by Nancy Gideon
Frustrated with the way the sky was darkening outside the slatted blinds, Stacy stood in the central room, thinking hard, trying to put herself in the place of a centuries old predator who had to hide himself out of necessity every day of his unnatural life.
Where would one be least likely to look?
The kitchen was immaculate, like a gleaming techno page in a decorator magazine. But what Louis dined on was not prepared upon the modern stove or pulled out of the walk-in pantry. She checked there first, but found only shelves containing just enough staples to look ordinary. She scanned the perimeter. It had to be someplace large enough to accommodate him. She couldn't picture him huddled under the double sink, then checked there, anyway.
Her gaze fixed upon the huge stainless doors of a restaurant-sized refrigerator/freezer. How many veggies did the man keep on hand to warrant such an excessive storage unit? Unless what it was storing wasn't 2% milk but rather 100% unnatural vampire.
She opened the refrigerator, surprised to find milk as well as a supply of other perishable products. And lots of what appeared to be tomato juice but was more likely type O. She stared at those containers, fighting down a shudder of dread. Determinedly, she pulled open the freezer, stepping back at the sudden rush of frigid air. It reminded her of the preternatural cold accompanying visits from the killer. Had Redman come right from the deep freeze to torment her?
Some steaks, stir-fry vegetables, and more ‘tomato juice.’ A better, more healthy selection that what she had in her own freezer.
Gripping one of the racks, she gave it a halfhearted tug and was stunned when the entire center section of shelves slid toward her.
Open Sesame.
Recovering herself, she eased the unit out and let it swing to the side, revealing a false back with a second door. Excitement clenching in her belly, she opened the door and stepped into what amazingly was a small service elevator. Certainly not standard in all the Easton's apartments. There were two buttons, up and down. Since the building only had six stories, she pressed down. The door closed, sealing her into a claustrophobic darkness. With a smooth purr of mechanics, the tiny car began its descent. Delivering her into the bowels of hell? she wondered.
A slight bump announced her arrival at her destination. Slowly, she opened the door, peering out into a well-lit storage room. The basement? Not quite.
Under the antiseptic glow of fluorescent lights, carefully preserved in this climate-controlled room was Luigino Rodmini's history. Paintings and collectibles worth millions were all cataloged and lovingly stored. Mementos from the civilizations he'd seen rise and fall, from the wars he'd survived unscathed, from the humans he'd known and possibly loved, all there in regimented decades. And behind a double-tiered unit to store the art of VanGogh, Renoir, Picasso and others beyond price, was the most unique of all his collection. A large, simple casket where he'd lain as centuries passed by.
Seeing it made believing it settle with a yet unacknowledged punch of reality.
Louis Redman was a vampire.
When she lifted the lid, Stacy would find him resting inside.
She thought she'd accepted the impossibility of his preternatural existence. But standing in the cool, ageless air, staring at the coffin where he slept, undead, forced the fact home.
My God, it is real.
And if she continued to gawk, she would find out exactly how real.
Stacy went to the casket. Taking a deep, fortifying breath, she opened the lid, preparing herself for the horror within.
But the sight of Louis Redman peacefully reclined upon white tufted satin was anything but repellent.
He was beautiful in repose.
Exquisite bone structure seemed sculpted from pale marble. Black lashes and a stray lock of hair lay against that flawless skin in shocking comparison. He wasn't lifelike, as one always said to console the family of someone recently deceased. He appeared frozen in time, a monument crafted to exalt the man he'd once been in another time, another place. This was the face of Luigino Rodmini, who walked the streets in the era of Michaelangelo, not of Louis Redman, who made corporate deals and used American Express. Suspended in his twilight sleep, an aura of infinity enveloped him, of untouchability, of immortality.
But he would soon wake from that sleep, and finding her at his side when he was his most vulnerable, he might not be in the mood for discussion.
Acting quickly, she opened her purse and drew out the necessary equipment. Shoving up the sleeve to his black silk sweater, she tubed his upper arm and snapped a vein into attention. He never flinched as the needle pierced his skin, nor did he seem aware as she withdrew one vial, then two, then three of his unique blood.
Now, no matter what decision she made regarding Louis Redman, her own future and research were secure. She wouldn't think about Louis, not until she was far away from his influence. For even though he was deep in his unnatural rest, she was affected by him, by his dark, deadly charm and lethal looks. She thought about the sharpened salad spoon in her purse. Not exactly VanHelsing's weapon of choice but the only viable tool in her apartment. Could she, to save her life, press it to Louis's motionless chest and drive it through his heart with blows from her meat tenderizer? Thankfully, his sleep remained undisturbed, and she wouldn't be put to that test. Now, she could turn his fate over into other hands. A fate he'd made for himself by killing indiscriminately. She would not feel responsible.
But that didn't stop her from feeling a seeping sorrow when she took one long last look at his compelling features.
Had things worked out, they might have been good together.
Now, she would never know.
Having lingered as long as she dared, she restored his sleeve and readied to escape, turning toe-to-toe and eye-to-eye with the Asian, Takeo.
