, and replied shortly. “No, your ‘Ripper.’”

  The startled gaze the doctor fastened on him revealed that Andre had scored. “Who—won?"

  "We did. I do not think he will prey upon anyone again."

  The doctor's eyes closed briefly; Andre read prayerful thankfulness on his face as he sighed with relief. Then he returned to business. “You must be Andre, right? Anything I can supply?"

  Andre laughed at the hesitation in his voice. “Fear not, your blood supply is quite safe, and I am unharmed. It is Diana who needs you."

  The relief on the doctor's face made Andre laugh again.

  Dr. Crane ignored him. “Right,” he said, turning to the work he knew best.

  * * * *

  She was light-headed and groggy with the Demerol Dr. Crane had given her as Andre deftly tucked her into her bed; she'd dozed all the way home in the car.

  "I just wish I knew what that thing was—” she said inconsequentially, as he arranged her arm in its Fiberglass cast a little more comfortably. “—I won't be happy until I know—"

  "Then you are about to be happy, cherie, for I have had the brainstorm—” Andre ducked into the living room and emerged with a dusty leather-bound book. “Remember I said there was something familiar about it? Now I think I know what it was.” He consulted the index and turned pages rapidly—found the place he sought, and read for a few moments. “As I thought—listen. ‘The gaki—also known as the Japanese vampire—also takes its nourishment only from the living. There are many kinds of gaki, extracting their sustenance from a wide variety of sources. The most harmless are the ‘perfume’ and ‘music’ gaki—and they are by far the most common. Far deadlier are those that require blood, flesh—or souls.’”

  "Souls?"

  "Just so. ‘To feed, or when at rest, they take their normal form of a dense cloud of dark smoke. At other times, like the kitsune, they take on the form of a human being. Unlike the kitsune, however, there is no way to distinguish them in this form from any other human. In the smoke form, they are invulnerable—in human form, however, they can be killed; but to destroy them permanently, the body must be burned—preferably in conjunction with or solely by Power.’ I said there was something familiar about it—it seems to have been a kind of distant cousin.” Andre's mouth smiled, but his eyes reflected only a
long-abiding bitterness.

  "There is no way you have any relationship with that—thing!” she said forcefully. “It had no more honor, heart, or soul than a rabid beast!"

  "I—I thank you, cherie,” he said slowly, the warmth returning to his eyes. “There are not many who would think as you do."

  "Their own closed-minded stupidity."

  "To change the subject—what was it made you burn it as you did? I would have abandoned it. It seemed dead enough."

  "I don't know—it just seemed the thing to do.” She yawned. “Sometimes my instincts just work ... right..."

  Suddenly her eyes seemed too leaden to keep open.

  She fought against exhaustion and the drug, trying to keep both at bay without success. Sleep claimed her for its own.

  He watched her for the rest of the night, until the lethargy of his own limbs told him dawn was near. He had already decided not to share her bed, lest any movement on his part cause her pain—instead, he made up a pallet on the floor beside her.

  He stood over her broodingly while he in his turn fought slumber, and touched her face gently. “Well—” he whispered, holding off torpor far deeper and heavier than hers could ever be—while she was mortal. “You are not aware to hear, so I may say what I will and you cannot forbid. Dream; sleep and dream—I shall see you safe—my only love."

  And he took his place beside her, to lie motionless until night should come again.

  * * *

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