Chapter 5
With Big Jim and Bobby gone home and their one lodger safely out of the way upstairs, Stacey closed the kitchen door, staring at Jessica, who was rinsing dishes at the sink before putting them in the dishwasher.
Jessica arched a brow.
Stacey burst into laughter.
"What?" Jessica demanded.
"And you were making fun of me. "
"What does that mean?" Jessica asked.
"I was about to suggest that the two of you get a room," Stacey teased.
Jessica shook her head. "Stacey, I was at the other end of the table all night. "
"Yes. And it was like an electrical storm was going on over the board. It was cool, and, hey-we won. "
"And I'm so glad. "
"No, you're not. You were dying to beat him. "
"Stacey, it was a game. "
"Yes, but I could see it in your eyes. He's a challenge to you. He interests you. I know you checked out his credentials. "
"Yes, I did. I called the university. He's new there this semester, and they're thrilled to have him. He lectures all over the world. We should go hear him sometime. I wonder what his schedule's like. "
"You didn't ask him?"
Jessica flushed. "Of course not. "
Stacey laughed. "Fine. I'll ask him tomorrow. There's some excitement for you. An academic lecture. Except. . . I bet his lecturesare exciting. "
The two women finished cleaning up in silence, then headed upstairs.
At the landing, Jessica said good night, heading for her own room. She was aware of Stacey watching her until she closed and locked her door.
Inside, she hesitated, then walked out to the balcony. The nicest guest quarters were next to her own, and she was all too aware thathe was there.
The French doors of his balcony were closed, the curtains drawn. The room was dark.
She looked at the sky.
There was still that flush of red that deepened the darkness of the night. A cool breeze swept by her. She sighed, closing her eyes, feeling the chill.
Yes, it was coming. . . .
And he. . .
What did he have to do with it, if anything?
She walked back into her bedroom. As she lay down, she realized he made her think of the past, of a time when she had believed in life and love and commitment, a fight for right and all good things. When she had been young, she'd been such an idealist. And so naive.
She punched her pillow. Good Lord, that was ages ago.
Still, as she lay there, she was bizarrely disturbed by his nearness. He lay just beyond the wall. It almost seemed she could hear his heartbeat, feel the pulse of his vitality, as if he were nearer still.
She adjusted her pillow again. It didn't help. Sleep was a long time coming.
He watched.
From the shadows, from the darkness below, he watched
Anger and hatred raged through him as he cast his head back, relishing the feeling of power growing in him.
He'd waited so long.
Vengeance had been long in coming, but time, as they said, made it sweeter. All the charades, all the deceptions, revealed at last. And now, in an arena of pain and torture, it would all be over. Foolish creatures, so armored in righteousness. They did not see the truth blinded as they were by their own ignorance.
He moved, a shadow himself, a shadow that flowed like blood, and neared the house. How easy it would be to end it all now. . . .
The temptation to move closer and prove that statement true filled him. He embodied the power of the ages, the greatest power ever known.
His will was far greater than their pathetic belief in themselves, he was certain.
And yet. . .
Rage exploded in him as he tried to enter the house. It was a bastion, fully secured against him. A complete bastion. In his raw fury, he attempted entry again and again, but it was fruitless.
He forced himself to remember that soon enough, he would walk right in. Soon enough, the invitation would come. He had taken care to grow close to one who was close to her, and he didn't need to be angry, he just needed to be patient. The time wasn't right, not quite yet. He had been very patient thus far, beginning his quest in distant places, knowing that soon enough, she would arrive, knowing that through the subtlety of his actions it would slowly dawn on her that she was being targeted, that he was touching those with a connection to her, no matter how slight. And she would begin to wonder. . . .
Soon.
Soon enough, the last mocking lure would be cast, havoc would reign, and then. . . in his realm, on a ground of his choosing. . . the end would come.
Bryan awoke with a jolt. Something disturbing had shattered his sleep, just as surely as a fire alarm clanging in the night.
