Alexandra Sabian 2 - Blood Secrets

by Jeannie Holmes

  Her boys had been boys through and through, and Alex had been no slouch in the rough and tumble department either. Bernard may have called her “Princess” but the precocious child had been anything except a princess. Emily had lost count of the number of trips to the emergency room Alex had fostered during her teens. She smiled with the memories.

  However, her smile soon faded, replaced by sorrow. Alex was missing and there’d been no word on the search. Varik offered no updates after he arrested Kirk and Janet was whisked away to the hospital. He’d simply said if he had any news he would call.

  “Mom?” Stephen said softly from the room’s doorway.

  Emily motioned for him to enter and to be quiet. “She’s sleeping,” she whispered as he drew closer, glancing at the bed in which Janet lay. “The doctor says she’ll be fine but they want to keep her overnight as a precaution.”

  Stephen nodded, his eyes locked on Janet. He suddenly turned to Emily and placed his head on her shoulder, wrapping her in a tight embrace. “I’m so sorry, Mom. I should’ve been there with you both.”

  Dampness spread over her shoulder and she realized he was crying. “Oh, honey,” she murmured, hugging him in turn and gently stroking his back as she had when he was a child. “You can’t blame yourself for any of this. You had to meet with your investors and discuss the plans to rebuild Crimson Swan. Janet and I both understand that. I’m sure the police tried to reach you.”

  Stephen pulled away, swiping angrily at his tears. “That’s the problem.” He flung himself onto the small couch beneath the window. “There was no meeting. I lied.”

  “You lied?” Emily frowned and perched on the edge beside him. “Why? Where were you?”

  “At the library, in the archives.” He sighed and avoided looking at her. “After Damian told us Alex was kidnapped and what happened to Varik and they suspected this Dollmaker guy of being the one who grabbed Alex, I felt so helpless, like I should be doing something—anything—to find Alex but I didn’t know what.”

  “Stephen—”

  “She didn’t give up on me when those Midnighters kidnapped me and burned Crimson Swan. She knew what to do and didn’t let anyone stand in her way. I’m not an Enforcer. If I tried to shoot a gun I’d probably blow off my foot.”

  “Alex knew what to do because she’s been trained to do it.” Emily draped her arm over his back and gave him a sideways hug. “No one expects you to go charging after her like a white knight on horseback.”

  “I know, but I couldn’t just sit around waiting. That’s why I lied about the meeting, and why I went to the archives and started looking into this Dollmaker.” He reached inside his jacket and produced a stack of folded papers from an inner pocket. “Mom, what I found scares the hell out of me.”

  Emily took the pages from him, unfolded them, and began reading the fuzzy printed images of old newspaper articles. The oldest dated back to the early 1900s in Chicago with the most recent from Louisville, dated 1968.

  Each article detailed the gruesome murder of at least one young girl, but most often several. There seemed to be no pattern to the victims in age, ethnicity, or occupation. The only commonality Emily could see between any of them was the horrible manner in which they died—partially skinned and their throats slit.

  “This is the psycho that the Enforcers suspect took Alex,” Stephen whispered. “And that’s not all.” He handed her another page. “Look in the background of the photo.”

  She studied the grainy black-and-white photo. Stone-faced men carried what could only be a body wrapped in sheets down the front walk of a Colonial-style home. Holding the paper at an angle to increase the amount of light, she searched the equally grim bystanders who stood outside of the police barricade. One face stood out and she whispered, “Bernard.”

  “That photo was taken in Louisville in 1968, just a few months before he was killed. What was he doing at a crime scene in the middle of the day?”

  Emily folded the paper, hiding the photo. “I don’t know. Perhaps it was near the university and he stopped on his way to work.”

  Stephen shook his head and took back the paper, unfolding it. “The article listed the address. This house is close to the river, nowhere near the campus. So why was he there?”

  “I said I don’t know, but I’m sure he had a reason.”

  “I thought he might be in the area because of the affair, so I looked up Siobhan, which wasn’t easy considering I only knew her first name.”

