Shadow Image

by Jaye Roycraft

  She shivered, and he put his arm around her at last. “In any case, the Fourth Estate was highly organized, and its members had the advantage of being more cagey, cautious, and cunning than the most secretive of radicals. They had an elaborate underground railroad in place to ostensibly smuggle émigrés out of the country. Of course, those they promised to help were transported not to safety but to an isolated chateau where they became either food or new additions to swell the ranks of the Undead. I was the epitome of the ideal candidate for turning—I had no family left to search for me, and I was educated and strong.”

  “Did they give you a choice?”

  Ric laughed. “The Undead gave me a choice in the same way that Robespierre gave citizens their freedom. With a little pressure on the neck. The human body must die before it can be reborn. I was a prize catch, so I was given over to Damiane. She was the most powerful female vampire in all of France.” The laughter slid from his voice like waves receding from the beach. “You don’t want to hear this.”

  “Yes, I do. Please.”

  “She kept me as her lover for two years before she turned me.” He looked away to the horizon and snorted softly. “‘Lover’ is too respectable a title for what I was. I was a pet, a plaything. She took blood from me a little at a time—not enough to kill me, just enough to debilitate me and break me to her will. Once I was weakened enough by loss of blood, the rest was easy for Damiane. When she found out I was interested in medicine, she seduced me with the promise of the secret of life and death. After that I didn’t fight her anymore, and when that happened she lost interest in me and turned me. I died and was reborn a child of the Fourth Estate. I stayed with Damiane for almost twenty years after that, not as a lover, but as an apprentice. I learned more from her in those few years than most vampires learn in a century of apprenticeship.”

  Shelby felt a brief unreasonable jealousy toward an inhuman creature that had existed over two hundred years ago. “And did she give you the secret to life and death?”

  He turned toward her, that sad smile of his still in place. “Many men, both human and Undead, have spent lifetimes trying to unlock those secrets. I was one who tried. Many have mastered the death portion. None have mastered the life part.”

  “You don’t consider what you are the secret of eternal life?”

  “Some might. I’m not arrogant enough to believe that. I’m not alive, for one thing.”

  She shivered at the thought. “You sure have me fooled. What do you call it, then?”

  “It’s a force that animates the body and simulates life. There have been many names given to the phenomena over the centuries. Some say it’s a kind of negative energy, a type of antilife. It’s been referred to as everything from a gift to a disease. Some think of it as a mere transition between life and death. Many legends believe that it’s a spirit—often an evil spirit—that continues to animate the body. It’s been called a punishment, a damnation, a demonic infestation, and a curse. Some say we’re simply shadows with no corporeal body; others say we don’t exist at all except in the minds of humans who have a void in their lives that needs to be filled. Damiane calls it . . . called it ‘the Golden Gift.’ She called me her ‘golden boy.’”

  “What do you call it?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t have a name for it. It’s not a condition or a disease you can grow in a laboratory and stick a label on. I don’t know how to explain it to you, Shelby, any more than I can explain how you make me feel. I’ve studied the dead and the Undead for over two hundred years, and I still don’t know what it is.” He twisted his body toward her. “Come here,” he whispered.

  She knew he was asking for her acceptance. Strangely enough, accepting him for what he was wasn’t the hardest part. What made her hesitate was the specter of her own “golden boy”—and the issue of trust.

  “What scares you? That I’m not alive?” Ric’s voice was probing, but he made no move.

  “No. The golden boy,” she whispered.

  “That I was Damiane’s lover?”

  She closed her eyes. “No. My own golden boy. His name was Curt Van Allen.” She told Ric everything—details of the affair she had never confided to anyone else.

  “It turned out I wasn’t the only female on the force Curt had had affairs with. He got his kicks telling his squad partners all the juicy details. I guess he figured there was no harm in it. There’s an unwritten code that says ‘what’s shared in the squad car stays in the squad car.’ But someone ignored the code and repeated the story.” She snorted. “Gossip spread through the department quicker than if the affair had been posted on the roll call board. I filed a complaint against Curt, partly for myself and partly to prevent Curt from doing the same thing to more gullible females. He did a good job of tarnishing the notion of ‘the golden boy.’”

  He stroked her face with the back of one hand. “Well, I won’t tell you my kind doesn’t gossip. We do. But we also know the value of being discreet. It’s what keeps us alive. I’m not going to betray your trust.”

  She let go of her knees, unfolded her body, and crawled into his lap, shivering even as he draped his arms around her shoulders and let them slide down her back. It was in small part the chill lake breeze and his words, but more than anything else it was her body’s reaction to his. He pulled her tighter. He shook his head, and she felt his lips caress her hair as the wind had moments before. Shudders ran down her body unrestrained as she tried to entwine her legs with his.

  “Just hold me, Ric.”

  He was one contradiction after another, like the reflection of a mirror in a mirror, endless, yet beckoning her further and further. His strength made her feel safe, yet the danger made her feel raw and alive. His wisdom and worldliness calmed her fears, yet his vulnerability made her feel needed. He couldn’t explain the rationale of his being, yet the very fact that he existed gave her the best feeling of all—that she wasn’t alone. And the one thing she was sure of was that he was no shadow.