He rose instantly and threw on a robe. He stepped onto the balcony but saw nothing that could have disturbed him so deeply. The window of the room next to his was open, the breeze blowing the curtains back so he could look inside Jessica's room. She was asleep, blond hair like a gleaming halo against the bedding, features as perfect as if they had been sculpted by Michelangelo. Excitement like lightning ripped through him, and he shook his head. He'd never seen anyone more angelic.
Nothing, he was certain, haunted her room.
He forced himself to retreat, back to his room, into the hallway, down the stairs. Nothing. Nothing at all.
He stepped out the back door.
The scent of something rotten filled the air. But was it real, or was he imagining it? Was he creating something wrong where nothing was amiss?
No.
There was just a hint, a whiff, of something lingering in the air like the remnants of a fire, long doused, but still not dissipated.
He approached the caretaker's cottage and looked through a window. He saw only the form of a man, sleeping soundly.
He returned to the house and up the stairs. Before retreating to his bed, he stepped onto the balcony and peered into her room again.
She slept. Again he thought of an angel. It was the color of her hair, the play of light and shadow, he thought.
She possessed not only beauty but vulnerability, evoking every protective instinct within his body.
He was tempted, beyond sanity and reason, to go to her.
In her sleep, a frown suddenly creased her brow; she tossed and turned. The temptation to go to her grew to sweeping proportions. He longed to ease whatever so furrowed her brow, to sweep her up, hold her safe against. . .
Against all evil.
The frown faded; she seemed to sleep in peace again.
He mentally gave himself a shake.
He had only met her that night, he reminded himself irritably. He hadn't come here to succumb to a sudden, startling-even overwhelming-attraction.
He was a professor; a scholar. A man who studied ancient fears and superstitions, human belief in an intangible battle between good and evil, older than time.
He had come for whatever it was that had created the fading miasma in the night.
He had followed it here.
He gritted his teeth. If itwas here. If only there were something real and concrete, something palpable, some proof. . . .
He forced himself to turn away and return to his room.
He had the sense that whatever had awakened him was only the beginning.
Dreams haunted her. Strange dreams of a different time and place.
In the bowels of a castle, she moved, certain of what she would find. And they were there, just as she had suspected, as she had known. They wore the elegant trappings that were a part of their lives; sweeping gowns of jeweled satin and velvet.
But the finery tonight was black.
Some wore masks, hiding their identities even from those who consorted with them.
Some played as if at a game, seeking love potions, powers to divert their enemies,
strength to rise in life, to acquire greater riches.
The potions were often poison, and the game was deadly, for there were those who had died, those who would die in future. It had not been easy to find the root of these goings-on, for those who acted in this theater of the bizarre protected their sources.
That night, there was an altar. The game being played had nothing to do with the old pagan beliefs in the power of the earth and sky, the gods and goddesses of water or the harvest. The woman leading the pageant was referred to as a witch, but what she practiced was pure Satanism.
There was a babe on the altar, drugged into silence. As the witch murmured over it and cried out that she offered the greatest sacrifice to her dark lord, an alarm sounded.
It began with a clang of steel. The king's armed men had discovered the lair.
Those who had bowed down before the rite of darkness screamed and tried to flee, not so easy a task, for in their secret catacomb, they had set themselves up to be trapped. She backed away, hiding, watching. . . .
Blood was spilled. There was a melee, a cacophony of shrieks, shouts, warnings, the sound of steel against steel.
There was the innocent babe, now screaming and crying upon the altar.
Did she dare?
Her discovery of this place deep in the earth, beneath ancient stone, had been perfect for all she needed. Perfect for escape.
But the child. She had not counted on the child!
There was no choice.
She ran toward the child, held it in her arms. . . .
The nightmare scene that played out behind her eyes caused Jessica to twist and turn, to fight to awaken. The vision began to fade. . .
