Shadow Image

by Jaye Roycraft

  RIC MOVED HIS BIKE to the edge of the parking lot and waited in the shade of a large basswood tree. He was pleased with his adjutant. Tuxbridge had returned his phone call before he had returned the sheriff’s call, clearly knowing to whom he owed his allegiance. Little actions like that made an adjutant valuable, and a capable Overlord took note of such behavior. It was a good start to the relationship.

  Ric wasn’t sure if he was pleased with his encounter with the sheriff or not. As tired as he could tell she was, she had been like an inquisitive ferret with every whisker bristling, trying to piece him together and fit him into one of the neat little boxes that cops love so much.

  He had suggested the breakfast break as a test. The ideal situation would be for him to simply avoid all contact with Shelby Cort, but it was becoming painfully clear that that option wasn’t going to be viable. If communication was going to be inevitable, he needed to test both his control and her perception. For himself, he needed to know to what extent she would rouse his beast, and how much effort he would need to expend to quell it.

  As for her, he needed to know how she would react to his carefully dispensed revelations. If she could chew and swallow the tiny bites of truth flavored with falsehood and spiced with fantasy, he’d know how much was safe to reveal to her in the future.

  The results had been disturbing. He had watched her as she ate, and while the food itself was unappealing to him, the act of her indulging in a quick but guilty breakfast feast had aroused every one of his senses. Perfume and cosmetics did nothing to excite his kind, but thankfully she was free of such unappetizing cover-ups. She had the beginning of a good tan, rare for a redhead, and a spattering of dark freckles across the bridge of her nose. Blue-green eyes were as probing as any he’d ever seen. He’d watched her full mouth, pleasantly pink even without lipstick, and the muscles in her jaw and neck as she did justice to the meal.

  His own blood had been ignited just by the sight and scent of her, but when she started savoring the rich breakfast fare, his craving demanded satisfaction as well. He purposefully let the feeling build, knowing his limits, but putting them on trial nonetheless. He let her hunger feed his until he felt his blood begin to amp into the red zone. When she took her last bite and closed her eyes to relish the final swallow, he closed his eyes as well, thankful for the dark glasses. He felt everything she was feeling, but as was the way for the Demi Monde, the half-world existence of the Undead, what was true and right and normal for humans was either a perversion or reversal for the Undead. Her satisfaction meant his want, her pleasure his agony.

  Still, he had wanted to do it. If he and this female were going to coexist in this town, he needed to know exactly how he would react to her, and she to him. He had survived the encounter. His control, in the end, had prevailed unscathed. Still, future meetings with the sheriff would call for a great deal of prudence. He didn’t care to test his control in too many experiments like the one just completed.

  HALF AN HOUR later, Judson Tuxbridge exited the county building and headed for his truck, his faded work shirt unbuttoned and revealing the white T-shirt underneath. Ric called his adjutant’s cell phone number.

  “Tuxbridge.”

  “Tux, it’s Ric. I’m on the other side of the parking lot. Meet me at my house.”

  Ric saw the man turn and spot him. “Lead the way, boss.”

  Less than ten minutes later Ric pulled into the gravel driveway of his new house, a rambling white frame patchwork of add-ons. Bay windows adorned both the first and second stories of the original slender structure, but a long screened porch swelled to the side like middle-age spread, and a tall, narrow tower with a widow’s walk extended skyward like a strange growth. Tux rocked his truck to a stop behind Ric’s bike, and the two went inside.

  Tux traced a slow circle around the living room and ran a hand through unruly hair that was long and black. There was almost a look of pain in the puckered brow and curled lip. “I can’t believe someone actually bought the Chicken Palace. If you ever want some quality work done on this monstrosity, give me a call.”

  Ric threw his glasses onto an end table. “Forget the house.”

  One side of Tux’s mouth curled up. “Forget the house, indeed. We have a star in our midst. The famous docteur la mort. When I read the memo announcing your transfer here, I thought it was someone’s idea of a joke.”

