He turned to her, and this time his eyes met hers for more than a glance. “I can see those cop eyes of yours judging me already. Have I horrified you that much?”
She didn’t know what to say. Afraid to say what she really thought, she looked away. “I’m not a cop anymore. Even if I was, I don’t judge people.”
“Yes, you do. It’s all right, Tia. I confess to the same failing, and many more.”
Still not knowing what to say, she threw out a question instead. “So what did you do to Christian to ruin him?”
“I bided my time, doing research into the St. James family. I examined parish records, spoke to everyone I could find who had anything to do with the family or the estate. Looking for skeletons in the closet is what I guess you’d call it. It took a long time, but I finally found what I was looking for. I ended up going back one generation, actually, to Christian’s father, Edward. Edward was a widower. His young first wife, Eliza, died in childbirth. Wanting an heir, Edward married again, to a young woman named Anne. Anne did bear him a son, Christian. What I found out was that Eliza and Anne were sisters. Not a legal marriage under English law. A widower can’t marry his deceased wife’s sister. Anyway, it invalidated the marriage, and Christian, no longer being the legal first-born heir, lost the title he had ascended to when Edward died. And since Christian was no longer earl, that meant his son, Jermyn, also had no claim to the title.”
Tia tried to digest the strange story. “So, what happened yesterday is all because Jermyn blames you for the loss of the title.”
His eyes were steady on hers. “Yes.”
“He’s trying to do to you what you did to his father.”
The eyes didn’t waver, but had darkened with the setting of the sun. “Yes.”
“How can you blame him for that?”
“I don’t blame him. I just don’t want him to succeed.”
“What was that weapon he had? I’ve never seen anything like it. It wasn’t a knife—it didn’t have a blade. More like a short lance.”
“An antique. I’ve seen such weapons in England. The wooden shaft was probably either ash or hawthorn with a silver core.”
“But why? Why a weapon like that? If he wants you dead, why not just shoot you? It’s a tried-and-true procedure.”
He didn’t even smile at her attempt at a joke, and his eyes shifted away before he answered, the first hint Tia had that Dallas was telling less than the truth.
“I don’t know. Most likely it belonged to his father, and St. James sees a kind of irony in killing me with something that Christian owned.”
Tia was quiet for a moment while she debated on what to say next. It ran against her nature to willingly accept a lie, even an outwardly unimportant one like this. But cops never suffered lies, ever. The habit, even after two years, was hard to break. And if there was going to be anything lasting between them, she couldn’t let this one slide.
She floated her gaze over the river, the water now as dark as his eyes. The sky had grayed, and only a soft pink glow hugging the horizon remained as evidence of the glorious sunset.
“Dallas, why are you lying to me?”
Nine
DALLAS PUT ONE arm around her to draw her closer to him and focus her attention away from the view and back on his eyes. Her defenses were formidable. There was her persistent, quick mind, and her partial resistance to his power. And he couldn’t forget she was an ex-cop. There had been a whole lot in his two centuries of existence that had violated the laws of man. As sanitized as his story had been, she was seeing too much of him.
He gauged her eyes, and the emotions that slid behind them. The opposition was there. He didn’t want to lose her, but neither did he want to make the mistake of assuming she was no longer a danger to him. Her awareness was much too great. He had seen it earlier in the library, and he saw it now. It was the thread that bound them together, that made him want her in ways he hadn’t wanted a mortal female in decades. It was the attraction, but like a lure, it was also the danger. If she saw too much of him . . .
Snagging her hair with one finger, he brought her face to his. But short of his kiss, she pulled back.
“You didn’t answer my question. You couldn’t look at me. I know when someone’s not being honest with me.”
“Then look at me now. Everything I told you was the truth. I know it’s a bizarre story, but it happened.” He tamed his every passion that threatened to spring, sealed his will behind glass eyes, and concealed his intentions behind the seductive words. He compelled her to free her own desires in the looking glass he set before her. Discovering someone else’s emotions was like cracking the safe behind which they hid every strength. Discover someone’s hungers and hopes, and you’ve unlocked the doorways to their will. He could come and go as he pleased, as often as he wanted, and he would be safe.