  RIC LEFT HER the next morning after following her to the county building. He had argued with her that calling in sick and spending the day with him was the only way he could ensure her safety. She had fired back that he was crazy if he thought she could just take time off from work in the middle of a pending homicide investigation. He implored her to stay in the building and not to go outside alone for any reason, no matter how innocent or simple the errand. She got defensive and regaled him with the fact that she had carried a service weapon for almost ten years, had received some of the best tactical training in the country when she was in Milwaukee, and had been in a command position for the last four years. He reminded her that her weapon would do no good against his kind and asked when her tactical training had included a scenario with a bloodsucking vampire. That was when her growl of frustration ended the conversation, followed by a slam of the front door just in case he missed her meaning.

  Luckily, all the quarrelling had occurred after they had finished making love for the second time. Actually, it had been three times last night if he included their lovemaking on the beach. The feel of her trembling warm body next to his had again come dangerously close to unleashing his bloodlust, but in the end discipline and restraint had prevailed.

  He had done it. Not only had he managed to take his pleasure and grant hers without losing control, but he had coaxed her faith in him to return. It had involved revealing more about himself and his past than he would have cared to, but short of dazzling her with vampiric tricks, he had seen no other way. He hadn’t told her the story of his life as a human to inspire pity or sympathy, but the account had definitely forged a connection with her own history of loss.

  He sighed as he turned the bike for home. He would feed, grab some sleep, and then plan for tonight. He had partially solved the problem of what to do with Shelby. But he still had six nasty vamps to deal with tonight, and he didn’t hav
e a clue as to where to start.

  Twelve

  WHEN RIC WOKE just before noon the first thing he did was call Shelby at work. Her reply to his inquiry was only slightly less stinging than her parting salvos of earlier in the morning.

  “Listen, Ric, I appreciate the concern, but I’m fine. I’m also busy. Stop being so paranoid.”

  He spent some time at his office doing paperwork, but when his only appointment called to cancel, he put the closed sign in the window and locked up. He drove his SUV to the county building and sat in the parking lot until Shelby came out at five carrying her duty bag. He honked once, and she walked over to where he was parked. She came to the driver’s side, and he buzzed down the window.

  She dropped the bag on the pavement with a thud. “I can’t believe you’re sitting here. How long have you been waiting?”

  He cocked his head. “A couple hours.”

  Her hair was pinned up, but stray locks had escaped their confines and floated around her face. She swept a hand at her bangs, but the hair flopped back. “What if I had gotten tied up with something?”

  He smiled. “I’m good at waiting. I’ve had lots of practice. Besides, the time wasn’t wasted.” He had been thinking about tonight, not her, but he didn’t tell her that.

  She returned his smile. “So what are you planning now? Are you going to follow me home?”

  He nodded. “I can stay a few hours or take you to dinner if you like. I have business to attend to later, though.”

  “Oh, I see. You don’t mind being a bodyguard as long as it’s convenient to your schedule.”

  “Shelby, you’re not taking this seriously.”

  Her smile disappeared, and she gazed across the parking lot, swiping again at her hair. More strands were pulled loose. She looked back at him. “Not taking this seriously? Excuse me, but I think I’m doing a pretty good job of coping with being attacked by one bloodsucker and wined, dined, and romanced by another.”

  Hard truths had aftershocks. He knew this well from experience. In spite of everything that had happened last night, her world was still rocking. “Can we not talk about this in the middle of the parking lot?”

  She picked up her bag. “That’s the first reasonable thing you’ve said so far. Follow me, then. I don’t see that I have much choice.”

  Once at her home, she let him in, but she greeted Flash with a “hi, baby” before she said anything to him. He waited, knowing how hard the past forty-eight hours had been for her. They hadn’t been much easier for him.

  She turned to him at last. “If you’re serious about dinner, that would be nice. I don’t have anything here to fix. I haven’t exactly had time for grocery shopping the past couple days.”

  “Change your clothes, and I’ll take you wherever you want to go. Want me to fix you a drink in the meantime?”

  She finally cracked a smile. “No, thanks.”

  A half hour later she came into the living room wearing snug black pants and a sweater in a pale green-blue that reminded him of her eyes. Her hair was as loose as her outfit was tight. He wanted nothing more than to make love to her again but, though he had the time before his meeting, he knew it wouldn’t be a good idea. He needed to stay cool, with his wits intact and his beast firmly under control.

  At her request, he took her to a small café in Snoshoe Harbor that overlooked the bay. They had a corner table near the window, and there were no other customers sitting nearby. Still, she leaned forward over the table and, doing proper justice to the darkest secret in the world, whispered, “So I understand why you hate the people who killed your family in the Revolution, but why do you prefer your kind over us? Aren’t you all just as terrible, if not more so, in the things you do?”

  “Yes, but that’s our nature. It’s expected. My kind don’t parade terror in the guise of justice and call it a virtue.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t remember a whole lot of what I learned about the Revolution, but a king who cared nothing for the common man couldn’t have been a good leader.”

