Rajmund (7 page)

His participation in the case vastly complicated Sarah's life. If she'd been wary of getting involved before, his presence clinched it. She wanted no part of him or the tabloids that reported on his every movement. She would have laughed if it hadn't been so tragic. The one person guaranteed to believe her dreams, and he was the one man she wanted nothing to do with.

She stood abruptly, throwing her half-full latte into the trash container and the paper after it. She strode down the sidewalk toward her office, determination in every step. She had a class to teach, a life to live. The police were investigating. They didn't need Sarah and her dreams.

The faculty parking lot was only half full that afternoon as Sarah headed back to her car, deftly sidestepping the puddle of ice melt she'd somehow managed to park right next to. The day's early promise of sunshine had come through, and even now the air felt almost warm. She lifted her face to the weak sunlight and wished she could just take off, maybe drive into the countryside, stop for a sandwich and sit at a picnic table, enjoying this first real sign of spring because she was pretty sure it wouldn't last. There were apparently no halfways in this part of the country—you were either freezing your ass off or melting into a big, steaming puddle.

Stop complaining, Stratton. You have a job, don't you?
Sometimes she felt guilty about that. So many of her friends from grad school were struggling to make a go of it, people with families and obligations, while she had snagged a tenure track position at a decent university. Jobs like this were hard to find anymore, but even so, she sometimes wondered what she was doing here. It wasn't that she didn't enjoy teaching. She did, although she knew most of her students viewed her classes as a necessary evil, something to fill out a breadth requirement on their way to whatever career they'd chosen—law school for too many of them. Like the world needed a whole new batch of lawyers every year. And it wasn't that she didn't enjoy the research part of it. She loved history, loved discovering obscure bits of knowledge about people and events long past. What she didn't enjoy was doing the kind of research that would gain her tenure—the footnotes and the literature reviews, the presentations and the conferences, with their incumbent glad-handing and ass-kissing. And academic politics were a world all to themselves—backbiting elevated to the finest of arts.

She crossed the boundary between the walkway and the parking lot, her brain registering the change in texture beneath the soles of her sturdy, flat-heeled boots. She remembered her red dress from the weekend, with the skinny little high heels that Raj had so openly admired.
When the hell did I start wearing sturdy boots?
she wondered with a sigh. Probably the first time she'd fallen on her ass in the wet snow. But whenever it was, spring was here and it was time to stop. Tomorrow, she was wearing her heels again.

"Good afternoon, Professor Stratton!"

Sarah jolted out of her thoughts and turned with a smile for her best, and perhaps only, friend on campus. “And a fine afternoon to you as well, Professor Hoffman. You're far away from your usual haunts.” Linda Hoffman had a temporary appointment in Art History, courtesy of her husband Sam who was something of a star in the Art Department.

"That's because I'm looking for you. You're coming to Sam's birthday on Thursday night, right? And don't give me any excuses about work,” she added, anticipating Sarah's response. The break starts Friday, so I expect you to show up and get drunk like the rest of us."

"Linda, I really—"

"And bring a date."

"Right. Where do I find one of those again?"

"Foolish girl. It would help if you'd say ‘yes’ once in awhile. Look at you. I
know
you get offers. In fact, my cousin Tony was asking about you a couple weeks ago, after my mother's birthday party.” Seeing the look on Sarah's face, she rushed ahead, saying, “Don't worry. I didn't give him your number. Even I know he's not your type, although, come to think of it, I'm not sure exactly what your type is. But,” she added, the gleam of gossip in her eye, “speaking of Tony, did you hear about Trish Cowens?"

Sarah's stomach knotted, and she forced herself to exhale and fake a frown of confusion. “Trish Cowens?"

"You've got to pull your nose out of the books once in a while, girl. Patricia Cowens, the daughter of
William
Cowens? You know, the bazillionaire who invented . . .” Linda waved her hand in the air. “Something or other, I don't know. But that's not the story. She's a student here at the university, and she's gone missing. Her daddy's whipping the local police into a frenzy trying to find her."