“Accept the truth, Tia.”
She hesitated, and he kissed her, soft and deep. He released her only when the totality of his senses told him that her blood ran hot and fast, just the right temperature for that side of the vampire that deceived and seduced—the serpent. The stories were never dangerous, if told correctly. She was almost ready. The vampire continued. She would accept and believe. The serpent, after all, never lied.
She blinked and drew a long, shaky breath, taking a moment to compose herself. He let her. Finally she threw him a sideways glance that told him she was ready for him to continue.
“I think I’m safer with the stories than with you. So go on. You hadn’t heard from this St. James before? He just shows up now?”
“No, I hadn’t heard from him before. He found me through Marty Macklin, a private investigator.”
“You know who killed Macklin, don’t you.”
“I have a pretty good idea.”
“You should talk to the police.”
“You were a cop. You really think the police would want to hear what I’ve told you?”
“Good point. But surely you’re safe from St. James now. Even if you didn’t kill him, he’s probably laid up somewhere. You had to have injured him pretty badly.”
“I would hate to bet my safety on that assumption. Besides, there’s always Conner.”
“Conner?”
“Conner Flynne. St. James’ traveling companion.”
“The dark, thin man who was with St. James at the inn?”
“Ah, so you were spying on me.”
Tia shrugged. “I’m an ex-cop and a photographer. I guess that makes me even more nosy than your average female.”
And it’s going to get you dead, Tia, if you’re not careful. As if she could almost feel his thoughts, she visibly shivered. He raised his head, and the stink of a very young vampire wafted on the evening breeze. Speak of the devil.
“Come on, let’s go. Flynne doesn’t have St. James’ resolve, but even so, I don’t want to take him for granted. We’ll be safer at the inn.” Dallas had no doubt that St. James was keeping a very close eye on both him and Tia through Flynne.
He was on his feet and reached down to help Tia to hers. He could see her eyes scanning the shoreline on either side of them as well as the parking lot. Had she somehow sensed Flynne as well? Perhaps her extraordinary awareness was not just for him. A prick of jealousy bit at him like a stinging insect. It was the same feeling he had experienced when he found out that Tia had gone with St. James to the cemetery. Just as quickly, though, he slapped the feeling away. Jealousy and envy were not normal afflictions of the Undead. They were human emotions, and base ones at that, suited only to fools.
The thought made him rough with Tia, and he realized he was tugging on her arm too hard. He jerked her off balance, and her foot slipped on the gravel. He didn’t let her go, but instead pulled her into his arms. She didn’t fight him.
“You’re safe with me, Tia. Belie
ve that,” he whispered against her hair.
“I do.”
“Good girl.” More and more he was realizing that the key to breaching Tia’s fortress was the promise of safety. He pressed a kiss against the warmth of her forehead, but instead of releasing her right away, his mouth lingered on her skin. His control interceded. “Let’s get out of here.”
They hurried back to the Lincoln, and Dallas tuned his senses away from Tia to the falling curtain of night around them. A scent was not always a precise sensation to gauge. The air currents played with it, tossing it about until it was nearly impossible to pinpoint. Dallas doubted that Flynne was in the small parking lot. More likely he was up above on Silver Street in one of the parked cars or buildings there.
Even inside the Lincoln, there was no relaxation for Dallas. His eyes were everywhere.
“Dallas, what is it? Did you see Flynne?”
“No, but he’s nearby, I’m sure of it.”
“Will we be safe at the inn? I know it’s a public place, but would your townhouse be better?”
“Conner would be daft to try anything at the inn. He’s a fool, but not that great a one.”
