by Linn Chapel
She managed to give Holt a weak smile. “I’m not worried about Stix anymore.” Her paleness was caused by another reason altogether. They reached her door and Tressa spurred herself to recite her sham excuse.
But before she could speak, Holt stepped away from her.
“Goodnight, Tressa.” Without waiting for her to respond, Holt turned and walked away.
Tressa stared after him, shaken. There had been no need for her to come up with an excuse, after all. Holt had left her at the door – without even looking at her.
Anguish rose up within her, and she heard Holt’s whispered words once again, echoing in her mind. The sooner I am away from you, the better.
Her eyes blurred with unshed tears as she hastily unlocked her door and slipped inside her apartment. Closing the door behind her, she slid the bolt home. The metal locked into place with a cold and final chink.
Ten
Tressa walked unsteadily into the darkness of her living room and buried her face in her hands as a storm of tears took over.
But a few moments later, she lifted her head and drew in a shuddering breath. To her dismay, she could hear the bolt sliding open. Behind her, the door rasped on its hinges.
Holt must have heard her sobbing – she had forgotten that his hearing was so keen. Having him see her like this was the worst thing she could imagine.
She dropped her hands away from her face. “I don’t want you to come in, Holt,” she whispered unsteadily, keeping her back to the door.
“Then you shouldn’t have given me a key.”
She heard the door being closed and bolted and then a small lamp was switched on. It cast a low light across the room and a fresh wave of panic swept over her.
A moment later she felt Holt’s hands upon her shoulders. “You are making a mistake in feeling anything for me,” he murmured as he turned her around. She felt him pull a handkerchief out of the pocket of her evening jacket and dry her face with it.
Rebelliously she kept her eyes closed, refusing to look at him. But when he began to remove her jacket, her eyes flew open at last.
“You’re wet from the rain,” he explained, folding her jacket up. He tossed it behind her and then shrugged out of his own jacket.
“Holt! What are you doing?” Her words tumbled out in a rush.
He tossed his jacket aside. “What I shouldn’t be doing.”
Brrinng... psst... psst... psst...
Holt stiffened. Drawing in a breath, he looked over his shoulder. “What was that sound?”
“It was my doorbell – it needs to be repaired. Someone must be here to see me.” Her thoughts spun with wild and conflicting emotions. She couldn’t greet a visitor, not the way she was feeling right now – but she didn’t want to be alone with Holt, either.
Frowning, Holt said, “It can’t be Stix. He knows I’m with you tonight. Are you expecting anyone, Tressa?”
It had to be Gerry, she decided. He often came by her place after a night at the studio, even though she had been careful not to give him any encouragement since she had moved to town. “It’s probably my brother’s old roommate. He likes to drop by after he’s been to Peter’s studio.”
Brrring... pssst... rrring... pssst...
“You’re not at home tonight.” Holt walked over to the bell, found the wire dangling from the old unit, and snapped it in two. Silence reigned after that.
Purposefully he turned and walked back to her. She took a faltering step away.
“I think you should leave, Holt.” There was a hitch in her voice.
“No, Tressa, I shan’t be leaving for a while.”
As he came steadily closer, she took another step back, but before she could move any further, Holt swept her up in his arms and deposited her firmly on the sofa.
“Tressa,” he murmured, joining her and drawing her very close. The muscles of his arms and chest were like cold steel, and a burst of tiny lights flickered deep within his eyes, but this time, he didn’t remember to look away. “You’ve been caught, my pretty little mouse, and it’s useless to resist. The cat is not in the mood to be merciful."
Tressa felt one strong hand slide upward to cup the back of her head and then his mouth claimed hers, impassioned and demanding. At first her hands clung to his shoulders and then they moved upwards to twine firmly about his neck.
Finally, Holt released her and she struggled to catch her breath. Then she lightly traced her fingers over his face. “Don’t go to London. Stay here.”
