Kiss Noir (BookStrand Publishing Romance)

by Robynn Clairday

  At home, Jen’s answering machine was blinking. Excitedly, she punched the play button. She would get a call the instant she was out of the house. Heart beating hard, she listened as the private investigator's voice boomed from the machine. He was sorry, he said in a puzzled voice, but he had found no trace of Dameon LaFaim. He had tried his connections overseas, too, and hadn't turned up a thing. The only thing he could suggest was that Dameon was living under an assumed name. He assured her that he was sincerely sorry as he hung up, adding only that she would be getting his bill in the mail.

  Jen slumped in the nearest chair and chewed her lip. She should have realized that Dameon was too clever and had too many resources to leave a trail like an ordinary human. She had really hoped, though, that the investigator would have been able to help. Fighting the dull heaviness pervading her body, she realized how much she'd been pinning her hopes on the investigation. Damn. Her relationship with Dameon was seeming more and more insubstantial.

  Cobbs had clicked off into the living room and was settling on the couch. Jen sat next to him, and reached to give him a hug. The warm solidness of his body soothed her. Forget what Nancy said. Remember how Dameon made love to me. Remember the rare magic between us.

  Jen closed her eyes. She had a better way of reaching Dameon. It just took courage and energy to open herself, to believe in the conduit between them. She'd been fighting that belief for weeks, not wanting to give herself false hope. And afraid to try in case it didn't work.

  She was suddenly exhausted. Her eyelids were hot stones and her body was filled with straw. The aerobics and fresh air must have worked. The weeks of stress were catching up with her. She could barely stagger to bed, climbing on top of the covers and falling into a deep, motionless sleep, her hand reaching to hold the red stone at her neck.

  Somewhere behind her disintegrating consciousness, a voice reminded her to be open to the Dameon dreams.

  * * * *

  Jen was dreaming, her body twitching and turning, her hands flexing. She was back on the familiar black plane, clutching its huge, almost animal-like wing. The wind tore at her, and when she cried out, it swept away the sound. She strained to see a light through the thick, murky sky. It was barely visible, but eluded her. Dameon was near. She could feel him. She let go of the wing to reach out. His fingertips found hers, but she was falling.

  Falling and spinning, not toward the earth, but toward a pit. The sight of it filled her with immeasurable terror. The pit was bottomless, cold and was filled with something terrible. She was sure it was death, but also worse than death. She called his name, to save her. Her soul was being wrenched from her body. Terrified, she cried out and pleaded with him to hear her. As she reached the yawning opening of the pit, she woke choking and gasping.

  She stared wide-eyed into the shadows, and tried to grab back the sense of Dameon's nearness. She had been close, she was sure. So close, but something had shut down the window to Dameon. Something, or someone.

  Her muscles tightened and her hands contracted into fists. She wanted to curse, scream and lash out, but instead, could only glare at the red stone ring. She pulled the necklace off and roughly yanked the ring off the chain, tempted to open the window. Instead, she opened her bottom bureau drawer and tucked it into the silk handkerchief from Dameon. Pain made her shut the drawer with a thud.

  Dameon—it had been him who had slammed down the window, smashed the link between them. She wouldn't have believed that he could be so ruthless, slashing her away like that. Nancy was right. He didn't want her. Or he wouldn't have ripped apart their connection.

  Jen slammed the drawer shut. She had to shut out the pain, too. Dameon was part of her, living in her heart, part of her soul, but she was hurt too deeply to continue on as she had. If she couldn't forget him, she had to try and survive without him.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Dameon stroked Dumas, his hand gliding over the ebony wings. He had weakened and sent the crow across the seas for one little glimpse of Jen. To see that she was fine and well, he reassured himself. Not because he was secretly hoping to find a way back to her. And Dumas had done his job well, bringing the news in images that Dameon could read.

  The bird shifted restlessly and stared at Dameon. The bird was not happy, being cooped up and mostly ignored. Dameon was too distraught to pay him but the scantest attention. He fed him, gave him one more pat, and then opened the window.

