Double Image

by Jaye Roycraft

“No, his father, Christian. I was coachman the day Christian hired our finest post-chaise. Two hours out on the common we were stopped by two highwaymen. I didn’t suffer such leeches easily, so I had words with them. Christian assumed I was in league with the buggers and foolishly pulled a weapon. The highwaymen shot and robbed him, and when I was left unscathed, St. James took it as further proof that I was guilty. Party-to-a-crime is what you call it now, I believe.”

  She nodded.

  “St. James prosecuted me. The law then was very different from what it is today. There were no police and no district attorneys. Prosecution was private, usually done by the victim himself, and there was no such thing as intermediate punishment. You were either let go or hanged. My supposed offense was a capital felony, so I was sentenced to hang, but my employer petitioned the crown on my behalf, and I was pardoned. Pardon didn’t always mean release, though. In my case it was conditional on agreeing to transportation.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I was goods, convict labor, to be shipped wherever I was needed. Before the war, Britain’s trash was shipped to the colonies, but by the time I was sentenced, America was no longer an option. So, in my case, that wherever was Australia.” Dallas’ eyelids grew heavy with the memories, and he let his lids slide shut. It had been a long time since he had recalled this story, yet none of the details had faded with time. His vampiric mind, unbound by human limitations, preserved every memory intact, even those generated while he has still human. Some would have called it a blessing, but as was the way of Midexistence, what was godsend to humans was curse to the Undead. It meant his battles with Christian and Jermyn both would always be fresh. It meant he could never forget the years wasted in the pursuit of revenge. It meant that every horrific deed he ever committed would haunt him. And it meant he would never forget the mixed feelings he had had in that courtroom in 1786.

  THE RUMBLE OF the magistrate’s throat. The verdict. “The sentence of death is hereby pardoned on condition of transportation, said transportation to take place when and where practicable . . . ”

  Life.

  The smattering of conversation, accompanied by sporadic coughing, broke the singular eye contact Dalys had created with his accuser. He caught one last image of Viscount St. James’ face before being turned away by a bailiff. The young lord’s brows had risen from a state of boredom to one of surprise, and the furtive smile had dropped completely from sight.

  Many would say that transportation was the same as hanging, and less humane, but to Dalys, who had been prepared for certain death, it was life itself. Like the hearty meals he had once enjoyed, he savored the moment. He closed his eyes, breathed slow and deep, and swallowed, banishing the dryness in his throat. He had already survived six months of the fevers and foul conditions that haunted Newgate while awaiting the assizes. He would survive the prison again, no matter how long it took. He was young, quick, and strong, the years of apprentice blacksmithing only adding to a build that was already sturdy.

  Life. He would embrace it like a lover. A smile curved his mouth at the thought.

  “Dallas? you’re smiling. Was Australia that nice?”

  His smile widened, but it was a sad smile. “No. Australia wasn’t nice. It was a godforsaken pit of depression, drink, and disease. It was especially hard for those transported when I was. We were part of The First Fleet. There were no settlements, and the weather was demoralizing. Blistering in the summer, and cold and rainy in the winter. It was a wonder any of us survived.”

  “But you did.”

  He nodded. “That first New South Wales winter did more to whet my will to survive than even the eight months at sea had. I didn’t go so far as to make friends with the marines at the garrison, but they were quick to notice me. They made sure my rum wasn’t watered and my ration of pork generous.”

  “Why?”

  “The better I could work. But I didn’t mind the hard work. And it wasn’t all bad. The ship Lady Juliana soon arrived with two hundred women convicts.”

  “Women convicts?”

  “Don’t sound so shocked. You sure you want to hear all this? It might offend your twentieth century morals.”

  “Oh, there isn’t a whole lot that can offend me. I was a cop, remember? I just didn’t think that many women back then committed such serious crimes.”

