Double Image

by Jaye Roycraft

  Everything was in the eye of the beholder.

  It was an answer, but not one that pleased him.

  THE CELLAR INTERCOM buzzer broke the trance Dallas floated in.

  “Yes, Gillie.”

  “Raemon’s on the phone. I think this is what you were waiting for.”

  “All right. What time is it?”

  “A quarter past seven.”

  Not late enough. “Is the car out front and ready to go?”

  A sigh was amplified by the intercom. “Of course, sir.”

  Dallas picked up the cellar extension. “Allgate.”

  “Hey, Dallas, I just thought you should hear this yourself. Miss Martell has been taking St. James’ picture for a good two hours. He’s been posing like a Playboy centerfold, leaning on mausoleums, lying on graves, embracing headstones, you name it. She started putting her equipment away a little while ago like she was going to pack everything up to leave when he started pulling her back into the cemetery. Looks like photos isn’t all he wants.”

  Dallas tried to curb his impatience. “Rae, what’s he doing to her?”

  “Well, he’s just kissing her now, but . . . ”

  “I’m on my way. Stay put, and don’t interfere. Whatever happens, don’t call the police, understand?”

  “Sure, I’ve heard all this before, but . . . ”

  Dallas hung up the phone and left the safety of his chamber. He quickly gathered up keys, sunglasses, and a long black leather coat.

  “Gillie, I’m leaving.”

  “You can’t go. There’s still a good hour of daylight left. This is exactly what he wants you to do.”

  “He’s not going to have her.”

  “If you insist on this insanity, then I’m going with you.”

  “No, you’re not. I don’t want you anywhere near St. James. He would destroy you in a minute to spite me.” Dallas headed toward the door, hoping to be out before Gillie could present an argument, but then halted just short of the townhouse entrance.

  “Gillie. If . . . if St. James should prevail, you know what to do.”

  A long sigh floated forth. Long, even for Gillie. “Yes, of course. Your instructions are very specific.”

  “And call the Brotherhood. That’ll be my retribution.”

  Gillie looked more unhappy than Dallas could ever remember seeing the man.

  FIFTEEN MINUTES later Dallas pulled his Lincoln into the Chapel of Light. He spotted Sovatri soon after. He had told Rae not to bother with concealment, and the man had taken him at his word. Leaning against a magnolia, umbrellaed by Spanish moss, Sovatri stood smoking a cigarette. Long overdue for a haircut and a shave, Dallas could see from the man’s muscled arms that one habit not being neglected was his daily forays to the gym. For a human, Rae was more than capable, but his services this day were at an end. From here on in, he and the others would only be a liability. Besides, the word “vampire” was not yet part of Rae’s everyday vocabulary, and Dallas wanted to keep it that way.

  “Tell me what he’s done with her, then your part here is done.”

  Rae drew on the cigarette and let the exhaled smoke drift up into the moss. “He’s like a kid behind the barn. A lot of kissing and groping. Sometimes it looks like she’s enjoying it, other times it looks like she’s had enough. Typical woman. In any case, you said not to interfere.”

  Dallas had to force himself to remember that Rae had no understanding of the power a creature like St. James had over even a very atypical woman like Tia. Concession to his ignorance, though, didn’t lessen the irritation Dallas felt. Raemon would outlive his usefulness someday very soon.

  “Go on, Sovatri. Take your men and get out of here.”

  Rae laughed, but it was not a happy sound. “You’re crazier than I thought you were, Allgate. In case you can’t count, if I leave, you lose the advantage of numbers.”

  “Good. I like the odds in my favor. Now go back to Rose Hill and make sure the old man stays put.”

  Rae shook his head. “No, Dallas. Gillie’d kill me if I left you alone.”

  Dallas caught Sovatri’s eyes and extended a subtle compelling reinforcement to his command. His human minions needed such bolstering now and again. Especially Sovatri. “Since when do you answer to Gillie? Get going, or I’ll kill you myself.”

  Rae stared at him, brows visible above the frames of the narrow sunglasses he wore, then wagged his head again. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were joking.”

  “But you know I’m not. If anything happens to Gillie, I hold you responsible.”

  “Okay, Boss. You win. Good luck.” Sovatri flicked his cigarette to the ground and left.