  Fear sliced through Emily, leaving her cold and robbing her of her voice.

  “The only reference I found to a Siobhan in Louisville, Kentucky, around the time that Dad was having the affair was a listing on the FBPI’s Most Wanted list.” He produced another page and read from it. “Siobhan Kelly, brown hair, blue eyes, age 184. Location unknown. Wanted for the murder of three Enforcers in January 1963. Considered armed and dangerous. Approach with extreme caution.”

  Emily looked away when he turned his focus to her.

  “Is this the same woman Dad was sleeping with?”

  She glanced at the small image provided along with the description. It was badly rendered and appeared to have been taken from an old snapshot, but the dark-haired smiling woman was undeniably Siobhan Kelly. Emily nodded. “Yes, that’s her.”

  Stephen leapt to his feet, muttering curses, and paced in front of her. “How could Dad get involved with someone like this?” After the fifth circuit, he stopped. “What if she’s the one who killed him?”

  “Siobhan didn’t kill your father—or anyone else, for that matter.”

  “They never caught the person responsible for Dad’s murder. How can you be so certain it wasn’t her?” He paused. “Unless you know who did it.”

  “Don’t be silly. Of course I don’t know who killed Bernard.”

  “You said Siobhan didn’t kill Dad or anyone else.” He held up the page in his hand. “If she didn’t kill these Enforcers, who did and why is she being blamed for it?”

  “It was your father,” Emily said and continued in a rush before he could interrupt. “Your father killed those Enforcers in order to protect Siobhan and her newborn baby. Afterward, it was decided Siobhan would leave Louisville and take the blame for the killings so Bernard could stay behind and raise his family.”

  “Dad killed three Enforcers? What-what about the baby? What happened to him?”

  “She stayed in Louisville with Bernard.”

  “She?” Stephen repeated. Realization crept into his eyes and he dropped his jaw. “It’s Alex, isn’t it? Alex is Siobhan’s daughter.”

  Tears brimmed in Emily’s eyes as she took a shuddering breath and nodded her confirmation.

  Alex’s memory haunted Varik. He stood in the center of her silent hotel room, and everywhere he turned his eye was drawn to a reminder of her: discarded clothing, a bottle of lotion, a book she’d been reading. The entire room smelled of her, and perhaps that was why he’d broken every speed limit in town and ran more than a few red lights to get here.

  He stretched out on the bed, sending up a wave of jasmine and vanilla. Memories of their lovemaking flooded his mind, seizing on an image of her lying beneath him, the engagement ring he’d convinced her to wear for that night nestled between her breasts.

  I love you, the memory whispered.

  Varik shuddered as an overwhelming sense of loss crashed into him. How cruel was fate to give her back to him only to take her away?

  Dweezil hopped up from the opposite side of the bed, sat down, wrapping his long fuzzy tail around his paws, and stared at Varik. The cat blinked and looked to the door and then back, as if asking where his mistress was.

  “She’s gone,” Varik whispered, his voice breaking. “And I’m not sure I can get her back this time.”

  Dweezil stretched his long Maine coon body to its fullest before striding across the bed to rub his head under Varik’s chin. His omnipresent purring was oddly quiet as he circled once before curling in a tight ball.

>   Varik stroked his hand over the cat’s thick black-and-tan fur. He laid his head on the pillow last used by Alex. “I miss her,” he said to no one in particular.

  Dweezil began to softly purr next to him, as if voicing his agreement.

  Peter secured the final strap around her waist and stepped back to admire his handiwork. Bands immobilized her arms, legs, and torso. He allowed her the freedom to move her head, a luxury he hoped would be a sign he intended her no harm.

  It hadn’t been easy to restrain Alexandra—she was much stronger than he anticipated—and she fought harder than the humans he normally had to control. Of course, the humans had all been drugged, but Alexandra needed to be awake and lucid if she was going to understand the level of betrayal perpetuated by those closest to her.