“I can’t.” A mask descended over his features, but the drifting lights within his eyes were still bright. “There are commitments – circumstances you wouldn’t understand.”
“Then promise that you’ll come to see me at least once, when you return... even if you don’t feel the same way about me, then.”
He shook his head and the mask firmed. “I’m not free to make such a promise, Tressa.” His dark eyes swept searchingly over her face. “But my circumstances have nothing to do with another woman. Do you believe me, Tressa?” he asked softly, lifting her chin so that he could see her expression clearly.
From what she had read in the Handbook, she didn’t think Holt could have formed a bond with a female of his own kind, but as for a human female, she wasn’t so sure. Had he developed a weakness for young, human women, just like her? For all she knew, there could be someone else waiting for him in England.
She must have hesitated too long, for his arms tightened around her. “Tressa, have I not convinced you yet?” Pulling her close, he found her mouth again. It was a long time before he let her go.
As Tressa rested her head against his chest, she could feel the chill of his body seeping through the fabric of his black shirt. A short, mirthless laugh escaped him. “I thought that taking you to a concert would be the safest way to spend some of our last hours together. I made sure to leave you at your door, Tressa, but your tears proved to be my undoing.” He added softly, in a voice that was aching and conflicted, “If only you felt nothing for me in return.” He shifted next to her, his muscles coiling in readiness to stand.
“No! Stay longer,” she pleaded.
“I can’t.” Without looking at her face, he removed her hands from his shoulders, then stood and retrieved his jacket from the floor. He crossed the room to the door, where he paused and said in a low, wooden voice, “I can’t touch you again, or be close to you. I’ll come to the hospital on Wednesday night to see you safely home, but I intend to keep my distance then. There’s no other way.”
He left her apartment, shutting the door behind him before Tressa could say another word.
Tressa’s mood was bleak all the next day as she went about her rounds at the hospital. When she arrived home, she felt so wan that it was a struggle to make herself a simple dinner and clean up afterward. How she wished that she hadn’t volunteered to help Peter at his studio that evening.
She could only hope that her brother wouldn’t guess what was ailing her.
Just as she was about to leave her apartment, her phone rang. It was Margot, the Operation’s personnel manager. “Tressa, can I drop by? It’s nothing important, just a little business,” said Margot. “I didn’t have a chance to see you at headquarters when you made your report, but we could chat about it tonight. I’m in your neighborhood.”
Tressa’s hand tightened on the phone. As far as she knew, members of the Operation were not in the habit of dropping in on each other to discuss the details of their work.
She steadied her voice. “I’m afraid I can’t see you tonight, Margot. I’ve already made plans.”
Margot accepted Tressa’s response readily enough, and hung up.
But as Tressa left her apartment, she wondered uneasily if Margot had been searching for some excuse to hide an audioscanner on the premises.
“Lights on!” Peter called out, feeling grateful for the presence of his two volunteers that night.
From his spot at the far end of the studio next to the controls, Gerry obey
ed. Two banks of lights switched on, filters in place, creating a dappled pattern of light.
“Start the beat!” Peter called out next. The pulse of the music began, syncopated and driven. “Now fade the backdrop lights.”
Above the blue backdrop draperies, a bank of lights dimmed.
Peter turned to his second volunteer and led her across the wooden floor. He wondered how well Tressa would pay attention to his verbal cues tonight. Dutifully she had changed into a blue leotard and sweat pants as soon as she had arrived at the studio, but for some reason, she seemed very pale and distracted this evening.
“One, two, three!” Peter began the sequence, with Tressa learning his movements from behind.
Reach, full profile. Spin, arms up. Spin, arms floating down.
Peter glanced over his shoulder to make sure that Tressa was keeping pace with him. Together they finished rehearsing the sequence. “Now you’re on your own,” he told her, stepping aside.
Gerry took his cues again, and Peter watched from the sidelines as Tressa moved through the sequence on her own, timing her moves to the syncopated beat just the way Peter had wanted, despite her odd mood. The sequence was almost right for filming, but not quite.