  Luck. There was that useless human term again. Lucky. Unlucky. What had been his thought the night Macklin had died? Oh yes . . . that “bad luck” was merely the destiny of the weak and foolish. He feared the definition fit him all too perfectly at the present moment. The glasses and dark clothing helped, but he still felt the rays of the low sun licking his face with hot tongues of fire. Each unwanted caress blistered his resolve, and he wondered again what he was doing here. Did he want Tia so badly, or was it just that he couldn’t stomach St. James having her? Was confronting St. James for her worth knocking on Mistress Death’s door? It especially pained him to think that it could solely be the passionate lure of revenge that beckoned him on.

  Revenge. It had betrayed him once already. The vengeance he had sought so long ago in the ruin of Christian St. James had never ceased haunting him. He had held that rancor for years, and anticipation of the deed had aroused and sustained his craving for everything that would bring him a step closer to fulfillment. The reality of the deed, though, had been as cold and spoiled as a feast laid out and waited upon too long, the climax as illusory as everything else in his life. It had taken decades for him to rule the beast of vampirism that was then so young and out of control. Divorcing himself from the cares of humankind had helped, but now, with Tia, human concerns were becoming all too important again. It meant the loss of hard-won control, and nothing frightened him more than that.

  Dallas stepped into the shadow of the magnolia, closed his eyes, and pushed the memories back to the farthest recess of his mind. He hadn’t accepted this invitation for revenge. He had come for the woman’s survival, and his . . . what? Existence? Redemption? In any case, he would not let an ill-bred creature like Jermyn St. James dictate her fate, or his own.

  He cooled his mind of his passions and started to think about his opponent as a hunter would evaluate his target. St. James had a tolerance for light. Even so, he had been exposed to the sun for several hours. Tolerance aside, St. James had to be feeling drained of energy. And Dallas would soon feel stronger with every minute that brought the dawn of night closer.

  Dallas went to work with the cold calculation of his kind. He heightened his senses to those of a predatory animal, and the silence of the cemetery fled with the honing of his awareness. A requiem of animal sounds sang to him, almost drowned out by the underlying chorus of insect noises, strident and harsh. The hot breeze stirred the hair framing his face, and the invisible souls of the dead, like taciturn spectators at an arena, rose to regard him. Appropriately throned on a massive headstone before him, he even fancied he saw the specter of Mistress Death presiding over all. His Mistress, who ruled over all he was and all he did. With a nod to her image, he turned his senses to those not yet dead. Two distinct scents reached his nostrils, the sour smell of the Undead, and the sweet lifeblood of a human. Tia was still alive.

  With movement so swift as to be out of time to human perception, he slid among the gravestones like the shadow of an overhead plane, stopping in the shade of a small mausoleum thirty feet from his quarry. He knew not to approach any closer until he knew what game piece St. James would move next. Dallas didn’t fear firearms,
but there were other weapons to fear, and he knew that an opponent with such an implement could strike from within twenty feet before Dallas could properly react.

  He watched as St. James stepped into view, gripping Tia as a child might hold a disobedient pet, the hand clutching her by the back of the neck having also snagged a tangle of black hair, the other arm squeezing her waist. For all the distance between them, Dallas’ inhuman vision could see that her swollen eyes were as liquid as drowning pools, and smudged eye makeup tracked their banks. Dallas swore silently. Even a cretin such as Sovatri should have seen that Tia was hardly a willing participant in St. James’ little game. Her eyes reached out to his own, and her thoughts, as liquid as the blue depths, flowed into his mind. There was recognition at his appearance, but it was so colored by fear and confusion that he couldn’t quite tell if the sight of him was a relief or new cause for dread.

  Knowing Tia was unharmed, Dallas turned his full attention to St. James and would have laughed out loud had the situation not been so grim. Jermyn St. James stood in a full-length opera coat complete with vest and dress trousers. The only thing missing from the ludicrous outfit was a froth of ruffles at the neckline.

  Dallas quickly sobered. Though not comfortable with introspection, Dallas had nevertheless learned a great deal in two hundred years about the ways and nature of both man and his own kind. The outfit could be more than just St. James’ desire to act his role for the humans. It could be an indicator of the creature’s personality. If so, it might be something else Dallas could exploit.