Then returned.
But now she was on horseback, racing across the country.
Her pursuers followed. It was as she had intended; it was what she had known she must do. And still. . .
What had come before had been worse. Far worse. And what she had done before had cast her into far greater danger.
"Die!" someone screamed from behind her.
No! She awoke completely, bolting up into a sitting position.
Jessica looked around, shaking. She rose, held still for a minute, listening. What had caused such a torment to come to her in the night, a horrible dream so real that it had seemed as if she could have reached out and touched the people in it?
The house was quiet.
She walked out on the balcony, deeply disturbed.
The sky remained red. Tense, she waited. And waited.
But there was nothing. Still, she felt as if something had been there. . . .
At last she returned to her bed, where she lay awake a long time. It was her lodger, she thought, suddenly irritated. The man talked about history as if he had been there. It was all his is fault. He had sent her dreams skidding back bizarrely in time.
He should have been a football player, not a scholar, she thought. A quarterback, calling the shots and knocking other players out of his way as he raced down the field to make the touchdown himself.
She groaned aloud.
He was right next door, such a short distance away. She closed her eyes, and she didn't dream, but in her mind's eye she saw herself simply walking out her door, opening his, rousing him from sleep.
Talk about nightmares. She groaned and buried her face in her pillow.
Bryan came down so early that he thought he would have to wander the streets to find coffee, but he found the kitchen already occupied and in full swing. Stacey was standing by the coffeemaker, waiting with her cup in hand. There was a man sitting on one of the stools by the center butcher-block table, reading the paper; he was almost skeletally thin, but he had a wiry strength. His face was weathered and brown, his hair a bit shaggy. He wore jeans and a T-shirt and looked up, an expression of alarm on his face, as Bryan walked in.
"Hello," Bryan said, casually stepping forward and offering a hand. "Bryan MacAllistair. "
"Uh. . . " The man looked at Stacey, as if seeking her help, then turned to Bryan. "Hello. I'm Gareth. "
Nodding, Bryan released the man's hand. He knew the other man was still watching him suspiciously as he walked over to the counter, helped himself to a mug and greeted Stacey. "Good morning. I wasn't actually expecting to find anyone up. "
"Gareth and I are early birds. Jessica only wakes early on demand," she said lightly. "Ah, coffee's done. " She picked up the pot and offered it to him.
"You first. We academics are good at pouring our own coffee. "
She flushed slightly. "You're our only lodger at the moment. I can whip up breakfast whenever you want. Actually, I can whip upwhatever you want. "
"Now there's an invitation. Actually, I thought I'd take a walk-it's not often you get the streets to yourself here. And you don't have to hang around waiting to cook for me if you've got things to do. "
"I'm just going to be hanging around the house for a while. Not a problem. "
"Thanks, but don't worry about me. " He finished his coffee and set down his cup. "That was great. The best I've had in New Orleans. Gareth, nice to meet you. I'll see you both later. "
He knew they both watched him go.
And he knew they started talking about him the minute he was gone.
It was late afternoon by the time Jessica rose and got going for the day. Still, it disturbed her to notice how dark the sky had become by the time she reached the hospital. And that shade of red.
In the hospital parking lot, she just stood looking up for a moment and found herself growing angry with herself. Staring at the sky changed nothing.
She strode to the reception desk and asked for Mary's room. A friendly nurse gave her directions, and after buying a fresh bouquet of flowers in a pink vase, she made her way to the proper section of the hospital. She saw that Jeremy was there, head bowed, sprawled in a chair across from the foot of the bed. He had obviously been keeping watch for a long time. His exhaustion was evident.
"Hey," Jessica said softly.
He started and looked up. A smile crossed his weary features. "Hey. "
"How's she doing?" Jessica asked.
