CHAPTER SIX
At 7:00 a. m. she sat across the table from Daniel, nursing a strong cup of coffee and a pounding headache. "It's probably just a bug," she repeated. "I'm tired and achy. I'll spend the day in bed and be myself again by tomorrow morning. "
His lips thinned and he shook his head. "I'll call in, make arrangements to work at home today. That way-"
"I don't need a baby-sitter. "
"I didn't say you did. I only think I should be here, in case-"
Tamara slammed the half-filled cup onto the table, sloshing coffee over the rim, and got to her feet. "Daniel, this has to stop. "
"What? Tam, I'm only concerned about you. "
"I know. " She pushed a hand through her hair, wishing she could ease the throbbing in her temples. She felt like a wrung-out rag this morning, and in no shape for a confrontation. "I know it's love that motivates you, Daniel-I know you care. But for God's sake, look at me. I'm not an orphaned little girl anymore. " She kept her voice level, and moved around the table to press her hands to his shoulders. "You and Curtis are smothering me with all this concern. You hover over me as if I'm Little Red Riding Hood and there are wolves behind every tree. "
Daniel looked at the floor. Have we been that bad?"
"Worse. " She squeezed his shoulders gently. "But I love you, anyway. "
He met her gaze, and slowly shook his head. "I'm sorry, Tam. It's not that I think you need watching, like a child. It's. . . it's this thing with Marquand, dammit. I'm terrified he'll try to see you again. "
She let her hands fall away from him, and straightened. Eric had said he believed Daniel knew of the connection between them. Could he have been right? "Why would you think that?"
He sighed as if she were stupid. "Tamara, you're a beautiful woman! Curtis said the man was obviously attracted that night at the rink. He'd have to have been blind not to be. These creatures have a sex drive like rutting animals. Even one as old as he is. "
She turned away from him, trying not to laugh. Eric was not a "creature," nor was he old. The skin of his face was smooth and tight. He moved with a grace beyond anything she'd seen before, and yet his strength was obvious. His body rippled with hard muscles and kinetic energy.
Shaking her head, she reached for her coffee. "Just how old is he?"
"Two hundred and thirty something. I've traced him to the French Revolution, when he was imprisoned and should have been beheaded in Paris. His father was, you know. "
Tamara had lifted her cup to her lips, but now she choked on the sip she'd taken. Eric had told her his father was murdered in Paris! He'd said it was "political. " My God, could Daniel possibly be right-no. No, that was utterly ridiculous.
But I've never seen Eric during the day.
She shoved the doubts aside. This was nonsense. Absolute nonsense.
"He's dangerous. Tam. Clever as a wizard, too. I wouldn't put it past him to use you to get to me.
And he says you're using me to get to him, she thought. Aloud, she only said, "I'd never let that happen. "
"I know. Tam. But promise you'll tell me if he tries to make contact. We have to be careful. He's evil-"
"Yes, you've told me. He's the devil himself. Okay, I'll let you know. Happy?" He studied her face before he nodded. "Go to work," she told him playfully. "He can't bother me during the day, right?"
She tried not to let his words replay in her mind, over and over again all morning. She only wanted to go back to bed and get some much-needed rest. That was impossible to do, though. She supposed she wouldn't act so impulsively if she'd had a decent amount of sleep in the past several weeks. If she'd been in a normal, relatively sane frame of mind, nothing could have convinced her to do what she suddenly decided she must do. Unfortunately, her sanity was in question, and she thought if she didn't answer the questions in her mind once and for all, it would slip away from her completely.
She had to prove to herself that Eric Marquand was not a vampire. She thought that made about as much sense as trying to prove the earth was not flat, or that the moon was not made of green cheese. Yet several hours later she sat in her pathetic excuse for a car alongside the road in front of Eric Marquand's estate.
She glanced at her watch. Only an hour or so left before sunset. Part of her wanted to put this off until tomorrow. Part of her wanted to put it off permanently. Still, she was here, and she knew if she didn't go through with this now, she never would.
