Shadow Image

by Jaye Roycraft

  She laughed. “Rich? I’m far from rich.”

  “I didn’t mean wealth as in money, but as in beauty and strength.”

  She had never experienced French charm before. It was like a drug, giving her an instant high. She gave him her sweetest smile as a thank you, taking it for what it was and not assuming any real truth. But it was a nice thing to hear nonetheless.

  Dinner ended too soon, and when he made no suggestion to go elsewhere, she made none either. He drove them back to her house, and she was quiet for most of the short drive, remembering why she detested first dates so much. She hated women who did nothing but tease and yank a man’s chain, and yet she felt that’s all she had done tonight. She hadn’t really found out much of anything about Ric De Chaux, and she was sure he hadn’t learned anything about her except that she was as much a shameless flirt as the next woman.

  As much as she might be tempted to invite him into her house, she wouldn’t. She had already given him a false picture of herself, but more importantly, she had no clear image of him other than that of a charming foreigner. The ride, like the dinner, was over quickly, and Ric pulled into her driveway and put the vehicle in park.

  “Ah, listen. I had a good time tonight. I needed a night out, and it was nice to relax. But it’s been a long day, and I really need to catch up on some sleep.”

  He took his glasses off and tossed them up onto the dash, then gazed into her eyes, tilting her face back to his with one hand when she tried to look away. “You try to deny your feelings, Shelby. Not only that, you try to bury them deep. But I can feel them, so don’t worry about thinking you can ever mislead me. You can’t.”

  His hand moved to the back of her head and pulled her to him. She wanted to stop him, but his eyes were so arresting. And she did so want to kiss him. One kiss couldn’t hurt.

  When his mouth took hers, all thoughts burst from her mind in an explosion of heat and softness. Nothing was left in her consciousness but wild feelings, all centered on what he was doing to her. There was no teasing or playfulness, but an insistence as pressing as his lips against hers. His mouth wasn’t hard or hurried, but soft and slow, as if he had all night and was wholly confident of reaching his goal in the end. When his mouth released hers, she had enough time to draw air into her lungs, but not to think. Before she could fully catch her breath, though, his mouth captured her lower lip, and he drew on her, sucking gently. The feelings he evoked ate at her precious control, methodically destroying her will.

  Her hands moved to the back of his head, and she tugged at the tie that bound his hair. In a heartbeat his long hair was free, and the heavy strands slid forward and curtained their faces from the world. She tangled her fingers in hair that was as sleek and cool as spun glass.

  His hands pushed her sweater off her shoulders, then both his mouth and hands dipped lower on her body—his lips to her neck and his fingers to her waist. A part of her knew she shouldn’t be doing this, but that part could do nothing more than sit on the sidelines and be a spectator. His long fingers splayed over her rib cage, moving languidly to cup the undersides of her breasts. She sucked in a sharp breath and threw her head back, exposing even more of her neck to lips and a tongue that seemed insistent in finding the sweetest spot to stop and linger.

  A roar thundered in her ears, first a living, breathing sound, like the cry of some great beast. When his mouth paused low on her neck, the roaring transformed again. This time the sound had a steady rhythm to it, like primitive music, like the blood rushing through her veins. The roaring took on a tinny, mechanical sound, repetitive and resolute.

  “Ric . . .” she breathed. “Ric, hold on. It’s my phone.”

  He released her, but slowly. She hiked her sweater back up, dug her cell phone out of her bag, and answered it.

  “Cort.” What she heard quite effectively ruined the evening. She sighed. “Where?” She repeated the address out loud when she heard it. “Okay, I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  She disconnected the call and looked at Ric, who had put his glasses back on. “I have to go. Somebody just tried to kill Lucius Moravich.”

  Five

  RIC GRABBED HER arm before she could slide out of the vehicle. If what he believed to be true was in fact the case, he needed firsthand information on the nature of Digger’s injuries and who the suspect might be.