"That's awful,” Sarah said in a low voice. She was having trouble focusing on the here and now. Her mind kept wanting to replace the smiling picture of Trish Cowens with the terrifying images from her dreams.

Linda sobered immediately, as if aware she'd been gushing over someone else's tragedy. “Of course, it is. Tony says they're working night and day—"

"Wait,” Sarah interrupted. “What does your cousin have to do with this?"

"Oh,” Linda said, scrunching her face in thought. “Tony's a cop. I thought you knew that. A detective actually. He and his partner . . .” Linda paused, eyeing her speculatively. “Now there's a possibility for you. Dan's good-looking and much more, um, cerebral than Tony. Of course, I think he's on his third divorce,” she added, frowning.

"Linda,” Sarah said patiently. “What does Tony have to do with Trish Cowens?"

"He and Dan are in charge of her case,” Linda said, surprised. “Didn't I mention that already?"

"No,” Sarah said absently. “No, you didn't."

"And that's not all.” She moved closer, glancing around to make sure they were alone. “They think vampires are doing it."

Sarah blinked in confusion. “Doing what?"

"Stealing those girls!” Linda exclaimed, as if it was Sarah who wasn't paying attention.

"Girls? Plural? As in more than one?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

"Well, yes. I think it's three or four, I'm not sure. But, Sarah, vampires!"

"Yeah, I got that. Why?” she asked suddenly.

"Why?” Linda parroted, her expression confused.

"Why do they think a vampire's involved? I mean why would a vampire do that?"

"For blood, of course!"

Sarah frowned, thinking about Raphael and his gang, about Raj. She tried to imagine any of them kidnapping women off the streets, especially when there were beautiful women like those in that club Saturday night, women who offered themselves eagerly. “I don't think they need to do that, Linda. Not anymore anyway."

Linda scowled at her, dissatisfied with the reaction to her big news. “Well, I don't know,” she said irritably. “Tony said the missing women had all been to those horrible blood houses or something. He didn't want to talk about it really, but his mother squeezed it out of him.” Linda shrugged loosely as if shaking off the entire subject. “Anyway, I'm sure they'll find her. You know freshmen. First time away from home, they go a little nuts. Okay, sweetie, I've got to run.” She gave Sarah a quick peck on the cheek. “See you at the party, and wear a dress, for God's sake!"

Sarah ignored the comment about a dress, putting it in the same category as her sensible boots. “I'll be there,” she said, instead. “And give Sam my love."

She watched her friend dash off between the buildings, thinking about vampires and the dark, windowless room Regina had woken up in. The kind of room in which a vampire might choose to hide his victims.

Later that afternoon, Sarah sat in her home office, hunched in front of her computer, staring intently at the monitor, waiting for the secrets of the universe to be revealed. Or at least the next chapter of the book that was supposed to get her tenure. Unfortunately, there was nothing but a blank screen staring back at her. When the monitor reverted to her screen saver, she jerked back in surprise. How long had she been sitting here lost in thought? She pushed away from her desk with a sigh, not even bothering to save her work. She hadn't typed more than a hundred words and none of it was worth keeping. Her stomach growled, reminding her it had been hours since lunch.

She thumped noisily down the weirdly narrow stairway, heading for the kitchen. The duplex she lived in had once been a single home. When someone had divided it in two, they'd made her half slightly smaller, with the cut right down the middle of the existing staircase, leaving each unit with a squished set of stairs, like something you'd see leading to an attic that no one ever used. Fortunately, Sarah was petite, five-foot-four in her stocking feet, if the socks were thick —although her much taller brothers had simply called her Shrimp. She wasn't skinny, but she was fit and toned, so who cared about a number on the scale?

Rounding the newel post at the bottom, she scuffed her way in stockinged feet to the kitchen and pulled open her freezer door. A dazzling array of Tupperware containers greeted her, all carefully labeled, courtesy of her landlady Mrs. Maglietto. Mrs. M. had sort of adopted Sarah, when she'd discovered there was no family nearby. An inveterate gossip, she always seemed to know when Sarah was coming and going, and frequently met her on the porch with whatever casserole she or one of her many daughters had prepared that day. Sarah didn't mind. She'd been close to her family before everything fell apart. Sometimes she missed that sense of belonging, of knowing someone cared about her, that they'd miss her if she died . . . or if she was taken by one of the human monsters who haunted her dreams.

