Double Image

by Jaye Roycraft

  “You made yourself very clear. But I’ve never let go of my intentions just because someone demanded it of me, and I’m not going to start now.”

  “Admirable. However, you have no choice in the matter. I’ll be generous. I’ll give you a week to make your decision. If you don’t make it, I will personally take care of the problem. This is your only sanction, mon ami. Don’t make me impose more.”

  “I understand you.”

  Drago was on his feet. “Good. Then our business is concluded.” He paused at the front door long enough to glance back and lazily arch a brow. “Sorry about the carpet. Bonsoir, monsieur.”

  Dallas held the door open long after Drago had gone, drawing in deep gulps of the fresh night air. The parlor had felt like a cold, airless vault, suffocating and lifeless.

  “Gillie!” Somehow Dallas knew the man would be within easy earshot. He was not disappointed. Before Dallas could savor three more breaths, Gillie was at his side.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Another mess, Gillie. There’s fresh blood on the Aubusson.”

  The man sighed, almost as dramatically as Drago had. “This is becoming an unpleasant habit.” With that, he turned on his heels and headed back to the kitchen.

  Dallas accompanied him, running his fingers over his face again. “Indeed. One I hope will be done with soon. Gillie, tell me how bad my face is.”

  Gillie gave him a critical look, one brow raised. “Your face will heal. I’m more worried about my carpet.”

  The man could be exasperating. “The cuts, Gillie, the cuts. How bad are they?”

  Gillie turned away and gave a hrrumph. “If Miss Tia hasn’t been scared away by what you are, she won’t be put off by a few cuts.”

  With a growl, Dallas retired to the library and slammed the door. He sank into the leather wing chair, forgoing any light. He needed some time to himself before he confronted Tia again. It wasn’t the cuts, already forgotten, but what he was going to do with her. One week. He hated being told what to do. Even by his elders.

  A soft knock on the door interrupted his contemplation.

  “It’s just me, sir.”

  “Come in, Gillie.”

  The man stepped inside, flipped on the light and shut the door behind him. “Sorry to bother you, but I thought it best to know what transpired between you and Mr. Drago.”

  “You mean you didn’t hear every word at your listening post, Gillie? Shame on you. You’re slipping in your old age.”

  Gillie cleared his throat. “I’m afraid some of Mr. Drago’s words were loud enough for the dead to hear.”

  “Yes, he entertained himself at my expense, as you could see. Did you hear the rest? St. James is still alive, and Richton and Keller are dead.”

  Gillie nodded solemnly.

  “Keep security on the house as tight as possible, but I don’t want any more of the boys involved unless it’s absolutely necessary. If it is, call Mac and no one else, understand?”

  Gillie nodded again. “I’ll see to it.” He turned, as if to leave, but then stopped. “So Mr. Drago impressed you for one so old, heh?”

  Dallas smiled. “His power is more potent than I’d guessed, that’s true, but nothing on this earth survives time without eroding, not even the Undead. No vampire lives forever. Not even Drago. So no hero worship, all right?”

  “Don’t start digging his grave yet, sir. And don’t ever underestimate him. Leave that mistake for St. James to make.”

  As the recipient of the countless cuts and wall slams, Dallas was not about to underestimate Drago, but he balked at thanking Gillie for the unsolicited advice. Sometimes Dallas did need to hear the obvious. He just didn’t like it.

  Thirteen

  TIA CROSSED FROM the bed to the window for the countless time. Mr. Dragovich had left over a half hour ago, but Dallas had still not come upstairs or sent for her. She was sure that this “Drago” was another vampire. He had too much of the same look about him that Dallas and St. James had. The killer aura, the world-weary eyes in the young faces, and the fluidity and grace of every move they made were part of all three men. She was glad not to have had to speak with Drago. She was sure she wouldn’t like him.

  Wouldn’t like him. She had to fight a wide smile. What kind of reaction was that to a bloodsucking monster with Hannibal Lecter eyes? For that matter, was her reaction to Dallas any better? Any more reasonable? This time she couldn’t stop the smile from bursting into a quick belly laugh. None of it made any sense, including her reactions. She should be shocked by everything that had happened. Perhaps she was, and it just hadn’t truly hit her yet. During her years as a cop, she had been dispatched to numerous “dead on entry” complaints—people who had died of natural causes. Every time the surviving family member on the scene had been calm, answering her questions and even offering her coffee. No doubt the reality of the situation set in long after she was gone. Perhaps she was in such a stage.