  “They weren’t serious by today’s standard. Their crime, like mine, was being a commoner. Most of the women convicts were domestics caught in theft. The reason they were given transportation, though, was to service us.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He smiled, and this time it held a bit of mirth. “Those in charge felt that unless we were properly serviced, we’d develop all kinds of . . . gross disorders.”

  Tia laughed, and it was a good sound to hear. “So I take it that being the hard-working, dedicated convict you were, you got a woman?”

  He nodded. “Umm. I even got my pick.”

  “Ooohh. And what was she like?”

  Sabra. the smile dropped from his face as the memories, stagnant for so long, stirred and swam to the surface.

  Life could indeed be sweet.

  Dalys kissed Sabra on the mouth one more time before she laughed and pushed him away.

  “Go on, now. Sun’s up. Your children’ll be wantin’ your attentions as much as I do.”

  “Hmmm. But a nicker and nudge of a muzzle are no match for you, my love.”

  “Well, I certainly hope not.” Sabra rolled off the bed and threw her pillow at him, hitting him square in the face.

  “I’ve heard that Captain Phillip is leaving for England. Is it true?” she asked, her tone surprisingly innocent for one so knowledgeable in so many areas.

  “I think so. His health hasn’t improved.”

  “Who’ll take over, do you think?”

  Dalys smiled. “Talk is that it’ll be Grose.”

  “Really? That would be good for us, wouldn’t it?”

  He stepped up behind her, swept the dark tumble of curls from her neck, and mouthed his answer against her skin. “Very good for us.”

  Yes, life could be sweet.

  “Dallas?” Tia’s voice broke through the fog of memories. “I understand if you don’t want to talk about it.”

  “No, it’s all right. It was . . . a long time ago. Her name was Sabra. She was the first woman I ever really loved. We both worked for a man named John MacArthur. He was the unofficial leader of the Rum Corps.”

  “Rum Corps?”

  Dallas smiled. “The New South Wales Corps, but everybody called it the Rum Corps because they paid us off with rum. MacArthur was an amoral bastard, but he had a strength and tenacity I admired. As soon as he found out about my skill and experience with horses he appropriated me for his stable. Sabra helped run his household. The work was relatively easy, and for me nothing was better than working with horses. And of course it didn’t hurt to show loyalty to the most influential man in the community.”

  “Of course.”

  Dallas picked up the lights of a car coming up the drive and sighed. Any visitor this time of the evening couldn’t be good news. Especially if it was who he thought it was.

  “Tia, stay here. I’ll see who it is.”

  A few seconds later his fear was confirmed. Dallas strolled back across the lawn to Tia in normal time. He was in no particular hurry now that he knew who his guest was.

  “It’s Drago.”

  “Who?”

  “Alek Dragovich. The man who stopped by the other day. The one who leered at you. Remember?”

  “Of course. As if I could forget one of your charming friends.”

  “He’s no friend. Come along. He may want to talk with you as well.”

  “Why? Who is he, anyway?”

  No flattering labels cam
e to mind. “Go upstairs. If you’re required, you’ll be sent for.”

  “Dallas . . . ” She fairly sputtered his name. Tia Martell did not like being told what to do. Even with the mark, that hadn’t changed. But she did as he bade her.

  Dallas entered the parlor to find Drago, his dark brows wedged together, inspecting the mantel of the fireplace like a disapproving housekeeper about to chastise a remiss parlor maid.

  “You find something in my furnishings not to your liking, Drago?”

  L’ enforcier tilted hooded eyes toward Dallas, and this time more than boredom emanated from their blue depths. “As a matter of fact, I do. I can smell blood all over this room, and it’s not human blood. Do you care to explain how it is that our previous chat seems to have had so little impact on your actions?”

  Dallas was not going to let himself be intimidated. “They killed my man, Sovatri. Conner Flynne broke into the house and was going to kill my servant. I was only protecting what was mine.”

  “Ah. Then I can assume that the delightful Mr. Flynne has met la Belle Mort?”

  Dallas cocked his head and pursed his lips. “I guess you can assume that. I ripped the bastard’s heart out.”