  “I’m going along,” he said. “That is, if you can stand more rumors. One look at how we’re dressed, and it won’t take people long to put two and two together.” He was going along in any case, regardless of her answer. If need be, he’d simply compel her.

  “All right. I can’t worry about gossip now. You’re a doctor, and Digger might need your help. Follow me—it isn’t far.”

  He nodded and watched as she swiveled out of her seat and hurried up the driveway as quickly as her high heels would allow. She had fully aroused him, but the threat of danger was better than a splash of cold water to cool him down. He tied his hair back once again, then backed the SUV down to the road to give Shelby room. When Shelby pulled out of her drive, he swung around to follow at a discreet distance.

  Secrets. Shelby had been right about small towns. There were precious few secrets to be kept. If he had wanted nothing more than anonymity, New Orleans would have been vastly preferable to Shadow Bay. In the case of New Orleans, though, or any metropolis for that matter, the crowds that ensured anonymity also were the very thing he yearned to avoid. Hordes of humans. With their mindless mob mentality, hordes of humans could be more foolish, unthinking, and cruel in their collective power than any individual member of the Undead. When he had dismissed her worry over the gossip, he had spoken truly enough. With the power of his mind over humans, he had little to fret over. Yet he would have to be careful. The low profile he had originally intended to maintain was rapidly becoming an impossibility. The quicker he found out who was responsible for the murder, the better.

  The sun was just now teasing the horizon, setting the sky aglow with banners of red, orange, and pink. If this evening’s attacker was one of the Undead, he was most likely a diurnal vampire. So far, the only day vamps in the area were himself, Judson Tuxbridge, and the mysterious Joel Branduff. Of course, there could be any number of other as yet undiscovered local rogues.

  Five minutes later Shelby pulled into the drive of an old house that, like so many others, sat on the edge of a huge wooded area. He parked on the road so as not to block her in, grabbed his doctor’s bag from the back seat, and followed Shelby to the back yard. Thankfully it was a small group that huddled in the yard—one deputy, one resident, and the victim, Lucius Moravich. The deputy approached Shelby immediately upon seeing her and filled her in quickly on the incident. If the deputy wondered about either Shelby’s outfit or the fact that she and Ric arrived at the same time, his expression didn’t show it. Ric went to Lucius, knowing his heightened vampiric senses would be able to pick up Shelby’s conversation with the deputy regardless of how hushed their tones were.

  Ric feigned complete attention to the victim while listening to the deputy. “I’m Dr. De Chaux, Lucius. Did you request medical attention?”

  Lucius shook his head. “I remember you from the other night, Doc. No, I’m fine. I told the officer I didn’t need no ambulance.”

  The deputy was telling Shelby that Lucius had described his attacker as a large man with dark hair, but that he hadn’t gotten a good look at his face.

  “Where are you injured?” Ric asked Lucius, restraining his urge to immediately look beneath Digger’s long, scraggly hair for a neck wound. Instead, he pulled on a pair of latex gloves. He didn’t need the protection, but in this day and age it was standard procedure for officers and medical personnel whenever blood was present. If Ric didn’t wear the gloves, it would be noticed.

  “It’s just a scratch under my ear.” Digger held his hair back, and Ric took a look. Blood h
ad run down the man’s neck to stain his collar. There was a laceration, but two puncture wounds as well. Ric tore open a packet containing an antiseptic wipe and wondered how much the deputy had really seen under the blood. “Hold still, Mr. Moravich. I’m going to clean the wound. It may sting a little.”

  Ric listened as the deputy described the victim’s wound as a one-and-a-half-inch laceration. Good. The fewer police reports floating around describing puncture wounds on necks, the better. Ric cleaned the wound and covered it with an adhesive bandage. “You’re a lucky man. No stitches needed.” Luckier than you know. If the vampire hadn’t somehow been frightened off, you’d be dead right now, Mr. Privy Digger.

  “I told you, Doc. It was nothing.”

  Shelby approached the two of them, looking first at him and then at Lucius. “You got it bandaged already. That was fast.”