He may have looked ancient, but there was no weakness in his grip. His hands banded her forearms, forbidding struggle or escape. His impenetrable expression didn't alter, nor did he speak. He simply restrained her. A flat black stare said no excuses, explanations nor pleading would do any good. A man of duty, just like Frank Cobb. She'd been caught, and now she would wait for Louis's judgement.
"Ms. Kimball,” came the silky drawl of his voice. “I wasn't aware we had an appointment tonight."
Takeo released her at once, knowing it was too late for her to run. Stacy turned slowly, expecting, yet still startled by, the sight of Louis sitting up inside the coffin. She couldn't discern his mood from the suave blank of his features, but saw no need to provoke him.
"Good evening."
He smiled slightly, the gesture smooth and possibly sinister. “Takeo tells me you left the freezer door open. That was rather careless, don't you think? Now he'll have to cook up everything that has thawed or throw it away. Takeo hates waste, as do I."
"I'd be happy to replace anything that's spoiled,” she offered in an attempt to match his blasé manner. Failing when he lightly vaulted from his padded box to stand before her. She couldn't help shrinking away as terror's grip held her as immobile as Takeo's hands had.
"That, of course, is not the point.” He glanced at the bag clutched tightly in her hands. He didn't ask her to surrender it, as if he already knew what it contained. What she had stolen. His voice lowered to a chill purr. “I thought we had reached an agreement."
"I was willing to uphold my end."
The crisp cut of her tone had him lifting one brow. “If that is true, then why are you here, stealing what I would have given?"
Anger at his nonchalant attitude nudged fear aside. “Really? Forgive me for having my doubts after your rather blatant demonstration of last evening."
Now he looked truly perplexed. “Non capisco. I'm afraid I don't understand."
Aggravating tears pricked behind her eyes as she cried, “Neither do I. There was no reason to kill her. No reason at all."
His expression clouded even more, making her doubt the validity of her claim for the first time even as he stated, “Of whom do yo
u speak? I am confused. I am supposed to have slain someone? How can that be? I do not kill for fun or food, only in self-defense."
"She was no threat to you. If you were worried about me, you should have stuck to your bullying tactics instead of murdering my neighbor."
"Stacy,” he vowed somberly, “I did no such thing."
She stared at him, frantically searching his handsome face for some reason to accuse or believe. “You weren't at my apartment building last night? You didn't whisper to me in the hall and send me outside to find Glenna with her throat torn out on the front sidewalk?"
"No. I did not. What reason would I have for such bad behavior?"
"About as much reason as throwing that poor girl off the pier. About as much logic as sending me the tennis shoe from the girl on the monorail after you'd murdered her, or that jogger's ponytail. But why Glenna? We'd already made our agreement. It makes no sense at all."
Her voice trailed off as darkness gathered about him. It began with the subtle sharpening of his expression, as shadow seemed to seep into the hollows of his cheeks, elongating the lines of his face. His eyes took on a metallic glitter backed by a strange phosphorescent glow. If she hadn't been frightened before, she was terrified now. She could feel the negative energy collect like lightning within massing clouds. Then it struck, Swiftly, brutally.
Across the room, a lovely Egyptian vase shattered upon its stand, shards raining to the floor. Paintings stacked along one wall fell forward in a noisy domino effect. The lights flickered above even as Louis's gaze flashed. A single fierce oath escaped him, the sound roaring from him, filling the room with deafening vibration, as the force of his rage swirled about in a ripping wind of near-cyclonic proportion.
Hands clamped over her ears while her hair flew wildly about her head and shoulders like a sheet on a Kansas clothesline in the middle of a twister, Stacy cowered, afraid the direction of his wrath would turn her way. Finally focusing on her, Louis recovered himself, making a conscious effort to regain control.
In a deathly quiet tone—the ominous calm after the storm, he said, “It makes perfect sense to me."
He took her by the elbow. She could feel the chill of his fingers right through the knit of her sweater and fought not to shy away.
"Come upstairs where it is more comfortable.” It wasn't a request, no matter how courteously put. “Then, you will tell me everything."
Chapter Twelve
It was all very civilized. Stacy drank wine and Louis the darker vintage stored for his special preference, while they watched the moon rise over the city and the heavens awake. What had awakened in Louis, from the moment she told him about the trinkets delivered from the dead girls, was a horrible sense of deja vu and danger.
As he listened to her stoic retelling of her traumatic past week, he marveled as well at her courage. Even thinking him responsible for the cruel deaths and depraved gifts, she'd come alone to risk his discovery and displeasure. How frightened she must have been—and still was. He could scent it on her, a fine, exotic fragrance he'd come to know well over the centuries. Yet, believing him to be a vicious killer, she'd still come. And she sat across from him, hiding her fear behind an admirable show of nonchalance. What a strong, determined creature she was, and he found himself impossibly drawn toward what could never be. Should never be.
Not while he remained a creature of the night.