  Ric didn’t care for being referred to as a joke, especially in his present state of mind. But he carefully kept his face blank. Some reputations, like that of his old friend Alek Dragovich, were crafted over time, built with blocks of ruthlessness and strength, brutality and power. Ric’s, however, hadn’t been manufactured. His alter ego, Doctor Death, had been a skin he had slipped into very naturally. In France he had been le docteur, and the persona had not only garnered him power, respect, and no small amount of awe, it had given him another veil to hide his true self behind.

  Most vamps in France had called him Doctor Death for his experiments long ago in trying to reanimate the dead. A few knew that the nickname also paid homage to Ric’s unique vampiric gift—that of the Hand of Death. With his right hand, Ric could either injure or heal anything from plants to humans to vampires. It was a unique gift, and Ric had spent decades honing the power until it had become as sharp as one of his instruments.

  He had been bigger than life. He had been Death. It was no wonder even these small-town vamps had heard of him.

  But this was Shadow Bay, not Paris. This was to be a new beginning. All the titles, masks, and cloaks had been left far behind on his native soil. Still, he was curious to know what Tux had heard. “What exactly have the rivers of rumor carried about Doctor Death? Surely no jokes, I trust.”

  Rumors were liquid things. They flowed freely, taking form only briefly whenever they found a mouth to mold them. Tux’s features, though, were far from being so yielding. His expression was rock hard, as if he resented the implication that he himself had participated in shaping the nuggets of half-truth and passing them along. “No jokes. I heard that you experimented with reanimating and communicating with the dead. Some say you’ve actually discovered the secrets of life and death. But I don’t understand what one of the most powerful vampires in all of France is doing here. Surely you’re not running away?”

  Running away. Ric wanted to laugh, but he kept his face impassive. He would keep the majority of his secrets, but he’d set Tux straight on a few things. “No. Just the opposite, in fact. I spent too many years buried with the dead. To surround myself with life is not running away.” The truth was that he hadn’t just buried himself with the dead. He had hidden from the world.

  “Still, you have to admit that for an ex-Paramount to want to become an Overlord in a place like this . . . well, you have to admit it’s strange.”

  “From your point of view, perhaps. Not mine. I just ask one thing. No more references to Doctor Death. Le docteur la mort does not exist here. Understand? Now, to business. We have problems.”

  Tux quirked an eyebrow. “The sheriff’s privy hole murder. But what does that have to do with us?”

  His gaze met his adjutant’s. “What the sheriff doesn’t know is that the body was drained of blood at the time of death.”

  Tuxbridge was almost tall enough to look at Ric eye-to-eye. A height of six feet was rare for any vampire of Ric’s age, and he knew that Tux was almost as old as he was.

  A touch of defiance stopping just short of challenge lit Tux’s green eyes. “So you think it’s one of us?”

  “Either one of our group or a rogue. I’ll need your help to find out who it is.”

  Ric knew Tux’s job wasn’t an easy one. An adjutant was often caught in the middle between individual council members and the local Overlord. Most hedged their bets by playing both sides.

  “I still don’t see what the big deal is. It’s a human crime—nothing to do
with us. No enforcer’s going to come knocking on our door. And besides, we have you to make sure the sheriff doesn’t learn the truth.”

  It wasn’t what Ric wanted to hear. He needed to both exert his authority and let his second-in-command know that resistance to his position would not be tolerated. At the same time, he needed Tux. A lot. He couldn’t afford to alienate his adjutant. Ric allowed the influence of his gaze to snare Tux’s mind and hold it—not harshly, but enough for Tux to feel his power.

  “I’m surprised at you, my friend. This isn’t Paris or London or New Orleans. You know as well as I do that in a small town like this we can’t drain our victims to the point of death and litter the countryside with bodies. I’m not worried about one or two indiscretions. What I am concerned with is one of us making a habit of it and bringing too much attention to all of us. Understand?”

  Tux’s green eyes were steady. “I understand. Your new children may not.”

  “With your help they will.”

  “Tell me what you want to do.”

  Ric released the other man’s mind, dropped onto one of the easy chairs, and leaned his head back. He was already tired, and displays of power, even mild ones, were always enervating. “Sit down, my friend.”