  Drago lifted a brow. “Resourceful. Messy, but resourceful. The body has been properly disposed of?”

  “Shipped straight to Hell.”

  Drago actually let a small smile slip. “You don’t lie to me, Dallas. I like that. The Flynne case is closed.” He fingered the drapes at the window, but when he turned again to face Dallas, the smile was gone. “However, what happened last night in Rodney is quite another matter.”

  “No difference.”

  “Aucune difference? Let’s see. Three of your men are dead. Rodney is now a true ghost town in every respect, two buildings are burnt to the ground, and a historic landmark is lucky to still be standing. Where do you want to begin?”

  “You don’t give a damn about the humans, Drago. The buildings that burned were abandoned shacks, and the church, I’m sure, has survived worse over time than a damaged door and a few bullet holes. You forgot to mention the only thing you do care about.”

  Drago spread his arms. “Enlighten me.”

  “St. James.”

  “Ah, yes, St. James, l’ enfant terrible. He ignored my warnings as well. I was forced to impose quite a few sanctions on our bad boy.”

  The silence in the parlor was absolute. There was no longer even the antique mantel clock to relieve the stillness with its ticktock.

  Dallas had a bad feeling. “St. James is dead.”

  Before the word “dead” was out of Dallas’ mouth, he felt his body being slammed against the wall. Pinned by Drago’s hand around his neck, all Dallas could see was the neon of Drago’s eyes, burning like a blue flame. Drago’s hand tightened, and he banged Dallas’ head against the wall. “No! St. James is not dead! Cela a ete mal fait, mon ami, mal fait. Badly done! You start a job like that, you make damn certain you finish it! Comprendez-vous?” Drago cracked Dallas’ head again for emphasis.

  Dallas could neither break the hold nor speak to answer, so made do with the limited movement he did have control over, a small dip forward of his head. It was enough. Drago flung him across the room like a toy that disappointed, and Dallas tumbled over the Aubusson carpet to crash into one of his mahogany Chippendale armchairs. The chair toppled over, and Dallas, uninjured but smarting, was slow to rise to his feet.

  “I shot him full of silver, then he burned in the fire. I heard his screams. No vampire can survive that.” As if by saying it, Dallas could confirm it did happen.

  “But you didn’t stay to make sure, did you? You didn’t clean up after your mess. You took the girl and ran.”

  “I was shot with silver as well.”

  “You had the girl. You could have fed on her then and there.”

  Dallas didn’t know what to say to make Drago understand. “If I would have taken her straight away I would have killed her. I didn’t want to do that.” It was the last thing Drago would understand, but he had no other truth, and Drago would smell a lie.

  Drago made a slow circuit of the parlor, like an inspector searching a scene for clues. “Well, while the two of you fled the scene, our bad boy managed to crawl from the fire. The town’s remaining residents flocked to the evening’s entertainment, so St. James didn’t have far to go to find blood to heal himself. He’ll be permanently scarred wherever the fire scorched flesh already damaged by the silver, but he lives.”

  “He’ll just come for me again. You know he will. He’ll want revenge more than ever now.”

  Drago stopped at the fireplace and trailed the fingers of one hand down the smooth marble. “I think not. He’s under strict orders to return to whatever circus in Florida he came from. If he has the impertinence to disobey, he’ll answer directly to me. And rest assured I won’t leave the job half done.”

  Dallas righted the overturned chair and sank into it. “What about my men? They’re dead?”

  Drago nodded. “I persuaded St. James to tell me where they were. An abandoned hunting camp near Rodney. They were dead when I arrived. Here.” He pulled an envelope from a trousers pocket and flipped it to Dallas.

  Dallas ripped open the envelope. Two driver’s licenses slid out. Richton and Keller. His two missing men.

  “What else?” asked Dallas, suddenly very tired.

  Drago finally ceased pacing and poured himself into the companion armchair. “Ah, yes, there is the matter of what am I to do with you and your human female.”

  “She had nothing to do with any of this.”