  "Go, friend. Go to Calvin." Watching the bird flap his wings and soar away, he whispered half to himself, "I'm not fit company for anyone."

  He knew she was very angry with him, and tried to tell himself it was for the best. She was angry, but alive and healthy. Dumas's little trip had at least brought him that information. He slowly removed the picture from his wallet, the one Calvin had snatched, and stared at it for a long moment. That was all he could bear, and he thrust it back in the inner pocket of the wallet.

  Her anger hurt, though, deep inside. It dug away at his heart, bit by bit. He had done the right thing, cutting the link with Jen. While lying in the dark, drinking the Chivas Regal straight from the bottle and staring at nothing, he had sensed and felt the soft tentacles of her mind reaching for him. Her dream melted away the barriers in Jen's mind, and opened the channels between them. Briefly, he had allowed it to happen. For one shattering second, her mind touched his. Instinctive preservation for both her and himself rose up, uncoiling like an angry cobra, and struck, severing the link.

  Now he was left feeling colder and emptier than ever. And he couldn't blame it on Tatiana entirely. He'd allowed himself to kill, and to enjoy it. He was what he was, and there was no use fighting the truth.

  The alcohol burned inside of him, attacking his blood cells and tissues, corroding and devouring. His body twisted and writhed helplessly and he fell back on the bed. He was glad for the physical pain, welcomed it. It would obliterate the emotional inferno inside that would never burn itself out.

  The alcohol's destructive forces were soon overwhelmed by the old, familiar pain, which was digging its piranha teeth into him, crying out for the drug. What an existence he led—pain from the treatment, pain from needing the treatment.

  Gritting his teeth, he automatically reached for the hypodermic. And stared at it. Suddenly, raging, he broke it with his bare hands and slammed the remains against the wall, smashing the tube of the drug, as well. In a red, hazy mist, he caught his flickering reflection in the mirror above the dresser. He howled and broke every light in the room till his hands were raw and bleeding. He would not take the treatment. He would not carry on this way, day after day, year after year, as he had for so very long. He would give in, and be what he was meant to be. A hellish creature, a vampire.

  He would no longer go through the charade. Bile flooded his body. He could feel his canine teeth aching and pulling, ready to lengthen into fangs. It had been a long time since his last treatment. A timid knock at the door brought him to his feet. A young valet was stammering at the entrance, sweating from nerves. Of course, his shouts and crashes, though uncommon in a money-padded establishment like this, were not unheard of. They were checking to see if he had collapsed in a drunken stupor.

  He winced in the light. "Put it on my tab." His voice came out a growl and the valet stuttered a, "Yes, sir" and an apology before scurrying off. The privileges of money.

  He was staying at a five-star hotel on the Gold Coast. The hotel, austere and multi-storied was tucked among the string of expensive real estate properties circling the lake in one of the most affluent sections in the city. His room was a suite with a panoramic view overlooking the water, beauty wasted on him. The sun was disappearing beneath the weight of the dark plum sky. The cityscape was lit, peppering the night with bright lights. The city below pulsated and beckoned.

  Sinking back into the huge, sinfully comfortable bed, Dameon sighed. Why he had chosen such ostentatious quarters defied logic. The trappings of affluence had become a habit. He stared at his bleeding hands i
n self-loathing. How tragic to suffer in such grandiose splendor. He laughed at himself with scalding contempt.

  The room was huge, tasteful in muted earth tones, equipped with a fireplace, a fully stocked refrigerator, two televisions, a sunken bath and hot tub, champagne in a bucket of ice, a fruit basket, and a robe made of the softest silk—all of the amenities. It was absurd seeing himself, a bleeding near-monster, amidst all of this abundance.

  He could be a savage beast, a murdering monster, and it would be acceptable as long as he could pay for it. He looked around the shattered room and immediately teleported himself away.

