Dead By Dusk (28 page)

“She was in Germany, meeting with groups at military bases, getting them to come over here. The townspeople are very happy about it. They need the tourism dollars,” Stephanie informed him.

“Yes, they need the tourism dollars,” Lucien agreed. He was staring at Stephanie. “You've seen her, haven't you?”

“No!” Stephanie said.

“Yes, you have.”

She flushed. Grant stared at her. He knew her so well, and he hadn't known she was lying. In a way, at least.

“I really haven't seen her. I just thought I saw her at the back of the café,” Stephanie said.

“I see,” Lucien murmured.

“It wasn't Reggie!” Stephanie said. “I asked . . . she wasn't with the group. And Arturo didn't see her. Did
you
see her.”

“I wouldn't have known if I had,” Lucien said. “I've never met her.”

“Well, she's gorgeous,” Stephanie told him, still feeling defensive.

“She looks a lot like Steph—or Steph looks like her. She has a mane of really dark hair, and blue, almost violet, eyes.”

“Ah,” Lucien said, as if that meant something.

“Honestly, she wasn't here. If she had been, she would have made a point to get to me. I know that,” Stephanie said.

“Perhaps you're right,” Lucien said. He turned to Grant. “Peterson. Names ending with ‘son' are usually Scandinavian.”

“Or American,” Grant reminded him.

“Actually, with all the Viking activity, such names may be European as well, in many places. The great Norman lords had Scandinavian ancestry.”

“My family has been in the States for years,” Grant said. “What on earth are you getting at?”

“Nothing, really. Just thinking out loud,” Lucien said.

“Well, it's going to be much easier to get to the bottom of everything now that things are out in the open,” Jade said. She smiled. “Except that, looking at the two of you, I can see that you're not at all convinced that we're sane.”

Grant was silent, then smiled. “The scary thing is that I'm not at all convinced that you are
insane.”

“But,” Jade continued, “you're both exhausted, and this is too much for you to accept in one sitting. That's entirely understandable.”

“There is a connection, though—for both of you,” Lucien said with certainty. “We have to discover exactly what it is. And sooner than later.”

Jade glanced at Lucien. “It may be daytime, but no one has had any sleep. We need to try to get a few hours in. That was just decaf, by the way,” she told them, indicating the coffee. “Thinking that you're filled with caffeine can keep you awake, really. The mind can do incredible things.”

“Yes, it can, can't it?” Grant said. “After all, we're actually sitting here, talking to you, as if you could really be a vampire. As if such creatures could really exist.”

“He doesn't take much on faith, does he?” Lucien mused to Jade.

“He did ask for proof,” Jade said.

As she spoke, Lucien disappeared from the chair where he had been sitting. Grant leaped to his feet, wary, coming to stand protectively behind Stephanie in a split second and single stride.

There was no puff of smoke, nothing. The man simply disappeared.

He had been there, and then he wasn't.

“You wanted proof,” Jade reminded Grant quietly.

Grant spun around suddenly. Lucien was standing behind him.

Grant had to be rattled, but he didn't show it. “You could just be a really excellent magician,” he said.

“But I'm not, and you know it,” Lucien said. “Don't you?”

Grant didn't reply.

Lucien shrugged. “We're going to get out of here now. It would be best if we remained Clay and Liz, as far as the others are concerned. I would prefer that the truth about me be on a need-to-know basis.”

Jade smiled awkwardly. “Try to get some sleep. Things may speed up around here, now that it seems something has gone a little outside the line for our François.”

“Speed up?” Stephanie murmured.

“He wants something. That something may be . . .”

“May be what?” Grant demanded.

Lucien met his gaze.

“Stephanie,” he said simply.

 

 

Lena heard the rapping on the door and ran to it.

Her heart was thundering. She was so afraid that one of the others had come back to bring them new word about Doug.

A bad word.

He couldn't have had a relapse . . .

He could have.

Without thinking, she threw the door open.

She stood stock-still for a minute, deeply confused.

She felt the eyes.

Felt them on her, and then . . .

She opened the door farther. It was what was wanted.

She was dimly aware of Suzette running back down the stairs, anxious to find out what the tapping had been.

“Lena?”

Suzette froze on the bottom stair.

He was already inside. And he looked at her, and smiled.

“Two for the price of one,” he said lightly.

Suzette's mouth was working. But she remained where she stood, transfixed. Somewhere inside, though, she was trying to fight. He frowned. Walking toward her, he felt a sudden repulsion.

Then he knew why. He saw the silver piece around her neck, and swallowed. A shiver went through him. He shook off the discomfort angrily and backed away.