  “It was very minor. He won’t need stitches,” Ric explained.

  The sheriff was still looking at Lucius, shaking her head. “Digger, what are you doing still poking around back yards? I told you to stop your digging.”

  “I wasn’t digging, Sheriff. I was just scouting.”

  Ric and Shelby both glanced at the shovel nestled in the grass a few feet away. Shelby let out a long sigh that was obviously intended to relay her disapproval to Digger. Ric had the feeling the man wouldn’t respond to any hints less subtle than a whack over the head with the tool in question.

  “Gee, Sheriff, I was only carrying the shovel for protection.”

  The sheriff seemed to agree that the time for subtlety was past. “I don’t care. Listen, Digger. You could have been killed tonight. No more digging, no more scouting, no more wandering the woods, and no more poking around yards, day or night. Got it?”

  Lucius doffed his baseball cap, ran a grimy hand through hair that looked even grimier, and stared at a spot near the tip of one worn suede boot. “I got it.”

  Shelby sighed again, apparently not believing a word of Digger’s assurance. She turned toward Ric, stepping close, as if for a private comment. Her scent, released by the warmth of the summer heat and the events of the evening, washed over him, but her words were all business.

  “This was minor, but it could have been very serious. I’m going to be here awhile. I want to interview Lucius and the homeowner in detail, and I’m going to have my deputy search every inch of this yard. I don’t see any need for you to hang around.” She was careful not to meet his eyes. Was she regretting what had happened in his vehicle such a short time ago?

  Well, he was not going to allow the brush off. He would know everything the police knew about what had transpired here tonight. One way or another. He cocked his head casually and put the fingers of one hand to his glasses, as if to adjust them. If she shook her head, he’d take the glasses off and let his eyes convince her in the traditional way of the Undead. “I’ve got nothing but time on my hands. I promise I’ll stay out of your way. I might even be able to help.”

  There was no head shake, but her gaze darted to her deputy, and when she spoke, her voice was a harsh whisper. “If you stay without a clear reason for doing so, it’ll be just so much fodder for the rumor mill.”

  “I can stand it if you can.”

  Her eyes focused once more on him. “Ric, I can’t deal with this right now.”

  Enough is enough. He lifted his glasses, perched them on top of his head, and allowed the power of his eyes to capture her attention. “You will let me remain.” It was more than a suggestion, but as soon as he felt her mind acquiesce to his command, he felt a strange response in his own mind. Not triumph, as he might have expected, but regret. And shame.

  Regret and shame. Two words not normally found in the vampire’s dictionary. Even so, the shame was relatively easy for him to understand. He was so much more powerful than this female, but more than that, he had two centuries of experience to draw on as opposed to her two plus decades of life. Manipulating her should be a breeze, and yet within two days he had resorted to compulsion twice. Harder to comprehend was the regret. Somehow he found himself taking no satisfaction in turning her will to his. It was one more reminder that his familiarity and understanding of humans had been sorely lacking.

  “Okay. You can stay.”

  He let the glasses drop down. “I have a little more medical advice to give Lucius.”

  She nodded and joined her deputy to give him instructions. Ric stepped over to Lucius Moravich, took him by the arm, and steered him toward the far edge of the yard. He casually took off the glasses again and hooked them by one bow to the opening of his shirt. “You’ve lost a little blood, Lucius. When you go home tonight, treat yourself to a juicy hamburger or a big steak. Keep that wound covered for a few days. Oh, and Lucius . . .” He turned slightly so that he could look Digger right in the eye. “When you do look at the wound, you will see only a scratch. It was only a scratch. And one last thing. Take the sheriff’s advice and stay out of the woods, with or without the shovel. Do you understand?”

  “Yeah. I understand.” Digger’s eyes were very round and very dark. And he was very susceptible to suggestion.

  “Good man. I think the sheriff has some more questions for you.”