  She also should be frightened. In Rodney, there had been no time for fear. Everything had transpired so quickly she had barely had time to think. All her movements had been dictated by her long-ago training and her instinct to survive. Now that it was over, the fear should have set in. But strangely it hadn’t. What was there to be afraid of? That she would be killed? She had lived with that fear every day of her life as a street cop. But somehow in Dallas’ presence that fear was always allayed. Besides, he could have killed her on a number of occasions and hadn’t.

  Dallas had said something about the life of a vampire being the reversal of everything human. She supposed she should be worried that her life would never again be normal, but that was the most ludicrous worry of all. Her life had been far from normal for many years. A cop’s life was about the most abnormal life she could envision. What other profession was not only privy to the range of human drama that cops were, but to the private slices of life that no one else was allowed to see? Who else could knock on your door in the middle of the night and ask to have your home and life laid bare for inspection? Even the past two years as a photographer had been anything but normal with the constant traveling.

  She looked at her watch again and, worried now, decided to make sure for herself that Dallas was all right. She almost laughed again. Making sure a vampire was all right. Oh well, it made as much sense as anything else she had experienced the past few days.

  She found Gillie, and he directed her to the library. She rapped at the closed door.

  “Come in, Tia.”

  She peered around the door. “How did you know it was me and not Gillie?”

  He gazed at her with haggard eyes. “Your scent is different.”

  “Sorry I asked,” she mumbled under her breath. “Are you okay?” she asked in a measurably louder voice.

  “No.”

  She stood still a moment, caught off guard by the utterance of the simple word. This was a being who had never exuded anything but confidence and power. For him to admit to a need was something she thought she’d never hear. Without thinking, she slid onto his lap and put her arms around his neck. He held her, and when she tucked her feet up beneath her, he cradled her and stroked her hair. The strength of his body wrapped around her, his heat sealed her in, and she was content to huddle against his chest and listen to the beat of his heart. That he was anything less, or more, than human was the last thing on her mind.

  IT HAD BEEN A long, long time since Dallas had held a woman like this. A strong woman, with hair like a raven’s wing. He gathered a handful of black waves and brought it to his face. He buried his senses in the rich silkiness, smelling even the lingering fragrance of the shampoo she had used, and the weight of two hundred years fell away in a second.

  Sabra, Sabra . . . what happened to you, love?

  Sabra awakened with such a jolt that Dalys knew something was wrong. “What is
it, love? A nightmare?”

  She was slow to answer, as if still locked in another world. Moonlight sifted through the window, reflecting a strange light in her dark eyes. Her skin glowed pale and translucent, like a polished moonstone.

  “Sabra, wake up, love. It’s all right. You’re all right now.” He stroked her face with the back of his hand, and softened his voice to the sultry bass tones he knew could soothe the most high-strung of horseflesh.

  Her too-bright eyes finally focused on him, and she wound her arms around his neck.

  “Oh, Dal. I had the strangest dream. I was lost in the bush.”

  He raised his brows, like a father would to a child telling a fantastic story. “You, lost in the bush? What were you doing there?”

  “I don’t know. I was wandering and I came upon some bushmen. They were holding a ceremony. A death ceremony.”

  Dalys shivered, colder now that he held her in his arms than before.

  “They all sat around a dead man, and each of them had a small knife. They all cut the dead man, and he bled all over the ground.”

  He rocked her in his arms, his hands brushing the tangled hair from her face. “The dead don’t bleed, silly.”

  Her soft voice floated up from the safety of his embrace. “This one did. Then they saw me and came to me. They spoke to me, and I understood them.”

  “What did they say, love?”

  “‘The blood is the life. It is so for both the living and the dead. We help our brother on his journey by providing a road of blood.’”

  He felt chills scratch their way down his spine, and he tried to hold her closer, one hand encircling her neck.

  She jerked her head away. “Dalys, you’re hurting me.”

  He frowned, releasing her. He lifted the curtain of her hair and saw the black marks on her neck. “Did you hurt yourself today?” He gently touched the wound, but she pulled back again.

  “Don’t. I don’t know. I don’t remember anything.”