  “What’s the matter, Aldgate? Too scared to show yourself? Or does the sun hurt your eyes?” The echoes of the shout bounced off the monuments to the dead like a ball in a pinball machine.

  “You don’t scare me, St. James, any more than your father did.”

  Jermyn’s laugh careened off the headpieces. “Bold boasts come easily to one who does nothing more than hide. Show yourself, Aldgate, then see how boastful you feel.”

  Dallas stretched his mouth in a slow cat-grin that did nothing to interrupt his concentration. He shrugged out of the long coat and let it slide to the ground like an oily stain, then unhooked his sunglasses and tossed them on top of the coat. Focusing all the power of his eyes and mind on St. James, he stepped out of the shade. The light assaulted his senses, sending fingers of dizziness through him, but he shrugged the distraction aside.

  “Let the girl go. You have me.”

  St. James stroked one hand up and down Tia’s side. His fingers circled her hip lazily, then roamed across the flat of her belly. “Hmmm. This female interests you, doesn’t she? Else you wouldn’t be here, would you?” He removed his other hand from the base of her skull and bent her head to the side, exposing the slender column of her neck. “I can’t say I blame you, Aldgate. Have you tasted her yet? As sweet . . . rich . . . and fresh . . . as . . . nectar.” The final sentence was punctuated by idle kisses to Tia’s carotid. She squeezed her eyes shut, and her features froze in a mask of disgust.

  Dallas’ anger and desire both flamed, and he fought to cool the heat searing his control. This was what St. James wanted, to provoke a rash, unthinking attack. It wouldn’t happen. As fast as Dallas could move, if he wasn’t careful, St. James would still have plenty of time to kill Tia. He had to divert Jermyn’s attention away from her, and right away.

  Dallas spread his arms wide to each side. “She doesn’t tempt me the way she apparently does you. Leave her for later. Why waste time being distracted by a toy when you have before you what you’ve waited one hundred eighty years for?”

  St. James seemed to consider Dallas’ words. His hold on Tia didn’t slacken, but his shift of concentration was apparent in his gray eyes. “You would have me believe this tidbit doesn’t appeal to you? I find that exceedingly hard to swallow.” St. James grazed his mouth down the length of Tia’s neck, his leaden eyes never ceasing their press on Dallas. “Because this is all too easy to swallow. Robust, full-bodied wine of life, offering itself up with gladness.”

  “Blood is blood, St. James, but it’s not as sweet as vengeance.” The sarcasm was there, too hard to stem, but perhaps Jermyn’s lust would deafen him to it.

  “Ah, yes. You’ve always preferred that to pleasure, haven’t you? Perhaps she doesn’t appeal to you. You haven’t marked her. You are too blasé, Aldgate. Or perhaps you’ve just gone soft on humans, as so many of our kind have. You must really learn to take what’s at hand.” With that, his mouth returned to Tia’s neck, and her strangled cry of terror and anguish erupted over the lament of insect chatter. When St. James flung Tia aside, a dark splatter was visible on her throat. “There. Now it’s too late. She’s mine. You really should have taken her while you had the chance.”

  “Is that what you came here to prove? That you can put your mark on a female? I’ll wager even the pup Flynne was able to do that within a week of being purged of humanity. Didn’t you come here for me? Isn’t that what your pretty speech was about last night? But beware, St. James. It’s the dish served cold, not hot. Or have you never tasted it?”

  Dallas’ peripheral vision caught Tia regaining her balance and running back toward the parking lot. Good. The female had some sense, after all. With her gone, he had one less thing to worry about.

  “Revenge. Yes, your favorite dish. I think I will save her for later. She’ll make a fine dessert plate to a victory feast laden with the stupid mortals foolish enough to be willing servants of the likes of you.”

  “If you’re referring to my men, they’re superior minions to dogs like Flynne who are but one step away from becoming rabid beasts that’ll serve neither humankind nor the Undead to any good.”

  St. James laughed, an animalistic sound. “‘Good?’ That’s a word I’ve not heard a vampire voice in decades. Since when do we concern ourselves with ‘good’?”