  Everyone retired to the comfort and light of the homeowner’s living room except the deputy, who remained outside to search the yard with his flashlight. Shelby questioned Lucius and the homeowner, Mr. Vickers, separately. The sheriff and her deputy were no novices. Ric had noticed the deputy standing between Lucius Moravich and Dan Vickers in the yard, preventing them from speaking to one another. Now, in the house, Shelby kept the two men apart. Ric was of some use, after all, keeping one man company while the other was being interviewed. After an hour, however, he said his good night to Shelby, satisfied that he had learned all there was to learn about what had happened earlier.

  There hadn’t been much to the story. Digger’s assailant had approached him from behind, unseen and unheard until Digger felt strong hands on him, one covering his mouth and the other across his chest, pinning his arm down. Apparently, a neighbor’s dog, a huge black shepherd, had wandered from his own yard into that of Mr. Vickers. Dan Vickers had a large compost pile at the rear of his yard that always contained egg shells, corn cobs, table scraps, and other organic goodies that were irresistible not only to every wild critter of the woods, but every dog in the neighborhood. “General,” drawn by the aroma of fresh garbage, had started barking at the men. When the back door of the house had opened, the assailant had fled.

  Lucius had only seen a blur of dark clothes and dark hair. He estimated that his attacker had been at least six feet tall and well built, but he hadn’t seen enough of the man’s face to look at mug shots or direct an artist to come up with a sketch.

  As he pulled up to the Chicken Palace later, Ric was grateful that he had no visitors, welcome or otherwise, waiting for him. He needed to think.

  Think. Ric prided himself on the fact that he still had the capacity for rational thought. Most vampires, in passing to the other side, found all their human traits perverted. Thinking became nothing more than brooding or sulking—dark, glum, and ruled solely by emotions like jealousy, mistrust, lust, and anger. Through some fluke in his transformation, Ric had retained the ability to control the heat of his passions with logic’s cool clarity. He knew it was one of the reasons he had been both a successful leader among the Undead and a successful doctor.

  As he entered the house, a flag of truth, normally buried as deep as his human memories, rose and unfurled, and his conscience whispered, Liar. Your pride and joy is a lie. It wasn’t your transformation, it was your life as a human that dictated your eternity. It was those final months of horror and loss that killed all emotion, deadened all passion.

  Ric, in an uncharacteristic sweat, stripped off the silk shirt and trousers, the glasses, and the gold jewelry, and raced up to the tower room,
slamming the door behind him. He knew from experience that when his mind allowed truth to taunt him, the tortuous memories would follow, and he would remember and relive the emotion and passion of his human days. He opened the tower window, gripped the sill with both hands, and drew deep breaths of the warm night air, focusing all his concentration on his breathing. Slow and steady . . . slow and steady. It didn’t work.

  The physical intimacy he had shared with Shelby earlier in the evening, however brief, had released the beast. The beast was that part of him that was pure, unadulterated one hundred percent vampire. It was the part of him that hungered, lusted, and ensured survival. It was his strength, his power, his lethal beauty. It was also that part of him which overran control, logic, and reason. The beast was necessary, for without it, he would die the True Death, but it wasn’t always welcome. With the loss of control, the floodgates holding back the memories were battered and torn.

  The first memory seeped through.

  Paris, 1793

  The fever that swept the land was worse than the plague. He could understand disease, even the most virulent and deadly, but the fever that turned so many individuals into but one tiny portion of a collective creature, just as mindless but so much more powerful, was beyond his comprehension. This creature, the mob, was indiscriminating, relentless, and insatiable in its hunger for blood.

  He had been told that his little sister, with as much sunshine in her disposition as in her hair, was first in line for the guillotine. His two younger brothers, Adrien and Gerrard, had been next, followed by their mother, so gentle and quiet, yet so unforgettable in her beauty and grace. His father, le comte de Chaux, was the last to go and witnessed all those who went before. Ricard had told himself over and over in the years to follow that he had been lucky not to have seen what his father saw on that final day. Lucky, too, in that had he been there, he would have been helpless to do anything other than fill the empty spot between Gerrard and his mother—the spot reserved for the eldest son of le comte.