Kiss Noir (BookStrand Publishing Romance)

by Robynn Clairday

  She stepped into cotton stirrups and chose an oversized shirt, emblazoned with a purple Mardi Gras motif. Suddenly, she was beginning to tremble, barely able to pull the shirt over head. Something terrible had happened. Dread and a horrible fear made her want to crawl back into bed. It was something she didn't want to know, or remember. She wanted to close her eyes like a child and scream out loud that she refused to know—that she refused to hear the truth.

  She stared at herself in her bedroom mirror while slowly combing her wet hair. It hit her. One word. Dameon. Rapidly, an avalanche of sensation and memory nearly knocked her down. Tatiana, Luke Keller, she and Dameon making love, and then the next morning, Tatiana dead, and then...

  Jen threw the brush down and ran to grab up the phone. Breathing hard, she dialed his number. A recorded voice told her that the number had been disconnected. Panting, she dialed the operator and shrilly insisted on speaking with supervisor after hearing the number had been discontinued. The operator had no further knowledge about the previous owner. It had to be a mistake. The supervisor's nasal voice repeated the same horrid thing, and refused to give out any information. The customer hadn’t left a forwarding number.

  No, no, it wasn't so. Jen put her hand to her forehead to clear her thoughts. Had she been drugged? She was so disoriented. The phone company was mistaken. It happened all the time. Struggling to catch her breath, she moved with determination and with complete focus. First, her shoes, then, her keys. A coat, it was cold outside. Food and water for Cobbs, who was trailing her with mournful eyes. Once in the car, she felt some measure of relief. She would sort out this whole mess. Dameon would laugh and reassure her. It was all a mistake.

  It was bitterly cold outside, and a dense drizzle coated her windshield. Impatiently, she pushed down on the accelerator. Who cared that the speed limit was 25 mph? The needle pushed 55, and dirt and rocks flew in ribbons behind the car. Her eyes did not see the road or the trees whizzing past in a colorless blur. She counted her breaths. One, two, three, one, two, three… It soothed her.

  Things were under control. Abruptly, the Tempo lurched and coughed to a halt. It sputtered as she wrenched it to the side of the dirt road. Furiously, she turned the key on and off and pumped the pedal. And kept pumping, though the gas gauge read empty. "Damn, damn, damn," she gritted out loud.

  She was nearly three-quarters there, anyway, and would run the rest of the way. Unconscious of the icy rain, or the mud that covered her knees when she slipped twice, it wasn't until the mansion, her Thornhall, came into view that she even attempted to slow her pace and harsh breathing. You're acting like a maniac, she told herself. Dameon will think you're a nut. She tried to slow her breathing, hearing herself wheezing and choking. Her adrenaline pumping enabled her to make it to the front door. The house wore a strangely disconsolate air. Abandoned and dull. And she didn't like it, at all. Grabbing the knocker with white knuckles, she pounded. Rang the bell mercilessly and, finally, shouted Dameon's name. The answering silence was crushing.

  She could not breathe, and the blood suddenly rushed to her head. Running from window to window around the house, she finally found one with an open curtain and peered in. It was the black and white fireplace room. Bare and empty. Not a single piece of furniture remained. No harlequins, no tea cart. Nothing. Jen shook her head, more in denial than in disbelief. She tore around to the rear of the house and found another exposed window. That room was also empty. As was the garage. No Phantom III was parked inside.

  She remembered suddenly what had been teasing her mind about the car. It was the same one she glimpsed during the carjacking when she had first met Dameon. A stupid thing to think about at a time like this, but the car reminded her of how it had all started. She forced the memory down, and continued surveying her Thornhall. The house was stripped and denuded. As if it had never been.

  Her head was light and her eyes couldn't focus, but she managed to gasp her way back around to the house's front. She pounded on the door. Again and again. She would not accept this. Her hand did not stop knocking until the lead glass door window beneath it shattered and sliced open her flesh. She stared down at her gashed, bleeding hand, remembering the smaller cut from her Tempo when she'd first met Dameon...She cried out, the noise cutting through the air. She sobbed now, in full force. The wild animal noises coming from her throat sounded alien and unfamiliar.