He shook his head. "No change. But I think her color is a little bit better. Her dad just made her mom leave for a while. She opens her eyes sometimes. She's breathing. She doesn't talk, doesn't seem to hear. . . and doesn't react when someone touches her. I don't think she feels anything. "
"Well," Jessica murmured, setting her vase of flowers on the bedside table and studying the girl. She looked like a fairy princess, doomed to sleep for a hundred years, beautiful, silent, pale. "What do the doctors say?" she asked Jeremy.
He shrugged, then indicated the IV. "She was scratched up some. . . I guess we all were, after that night. But they keep giving her blood. Her counts are all off, and they can't figure out why. "
"How are her folks doing?"
"Better. " Jeremy said. "Her brother and her two sisters come with her mom, and that seems to help keep her calm. Her father keeps everything low key. " He looked directly at Jessica at last and offered a rueful smile. "No one believes me. "
"About what?"
He laughed hollowly. "She was bitten by a vampire. A real one. Not some doped-out kid who thinks he's a vampire. "
Jessica made a pretense of straightening Mary's covers, carefully moving the girl's head as she did so.
"You don't have to hide what you're doing from me," Jeremy said with a sigh. "There are puncture marks on her neck. The doctors insist they're stab wounds from the thorn bushes around the castle. "
"I see," Jessica murmured.
And she did. Therewere puncture marks on Mary's neck.
"And she doesn't talk?" Jessica asked.
"Not yet, not that I know of. "
"And what do the doctors say about that?"
"Shock. "
Jessica straightened the girl's hair and saw a silver cross around her
neck.
She took a seat beside Jeremy, reached over and squeezed his hand. "I saw you made an appointment with me. "
He nodded. Then he looked at her, and a dry and weary grin twisted his mouth. "You may not believe me, but you'll listen to me. And if I talk to you and go over the entire story once again, maybe something-somewhere, somehow-will make sense to me. "
"I'm very happy to see you, you know that. "
"What if she dies?" he demanded suddenly, his voice a whisper.
And there was something more than just the dreaded pain for the loss of a friend that lurked behind the anguish in his question.
"Let's not think that way," Jessica said.
"I can't help it," he murmured.
She hesitated. "Jeremy, you haven't been contacted by anyone who had anything to do with the party at the castle, have you?"
He stared at her, confused. "Contacted? Hell, no. I wasn't the one who got the invitation in the first place. Mary got it from some girl on the street. Why?"
"No reason. I'm just hoping you can put everything that happened behind you. What about Nancy? Have you seen her? How is she?"
"All right. She's doing all right," Jeremy said, his eyes falling dully on Mary again. "She comes in and sits with Mary sometimes. " He shook his head. "You don't understand. Mary could be. . . well, she could be careless of other people sometimes, but not out of malice. She just loved life. She wanted everything. She wanted to make a mark, I guess you'd say," he finished lamely. "But she wasn't mean. She wasn't. . . wasn't evil. "
"No one's suggested that she is," Jessica said firmly.
"I'm so afraid. " Jeremy said softly.
"Jeremy, you've got to believe the best will happen. If we spend our lives expecting the worst, we only add to our own anguish. As things happen, we deal with them. So let's believe in Mary right now. Let's give her a chance to get better. "
Was she a liar? She asked herself. No. There was a chance.
Except that. . .
She found herself looking over her own shoulder. Far too often now, she had the feeling there was someone behind her. Someone. . . whispering her name.
"Jessica?"
When her namewas actually spoken softly from the doorway, she nearly jumped from her seat.
But the speaker was real, and she knew the voice. Her eyes flew to the doorway, and she rose, surprised, but pleasantly so. Big Jim and Barry Larson were in the doorway.
"What are you two doing here?" she whispered.
"We play for the kids in the wards sometimes in the afternoons," Big Jim said. "Thought you knew that. "
"You've probably mentioned it," she said.
"How's the girl?" Barry asked, concerned.
"She seems to be holding her own.
"Glad to hear it," Big Jim said, and nodded.
