The Haunting of Brier Rose (20 page)

"Why?"

"Because it makes me nervous." She shot a glare at him.
"And then my stitches go awry."

"Well, at least I elicit some kind of emotion from
you."

Rose jumped up and held the silk to her breast. "I want you
to leave. Now."

"Just a minute—"

"Now, Taylor."

He frowned, unaccustomed to taking orders from anyone. Yet he
didn't want to offend her any more than he already had by coming on too strong
with her.

"I will. Just humor me for a minute and stand still."

She sighed and shifted her weight impatiently. "Is this
another one of your ploys, like the brandy?"

"Hardly," he retorted. "Last night I saw someone
or something turn into a cloud of smoke and go into that spot in your aura. And
I want to know who the hell it is."

"You saw something go into my aura?"

"Yes. The pipe-organ noise woke me up, and I saw someone
standing by the bed."

"What did it... he look like?"

"I couldn't tell in the dark. When I called out, he simply
dissipated and funneled into your aura. And that's why I want to look at the
black spot—to find out if he has a face."

"That's preposterous!" She turned away. "I've got
better things to do than listen to such—''

"And I've got better things to do than second-guess you,
Rose. So why don't you tell me about the Bastyr family?"

"I don't want you involved."

He looked at the back of her russet head, the slope of her
shoulder, the curve of her hips, wanting more than anything to draw her back to
him. She had felt so right against him last night. Yet if he reached for her,
he was sure that she would pull away. He couldn't bear the humiliation and the
pain that would cause.

Instead of responding, he ignored her request to leave and shifted
his vision. He let his gaze drift to the side of her head, allowing her hair to
go out of focus. Her rainbow-colored aura shimmered with an outer layer of
green, accompanied by a light buzzing sound, like the whir of hummingbird
wings. The black spot came into view, and Taylor carefully concentrated on it,
hoping she wouldn't move until he could inspect the inky blotch.

In the black spot glowed the oval of a man's face with a waxen
complexion and dark eyes, nearly as dark as his own.

But the eyes of the face in the aura were simian like, lacking
visible whites and deeply set in shadow. Below a hooked nose was a stern,
thin-lipped mouth that turned down in cruelty. Taylor couldn't tell the man's
age, but he was once again struck by the evil emanating from him.

"Taylor!" Rose whirled, realizing that he was staring
at her.

Taylor blinked back to reality. His lips felt tight and dry, and
his heart pounded in his chest.

"What's wrong?" she demanded.

"There's a man's face in your aura. Someone evil."

That got her attention. She lowered the scarf. "What does he
look like?"

"He's got a narrow face.
Dark hair, dark
eyes.
He looks like he could be a real bastard. Know him?"

Rose draped a hand at the base of her throat. He noticed that her
emerald ring was still missing. Then he glanced at her face. She had paled and
looked as shocked as he felt.

"Do you know anyone who might fit that description,
Rose?"

She shook her head too emphatically for Taylor to believe her.

"Rose, don't run from me."

She swallowed, and for a moment her eyes locked with his as if
she were about to weaken. Then her expression hardened, and she motioned toward
the door.

"You saw what you wanted, now leave. Please."

Taylor sighed in frustration, aching to crush her in his arms and
kiss away her disbelief. He balled his fist and then released it, fighting off
the urge to overpower her with his sheer physical size. Once he kissed her, he
knew she would surrender to him again. Then he could talk some sense into her
and convince her to confide in him. But instead of overpowering her and taking
the chance of losing her forever, he squeezed the handle of his cane and left
the workroom.

Taylor spent the rest of the day sequestered in the drawing room
downstairs, poring over his books, trying to find out more about auras, certain
now that his only hope in dealing with the dark figure would depend on his
knowledge of his special sight. He practiced shifting his vision so he could do
it with ease. When Bea walked down the hall with a feather duster, he caught
sight of her aura in the brief time it took her to pass the open doorway.
Heartened by his success, Taylor tried more difficult subjects, such as the
flitting sparrows outside the window. While he was staring out the window he
noticed four black shapes under the rhododendrons by the herb garden.