  Pain exploded and Jen collapsed to the wet earth. His betrayal tore through her. He had deserted her, deceived her, put her under in the trance and disappeared without a trace.

  Cradling her bleeding hand, numb to the physical pain, she wept and knew there was no end to the tears.

  The drizzle turned into sleet and covered her, mixing and melting with her tears, waking her from her cocoon of misery. She sat gripping onto the cold ground as if it were a child's security blanket and could offer her comfort and reprieve. As minutes passed, she slowly rose and, zombielike, walked away from the house. He had left her, and there was nothing she could do.

  * * * *

  Miles away in a small, crowded bar in the tiny French village of Caché, not far from Montmédy, Dameon sat in front of a glass of bourbon. Indifferent to the noise and bustle around him, he had automatically forced his vampire aura inward to avoid unwanted attention, but as usual, the energy still attracted some interest from people around him. With resignation, he focused the energy as a barrier and was soon left alone.

  Dameon was slumped over his table, empty and deadened, when he was swallowed by a swell of misery and despair followed by a sharp sensation in the flesh of his hand. The waves of feeling ambushed and assaulted him. Jolted, he leapt up, blinded by searing agony that was much more psychic than physical. He staggered into his table, upending his chair, unable to control his movements. The pain, the grief, was unbearable. Hers, Jen's. The agony was dismembering him, filleting him. He couldn't take it.

  He was unaware that he had cried out. A tap on his shoulder. He swayed, slowly separating his consciousness from the psychic stranglehold. The bartender, a world-weary man, dark and mustached, was asking over and over. "Monsieur, are you all right?" Dameon surfaced and struggled to respond coherently. The bartender's olive eyes were wary and more impatient than concerned. It was clear that he thought he was dealing with a lunatic or a drug addict.

  Dameon shook his head and curtly ordered another bourbon. The bartender pointed out that his first bourbon was hardly touched, and Dameon dispatched it in one gulp. The bartender shrugged and left. The fellow patrons of the bar who were momentarily riveted by the scene had lost interest and returned to their own private dramas. Dameon frowned. Alcohol was still a difficult substance for vampires to digest. It was practically suicidal for him to do what he was doing. Gulping down bourbons would damage the cells in his blood. But he could not bear it. And why not a slow death? Wasn't that preferable to the farce his life was?

  His link with Jen was so strong, and he had been unprepared. Their spiritual bond was as solid as flesh. He had forgotten that the telepathic connection would not be an easy one to block. The pain and hurt she was feeling was excruciating. How could he ever forgive himself for being the one responsible for her suffering? I wish I could simply blame Tatiana, he agonized, but I can't. This is all my fault.

  He was overwhelmed by the urge to fly to her side. To take her in his arms. To soothe her wounds. He would give his life to repair the damage.

  The bartender slammed down another bourbon and waited for payment, obviously not trusting Dameon to run a tab. Taking a deep breath, Dameon swallowed down the bourbon.

  He couldn't go to her. He loved her too much to ruin her life. If only he hadn't reached out to her, met her, got involved in her life. It was too late for that. But he could stay away. He could erect the barrier that would block the connection. The bond couldn't be permanently destroyed, but he could obstruct it. It would take all of his psychic strength to do so, to fight against his own weak need and selfish desire.

  He stood
up and pushed his way out of the bar. Not that he had anywhere to go. There was no place, no sanctuary anywhere for him. He was more alone than ever.

  Chapter Nineteen

  It was dark out. The sky was heavy and laden with clouds, diluting the blackness of the sky. The only sounds she heard were the rustling of the pines. Dameon's house lingered behind her, a shadowy fortress. She was soaked, thoroughly chilled, and spattered with mud, but utterly indifferent to the state she was in. Her hand and arm were streaked with blood and throbbing. Lifelessly, she set off down the dirt road, ignoring the wood path to return home. She passed by the abandoned Tempo without a second glance, and continued down the night-darkened road. Not another life form appeared. She was alone.

  Reaching home, Jen let herself in and nearly tripped over an anxious Cobbs. Her eyes flew to the answering machine as she fumbled her way to the kitchen. No messages. She wondered how long it would take for false hope to die. He was truly gone. The terrible pain and desolation in his eyes had been real. He had made his decision.