“Too soft at the turn, Tressa,” he corrected her when she was done.
She gave him a wry look. “I thought that’s what you wanted!”
“No, sharper.” Peter demonstrated – first the reach, and then the turn.
She repeated the sequence for him until he was satisfied. Ready to record, he gave Gerry the thumbs-up signal.
The music pulsed again as Tressa’s arms lifted for the opening. Dappled light fell on her in a soft silver pattern as she spun, reached, and turned sharply, just as Peter had instructed.
“Save it,” he called out to Gerry.
Progress, Peter thought, elated. He’d made one more step toward finishing his most ambitious project to date. Tressa’s makeshift costuming didn’t matter because of the computer editing he’d perform later. The blue tones of her leotard were all he needed.
He smiled to himself, remembering how relieved Tressa had been when she had viewed the results of her first volunteer session after she had moved to town about a year ago. With all the filters and fast-paced angle changes he had wrought with image-manipulation software, she hadn’t even been able to recognize herself on the big screen.
His software was amazing, but everything else in his studio was low-tech; so low that it couldn’t get any lower. Short on funds as always, he’d rigged his studio lighting from hardware store fixtures and made his backdrop draperies from sheets. His makeshift props stood near the wall: small tables, footstools, dowel rods, and rolls of discount fabric.
Costuming was just as basic. His studio could boast no climate-controlled storeroom with racks of outfits, only the large cardboard box marked “Clothes and Stuff” in the corner of the studio, which held just about every color of shirt and leotard imaginable, along with a supply of socks and old sweatpants. As for a dressing room, Peter and his volunteers changed in the restroom down the hall.
It was taking a long time to make it in this business, but what did he expect when he had to work a day job? He was lucky to have landed his position as a coach at the local high school, and lucky to have volunteers who helped him out in the evenings at his studio, free of charge.
He glanced at his old college roommate who was fiddling with the equipment, dressed in a t-shirt and torn jeans, his long hair falling into his eyes. Gerry came by the studio at least once a week, and a few other friends came by almost as often.
Tressa had been another faithful volunteer ever since she had moved to town, even though performing didn’t come naturally to her. She had always been uncomfortable in the limelight, and now that she was in her twenties, she seemed more determined than ever to pass through life completely unnoticed, especially by men. He felt his mouth twitch with a smile. It was too bad she was so attractive. It made things difficult for her, he knew.
He checked the clock on the studio wall. “Thanks, Gerry. You can go home, now.”
As Gerry turned off the equipment, he gave Tressa a last, lingering look. Peter shook his head sadly, for he knew that Gerry’s chances with Tressa were nil.
After his old roommate had left for the night, Peter joined Tressa in the center of the studio. “Let’s try out some new moves before you go home. I’m ready to work on the next sequence of Starbright.”
She agreed readily enough, if a bit listlessly. Peter tested out several moves himself, unsure of what he wanted. “Try this, Tressa; start with both arms up,” he instructed. “Then bring one hand down, spiraling it as you turn.”
Tressa tried the move for him, spinning slowly.
“Something about it’s not right,” he said critically.
“Perfectionist,” she teased, but her mood was still distant.
He made a face back at her. “Keep your hand closer to your body. Do it again.”
She repeated the move, but as she finished, her gaze suddenly darted to a point near the door of the studio. For the first time since she had arrived, her somber mood lifted and her eyes glowed.
Peter glanced over his shoulder. What he saw had him whipping his head back. He stared at Tressa. “What’s he doing here?”
“I don’t know,” she breathed in an odd voice, one that Peter had never heard before. “Stay here, Peter. I’ll go ask him.”
Filled with misgivings, he watched Tressa make her way – floating, it seemed to him – past the miscellaneous props to the door, where their visitor was standing.