  Drago rolled his eyes to the ceiling, as if he could discern everything he needed to know about Tia from a floor and several rooms away. Dallas had no doubt that Drago could do just that. “Interesting that you plead her case before your own. Well, well.” The lazy eyes focused on Dallas again. “As for you, Allgate, I impose no sanctions against you but one. You did nothing to provoke St. James in any of this. What you did to his father was years ago, and not directed at Jermyn. However, I do need to impress on you the importance of not leaving a half-completed mess behind as you did in Rodney.” The bored, empty cast to the blue eyes settled in, and Drago dropped his gaze to flick a piece of lint from his trousers. “How am I to do that?”

  “I get the message.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not enough.”

  Dallas wasn’t sure what words Drago wanted to hear. “As long as St. James stays away, this won’t happen again.”

  Drago seemed to consider for a moment, still occupied with the appearance of his fine clothes. “A better answer. Very well. Suffice it to say I’ll be keeping a very close eye on you, Allgate. Very close.”

  “Do what you need to do.” It was probably not the right response, but Dallas was getting very tired of all of this.

  A draft of cold air abruptly swept through the room, swaying even the heavy drapes, and the lights flickered, plunging the room into darkness. Dallas was out of his chair instantly, but Drago was quicker, ensnaring Dallas’ mind and body as surely as if dozens of knives pinned him to the wall. It was a power Dallas had never before felt, and his helpless gaze could do nothing more than submit to the mastery of the antifreeze eyes. Drago hovered in the air before him like an apparition of evil, his arms extended and his long black hair swirling around his face. Dallas felt the ancient power crawl over his skin like tiny knives, slicing and stabbing their way from his arms across his shoulders to his neck and face.

  Dallas wanted to scream, but he couldn’t. The knives, with their invisible blades, carved at his mind, and Dallas felt as if every memory, every belief, was being dissected and laid before him, bloody and unrecognizable. He tried to form thoughts, but they were shredded quicker than they could form. Finally, even his sight was stripped away, and Dallas saw nothing but a red light befo
re him, strobing faster and faster until the red was gone and everything turned black.

  Dallas came to, finding himself face down on the Aubusson carpet. He had no idea if he’d been out for seconds or hours. He tried moving his arms, and this time his muscles obeyed the commands of his mind. The lights were on, and the first thing Dallas saw was the blood on his arms and on the carpet beneath him. The second thing he saw was Drago slouched in the Chippendale, his legs crossed and boredom draped once more over his features.

  Dallas had never known a vampire to be able to cause physical injury solely with his mind. “Damn you, Drago.”

  “It irritates me when I’m not taken seriously. Don’t make that mistake again, Allgate. Do we understand each other?” The sharpness in his voice belied the indifference in his look.

  Dallas rose to his feet and felt his face. His fingers came away covered with blood. He looked at Drago. “I understand.”

  “Good. Now we can move on to this human female you are so concerned with. Since she was with you in Rodney, I assume she knows what we are.”

  “She knows.”

  “Then you know she’s a danger to us,” said Drago, his voice once more as smooth and cultured as ever.

  “She carries my mark.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  Did Drago enjoy pretending to be obtuse? “She carries my mark. She’s no threat.”

  “Yes, Allgate, I heard you the first time. Mark or no mark, you know the options. Kill her or bring her over.”

  Dallas tried to draw a deep breath. There seemed to be no air in the room. Ever since Drago had arrived, it was as though his power had sucked all the oxygen from the room. “This from someone who just yesterday was advocating an affaire de coeur with a human?”

  “I suggested a liaison, not for you to give her a personal tour of Midexistence.”

  “I won’t kill her.”

  Drago raked a hand casually through his hair. “Then make her one of us.”

  “And if I do neither?”

  A sigh bordering on the theatrical wafted across the space between them. “Just two minutes ago you were privileged to witness a demonstration the likes of which few have ever seen, and fewer still have survived, and yet here you are already questioning my orders. Did I not make myself clear?”