  Jen curled up on the sofa, Cobbs on her lap. She stroked his soft head. The bleeding from her hand had stopped, but she was a mess. Staring sightlessly at the clock, she tried to contemplate her life without Dameon.

  * * * *

  Somewhere between La Petite-Pierre and St. Jean-les-Saverne, hidden in an obscure, densely wooded valley, Dameon found the old castle he was looking for. Named the Lost Island, it rose ahead, huge and gloomy, giving off an aura of something ancient and decayed. Claudia. He would have to face her. Tatiana's remains were carefully wrapped in silk, inside the teak box, just as tradition dictated. Small comfort for a woman who had lost her only child. And to have the courier be none other than her daughter's murderer.

  He sighed. There was no use delaying the inevitable. He knew that Claudia would not appreciate him simply materializing in her home. He would appear as a mortal would, on her doorstep. In any event, teleporting was an exhausting process, and Dameon was weary beyond words. An ancient, nearly blind servant escorted him to Claudia's parlor. The old servant had led him inside without question, and Dameon wondered if the old woman remembered him from long ago.

  As she led him down the musty corridor, he realized it had been nearly a century since he had last been here. They passed the peculiar window of stained glass, filled with shapes of obscenely leering goats and smirking shepherds, on the way to Claudia's boudoir. The servant knocked, entered and curtseyed before leaving. Claudia sat in the shadows, enthroned in the enormous, faded gold and satin chair. Despite the generous number of servants he passed en route, the large, circular room was dusty, and looked old and unused. It smelled of something dead and rusty. Heavy drapes closed out the sunlight from the windows. She spoke, her voice masculine and deep, which always startled him.

  "So, Dameon, you have finally come. I have been waiting." The voice rumbled from within the huge chair.

  Dameon bowed deeply, unsurprised at her words. "I apologize, Madame, if I have caused you distress by my tardiness."

  "Bah! What nonsense. I have nothing but time, these days. Come closer, my son. Where I can see you better."

  He stepped closer, knowing full well that her old eyes were eagle-sharp.

  "You look peaked, but handsome as ever," she boomed. Up close, her features emerged from the dim light. Her face was dead-white, sunken and shriveled, yet curiously unlined. Her small, pouched eyes glistened like silver ice from behind her sharp nose. Her thin lips were painted red. She wore her abundant white hair in a chignon and was dressed in a floor-length, long-sleeved black gown. The gown was Mandarin in style. Claudia had always had a fascination with the Chinese culture. At one time, she had been very beautiful, perhaps more so than Tatiana. Vestiges of that beauty still shone through. All in all, considering she might well be near a thousand years old, Claudia looked well. Dameon took in a deep breath and brought forth the wooden box.

  "I must tell you..." he began.

  She waved her hand imperiously, interrupting him. "Not now. I want to talk of other things. How you are doing, et cetera, et cetera. " She settled back in her chair. Her terrifying visage actually softened as she studied him. She had always felt a special warmth for him, highly unusual in her character. "It is good to see your face. It's been such a long time. Tell me all of your latest news."

  He could not read the expression in Claudia's small, glacial eyes. Surely she knew the fate of her daughter, and his role in it. However, she was choosing her own way of conducting this meeting, and he would follow her suit. She didn't invite him to sit down as they chatted in a desultory fashion, dredging up memories of days long past. Claudia shared fond memories of his mother, and even had a few fond words for Lucien, his father. A lull in the conversation gave him the opportunity to bring matters to a head.

  "I bring bad news. Tatiana is dead. I have her remains with me," he stated baldly.

  Claudia's face remained impassive. Her face was blank as ivory, eyes lifeless as a doll's.

  He continued, "She and I had a confrontation and it's my fault, that is, I was forced to kill her." He met Claudia's eyes directly, no small feat of bravery. "I apologize, Madame, for the sorrow I have brought to you."

  "Bring me the box," she ordered.