  He gently stroked the developing dark bruise on her jaw. He’d had no choice in the end but to punch her, stunning her long enough for him to lock the bands in place. Hurting her was the last thing he wanted. He brushed his lips over the bruise, wanting to kiss away the pain.

  His hands followed the line of her arms, her torso, her hips. His fingers found the hem of her shirt and slipped beneath, feeling the flat smoothness of her stomach. It would be so easy to claim her. So easy …

  “No,” he gasped and forced himself to back away. “I’ve come too far to risk losing her now.”

  He drew a ragged breath, calming his chaotic thoughts. She was his soul mate. He’d known that from the moment he first saw her in the Shadowlands when she was just a child. Forty years he’d waited for this moment. A few more hours at most wouldn’t kill him.

  She groaned and her eyes fluttered open. She tried to move but the bands held her in place. Her attempts to escape became more frantic. “What the hell? Let me go!”

  Peter moved to stand in front of her. “Not until you’re willing to listen to reason, darling. After all, I’m only trying to help you.”

  “Help me?” She smirked. “How about you help me out of these things and let’s see just how reasonable I can be?”

  “Nice try.” He picked up a folder from his workstation. “I’ll give you an ‘A’ for effort but I don’t believe you’re ready to run free yet.”

  While she continued to struggle and hurl insults at him, he opened the file and withdrew a large black-and-white photo. He held it up for her to see.

  She seemed to stare through him.

  “Look at this photo, Alexandra.”

  “I can’t fucking see, asshole.”

  Peter frowned and set the photo aside. He grabbed her jaw, forcing her to tilt her head back, despite her resistance. He carefully examined her eyes and then released her. “Temporary blindness most likely resulting from too rapid a transition through the Veil. It’ll pass.”

  “Thank you for the enlightenment, Doctor Quackenstein.”

  He picked up the photo again, determined to proceed regardless of her limitations. “I got this photo from the FBPI archives. The Freedom of Information Act the humans cooked up has been incredibly useful.” He examined the photo depicting a group of men and a handful of women—twenty-five in total. “It’s interesting. Here are some of the most well-known Hunters turned Enforcers, and who should be standing among them but Daddy Dearest.”

  “That photo is a lie. My father was a history professor.”

  “No, Bernard was the big fucking liar.” He picked up a stack of papers from the worktable. “I checked the University of Louisville’s faculty roster going all the way back to when the school was founded. It says Bernard Sabian taught history there from 1957 until his death in 1968.”

  “He did.”

  “No!” Peter slammed the stack onto the table. “His name was added after he died.”

  “That’s insane! Who would—”

  “The Bureau—or rather, the organization that would become the Bureau.” He held up the photo again. “I believe you’ll recognize the names Damian Alberez, Morgan Dreyer, Woody Phelps, who now sits on the Bureau Tribunal, as you know, and Gregor Wahl—oh, yes, and of course your father and Varik Baudelaire.”

  She clenched her jaw but said nothing.

  “They were partners, your father and Varik,” he explained, pointing to each individual as he named them. “You see, Daddy Dearest started life as a Hunter. Yes, underneath that lovable exterior, your sainted father was a cold-hearted, murdering bastard.”

  “You’re lying,” she whispered.

  “Sadly, no.” He sighed and continued his story. “Once Phelps discovered Bernard’s ability to enter the Shadowlands and, more specifically, the Hall of Records, he was removed from active duty. He—along with the other Talents, as they were called—would routinely scan the vampire population using their psychic abilities, looking for rogues and violations of vampiric law. However, Bernard was given a very special assignment: he was told to scan only other Hunters, including the Talents, for signs of turning rogue.”

  He tapped his finger on Baudelaire’s likeness. “Any Hunter or Talent found to be rogue was turned over to Lover Boy, who then dealt with them as quickly and quietly as possible. You see, while Bernard had psychic talents, Varik’s talents lie in killing. He became one of the most feared Hunters of all times.”

  He shrugged. “Well, at least he was until he killed an innocent boy who was in the wrong place at the wrong time and swore never to kill again. He then moved on to training other Hunters, and eventually Enforcers, which is how the two of you met.”