By then Jeremy had risen. He walked to the door, mouth tight. "Mary shouldn't be disturbed," he said, obviously not about to trust any visitors he didn't know.
"These are friends of mine, Jim and Barry. Musicians. They come to the hospital to play for the kids," she explained.
"Good to meet you," Jeremy said. "But she shouldn't be disturbed. "
"We were just checking in," Big Jim said. "You come see us sometime, son. "
Jeremy thanked him stiffly and waited pointedly for them to leave. As soon as they did, he resumed his seat.
Jessica did the same.
He reached for her hand, and she squeezed his in return.
Mary looked better. She should make it just fine.
Or was she telling herself a pack of lies?
Sean Canady stared at his visitor, his years on the force allowing him to maintain a totally impassive expression, despite his surprise.
Admittedly, he'd expected some skinny guy with glasses who looked like he never left the university library, and he hadn't relished the job of talking to the man, even if the order had come straight down from the mayor's office.
Instead, the man sitting across from him wasn't huge, but he was still big; and he had. . . presence. The Indiana Jones type, Sean decided.
Had there been any recent rumors about vampire cults or activity? He wanted to know.
Hell, this was New Orleans. There were always rumors.
And that was exactly what he said. He stared at his visitor and indicated his computer. "If we spent the entire day here, I couldn't show you every report regarding some kook who thought he was a vampire, a 'vampire party' that had gone haywire, weird rites in a cemetery, or a drunk who bit another drunk on the street. "
"I know," Bryan MacAllistair said, offering a rueful grin. "I know. "
Sean glanced down at the notes on his desk, then looked once again at the man before him. "So you were in Romania for that recent trouble?" Sean was careful when he spoke. He knew so much about the underworld. Information that, for the sake of his job and his family life, he was careful not to share too often.
"I was in Romania giving a series of lectures when the trouble occurred," MacAllistair corrected him. "I'd heard a few rumors in the street and mentioned the situation to the police. If they'd taken the matter a little more seriously. . . . " He shrugged. "Who knows? Apparently whoever was behind the trouble got away. "
"But no one was killed?" Sean asked. Then he leaned back, shaking his head. "I guess the girl in the hospital. . . well, I've heard she might not make it. The doctors can't find a reason, but she seems to be slipping away. " He shook his head, tired. "I know kids from here were there," he said, "but no crime took place here, and there must have been people from all over the world at that party. I'm not sure why you think something might happen in New Orleans. "
The sky, he thought, unbidden. Even Maggie had mentioned the sky.
"I'm not saying anything is going to happen here," MacAllistair told him. "It's just that three kids from here were involved in the mess. And there's often trouble in places that celebrate some of the grislier aspects of history, or where you tend to get people who think they're vampires or whatever. A young woman was found dead in Edinburgh after an illegal party in the vaults beneath the city. They do ghost tours there the same way they do here, and the vaults are supposed to be haunted. Paris, three months ago, after an illegal party in the catacombs several people were found dead-beheaded. In Italy, a party in an old castle left four dead. From what the police in each city gathered, the victims were sucked in by thinking they were going to a wild, sensual, ever so slightly illicit vampire-themed party. "
"Has an international task force been set up?" Sean asked.
MacAllistair shook his head in disgust. "Most of the authorities seem to think it's a sign of the times, that there's no connection from one party to another. I can't really blame them, not completely. The whole vampire thing makes it pretty far-fetched. "
Sean glanced at his notes again. "You warned the police in both Edinburgh and Paris?"
MacAllistair nodded.
"A suspicious man might think these parties are following you around," Sean said, eyes hard.
Bryan reached into the briefcase on the floor beside him and produced a folder full of newspaper clippings. "The first is about a small town in Switzerland where five people went missing. The accepted theory is that they disappeared skiing, but the bodies were never found. And there was a party there that weekend. "
Sean looked up sharply. "I take it you weren't in Switzerland. "
"No, I wasn't. "
Sean studied the man.