  Dameon placed the box in her hands. For a heartbeat, she gripped it tightly, holding it close to her breast. Then, coolly, she set the box next to her, placing it in a small, white basket on the floor. And didn't look at it again. Silence weighed the minutes heavily.

  Dameon sighed and held out his hands in a helpless, apologetic gesture. "I had no choice, I'm afraid...Tatiana was determined that our battle would end in death, hers or mine. I realize you only have my word..."

  "Which is enough for me," Claudia imperiously interrupted. "I am no doddering fool, Dameon. I knew my daughter well. I know you well. You have always been soft-hearted, helping the miserable human victims of human cruelty whenever possible. You always had compassion and sorrow for the weak and helpless, and even for the wicked and misbegotten." Her eyes pierced his and he read her unspoken words—even for the cruel and misbegotten, like Claudia and others like her.

  Her dense, dark voice flowed on. "I always knew Tatiana would come to this kind of end. I only expected it to happen sooner. She invited murder, she mercilessly sought out amusement and pleasure at everyone else's expense. She had no notion of right and wrong, of morality. She lived for sensual gratification, even if that meant inflicting cruelty on others. Especially if it hurt others—she seemed to enjoy that element too much." The ancient vampire sighed deeply, as if with her last breath, and closed her eyes. She grew very still and retreated into a dimension far away. The room inexplicably grew darker. The shadows expanded and deepened and covered the room, shutting out every particle of light. Dameon knew it was time to leave.

  "You have my deepest apologies and sympathies for your loss." He bowed gracefully and exited as quickly as possible. Claudia did not responded to his remarks, and did not seem to notice his presence. He had performed his duty. With that task behind him, he realized he had nothing more in the future to fill the hours.

  Time unraveled before him, endless and empty. His future was blank. Only the hole in his soul that had been occupied by Jen throbbed with a painful energy. Loneliness would be his only companion.

  * * * *

  The past four weeks had passed in an exhausting, anesthetized blur. Jen had moved through the days, senses dulled against her shattered heart and overwhelming misery. The police had been frequent visitors. They were the faces she had seen most over this time. Their first bit of news had been to inform her Luke Keller had already been released from the hospital.

  Officer Fernando and Sergeant Lerner were relentless in their questions about what had really happened in the woods that night. Keller had fully recuperated, but still insisted he remembered nothing of his attacker. He insisted he didn't recall accusing a person named La Faim, and only recalled the carjacking and not Dameon's intervention
. Apparently, Tatiana's spell had worn off and had erased most of his memory of the entire experience.

  The police were not pleased. The first time they interrogated Jen, she had been in such a state that her testimony had been jumbled and incoherent. She was sure they thought her a mental case or a substance abuser. Jen's mind slid back to their second visit.

  "So, Ms. McNeily, let me get this straight—you say on the night of October thirtieth"—the officer glanced down at his notes—"you came upon Mr. Keller, who was injured and bleeding, in the woods in your neighborhood. You say here that you found him 'alone and unconscious.'" Sergeant Lerner was the more intimidating of the two.

  If Jen hadn't been in her dazed, emotionally wrought condition, she would have been nervous. Instead, she played with Dameon's ruby ring hanging from the chain around her throat. Lerner's eagle eyes noticed the gesture, causing her to fold her hands on her lap. The tall, thin sergeant was ordinary-looking except for a pair of sharp green eyes and a military brush cut.

  "Later, you and your neighbors, a Ms. Irman, a Mr. Lipman and a Mr. Schlessinger, all confirm your statement, and Mr. Lipman and Ms. Irman also stated that Mr. Keller woke up and accused a man named La Faim of attacking him. A man that apparently knew you. Now, you dismissed that as nonsense. Can you tell us why?"

  She had insisted that there was not a single trace of any other person in the woods. Initially, she had been scrupulous to avoid any mention of Tatiana. She simply could not imagine confiding her knowledge of the female vampire. Her credibility was very shaky as it was. For some reason, the police had pegged her, if not as a suspicious character, at least as an untrustworthy one. She deduced that her neighbors had added to their suspicions by cataloguing her strange behavior that night. She was steadily becoming a pariah and an oddity in her neighborhood. Not that she cared. Nothing mattered anyway.