  It was night time, and Chicago looked like any other city in the world cloaked in twilight. The darkness fell and obscured any distinguishing characteristics, painting the streets with its wet, inky gleam, dissolving the buildings into an amorphous, colorless blur. Streetlights discharged clouds of amber into the blackness, more clearly accentuating the utter darkness of the night than offering any true illumination. Alleys crouched even more deeply in shadow, crusted with human debris and overflow and thick with the underground pipes' and sewer's effluence. The air, emptied of the sun's rays, carried every noise and flutter more acutely. The perfect backdrop for the predators and the unwanted throwaways of human society to converge. An unlucky environment for the unwary or the naive.

  For the first time in many years, Dameon found himself wandering the streets, unmindful of exactly where he was, and not caring. It was unseasonably warm, no raging lake winds, no bitter Mid-West temperatures. The snow and slush on the ground had melted, turning into puddles and the streets into black glass. The air was almost balmy. Dameon shivered, his body fighting a raging battle. He knew he looked like death and avoided the paths of the late-night human street crawlers.

  He found his way near Rush Street, which was bristling as usual with bars, clubs and the flocks of pleasure seekers.

  He avoided the lights and noise, shrinking back into the gloom. His thought processes, his very sentience, had dimmed, drowned by the crushing despair of his emotions. His heart was eating him alive with its hopeless hunger. He paused at the junction of two streets, and slipped back into the shadows of the alley.

  Revelers spewing forth from a nearby bar stumbled his way. Men and women shrieking and laughing and singing Aulde Lang Syne, though it was long past the New Year, headed his way. It was mid-February but the revelers didn't care. They were young and filled with their own sense of immortality, redolent of beer and whiskey and high spirits. He winced, feeling his own body's clawing reaction to the numerous drinks he had imbibed earlier.

  His unique system didn't permit the luxury of intoxication, only a slight numbing of the senses and the masochistic pleasure in the physiological torment the alcohol produced. Envy for the partiers' camaraderie and ability to connect if they so chose sent a bitter, burnt taste to his mouth as he watched them disappear down the street. He felt his fangs sharpening and digging inside of his mouth. A longing for the sweetness, for the thick taste of blood was growing. He fought for control. Think. How did he get here? Why was he here?

  His memories unreeled from the past month. For most of December and all of January, he had agreed to do a friend a favor. Foolishly. He had been asked to teach a class, to finish up the semester. Naively, he had hoped that lecturing would do him good, take him out of his own grief. At least he would be doing something productive.

  How wrong he had been. Nothing was going to lift him from his miserable existence. His thoughts slid back to when he'd been forced for the first time to let his friend, Dieter, down.

  It had been mid-January, but it might as well have been the holidays. The students were in the Christmas/New Year mode, in no mood to learn, and could scarcely sit through the class. Dameon stared out at his classroom. He had been teaching for only weeks, and could not go on with the sham. He had only agreed to take the position as visiting lecturer because of his friend’s heartfelt pleas. Dieter taught anthropology at a small private college near Heidelberg.

  The school catered to the offspring of the wealthy bourgeoisie, who had neither the clout nor the money to get their children into the more prestigious universities. For the most part, Dameon found the students to be bright, restless and unfocused, too used to immediate gratification to pursue academics with any great zest. Most were expatriates from the United States or Canada. In many ways, they were exceptionally sophisticated, but also dreadfully ignorant, unlearned about world history and culture, unable to articulate thoughts by the written or spoken word, and yet too knowledgeable about the vices and cruelties the world had to offer.

  He usually enjoyed lecturing, but preferred doing it on a temporary basis. Preferring not to get too embroiled in human activities. Dieter loved teaching, and was unconcerned about the possibility his human pupils or coworkers would discover his true origins or his non-human nature. His money enabled him to get the necessary blood discreetly, and he had an elastic conscience when it came to his vampirism. Of course, he wasn't burdened by the plight of a vampan, who had to kill or transform to get his blood, or had obtain his supply by indirect means.