Sarah shivered, and realized she was still standing in front of her open freezer lost in thought. First her computer and now the freezer. Next she'd be drifting off while driving her car. She had to figure out a way to deal with the dreams before she suffered something more drastic than freezer burn. She slammed the freezer door and took a yogurt from the refrigerator instead, staring out the window as she spooned it into her mouth, barely aware she was eating. There had to be some way she could find out what the police knew. She could call Linda's cousin, of course, but what would she say? Even if he remembered her, she couldn't imagine he'd be eager to spill all the secrets of his investigation. After all, who was she? An Assistant Professor of History at the university, hardly an expert on . . .

Her spoon clattered into the sink. Why hadn't she thought of that sooner? Hadn't she just spent the weekend with two of the most powerful vampires in the country? And wasn't her best friend practically married to one of them? She'd call Linda's cousin. She didn't know his last name, but that'd be easy enough to find out. She'd call him and offer her services as a vampire expert. Well, maybe not an expert, but a resource. There was probably nothing to the rumors anyway, but that wasn't the point. It would give her a chance to find out what the police knew without giving herself away. And anyway, who else could the police turn to if they had questions about vampires? The real vampires were all in Manhattan. She'd seen them in Raj's club. What self-respecting vampire would live in Buffalo when he had Manhattan to play in?

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The sun went down and the vampires rose. Raj opened his eyes to the instant knowledge of where he was and how he'd gotten there. And hunger. He'd left the city in such a hurry last night that there'd been no time to eat a full meal. Normally, he kept a supply of bagged blood in the bar refrigerator here for emergencies, but his last visit to Buffalo had been weeks ago and the refrigerator was empty of everything but ice. Which meant, Krystof be damned, Raj's first order of business was finding a willing donor. Demented or not, Krystof was a powerful vampire, and Raj had no intention of meeting him at anything but his best.

Besides, finding a woman shouldn't be difficult in this part of town, even on a Wednesday night. It was one of the reasons he'd built his lair here.

He stood and headed for the bathroom, groaning at the stiffness in his neck. He'd fallen facedown into bed this morning, which always left him feeling a little mean when he woke up. He twisted his neck with a loud crack of vertebrae and stared at his reflection in the mirror as he began to shave. He'd had a mustache, when he was human, and hair down to his shoulders. Now his face was bare and his thick, blond hair barely touched his collar. He turned on the shower and let steam fill the bathroom before stepping under the steady spray—one of the greatest inventions of modern man.

As the hot water pummeled away his uncomfortable day's sleep, he thought about Krystof and what this latest crisis might be. The old man had very little contact with the world outside his own small circle these days. He'd lived in Buffalo for hundreds of years, the last ninety of them in a big, turn-of-the-century house in the Delaware Park section of town. A fear of fire had forced him to rewire the entire building some years ago, but there was no television, no sound system and just one computer, which was used by his minions to monitor security.

Remarkably, Krystof also owned an entire penthouse floor in a downtown high rise, with both offices and bedroom suites. But he never used it, unless there were visitors to impress—which meant once every eight years when it was his turn to host the annual meeting of the North American Vampire Council.

As for the city itself, Buffalo had once been fat and satisfied, its steel mills and ports thriving and new people arriving all the time. Raj had come here four decades before the American civil war, looking for a different future than that offered by his own country, which was being slowly torn apart by competing foreign interests. Pure chance had brought him into contact with Krystof, who had already been a vampire for centuries by then. Krystof was the first master vampire to travel to the new world. With no competition, he had established his own territory and made himself a vampire lord. And he had been constantly on the lookout for potential recruits from his native Poland, men who were accustomed to the hierarchy of nobility and would not chafe under his rule. That the men he recruited didn't always volunteer to serve him didn't matter. Once they were turned, like Raj, they had little choice.