  Tux took the companion easy chair and waited.

  “I want a meeting, but not here. As you can see, this place isn’t ready yet.”

  Tux scratched at a spot behind his left ear. “Well, it’ll have to be tonight. You and I are the only diurnal vamps in the group. But it’ll have to be late. There are some who have night jobs.”

  “Night jobs? What kind of night jobs are there around here?”

  “Ormie’s a security guard at the casino just outside Maritime. Come to think of it, Ormie works until four in the morning. Eva’s a stripper at a roadhouse called the Diamond Stud out on Firelake Road. It’s about ten miles east of town off County Road D. Appropriate, huh? Nobody ever forgets where the Diamond Stud is. Classy joint. Strip shows, Karaoke, even male exotic dancing one night a week.”

  The Undead were immune to such mortal ailments as headaches, but even so, Ric could swear his temples were throbbing with pain. It must be the lack of sleep. He slowly tilted his head forward and fastened his gaze again on his adjutant. “Tell Ormie and Eva to leave work early or call in sick if they have to. Two o’clock. Everyone attends.”

  Tux didn’t seem the least bit intimidated by the stare. He cocked his head in a kind of sideways nod. “You’re the boss.”

  Ric ignored the irreverence. “Where can we meet?”

  “I’m sure Dory won’t mind us using his house.”

  Dory? He didn’t recall anyone named “Dory” on the roster of the Cristallia County Council. “Who are you talking about?”

  “Darius Kreech. We all call him ‘Dory’ because of all the doors in his house. His living room, dining room, and kitchen each have six doors. Each downstairs room has at least one outside exit.”

  Ric rubbed his temple with the heel of his hand. Maybe he had sat too long in the sunshine while waiting for the sheriff to finish with Tux. “Dare I ask why?”

  Tuxbridge shrugged in a lazy roll of one shoulder. “Some will tell you it’s because Dory is afraid of a fire, but Dory himself will only tell you that he likes collecting doors. His address and directions to his house are in the files I already gave you.”

  “All right. Two o’clock, then, at Dory’s house.” Ric leaned forward in his chair and balanced his elbows on his thighs. “You know these people better than anyone. Tell me, do you think a member of this menagerie is our vamp with the poor table manners?”

  Tux shook his head slowly, the mane of black hair barely disturbed by the motion, but Ric had the feeling that the gesture was more of an admission of uncertainty than a vote of confidence in his brethren. “We’ve been without an Overlord for several years now. The absence has bred laxity, no doubt, but they know how to act and how to survive. Still, I don’t think I could rule out any of the group.”

  Ric sighed. “What about the rogues?”

  I gave you the list of the ones I know about last week. I can’t vouch for the accuracy of the addresses, and I don’t know how many others are in the area that I’m not aware of.”

  “Of the ones on your list, are you acquainted with any?”

  “A couple.”

  None of it was of much help, but Ric strove to keep his breathing steady. It would accomplish nothing to lose control and take out his frustrations on Tuxbridge. “Tell me about yourself, Tux. Where are you from?” Now was as good a time as any to learn more about his adjutant.

  Tux smiled. “I’m from ‘God’s Country’—that is, if I still believed in a God. The Upper Peninsula. My father was a Frenchman. Did you know that?”

  Ric shook his head.

  Tux’s grin spread. “Unlike yourself, he was typical of the courouers de bois, the French fur traders, jovial and happy-go-lucky. It was a period of great romance, but also of hardship. The traders were fettered by laws as harsh and biting as the jaws of their steel traps, but my father and his cronies were notorious in their disregard of the decrees. They cared only for one thing, and that was the hunt. By the time I was born, markets were overstocked, prices fell, and the decline of the fur trade had begun. My father died, as did I, but I passed to the other side, and he did not. Still, all in all, I feel a kinship to him to this day. He enjoyed the hunt, and so do I.”

  “When I lived in Eidolon Lake I heard about the fur traders. There were old men in town who loved nothing better than to relate the legends of the fur traders, miners, and lumberman, and of the ghost towns that are all that’s now left of them.”