They arrived at Bishop’s Inn moments later, and Dallas parked in his private space behind the building. As soon as he got out of the car Dallas knew something was wrong. The faint, lingering odor of the Undead still hung in the air, but it was more than that. Dallas had no real communication with Veilina, and yet the signs of an agitated spirit were hard to miss. A second-floor shutter banged incessantly, and the patio was empty of patrons in spite of the beautiful evening. They went in through the rear entrance, Dallas keeping a protective hand on Tia’s arm, and stopped at the bar.
“How’s it going tonight, Jaz? Everything all right?”
“Oh, Mr. Allgate, I’m glad you’re here. The Lady’s in a real snit tonight. I haven’t seen her this stirred up in a long time. Doors have been slamming, fireplace tools knocking against each other . . . ”
He interrupted her. “Anything else besides The Lady?”
“Well, Angie’s been waiting to see you. Something came for you that . . . ”
He broke her off again. “Get Angie and tell her I’ll be right back. I’m going to escort Miss Martell upstairs.”
Jaz gave Tia the once-over. “I remember you. The photographer from the night of the accident. Well, miss, I hope you have a strong constitution.”
Tia smiled at the girl, but it was not a friendly smile. “I’ll try not to let a slamming door upset me too much.” The dryness in Tia’s voice bespoke not only a disbelief but a disregard for something which all the employees of Bishop’s Inn took very seriously.
Jaz’s red eyebrows hitched up in a way that said that she was the expert, and Tia was the novice, but Dallas knew Jaz wouldn’t dare say anything derogatory to one of his guests.
Dallas led Tia up the narrow staircase to the third floor and unlocked the door. He preceded her inside and glanced quickly around the room. Everything was in its place.
“Make yourself comfortable. I have to see Angie for a few minutes. And don’t let Veilina scare you.”
“Oh, she won’t. She and I are old friends, remember?”
Dallas knew the absence of fear was because Tia was a nonbeliever. He briefly wondered what her reaction would be to undeniable proof of the spirit world of Midexistence. Would she still be so cocky in her fearlessness?
Angie was waiting for him at the bottom of the staircase, a large yellow envelope clutched in both hands. Her eyes still retained a glassy, bespelled look to them, as if she had just experienced something frightful and was now in shock. Damn Flynne! Beneath his anger at Flynne, though, was an even greater anger at himself. He should have been at the inn, attending to his business, instead of pleasuring himself with trying to decipher a mortal female.
“Angie, are you all right?”
The woman nodded, but Dallas was hardly reassured. “Come upstairs with me.” Angie’s pain didn’t need an audience, especially Jaz’s sharp little eyes. Angie faithfully followed him to the second-floor banquet room, which was rarely used during the off-season summer months.
“Here. Let me take that.” He gently reached out for the envelope and relieved her of it. “Sit down, Angie, and tell me who gave this to you.”
She sat, but the disoriented look in her rounded eyes grew even more evident. Her gaze jerked around the room, from one object to another, as if she were in a strange place and didn’t recognize anything.
“Angie, look at me.” The request was more than that. It was the vampiric compelling command. Angie’s gaze obediently settled on his, but her fear was still apparent in the wide-eyed appeal.
“You’re safe now, Angie. No one can hurt you. You have nothing to be afraid of. Do you understand?”
Her eyes stilled a little, and she nodded.
“Tell me who delivered the envelope.”
She swallowed. “One of the men who was here to see you the other evening. The tall one with the dark hair.”
Dallas nodded his understanding and encouragement. “Yes, I remember, Angie. Go on. What did he say to you?”
“Just that I was to personally give you this envelope as soon as possible. He said it was confidential and that no one but you should open it.”
“Thank you, Angie. Anything else that he said or did?”
She looked confused for a moment, then shook her head. “That’s all I can remember. I’m sorry, Mr. Allgate.”
Dallas released the power of his stare in order to relieve some of the pressure from her mind. He considered sending her home for the rest of the evening, but thought better of it. She was safer at the inn.
“It’s all right, Angie. You did well. Try to take it easy for the rest of the evening. It doesn’t look too busy downstairs tonight.”