 
Before he could
switch back to his normal vision and discover what the shapes were,
he was interrupted by Bea coming in to announce dinner
. When
he looked back at the rhododendrons he couldn't see anything but curled dried
leaves on the ground.

Shrugging off the incident, Taylor followed Bea out to the dining
room. No matter what she thought of him, she still cooked delicious meals for
him, and he knew he would miss her cooking once he left Brierwood.

Just as he finished his after-dinner coffee, he heard the
doorbell ring. Taylor turned in his chair, listening intently for the sound of
voices, curious to know the nature of Rose's client but aware that his presence
would not be appreciated during the transaction. Still, he had to get a look at
the man and make sure that Rose received a fair price for her amazing
workmanship.

"Come into the parlor," Bea's voice echoed from the
foyer. "And I'll get Miss Quennel."

Taylor hobbled to the door of the dining room, holding his cane
off the floor to keep from making his telltale tapping noise. He poked his head
around the doorway of the dining room just in time to see the tall figure of a
man walking behind Bea. The man wore a long black overcoat, black pants and polished
shoes, and cut an imposing figure. Taylor moved down the hall, wishing he had
seen the man's face, and wondered why anyone would wear an overcoat on a warm
summer night.

Taylor heard Bea returning and ducked into the shadows of the
stair as she passed by him on her quest to locate
Rose
.
Taylor expected that she was upstairs, taking great pains with her appearance
for her influential client. He decided to wait at the foot of the stairs so he
could watch her descend.

There was no way she would turn back, even if he were the one
standing at the bottom.

He didn't usually care what kind of clothes he wore. Jeans and
T-shirts were his usual garb. On the job at Jensen's Quality Boats he wore
slacks, a tie and a sports jacket, and hated every moment the tie cinched his
neck. But now, waiting for Rose and knowing how elegant her visitor was, he
wished he had changed into something more attractive than his well-worn jeans
and black polo shirt. For some reason he felt in competition with the man who
had just entered Brierwood, and he didn't want to come up lacking in Rose's
estimation.

Above him, he heard Bea's excited chatter and the softer tones of
Rose's voice as she answered. He heard her step on the stair, looked up and
felt heat waft up around his ears.

Rose was attired in a dark green dress that draped in soft folds
nearly to her ankles. Around her willowy waist she had tied an exotic-looking
belt made of copper and gilded cording shot with green beads. Her hair hung
loose, a glorious nimbus of dancing reds and golds. Her neck and ears flashed
with more copper and green, and her feet were bare except for a pair of
delicate sandals. Taylor was aware that he held his breath until she reached
the last stair.

Her eyes met his with a cool level gaze.

"Good luck," he said.

"Thanks." She held a white cardboard box in her arms,
probably for the safe transport of the scarf.

"Don't let him get away without paying full price for
that."

"I don't intend to."

"Come along, Rose," Bea urged, taking her elbow and giving
Taylor a dark glance. "We don't want to keep him waiting."

Taylor moved backward, allowing them to pass. He watched Rose
walk away with graceful steps. She looked capable and in control, and he had no
doubt that she would get top dollar for the scarf. Then she slipped into the
parlor, and he heard her greet her client while Bea remained in the hallway.
Taylor ran a hand over his chin, battling the urge to eavesdrop and wishing Bea
would clear out and let him see what was going on. But she didn't seem eager to
return to the kitchen, and he certainly wasn't going to stand there with her
like some mismatched cheering section. He gave up and retired to the drawing
room and his book.

But the words in the green book faded as he listened to the
voices that carried across the foyer through the open door of the drawing room.
Once he even heard Rose laugh—a lovely sound he had never heard her make.
Scowling at
his own
jealousy, he forced himself to
ignore the activity in the parlor and trained his attention on the open book in
his lap.