  Tux pulled a matchbook out of his pocket and lit a match. “Have you ever heard the French legend of the feu follet?”

  “The will-o’-the-wisp. The friar’s lantern. Of course. Strange, glowing orbs of light that flit through the woods, luring weary travelers not to safety, but to their deaths in a marshy bog or down a steep ravine.”

  “Umm. A phenomenon the scientists have dubbed ignis fatuus, the phosphorescent light caused by spontaneous combustion of gases emitted by rotting organic matter. But when I lived near what is now L’Anse it was myself and my brothers carrying lights in the forest to lure the humans to their doom. We fed well, and if we killed our victims, it didn’t matter. The missing were always blamed on the feu follet. It was great sport. I miss those days.” Tux stared at the flickering flame.

  “Not enough to go around killing humans, I hope.”

  Tux blew out the match. “Of course not. We’re more civilized now, and even we French no longer flaunt authority, do we?”

  One side of Ric’s mouth twisted downward. “Civilized, yes.” He looked at his watch and sighed. “I have to finish the autopsy. We’ll talk more tonight. Two o’clock. Be early.”

  Tux nodded as he drew a long breath. The gesture summed up Ric’s own feelings. It was going to be a long day, and an even longer night.

  SHELBY ARRIVED home at nine o’clock in the evening, dead to the world except for the tireless little gremlins who kept her and her headache alive with the merciless pounding of tiny hammers against her temple.

  A familiar greeting welcomed her. “Hello, baby.”

  She smiled in spite of her exhaustion and throbbing head. “Hi, Flash. Did you miss me?”

  “Hello, lover. Lover boy. Lover boy.”

  “I wish.” She opened the door of the cage, and the blue and white budgie hopped onto the lowered door and then onto her finger. She brought Flash to her face, and the tiny beak stretched out to peck at her nose in a bird-kiss. “Go on, now. I’m too tired to play.”

  She raised her hand with a jerk, and the bird took off, flapping noisily around the room.

  Flash had been named after the first partner she’d had as a patrol officer in
Milwaukee eight years ago. At first Flash had been exciting to work with. He had loved nothing more than to chase stolen cars through the streets and alleys of Milwaukee’s north side, and hardly an evening had gone by that Shelby and Flash didn’t engage some hapless slug in a foot or car pursuit. She had even dated Flash for a while, but his nickname was just as appropriate in the bedroom as it had been on the streets. Gradually Shelby began to see Flash as conceited and unsafe, and she was glad for the next squad change in which he was paired with a guy dubbed “Crash” for his propensity for getting into squad accidents. Flash and Crash. It was a match made in heaven.

  Suddenly she was angry with herself. It must be the exhaustion, because she knew better than to think about her ex-partner Flash. He made her think of the next cop she had dated, Curt Van Allen, and Curt had been the ultimate heartbreaker. V. A., as everyone had called him, had been on the early shift with her. Tall, with blue eyes, blond hair, and a body sculpted to perfection by hours in the gym, he had caught her eye from day one. And the attraction had been mutual. Maybe it was his air of authority that had made her think he was responsible. Maybe it was his smooth words, so coated with sincerity. But when he had told her he loved her, she had believed him. Not in a million years would she have guessed that V. A., as full of charm as his file was full of merit arrests, would be the one to destroy her life so thoroughly. Betrayal. Gossip. The harassment suit. Lies.

  No! She had vowed long ago not to waste any more tears, thoughts, or time on Curt Van Allen. She forced the memories aside and swept the room with her gaze, searching for some distraction.

  The phone. The red message light was blinking. Well, the calls could wait a few moments longer. She needed to relax, and she wasn’t quite ready to trade the painful recollections of the past for the pressures of the present. She shook her head, raised her hands with her palms facing the phone, and slipped into the sanctuary of her bedroom. The world could wait. She dropped the heavy Sam Browne belt onto the floor with a thud. Her sweaty uniform shirt was next to hit the floor, followed by an even sweatier white T-shirt. The brown uniform trousers topped the pile.