The dark-haired vampire took his eyes off Tressa just long enough to shoot a cool look in Peter’s direction. After assessing Peter’s reaction, he turned his attention back to Tressa and spoke quietly as she joined him.
Peter walked slowly up to the pair.
Eleven
Tressa gave him an innocent look when he arrived. “Peter, you remember Holt, don’t you? He’s going to see me home tonight.”
Standing at her side, Holt gave a casual shrug. “Seeing your sister safely home has become something of a habit, but tonight will be the last time. My work requires me to travel to London in a few days.”
Peter knew that any heavy-handed intervention would seem out of place, under the circumstances. Reluctantly, he nodded, but silently he vowed to follow the pair to Tressa’s apartment, ready to make a move if necessary.
Peter turned stiffly to Tressa. “Thanks for helping me tonight. You can change and go home, now.”
Peter noticed Tressa’s gaze traveling uneasily back and forth between Holt and himself as she retrieved her bundle of clothing. With one last, worried look, she exited the studio.
Alone now with Holt, he explained her departure, saying dryly, “My studio doesn’t have any frills. The dressing room is down the hall, in the restroom.”
Peter picked up a spare dowel rod that was standing against the wall with the other props. Leaning on it like a walking cane, he said, “You’ve been seeing a lot of my sister.”
Holt eyed him blandly. “It’s true that we’ve struck up a friendship of sorts,” he replied. No English accent had ever grated on Peter’s nerves before, but Holt’s seemed to be the exception. “A very brief friendship. As I said, I’ll be leaving the country soon.”
“It’s just as well.” Peter tossed the wooden dowel rod back and forth between his hands. “You’re too old for her.”
“Too old? I’m twenty-six.” Holt gave the impression of being bored by the conversation.
“Funny. You seem older.”
Stepping over to the props, Holt reached for a second dowel rod.
Peter went on. “If you haven’t noticed, Tressa’s not very good at looking out for herself.”
“Yes. I have noticed.” Holt examined the length of his wooden rod. “I’ve had to protect her from harm more than once.”
“Maybe she needs to be protected from you.” Peter pointed the end of his rod at Holt.
A shadow passed quickly over Holt’s face, and then it was gone. “She’s safe enough.” He lifted his own rod to cross Peter’s like a sword.
Peter took a practiced step to the side. The two of them were well-matched in height, if not in strength, he thought. But Peter’s reflexes were very good – as good as any vampire’s, he knew from experience.
He had also been the star pupil in a fencing masterclass he had taken a few years ago. Feeling confident that he’d come out the victor in any duel, Peter made a quick thrust. But when Holt made a perfect countermove, he was no longer so sure.
“Why don’t we move to the center of the room, Peter? Perhaps we can come to a conclusion before Tressa returns.”
Peter nodded and moved to the center of the floor, holding his rod up in readiness. “Suits me just fine.”
Circling each other warily, Peter made another thrust, coming in high from the left. Holt parried his move, then feinted to Peter’s right. Their makeshift swords hit with a loud clack. Again, they circled.
As the seconds ticked by, Peter watched his opponent for any signs of weakness, any trembling of the hands that might be caused by a fever. He saw nothing. Either the fellow was metabolizing his dose without the usual symptoms, or he was yet to develop them. It was too bad – but maybe Peter still had a chance.
Their rods cracked again and again. Holt’s thrusts were insistent, coming faster and faster, and soon it was all Peter could do to parry them successfully.
Nearby he spotted a long, narrow table, one of the stage props. He jumped onto it to attack Holt from above, but before he could make a single thrust, his adversary leapt up next to him on the table.
Crowded now, Peter parried at close quarters, his footing unsure. The heavy wooden rods cracked against each other more violently – once, twice, three times – and then Peter’s rod went flying out of his grip to sail through the air.
As Peter heard it landing with a loud clatter on the studio floor, the end of Holt’s rod pressed against Peter’s chest, just over his heart. The hint of a smile quirked up one side of Holt’s mouth.