“First things first!” he said. “Lena, go take that . . . that
thing
off Suzette's neck!”

Obediently, Lena turned to her friend. Suzette managed to lift a hand, as if she could stop Lena. But then, she hadn't that much strength.

He was pleased with himself; he'd already visited both girls, and he'd toyed with the idea of only playing with one. And here they were, together. How lovely, and how convenient. And how very much fun.

Lena got the cross, ripping it from Suzette's neck. She cast it down on the living room floor.

He grabbed a pillow from the couch and threw it on top of the offensive piece.

“And now!” he said.

“The two of you . . . ah, well!”

They were huddled at the bottom of the stairs together, both wide-eyed, staring at him, awaiting his next order. The one, petite, dark, and gorgeous with her inky eyes; the other, a little snow princess, blond with blue eyes.

Oh, yes. This could be the greatest entertainment he had yet afforded himself. Better, even, he mused, than the prize he awaited.

But the real prize was power. And he craved that more than any other sensory pleasure he could take at will.

But for the moment . . .

He walked to the pair, ran a finger down Suzette's peaches-and-cream arm, then stroked the rise of Lena's breast.

“Suzette, you will undo those buttons from Lena . . .” he began.

Then, something struck him, and he glanced at his watch, and cursed.

It wasn't going to be quite as much fun as he had intended.

“Make it quick!” he barked at Lena.

He needed to hurry. And still . . .

It was indeed entertaining. He savored the taste of the blonde while the brunette stroked and soothed her.

And he all but drained the brunette while he watched what the blonde was doing between her thighs.

The ecstasy was almost his undoing. Still, it all seemed to please him with a volatile, sensory delight greater than an explosion from Etna.

He had to stop himself. He didn't want them dead.

Yet.

As he gently settled the girls on the ground, sated, nearly bloated, he felt a moment's chill.

The other was near!

He gritted his teeth and fought the fear.

He was cloaked in a way that masked him. He was safe. And when he was done . . .

He would have all the power he had ever craved. And a world, a huge world, with a massive population, in which to play.

And conquer.

Grant sat at the table long after Lucien and Jade had gone, staring at his coffee cup. Stephanie did the same.

Then she rose. She smiled at him weakly. “I've got to get some sleep. And I've got to go up and do something about that curtain.”

She left him sitting at the table. They hadn't exchanged a word with one another about the entire bizarre occurrence that night or the even more absurd conversation they had just had with Lucien and Jade—or Clay and Liz.

They were liars. They had to be liars. Fakers, magicians, liars.

But they weren't.

Stephanie was right. They were both so tired that they were bleary-eyed. There had been far too much happening in a day for either of them to understand or accept.

Or deny.

Grant rose.

He had seen Stephanie lock the front door. He checked it anyway. He checked the downstairs back door as well.

Daytime, he mocked himself. They were probably safe anyway.

He climbed the stairs to the loft, his footsteps heavy. When he reached the bedroom area, Stephanie was busy trying to balance the broken rod on the sliding glass doors and stuff the billowing white drapes back over it. He caught her in the act, pulling her against him. For a minute, he just held her there. Ridiculous thoughts filled him.
At least the suave bastard was married!

Yep, he was a vampire, but hell, a married one. Surely, that made it all better.

And yet . . .

He felt again the fierce desire that he had felt for Stephanie from the moment he had met her, a love so intense it was frightening.
And he didn't need to be afraid of Clay Barton . . .

Hell, no! Just some ancient, evil corpse brought back to life because of an earthquake. An evil being who, for some reason, wanted Stephanie.

He nuzzled his face against her nape, feeling her hair tease his skin. And he told her almost urgently, “I would die for you. I would die without you!”

She might have turned around and told him that he had best get a life—they weren't really together. She had let him stay because he was so insistent. She had made love with him because they were both healthy and vital and their chemistry was a combustible match.

But she didn't. She turned into his arms, and let him hold her. For a moment, she was vulnerable, grateful just to feel secure in the circle of his arms. He lifted her chin. So much of their lovemaking had been desperate and wild. He kissed her very gently, slowly, savoring the feel of his lips against her, the taste of her mouth, the depth and texture of it. She stirred. He instantly felt a quickening in himself. So much for a tender moment.

She drew away.

“The drapes,” she reminded him.

“Um, we would be just about on television, huh?” he said.

“Well, kind of. And if you look below . . . Giovanni is delivering someone's luggage, the maids are moving about . . . and one of the cooks is outside, smoking,” she said dryly.