He rose from his seat to pace as she spoke flatly about the murder of her neighbor. The recitation was chilling, not because of the actual atrocity—which was shocking enough for Stacy—but because of the suspicion gathering within his heart and mind. He paused in his restless travels as she explained how she had gained entrance to his supposedly impervious surroundings, having to turn away so she wouldn't witness the mixture of dismay and delight playing upon his features. Resourceful, as well as intelligent. A fine and worrisome combination. She wasn't going to maintain the objectivity he insisted upon if they were to work successfully together. And now, knowing what he did, he couldn't allow the distance his emotions demanded.
"So,” he asked at least, “why did you take the blood from me?"
He felt her hesitation, but he knew she spoke the truth when she said, “I figured to be on the safe side, I should have enough on hand to complete my experiments."
"In case of what?"
"Just in case you were no longer available for further testing."
She met his stare straight on and without the slightest embarrassment.
Startled by her candor, he murmured, “You meant to kill me, then? Is there a stake to bring death as well as the tools to enhance life in that bag of yours?"
"I wasn't sure what to expect, and I had to be ready ... in case."
"In case?"
"You woke up."
"You would have slain me?"
"If I thought it necessary. It would not have been my first choice."
The honest simplicity of her reply took him aback but also intrigued him. “But you did not. Why? You were leaving when Takeo delayed you. Had you managed to escape undetected, what would you have done?"
"I would have turned all the information I had over to the police and let them deal with you."
"You would have betrayed me into their hands.” His indulgence faded.
A fire of rebellious fury snapped within her direct stare. “As I've been betrayed all too frequently. Get used to it. It's nothing personal."
"Forgive me if I consider the loss of my life as very personal."
A flicker in her gaze said she was aware of her precarious position, but she didn't back down and she didn't beg for his mercy. And because she did not, he could not be less honorable in his reaction.
"I am not behind the bothersome tricks that have been played upon you, Stacy. Do you believe me?"
"Why should I? Do you expect me to believe there is another such as yourself plaguing this city?"
His smile confirmed it. “Don't be naive, Doctor. We are all around you."
This time, her shock manifested in a very visual fashion. She sat back as if struck, her eyes round and apprehensive as her mind tried to reject what her intuition told her was true. Then a darker truth surfaced.
"You know who it is, don't you?” Her whisper was part accusation, part agitation.
How could he not answer? Ignorance would place her in unacceptable danger. Suspicion would interfere with their partnership.
"Yes, I know him."
She gave a breath of relief, as if the demon haunting her dreams finally had a face and therefore, could be dealt with. “Then why not give that information to the police? He will be arrested, the killings will stop, and then my research can continue."
"A logical, and very foolish, summation,” he drawled, coming to a stop near where she was seated.
Stacy bristled at his condescending attitude. “Why? It makes perfect sense to me."
He smiled wryly at her sharp return of his earlier phrase, then explained. “If he is exposed, the fact that our kind exists surfaces as well. What guarantee have I that he won't tell them about me? And about your involvement in concealing past evidence from them? Now do you understand?"
Her frustration said that she did, all too well. “Then what do we do to stop him? His games are growing more dangerous by the day. Am I his target?"
"No,” Louis assured her softly. “I am."
He felt her questions, her need to hear, to know, but he turned away from them and her, unwilling, unable to face that particular truth. When he was silent long enough for her to realize he would say nothing more on the subject, she made one reasonable request.
"If I'm to protect myself, I think I have the right to know why he's using me to get to you."
Of course, she had the right. But could he find the strength to answer? It would mean rolling out all the pain and loss of his past relationship with Cassie. It would mean admitting that he was responsible for the threat now in her life, that he was also indirectly to blame for the deaths
of the faceless women being thrown in her path. It wasn't that he felt unmoved by those unnecessary losses, only that he'd managed to erect a numbness of spirit in such matters in order to go on as the night creature he was. Death was a part of that nocturnal life and had been since his youthful folly had damned him to this dark existence. It wasn't that he didn't care or feel. It was because he didn't dare open those dangerous flood gates for fear of being swept away. So he tried to make his answer succinct but honest enough to satisfy her.
"He wants to hurt me by terrorizing those I care about."
He saw her recoil and reevaluate, but she was careful in her phrasing. “And he thinks you care for me?"
"Yes.” He, too, was careful not to give much away. “He must have guessed that you are important to me in some way, and therefore an obliging target.” He took a deep breath before accepting his culpability. “I am sorry to have involved you in this century-old vendetta."
Her cynical smile masked her alarm. “I don't suppose you could just call him up and tell him that we're little more than strangers?"
"Even if I knew how to contact him, I doubt that he would take my word for it. If he knows where you live, he's obviously been watching you for some time. He must know that you've come here on several occasions."
"And that denotes a relationship. How silly of me to think more is required than that.” She covered her face with her hands and laughed through them. Unable to gage her expression, he had no way of translating her unlikely response, so he merely waited until she looked up again. Her features were deeply etched with weariness and woeful resignation. There was little he would not have done to spare her the pain he saw on her face—except sacrifice his possible salvation.
"Who is this madman?” she asked at last. “What's his name? What does he look like? Would I know him if I saw him?"