  His gaze drifted to the dark-haired woman standing to the left of Bernard. “Siobhan Kelly.” Peter smiled. “You recognize the name, don’t you?”

  She leaned her head back against the faux wall housing the restraint devices. “No.”

  “Now who’s lying, darling?”

  “I’m not your fucking darling, asshole!”

  “Not yet.”

  “Not ever.”

  “We’ll see about that.” He set the folder and photo on the worktable. “I’ll give you time to think about what I’ve said. Shall we continue in the morning?”

  She rested her head against the faux wall once more, refusing to look in his direction.

  He hopped down the attic stairs and opened the hidden door into the hallway. As he made his way to his bedroom, a sense of satisfaction enveloped him. Everything was going according to plan and once he finished showing her the extent of the lies that framed her life, she would willingly sever the bond to Varik and finally give herself over to him.

  twenty

  November 19

  ALEX HAD BEEN MISSING FOR NEARLY NINETEEN HOURS, and Varik drifted in numbness.

  The memory of Alex screaming his name over the blood-bond continued to haunt him. If he closed his eyes, he could still feel a specter of her touch, a spark of her mind’s warmth. He wanted to reclaim them both and knew, as he sat in the mobile forensics lab, that it was possible with the help of the two analysts before him, if he could muster the energy to focus on their words.

  Reyes Cott stood in front of him, gesturing to a porcelain doll encased in a large clear plastic evidence cylinder. “It’s supercreepy,” he said. His overly large eyes protruded farther than normal. “I’ve seen some weird shit but this doll beats it all.”

  “Spare me the melodrama, Reyes,” Varik snapped. “Just tell me what you found.”

  “Human blood.”

  “On the doll?”

  “In the doll.” Reyes picked up the cylinder. “As you know, the body is made from human skin that’s been turned into a type of leather, which is itself very high on the creep-o-meter, but the real show is in the porcelain head. At one time it was filled with human blood. A crack along the neck caused the blood to seep out.”

  “Why fill a doll’s head with blood?”

  “Good question. Why make the body out of human skin?” Reyes set the cylinder aside. “I think I have an answer to both.” He jiggled the mouse connected to his laptop computer and the monitor flickered from a screen saver to a website. “I found this site—it’
s sort of like Wikipedia for occult practices—and there’s a bunch of stuff on here about poppet magic, or using dolls as a stand-in for a real person.”

  “Voodoo dolls,” Varik said, pushing to his feet to view the site over Reyes’s shoulder.

  “Not exactly. Voodoo’s a religion, whereas a lot of what’s detailed on this site is just straight-up magic. Really freaky magic.” Reyes clicked on a series of links and an article featuring a lifelike doll with glowing red eyes appeared.

  Varik leaned forward. “Soul transference?”

  “According to the author of this article, a portion of the soul can be trapped in a vessel, in this case a doll, and used to boost the creator’s prana, or psychic energy.”

  “Which is what vampires feed on when we consume human blood.”

  “Precisely.” Reyes tapped the screen. “Now, going back to what we discussed yesterday, I’m thinking if this is possible, and you could perfect the storage devices and get enough of them, the need to consume blood would practically flatline, once you overcame the cravings for the taste.”

  “Alex said she heard hundreds of screams in the Dollmaker’s house.”

  “If he does have hundreds of these and if he has any form of psychic ability, which you say he does, each one of these would act as a battery. The guy would be turbocharged.”

  Varik straightened up and sighed. “That would explain why the bond has been cold. He’s blocking it somehow.”

  “But that has to be taxing, regardless of the number of spare batteries.”

  “Is there anything this doll can tell us about who he is?”

  Reyes smiled, showing a crooked left fang. “I saved the best part for last. Because I’m such a thorough guy, I checked out this doll from stem to stern, so to speak. I found a partial print embedded in the porcelain underneath the doll’s wig. I used a high-tech modeling compound to get a workable negative—”