He laughed, stepping forward with the bent rod, and lifting it. It wouldn't fit. He lowered it before himself and straightened it, then set it back on the hooks. Not perfect, but it was going to stay. Stephanie was behind him with the drapes. He took them from her, reaching up to see that they were attached to enough places to provide them complete privacy.

He turned back to her.

Her clothes were strewn. She was already in the bed. The room was cast in shadow again, while outside, the sun blazed.

He came to her.

She wasn't in a tender mood. She rose to meet him, her hands upon his clothing, her whisper hot in the shadows. “Tonight . . . God, I want to crawl into your skin, I need to be with you, a part of you, so badly!”

She was on her knees against him. He caught her jaw tenderly, firmly, and found her lips again. She returned the kiss with a wanton abandon, still tugging anxiously on his clothing. Their mouths remained meshed while they both struggled with buttons, zippers, and then the denim of his jeans. When they came together, flesh against flesh, it was as if they seared to one another. Her hands were everywhere on him. He gripped her tightly, melding her to him, but she tossed her head back, sending kisses flying in a sea of desperation against his chest and shoulders. She shoved him back. He allowed it. She rubbed her body down the length of his, the friction of her flesh against his an erotic sensation long before she made it far more intimate—teeth, lips, and tongue playing wickedly on his flesh, against his thighs, his abdomen, his sex. Acute arousal seared into him, and he halfway rose, lifting her, bringing her down against him, letting her ride the heat, the rhythm of his choice until the urge to increase the tempo soared in him like a wildfire of need, and caught her tightly, rolling against the sheets with her, taking her position on top. The world rocked and thundered; he felt his climax come upon him as explosively as fireworks. His very essence seemed to flow into her.
She had said that she'd wanted to crawl into his skin. He felt as if they did, somewhere, all but become one ...

Her body shuddered and quaked in his arms, and at last, still embraced, she went still. Her fingers played in his hair and he eased himself to her side, scooping her against him.

Then...

He heard the noise. Downstairs.

She tensed in his arms. But he'd heard it, too. Someone at the downstairs door, someone trying to get in.

He leapt out of the bed, assuring himself that the glass doors were locked; then, heedless of his state of total undress, he flew down the stairs. A crack of brilliant daylight was flooding in.

The top bolt was on; the door could only part an inch.

“
Buongiorno
!” a cheerful voice called.

He collapsed against the wall. The maid! It was daytime, morning.

“
Buongiorno
,” he returned, and all his Italian fled from his mind. “We're still, uh, sleeping!” he told her.

“
Mi dispiace! A più tardi
!” the maid assured him.

The door closed over the crack. He hit the bottom lock again.

Stephanie, raven's wing hair cascading in a wild tangle over her shoulders, was standing at the top of the stairs.

“The maid,” he told her, but she already knew.

They both burst into laughter. He tore up the stairs, and swept her back up into his arms. They both continued to laugh as they crashed down on the bed.

Not too terribly much later, they actually fell asleep.

 

 

“Drew?”

Drew had dozed in the chair. The sound of his name brought him instantly and fully awake. He felt a startled sense of panic, but he was awake.

“Doug?” he said anxiously.

“Yeah, man.”

Doug was sitting up in the bed. He didn't look pale, haggard—hell, he didn't even look sick!

“Hey . . . you look great.”

“Yeah? I feel . . . weird.”

“You should. We nearly lost you last night,” Drew told him.

Doug grimaced, and stretched his muscles. “Really weird. And hungry.”

“I'll get you something.”

Doug made a face. “No . . . I'm in the hospital, right? I don't want any hospital food.”

“All right. I'll go out and get you something and bring it back.”

“A steak. Really rare.”

“Hey! Don't get too picky on me, buddy. I've got to see what I can find somewhere near here—the café is really good, though,” Drew assured him.

Doug made a face. There was an IV dripping into his arm. He looked at it with distaste. “I gotta get out of here!” he said.

“You've got to sit tight, and deal with it,” Drew said firmly. “Wait until Dr. Antinella sees you. I have a feeling he may want you to stay a few more days. In fact, I think I'll get one of the nurses to check with him—just make sure he doesn't want you on a special diet or anything.”

“I'm feeling great,” Doug said. He grinned. “Honestly.”

“And you still don't remember anything?” Drew asked him curiously.

Doug shook his head. “Just . . . coming in from the beach.” He hesitated, then stared at Drew beseechingly. “I really need something that's like real, live food. You all must have been through hell last night, and I really appreciate it, but . . . man, I'm hungry.”

“All right, sit tight. I'm on it,” Doug told him.