Getting the address hadn't been easy. She couldn't possibly have asked Daniel or Curt without sending them both into hysterics. She couldn't show up at work and tap the DPI computers. Her security clearance wasn't high enough to get her the correct access codes. She'd spent most of the day at the county seat, scouring the records deemed "public domain. " She'd struck out on birth certificates. He didn't seem to have a driver's license, or a car registered in his name. He did, however, have a deed to his home. She found the information she needed in the property tax files. His address was there, and she frowned to note it was only a few miles southeast of Daniel's house, on the northern shore of the sound.
She'd spent the entire drive back arguing with herself. Was she about to shore up her sanity, or had it already been buried in an avalanche? Would any sane person visit a man's home during the day to prove he wasn't a vampire?
Too late now, she thought, pulling her car around a bend in the road and easing it close to the wood lot on the opposite side. I'm here and I'm going in. She left the keys in the switch, and walked back to the towering wrought-iron gate. She peered between the bars and the crisscrossing pattern of vines and leaves writhing between them, all made of flattened metal. The pattern was the same as far as she could see in either direction. Beyond the fence a cobblestone driveway twisted its way toward the house. Huge trees lined the driveway, so she had to move around a bit to get a glimpse of the building beyond them.
When she did she caught her breath. The house towered at least three stories high. It was built of rough-hewn stone blocks, each one too big for three men to lift. The windows-at least, the ones she could see-were arched at the tops, and deep set. They reminded her of hooded eyes, watching but not wishing to be seen. She touched the gate and at the same instant noticed the small metal box affixed to a post just inside. A tiny red light flashed in sync with her pulse. This was no antique fence, but a high-tech security device. She drew her hand away fast, wondering how many alarms she'd set off simply by touching it. She waited and watched. No sound or movement came from within.
When she could breathe again she glanced up. The spikes at the top of each of the fence's bars looked real, and sharp. Climbing over would be impossible. But there had to be another way inside. She squared her shoulders and began walking the perimeter.
It seemed like a mile as she pressed through tangles of brush and a miniature forest, but it couldn't have been that much. The fence bowed out, and curved back toward the house in the rear. She didn't find a single flaw in it, and she bit her lip in dismay when she reached the end. The last spiked bar of black iron sank into the ground at the edge of a rocky cliff. Below, the sound roiled in white capped chaos. The wind picked up and Tamara shivered. She had to do something. Go back? After all this?
She eyed the final spear of the fence. The ground near its base didn't look too solid. Still, she thought, if she gripped the fence tightly she might be able to swing her body around to the other side. Right?
She gripped a filigree vine with her right hand, the right side of her body touching the fence. She faced the sound and the biting wind that came off it. She had to lean out, over, and twist her body in order to grip the same vine on the other side of the fence with her left hand.
Bent in this awkward, painful pose, she glanced down. Points of slick, black rock jutted sporadically from water of the same color. They appeared and disappeared with each swell. They winked at her, like supernatural, unspeakably evil eyes. Her hair whipped around her face. Her nose and
cheeks burned with cold, and her eyes watered. She edged forward until her toes hung over, then drew a breath and swung her left leg out and around, slamming it down again on firm, solid earth.
She couldn't stop her gaze from slanting downward once more as she straddled the iron fence, one arm and one leg on either side while her rear end jutted into Space. A wave of dizziness, almost exactly corresponding to the waves of seawater moving below, temporarily swamped her brain. She had to close her eyes to battle it. She swallowed three times in quick succession before she dared open them again.
Grunting with the effort, she released her right hand from the outside of the fence and brought it around to cling to a bar on the inside. She clung for all she was worth. All that remained was to move her right leg around to this side now. She lifted it, drew it backward, out over the water, and jerked it in again, slamming her foot down on the ground near the edge. But the ground she stood on dissolved like sugar in hot coffee. Too near the edge, she had time to think. Her right foot scraped down over the sheer face of the cliff until the entire leg, to the thigh, made an arrow pointing to certain death on the rocks below. Her left leg lay flat, heel down, on the ground so she was almost doing a split. She still clung to the fence with her left hand. Her right had been torn free when she'd slipped so hard and so fast.
The filigree vine she gripped began slowly to cut into her fingers. They burned, and in moments they throbbed incessantly. She knew she couldn't hold on another second with each second that she held on. The muscle in the back of the thigh that lay flat to the ground felt stretched to violin-string proportions.