"Were you ever a cop?" he asked, following a hunch.
For the first time, Bryan hesitated. Then he shrugged. "Officially a police officer? No. I've just aided a lot of investigations because of my expertise. "
"In vampires?" Sean asked skeptically.
"In old legends, ancient societies, that kind of thing. "
Sean eased back in his chair. "Do you believe in vampires, Mr. MacAllistair?"
If t
he man thought he was being baited, he took no offense. "I believe there's evil out there, that's for certain. I believe there are people who believe they're vampires or the Devil's disciples or what have you. And here's one of my important beliefs-some of these people have money. They can pay for whatever debauchery or fantasy they want. They can travel around the globe. They can get the word out. They can pay for all the right stuff to pull in the unwary. That's one of the reasons I stopped by today, hoping I could at least warn you that if you hear about promoters pushing something that's a little hush-hush, you'll be on the lookout. "
Sean nodded. "Right. Well, if you discover youknow anything about anything going on here, I'm sure you'll be right back in. "
It wasn't a question; it was a command.
Red skies at night. . .
MacAllistair stared straight back at him, bemused. He seemed like a man who held his temper, who knew how to show respect-and demand it in return as well. "I'll be in now and then. And I'm sure, if you decide you need my help, you'll let me know immediately. "
Sean felt a grin twisting his lips. He liked the guy.
"I've got a cell number here for you, compliments of the mayor's office. Where are you staying in New Orleans?"
"At Montresse House. "
Sean couldn't help it; his eyebrows shot up. "With Jessica?"
"You know my hostess?" MacAllistair was clearly surprised.
Sean nodded carefully. "Yes, she's a friend. "
"Are you from here, Detective?"
"I am. "
"But Jessica Fraser isn't. "
"No, we were introduced by mutual friends. "
Sean didn't know why he had offered that much information; he didn't owe this man any explanations.
He felt a warning chill at the back of his neck, like hackles rising. He was as suspicious as all hell, and yet. . .
He still liked the guy. He hesitated and let out a sigh. "I'll take help in any form that I can get it. We were devastated by the storms, you know. This place was like a war zone. I love this city, and there are areas where it will be years before things get back to anything like normal. We don't need anything to set us back further. Don't worry. If I think you can help, if I think I have information that can help you to help me, you can bet I'll call you. This is a tough town to know the simply bizarre from the bizarre and dangerous. So when will you be lecturing, Professor?" Sean asked, consciously changing the subject.
MacAllistair looked at his watch. "Actually, in about three hours. You're more than welcome to attend. It's in the main auditorium at seven. "
With a wave, he rose and left. Sean watched him go, then kept staring at the door, deep in thought.
"Hey, Lieutenant?"
He started. Bobby Munro was standing in the doorway.
"Yeah, Bobby. What is it?"
"I've got those McCardle case files you asked for. "
"Oh, yeah. Thanks. "
"Why was the professor here? The guy who just left. "
"You know him?"
"Yeah. I met him over at Montresse House the other night. What, he thinks he's a cop or something, just because he's smart?"
"He thinks we may have some cult activity around here. You know, wackos who think they're vampires. "
Bobby laughed. "Oh, like that would be weird-in New Orleans. "
Sean smiled. "You have a point. Anyway, let me see the records, and thanks. I think McCardle is at it again. I think the woman we found dead in a Dumpster last week was one of his victims. I want to be ready when we go to the D. A. with this. "
"Right, Lieutenant. "
Bobby left. Sean stared at the files until his eyes swam. McCardle was dangerous. A big-time dealer. He needed to be in prison. Beyond a doubt, the man was evil.
Yeah, but he was an evil Sean could do something about. He knew he would get the perp locked away for good. Knew it.
But the kind of evil MacAllistair was talking about. . .
He swore, wishing to hell the man had never walked into his office.