Out in the hallway, he ran into one of the nurses. He smiled awkwardly, knowing that he wouldn't begin to know how to ask her if it was okay for him to bring in outside food for Doug. Maybe she spoke English. He tried. “My friend . . .
mio amico
. . . ah . . .
desidero mangiare
.
Posso
. . .
io
. . .”

“What does he desire?” the nurse asked, smiling. She was an attractive woman in her late twenties or early thirties who apparently knew English just fine.

“He's very hungry, but he wants a steak. Is it all right if I go out and find him one?”

“Come,” she said.

He followed her to the nurses' station, and she leafed through the charts.

“He is on no special diet. There are no instructions. Dr. Antinella will be around to see him very soon. He has been good through the night, and this morning, yes?”

“You've checked in on him?”

“But of course,” she assured him. “You have been sleeping,” she said, a small smile curving her lips. “A good friend you are, though. Trying to stay awake.”

“Yeah, well . . .” He flushed. Damn, but he hated it when he flushed. He turned really red. “I'll be back. I'm going to try and find my buddy a steak.”

“
Ciao!
” she said cheerfully.

“
Ciao
.” He waved awkwardly. Damn, but she was cute.

A tremendous feeling of well-being swept through him. Doug was better already. The world was good.

No, it wasn't, he remembered.

There had been a human arm left in front of Grant's cottage last night. And he was supposed to find his way to the mortuary and see . . . see if he could identify it as Gema's.

His stomach churned.

Good thing he was getting the steak for Doug, and not himself.

 

 

Antoinette smiled and hummed as she worked, her notepad in her hand. She had received a promotion to her recent position just a few weeks ago, and she was still very proud and pleased. She wasn't just head nurse for her shift now, but supervisor of her area.

That meant, of course, that she now had greater responsibility, and that she was required to know the extent of their supplies at all times, know when they were low, what must be ordered. Naturally, she was responsible as well to make sure that none of her fellow employees slipped out at night with any drugs.

There were many that could just give one a great high for an evening. Drugs that saved life could also be exceptionally entertaining in the recreational area.

She took her responsibilities very seriously, but not fretfully. This was a small place. It was tightly run. The employees took pride in it, and when a bad egg came along now and then, well . . . he or she didn't usually last very long.

When she first heard the sound at the door, she didn't even look up.

“Yes? I'm busy, as you can see.”

She felt the touch on her shoulder first. Her first instinct was irritation. Who in the world! Did someone think that she, of all women, would be interested in an intimate little
tête-à-tête
in the supply room? And if not, did they think they could get her to let them slip out with supplies that belonged to the hospital?

Indignant, she spun around.

She inhaled, ready to be firm, angry, and definitely indignant.

Antoinette!

She heard the caress of her name, heard it as if it had been spoken inside of her, as if it were a stroke against her naked flesh.

She stared ahead into . . . fire.

“Yes?” she said, and it was a rasp.

She was aware of the smile. Of the euphoria that swept over her.

She heard the commands, and she obeyed.

Every last one . . .

 

 

When she woke up, she was on the floor. She looked at herself in horror and embarrassment, scrambled to her feet. Stunned and confused, with no memory of the last twenty minutes, she hastily made repairs to herself.

And then, she saw the supply room.

And she began to scream for help, still tucking her hair back into her cap.

 

 

Sleep was good. Delicious. Stephanie was aware of the warmth of Grant's body, and somehow, even sleeping, aware as well that beyond the darkness of the room, it was daylight.

Rest was wonderful.

And then . . .

She began to stir, aware that at her side, Grant was tossing. His flesh seemed on fire.

Grunts, sounds—words?—she couldn't understand suddenly began to tumble from his lips. His muscles tensed, lengthened, tensed again. His fingers wound tightly into fists, and he pounded the bed at his side.

She just stared at him at first.

Then she jumped out of the bed, stunned at the violence in the thrashing of his body. He shouted, and again, the sounds seemed like words, but she couldn't understand anything he said.

Suddenly and abruptly, he went still.

Then he sat up, jackknifed to a sitting position. His eyes were open, and he was staring ahead in fury and anger. He shouted out again, threatening someone. Vaguely, she was aware that she recognized the language.

She even thought she understood the words.

“Grant!” she called softly. He was dreaming; he had to be dreaming. She didn't know whether to shake him or maintain her gentle approach. And she was afraid to get too close to him; his volatility could send her flying if she didn't wake him fully and instantly.

He screamed something out again, something she couldn't discern, then leapt out of the bed. Stark naked, he strode for the doors, and fought with the billowing drapes. Ripping them open, he slammed against the glass.