Frantically she dug at the stone face with her toe, knowing as she did that it was useless. She was going to die on those rocks beneath the angry black water. . . and all for the chance to prove to herself that Eric Marquand was not a vampire.
Her fingers slipped. Her thigh throbbed with pain. She slid a couple more inches. Then her toe struck a small protrusion in the cliff face. She pressed onto it, praying it would hold. It did, and she was able to lever herself higher, and get a grip on the fence with her free hand. She pulled, scraping her foot along the sheer stone, wriggling her body up until she was completely supported by the solid, snow-dusted ground. For a long moment she remained there, hands still gripping the cold iron bars, face pressed to them, as well. Her body trembled and she wished to God she'd never embarked on this crazy mission.
Fine time to change my mind, she thought. I'm certainly not leaving here the same way I came. She sighed, lifted her head and pulled herself to her feet. She'd just have to go inside, confess her lunacy to Eric and hope he wouldn't laugh her off the planet. Then she sobered. He might not find her intrusion funny at all. He might resent her snooping as much as he resented Daniel's.
She brushed snow and damp earth from her jeans, wincing and drawing her hand away. A thin smear of blood stained the denim and she turned her palm up to see spiderweb strands of scarlet trickling from the creases of her fingers. She fought the tiny shiver that raced along her spine, balled her hand into a fist and shoved it into her pocket, then strode over the snowy ground toward the rear of Eric's house. She knocked at a set of French doors similar to her own. When no response came she thumped a little harder. Still no one answered.
He wasn't home. And she was stuck in his backyard until he got home, she thought miserably.
The wind howled off the sound, battering the house and Tamara with it. Her jeans were dampened from the snow and the wet ground. Her hand was throbbing. She had no idea when he'd return, or even if he would tonight. She couldn't stand here much longer or she thought she'd suffer frostbite. No, she had to get inside. Eric could be as angry as he wanted, but she'd left herself with few options. She wasn't about to tempt the sound again by trying to leave as she'd arrived. The French doors seemed like an omen. If they'd been any other type, she would have had no options. But French doors she could open. She'd had to force her own a time or two when she'd misplaced the key.
She dipped into her coat pocket hoping to find-yes! A small silver nail file presented itself when she withdrew her fist and opened it. She turned toward the doors, and hesitated. Another gust exploded from the sound, and suddenly wet snow slanted across the sky, slicing her face like tiny shards of glass. She huddled into her coat and moved more quickly. She slipped the file between the two panels, nimbly flicked the latch and opened them.
She stepped inside and pulled the doors together behind her. She thought it wasn't much warmer here than outside, then saw the huge marble fireplace facing her, glowing with coals of a forgotten fire. She tugged off her boots, shrugged free of the coat and hurried to the promise of warmth. A stack of wood beside the hearth offered hope, and she bent to toss several chunks onto the grate, then stretched her nearly numb hands toward the heat. She stood for just a moment, absorbing the warmth as the chills stopped racing around her body. Tongues of flame lapped hungrily at the logs, snapping loudly and sending tiny showers of sparks up the chimney.
After a time she lowered her hands and glanced around her. She had the urge to rub her eyes and look again. It seemed she'd been transported backward in time. The chair behind her was a profusion of needlepoint genius. Every scrap of material on the thing had been embroidered with birds, flowers, leaves. The wooden arms and legs had scroll-like shapes at their ends. A footstool of the same design sat before it, and Tamara bent to run one fingertip reverently over the cushion. All of the furniture was of the same period. She was no expert, but she guessed it was Louis XV, and she knew it was in mint condition. Marble topped, gilded tables with angels carved into their legs were placed at intervals. Other chairs similar to the first were scattered about. The sofa. . . no, it was more like a settee, was small by today's standards. Its velvet upholstery of deep green contrasted with the intricately carved wooden arms and legs.
She examined the room itself, noting a chandelier of brass and crystal suspended high overhead. Yet at one end of the room shelves had been built to hold thousands of dollars worth of stereo equipment, and rows of CDs, LPs, and cassettes. Nearby, a rather ordinary-looking bar seemed out of place in the antique-filled room, with the parquet floors. She saw oil lamps on every stand, yet a light switch on the wall. The sun sank lower, and she walked toward the bar, snapped on the light and licked her lips. She could use a drink. She was still shivering intermittently, despite the warmth filling the room. If Eric could forgive her for breaking into his home, she reasoned, he ought to be able to forgive her for stealing a small glass of-of whatever he had on hand.