His glance fell on a strange subhead—"Auric Vampires."
He scanned the ensuing paragraphs, first in disbelief and then in earnest.
According to the book there were beings that fed off the energy of other
people, just as vampires in the horror movies of his childhood fed off the
blood of their victims. Auric vampires were not immortal monsters but merely
everyday people who either didn't have enough of their own energy or grew
addicted to a higher level of energy than normal. Their "bite" left a
wound in the aura, which allowed energy to drain out. Auric wounds rarely
healed
on their own,
and if a person wasn't aware of
their wound, they might spend a lifetime in an altered, debilitated state.

Shaking his head in doubt at what he’d just read, Taylor shut the
door, surprised to find Edgar sitting on the back of his wing chair. He hadn't
even heard the bird come into the room. Warily, he sat down.

Edgar cocked his head and hopped closer. Taylor wondered if the
raven was thinking about pecking his head.

"Watch it, buster," he warned.

Edgar hopped down and rubbed the sides of his beak on the walnut
claw that decorated the arm of the chair. Taylor kept a wary eye on the bird,
surprised that the creature would come so close to him.

The bird eyed him and then hopped onto his wrist. Edgar's claws
were clammy and soft, and he was careful not to grasp Taylor's flesh too
tightly.

Slowly Taylor lifted the raven to eye level, amazed that the bird
trusted him enough to make contact.

Then Edgar squawked so loudly that Taylor wrenched back in
surprise, flinging the raven into the air. The bird flapped out of the room,
cawing raucously.

Taylor jumped to his feet and followed him out to the foyer just
as Rose and her client emerged from the parlor. Taylor paused at the bottom of
the stairs and watched in disgust as the man slowly drew Rose's hand to his
lips and kissed the back of it. He was wearing gloves, which Taylor considered
as ridiculous as the overcoat.

Then the elegant man turned and looked at Taylor. For a moment
his stare bore into Taylor's, and Taylor felt as if a hot flashlight beam was
tracing his entire body. He had never felt anything like it before. He forced
himself to ignore the way the hair rose on his arms and legs and the back of
his neck, and concentrated on the man's face. He froze as he recognized the
simian eyes, the waxen pallor and the widow's peak in the man's dark hair.

He was staring at the man from Rose's aura.

Taylor couldn't move, and his calf started to throb. He saw the
man walk to the door with
Rose
flowing beside him.
Taylor wanted to shout at her to get away, to run, but his mouth wouldn't open.

As Rose's client came abreast of Taylor, he nodded slightly.
"Good evening," he said, his voice dry and his words tinged with an
accent Taylor couldn't place.

Taylor stood mute, unable to reply. The simian eyes inspected his
face with a gaze so intense that he felt as if the man were looking beneath his
skin. Taylor was sure he could read amusement in the man's eyes, the same unmerciful
interest that cats displayed to their prey. Taylor wanted to punch the sneer
from his face, but his arms were like wooden boards hanging from his shoulders.

He shifted his vision and saw the man's aura streaking all the
way to the third-floor balcony in shafts of black—the color of evil, the
mark of a psychopath bereft of human feelings, the badge of a demon. With the
black aura came the blast of the pipe organ, so loud that Taylor couldn't hear
what Rose and her client were saying to him. He could see their mouths moving,
but their voices blurred together. With a great effort he shifted his vision
back to normal.

"Are you ill, Mr. Wolfe?" the man asked. "You look
pale."

How did the man know his name? Had Rose been introducing him a
moment ago?

Rose glanced at Taylor, her brows drawn together in concern.
"Taylor?"

He shook his head, trying to warn her with his eyes, but she
didn't pick up on his expression.

"Well, I must be going," the man said.

"Thank you so much." Rose opened the door. "I hope
your lady likes the scarf."

"Oh, I know she will." He stepped out on the front
porch and turned. "She will adore it. Goodbye, Miss Quennel, Mr.
Wolfe."

"Goodbye," she answered. "And watch out on the way
to your car. We've seen some dogs on the property."

"I'm sure they won't bother me." He nodded and walked
down the front steps, looking neither right nor left, as if totally unconcerned
about the pack of dogs.

Rose closed the door and locked it. When she turned to face
Taylor, her eyes were hard with displeasure.