  “Oh, but there you’re wrong. You delude yourself if you think you’re not concerned with ‘the Good.’ It’s all you truly seek, isn’t it? Not the blood. You take ‘the Good’ from every victim you prey on. You take their life, energy, and emotion, and try endlessly to fill your emptiness. But you know what, St. James? ‘The Good’ of a thousand females like that one couldn’t repair the disintegration of Jermyn St. James that began in 1820.”

  A sound like water hitting oil in a hot skillet escaped from St. James’ mouth. “And what makes you any different from me? The exact same things that feed me feed you. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t take her, and a hundred like her, without a second thought.”

  “Perhaps. But I see the reality of it. You live in a grandiose fantasy that rules everything you do.”

  “You almost disappoint me, Aldgate. I took you to be a more worthy rival than this.”

  “Oh, I think I’ll provide sufficient sport for you.”

  “Then look at me. Gaze upon your self-righteous reality and see how prettily it sits.” St. James’ eyes silvered, and the diminishing light bounced sparks of white fire at Dallas.

  It had been a long time since Dallas had forcefully opposed one of the Undead. In the skirmish with Flynne, it had taken all of Conner’s strength to resist Dallas’ eyes—the novice had had no power to return a compelling stare of his own. St. James, however, was no apprentice. Dallas’ vision started to fade, replaced by shimmering shards of silver and iridescence, and a reflection of horror screamed at him. Predator. Parasite. Images from his past started to form against the glimmering background. Humans taken to satisfy his need were reborn in the reflections. Restless. Bored. More victims rose from their rest to torment him. Needy. Dependent. Empty . . .

  Dallas, blinded by the vision, could no longer see St. James. He fought the debilitation of the twilight, focusing all his strength on shattering the mirror. The images burst with an explosion of will, and Dallas’ sight cleared enough for him to see St. James soaring toward him, his coat billowing to either side like ou
tstretched black wings. Dallas, with a speed to match, circled to his left, putting any remaining sunlight into St. James’ face.

  Jermyn’s response was a cackle. “An old trick, Aldgate, but one that won’t work on me. Mistress Light and I are old friends. She doesn’t frighten me into seeking the isolation of the darkness like she does you. I don’t have to hide from anything I’ve done.”

  “If you think the light is your friend, St. James, you’re even more deluded than I thought. Take care that your Mistress isn’t your undoing.”

  “She won’t be, and neither will you. You’re weak, Aldgate. You haven’t the power to resist my will, do you?”

  “You’re wrong, St. James. The sky darkens. I grow stronger with each moment.”

  “As I do.”

  “Do you? I think not. You’re but a pallid, narcissistic day-monster, basking in the light of your self-admiration.”

  St. James snarled. “You shadow-born perversion. Is hiding nobler? Then hide, if you can, from this!” The leaden eyes liquefied to mercury, and the power compelling Dallas to gaze upon them once more flowed over him. The mirror formed, and for a brief moment souls residing at the Chapel of Light rose before him. Local victims of his need, they mouthed silent obscenities at him. Blood monster. Unclean one. Dallas smashed the image with a roar, and his vision unclouded immediately, but it was too late.

  St. James was racing toward him, his hand slipping beneath the concealment of the long opera coat. Dallas backpedaled, doing nothing more than giving St. James room to unsheathe a short lance. Made of wood, tipped with a silver point, and mounted on an elaborate silver hilt, Dallas knew immediately what it was. It was cold fear that he hadn’t felt in years. It was panic fear that upset his natural grace and sent him staggering backward over tree roots. It was mortal fear.

  It was the vampire hunter. The death’s-head. It was the surest way short of burning or decapitation to send a vampire to the natural death. The True Death.

  Dallas regained his balance in time to sidestep a lunge and thrust from St. James, and the silver head, like the fangs of a striking serpent, flashed inches from Dallas’ heart. Jermyn’s momentum carried him past Dallas, giving Dallas a chance to plant his feet and position himself. When St. James turned, Dallas kicked at Jermyn’s hand. The blow of the heeled boot landed hard, and Jermyn loosened his grip. It was enough to send the vampire hunter into flight, but the heavy hilt quickly carried it to the ground. Both men fell to their knees and tried to grab the handle, but Jermyn was quicker, closing his fist around the silver grip first. Dallas pinned the hand and weapon to the ground with his own large hand, and elbowed St. James in the face with his other arm.