She went behind the bar and ducked down to look at the nearly-empty shelves underneath. Not a single bottle rested there. Glasses, yes. A couple of expensive cut-crystal decanters. She stood, frowning, turning only when she heard the almost silent hum of the small refrigerator, built in to the wall behind her.
Smiling at her own oversight, Tamara gripped the handle and tugged. . . .
A tiny chunk of ice placed itself in the center of her chest, and slowly grew until it enveloped her entire body.
Her jaw fell. She took a step back, blinking, unable to believe what she was seeing. Blood. Plastic bags filled with blood in two neat stacks. She felt as if she'd been dropped into the fury of a cyclone. She saw nothing all at once, except a thin red haze, heard nothing but a deafening roar. Mindlessly she shoved at the small door. It swung, but didn't quite close, and slowly it slipped back to its wide open position. Tamara didn't notice. She turned away, face buried in her hands, fingertips pressing into her eyelids as if she could erase what she'd seen.
"It wasn't real. It couldn't have been real. I'll turn around. If I turn around and look again it won't be there because it wasn't real. "
She didn't turn around, though. She lifted her head, focused on the French doors and hurried toward them. She wanted to run, but couldn't. Just walking in her socks seemed absurdly loud on the parquet floor. She felt eyes on her, seemingly from everywhere. Her own gaze darted about, like
a bird flitting from branch to branch on a tree, in constant motion. She couldn't shake the feeling that someone was right behind her, no matter which way she turned. She moved forward, then whirled and walked backward a few steps. Only a yard to go. She'd grab up her boots. She'd snatch her coat as she ran outside. She wouldn't wait to put them on first. Another step. An invisible finger of ice traced a path up her backbone.
"Too crazy," she whispered, turning fast and walking backward again. "It's all too crazy-this place-me. I'm too crazy. " Her mind cartwheeled out of control and she pivoted once more, ready to make a lunge for the door. Her path was blocked by a broad, hard chest covered in crisp white cotton.
She automatically drew back, but Eric's hands clamped down on her shoulders before she'd moved a half step. Frozen in place, she only stared up at him as her breaths began coming too quickly and too shallowly. Her head swam. Against her will she studied his face. His eyes glistened, and she knew more than just bald terror of this man. She felt a sickening sense of loss and of betrayal. Daniel had been right all along.
"What are you doing here, Tamara?"
She tried to swallow, but her throat was like a sandy desert. She pulled against his hands, surprised when he let them fall from her shoulders. A strange voice behind her made her whirl between heartbeats. "Snooping, of course. I told you not to trust her, Eric. She's DPI. " The man standing near the bar waved a hand toward the opened refrigerator. That first glimpse of him nearly extinguished the small spark of reason she had left. He was dressed all in black, with a satin cloak that reached to the floor all but blanketing him. He moved like a panther, with inconceivable grace and latent power. He exuded a sexual magnetism that was palpable. His dark good looks were belied by the ageless wisdom in the depths of his smoldering jet eyes. As she watched he lifted a decanter to the bar, and then a matching glass. He reached into the open fridge and took out a bag.
Tamara had never fainted in her life, but she came very close then. Her head floated three feet above her shoulders and her knees dissolved. For just an instant black velvet engulfed her. She didn't feel herself sink toward the floor. Eric moved even before she knew what was happening. He scooped her up as soon as she faltered, carried her to the settee and lowered her carefully. "That was unnecessary, Roland!" She heard his angry shout, but knew he hadn't moved his lips. Her sanity slipped another notch.
She sat with her back against one hard wooden arm. Eric sat beside her, his arms making walls around her. His right hand braced against the back of the settee, his left against the arm on which she leaned. She cringed into the warm green velvet. "Get away from me. " Her words tripped over each other on the way past her lips. "Let me go home. "
"You will go home, Tamara. As soon as you tell me what you are doing here. Is Roland correct? Have you been sent by your employers? Perhaps by St Claire himself?"