  Dieter's wife, Nicole, was a dream-stalker, a much less virulent vampire. She was a renowned artist. The subjects of her paintings derived from her victims' dreams gave her art a haunting and unique quality. Both blended easily into the human community. Dameon had told his friend little about his experience with Jen, but was unable to hide his pain and grief.

  Dieter had urged him to take the position, which would solve both of their problems. Dieter would be able to accept the invitation to join an expedition to South America with a highly acclaimed researcher and documentary producer, and Dameon, despondent and at loose ends, could keep busy by filling in for him for a semester. Sunk in apathy, Dameon had agreed, and was now regretting it.

  He could not dredge up the interest in motivating his spoiled, empty students, where in the past he might have worked to engage them, if for nothing more than the mere challenge of it. A blackness had captured his heart and spread its malignancy throughout his entire being. Jen's misery pulsated through his own veins. His own depression weighed him down until he could howl with the agony of it all. He had blocked their link, but her emotions still resonated through. He had persuaded Calvin to remain in his house in France, despite his butler's pleas.

  He would not burden Calvin with his presence. Deep down, by letting go of his butler, he could step even further from his non-vampire self.

  The hour was up. The twenty or so students trooped out the door while he slumped with relief. He would find a replacement. It shouldn't be a problem with the holidays so near. Almost anyone would do. These children had no interest in learning anyway.

  This was unbearable. Usually, he enjoyed teaching zoology, particularly the comparative sciences. His soul was being sucked into a vacuum, and going through the motions of a lecture was drudgery. Two girls, both Americans, both vacuously pretty in a blonde, white-teethed, smiling fashion, were lingering around his desk. Despite his efforts, the vampire aura managed to seep out, which often had such an absurdly magnetic affect on humans.

  The Americans were transparent in their pretense of asking questions about his lecture. They tried hard to appear sophisticated by using profane language, a typical juvenile maneuver, but fell to giggling incoherence. After much diplomatic evasion on his part, they were soon on their way.

  He took off the glasses, which he wore more as a disguise to appear more of the academic mold than out of visual necessity. He rubbed his brow, and knew he would have to bow out, find a replacement, and disappoint Dieter, as well. It was for the best.

  He fought back a swell of nausea and pain, which propelled him immediately back to the present, where he was still trying to understand why he was in Chicago. Wasn't there a time when he had lived here briefly, or visited? He simply couldn't remember.

  Not that it mattered where he went.

  His thoughts were blurring.

  Dameon moved away
from the alley and continued down the street. Hunger and queasiness rose within him, withdrawal from the drug battling with desire for blood.

  A sharp noise split the air, and he looked up, turning toward the source of the noise. Ah, of course. The predators and the unwary prey. Always a bad combination. He was beside the tableau in less than a second, but was too late. It was not exactly as he had expected. A would-be mugger was shot, and dying, blood pooling beneath him. The victim-turned-attacker was running. Dameon caught a fleeting, visual image of him, but a more clear psychic picture was emerging. A well-dressed businessman in his late forties, clutching a Mark Cross brief case and a semi-automatic, distinguished, graying at the temples, but shaken and weaving badly as he ran. The mugger must have assumed the man was drunk rather than suffering from hypoglycemia. The serious sugar low had caused him to stagger and stumble like someone intoxicated. Dameon’s mind's eye recaptured the scene.

  With a sigh, he gazed down at the victim and watched him expire without fanfare. He was tempted, watching the blood seep out. Tatiana would have laughed her head off seeing him like this, he thought without emotion. Hunger growled within him. He was shaking from weakness. He knelt, smelling the richness and sweetness. His body cried out, unleashed by his withdrawal from the drug.

  The man twitched his last and was suddenly still. He was thin, only in his twenties, though he looked twice that, his face scarred and blotched. The breeze stirred the man's stringy, mouse-colored hair. He looked perfectly ordinary, except that Dameon saw a vision of the man's many victims, not just mugged, but murdered as well. He saw the man's vicious, barren soul, saw him casually destroy human lives for just a few dollars, anything to feed his habit.