  And the debate was on. Watching Shelby eat and listening to her opinions proved a pleasant diversion that took his mind off other issues weighing on him. But he eventually looked at his watch and knew he’d have to take her home and leave her.

  He was silent as he drove her home, considering his options. They were as few and poor as beggars on a frigid night. He couldn’t cancel the meeting. He definitely couldn’t take her with him. He had no one nearby strong enough or trustworthy enough to leave her with. He supposed he could dazzle her into a stupor and lock her in his cellar, but he had no doubt that if he did that she would never forgive him, no matter how safe it kept her.

  All he could do was hope she listened to his advice. He didn’t know whether to groan or laugh. She had never listened to his advice before. He had little hope she’d start now.

  Still, once he got her home, he tried. “Shelby, I’ll be gone for a few hours, no longer. It’s business that can’t be put off. I’ll come right back as soon as I’m finished. Don’t go out of your house for anything. Not to take the garbage out, not to investigate lights in the woods—not for anything. Do you understand?”

  She spun around and crossed her arms over her chest. “No, I don’t. You won’t answer half my questions. You order me around like a child. You want me to hole up in my own house like some kind of prisoner. And you think I’m going to understand? You’re right about one thing. You don’t understand humans.”

  “I care about you, Shelby. I don’t understand that, either. But do as I say.”

  She turned away from him, as though she wanted to make up her mind without having him being able to read her face. He could easily compel her. Or he could simply kiss her. If past experience was a guide, a few physical intimacies were a more powerful inducement for her than all the words in the world. But this was a decision he wanted her to make on her own. It was the only kind of decision that would have any conviction behind it.

  She faced him again and dropped her arms. “All right. But only for tonight. I can’t live like this night after night. When you come back we’re having a serious talk. Not about the past, but about the future.”

  “Agreed.” How much he could—and would—tell her was something he’d think about later. For now all that mattered was her compliance with his orders. “I have to go. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Come here.”

  She stepped up to him, a small sign of faith. He accepted it, smoothing her hair back before he bent his head to take the warmth of her lips. Her mouth opened under his, and he felt a trust and need in her body that far outreached her contrary words. He kissed her more intensely than he had intended, wanting to draw even more from her. She purred deep in her throat. Ordinarily such a response would only spur him on, but the sound reminded him that now was not the time. He broke the kiss and leaned back.

  “I have to go. Be good.”

  She drew a shuddering breath and nodded. “I’ll be here.”

  By the time Ric got back to the Chicken Palace the sun was flirting with the horizon, and a slash of color spread across the evening sky, highlighting the edges of western clouds. He changed his clothes. For the first time since he had moved to Shadow Bay, he dressed in the traditional outfit he had worn as the Paramount le docteur la mort in France. Part of the outfit was influenced by the black and white Beau Brummell elegance of the early nineteenth century, and part of it was simply Ric’s taste for somber simplicity over the flash and excess that many vamps preferred. He wore black trousers, a black waistcoat, a white shirt, and added a white waterfall cravat similar to those popular long ago with everyone from stage-coachmen to ruffians, but frowned upon by Beau as being too extreme. Ric completed the set with knee-high black boots and a heavy gold ring that depicted a lion’s skull surrounded by a flowing mane. Some of the younger council members might not ap
preciate the significance of the outfit, but he hoped it would remind most of his age, rank, and power.

  Tux was the first to arrive, as usual. He raised an eyebrow at Ric’s traditional garb but said nothing except that everyone had been contacted and would arrive soon and that Ormie would be bringing Eva.

  They waited in silence. Lyle and Zada arrived together in a nondescript pickup truck, followed by Dory in his van. Ric stood at the enclosed porch’s open front door and watched as Dory closed first the vehicle’s moon roof, then the passenger and driver’s side windows. Gray clouds had overrun the sky and scudded eastward. Even in the doorway Ric could feel the stiff breeze ruffle his cravat and wrap his hair around his throat in a mimicry of the neckpiece.

  He stepped aside for Dory to enter and acknowledged Dory’s “evening, boss” with a silent nod. No other headlights were visible moving along the road. Ric closed the door, followed Dory into the living room, and paced back and forth before his fireplace. Tux sat in one of the easy chairs, Lyle and Zada sat next to each other on the sofa, and Dory pulled a wooden chair to a spot right next to the porch’s door. All of them eyed Ric with a curiosity that held more cold disdain than respect, but their gazes moved to Tux after that. It was as if they all looked to Tuxbridge for their cue. There was no small talk.

  Ric glanced at the mantel clock. Fifteen minutes had passed since Dory’s arrival. Ric stopped and looked at Tux. “Where are Ormie and Eva, my friend?”

  Tux’s features were bland, but his green eyes were like a cat’s. “They’re on their way. Ormie warned me they might be a little late. Nothing to worry about.”

  Lightning flashed through the windows, brighter than the glow from the table lamps, and a low rumble of thunder thudded like heavy footsteps. Dory nervously turned and peered out the window. Was it true he was deathly afraid of fire? He couldn’t be any closer to the door if he tried. Ric looked again at the others, but they paid no attention to either the approaching storm or Dory. Their gazes shifted between Tux and himself.