A smile tried to form on Angie’s mouth. “No, Veilina’s in rare form tonight for some reason. A few people came in, saw the fireplace tools swinging, and left.”
“Bring some sweet tea and warm muffins upstairs to Miss Martell, would you, Angie? I’ll be joining her shortly.”
“Right away.”
Only after Angie left and closed the door did Dallas lean back in the hard wooden chair and close his eyes. The inside shutters on the second-floor windows still swung open and closed, banging forcefully on the sash.
“Hush, my love. I’m here now,” he whispered, his eyes still shut.
The shutters closed with a slap of wood against wood, but then were still.
“I know, I know. You hate all the Undead, myself most of all. Well, you won’t have to worry about Flynne, my love. I’ll make sure he never comes here again.”
One shutter lazily drifted open, creaking on its ancient hinges. Dallas heard the small noise and smiled. He had learned long ago that an open shutter meant he momentarily held The Lady’s favor. “Ah, my fickle love . . . tomorrow you’ll hate me again.”
With that he opened his eyes and examined the envelope closely. It was a normal business type envelope, with the name “Dallas Allgate” handwritten on the front with the word “confidential” in large letters and underlined. The flap was not only clasped shut but sealed, and the envelope itself was bulky and heavy, appearing to contain more than just papers. Dallas ripped open the top and carefully slid the contents to the tabletop in front of him.
A man’s life poured out. A wristwatch, a man’s ring, a driver’s license, photograph, and a slip of paper spilled to the table. Dallas didn’t examine the jewelry. He didn’t have to. He was well acquainted with the expensive black and gold watch and the University of Mississippi class ring. The small photo on the license stared up at him, along with the words “Mississippi -The Hospitality State.” The solemn face in the photo was anything but hospitable, but at least showed life. The man in the larger pho
tograph was quite dead.
The body was propped in a sitting position against a large graveyard monument shaped like an angel. The corpse looked like it had posed for the photo—its legs crossed, and its hands in its lap as if in divine contemplation. The face was colorless, and even the eyes, open and rolled up in a silent appeal, showed no tint of life. The man’s shirt was torn open to the waist, and the only color visible was a thin red pendant of blood that dripped from his collarbone like a gruesome adornment.
The note on the slip of paper was brief. Tell Miss Martell that I won’t be needing her services as a photographer after all. I believe I have the perfect cover art right here. Don’t you agree? After midnight, come to the town that’s as dead as your friend or your other lackeys will join him in providing me with an entertaining and satisfying evening.
Dallas swore long and loud, using profanities learned over three continents and two centuries, lowering his voice only when he heard Angie on the stairs below him.
Raemon Sovatri would do no more work for him.
“Mr. Allgate?” Angie’s voice floated up the staircase.
“It’s all right, Angie. Come on up.” He quickly dropped the items back into the envelope and just as swiftly hid his visible anger beneath the mask of his features. It wouldn’t do to upset Angie all over again.
Angie opened the door and waited at the entrance, carrying a tray. “Is everything okay?” She looked a little more herself. After all, anyone who worked on a daily basis in a building haunted by a very temperamental spirit learned to adjust to a little adversity.
“It’s been a rough day for all of us, I fear. Go ahead and take the tray up. Tell Miss Martell I’ll be with her in a few minutes.”
She nodded and continued up the stairs.
Dallas hadn’t exactly been truthful with Flynne when he told him that he cared naught for any human. It didn’t do to be truthful with an adversary. But to himself Dallas admitted that while he cared little for humanity in general, he possessed a feeling of responsibility for those humans he considered his. Dallas lived a more stable life among mortals than most of the Undead, remaining in a single place for upwards of twenty years before moving on. It was never natural for him to form long-term relationships with humans, but occasionally it happened. He had known Rae for twelve years, and while the man never knew Dallas’ secret, he had been a reliable, capable agent who questioned little and knew to keep his mouth shut. Raemon had been well paid for his efforts, as were all of Dallas’ employees. It was like having a fellow hunter shoot your favorite hunting dog.
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