  He held her closely, and she had no more nightmares that night.

  Dalys kept a worried vigilance over her for the next week. Sabra seemed listless, uninterested in the concerns of the household, but more to the point, his attentions. Her thin face took on a gaunt look, and she had no appetite at all. When he suggested she see MacArthur’s physician, she laughed. “I’m not one of your bloody brood mares, Dalys. I’m just tired, nothing more. And Adeline can see to the master’s table. She does little enough around here as ’tis.”

  He ignored the barb about treating her like one of his animals. She had always been a lusty bed partner, as eager as he. “Adeline has her hands full helping Elizabeth. You know that.”

  “Oh, Dal, just let me sleep. I’ll be better tomorrow, and then you’ll have your arms full.” A poke to his ribs and a sly wink accompanied her plea, and he let her sleep.

  The following night, she was true to her word. He had obligingly left her alone, his late night partner a tankard of ale instead. He dozed, and was surprised and pleased to awaken to the feel of her body pressed against his, her mouth searching for his.

  “Sabra . . . ”

  “Shhh, love. Just relax. I’m going to take you with me. You’ll have everything you ever wanted.”

  He fell back against the bed and accepted the depth of her kiss with a strange yearning. Her legs straddled him, and her hands stole possessively over his face, as though they couldn’t get enough of the feel of him. Like rays of sunlight, they warmed him wherever they touched, but her mouth burned hot on him, like a brand searing flesh. Yet the more her touch demanded of him, the colder he felt, until a paralysis gripped him. Her tongue painted a line of fire to a spot below one ear, and one hand raked his neck and chest to rest over his heart. He tried to press himself up to her, but she pushed him back down.

  “Don’t be scared, love. Your life has always been about journeys. Isn’t that what you told me? This is but one more journey . . . ” she whispered in his ear, and a sadness crept into her voice.

  Scared? He had never been afraid of anything in his life. Had never feared any man, nor the future, not even death itself. Images of his past flashed behind his eyelids like a lightning storm. Newgate Prison. The courtroom. And eyes. Dozens of eyes, from the bored blue orbs of the magistrate to the haughty gray gaze of Christian St. James, they were all fixed on him. And yet the eyes weren’t what scared him. What was in his heart did. He felt his chest would burst with the longing he now felt. But longing for . . . what?

  “I’ve never been so scared . . . like my heart will stop beating.” He heard the words float above him, and realized he had given them voice, but her melancholy laugh absorbed the words quickly. She bent her head to his chest, and he felt her tears and her reply soft and wet against his heart.

  “No, don’t let it stop. Not yet, love, not yet . . . ”

  He felt the quick sting of her teeth tearing his flesh, then a slow rapture that drained him of strength as she suckled the lifeblood from him. He closed his eyes and surrendered to the fear and longing he had never realized he carried. Like old friends, they walked with him, supporting him until he came to stand before a wall of mirrors. He saw his reflection like he had never seen it before. A damned man stood before him, naked and vulnerable. Damned by his country and his fellow man, still his soul fought for life.

  “That’s it, love, step through now to the other side. Life awaits you.” Her words resounded around him, and he embraced the mirror, feeling not hard glass, but his mouth pressed against hot skin. He drew on her neck with a hunger, and as he filled his mouth with her sweet blood, he felt the dread and yearning fall aside. He became one with the reflection, and all he had known changed in an instant. Matter became shadow, night became day, and death became life. He fed as an infant would, not understanding, not caring, just needing and taking, until he was sated. At last, the roaring in his ears eased, and he fell back, exhausted.

  “Welcome, my love. You’ve crossed the threshold.”

  Her words were as incomprehensible to him as soothing sounds to a baby, and he slept, knowing nothing, feeling nothing. When at last he awoke, the boundaries of time and dimension had sloughed off like an old skin, and a new perception governed all he saw and felt. Everything was possible, life was eternal, and power yet unknown and unexplored was his for the taking. Only one thing was out of reach forevermore.

  Like the vestiges of his humanity, his soul had not passed through the mirror.

  Sabra, Sabra . . . where did you go, my love?

  Tia twisted in his arms, and the movement stirred him. Could he do it? Could he lose Tia to Midexistence the way he had lost Sabra? Sabra had left him and MacArthur’s employ soon after his transformation. She had other needs then, ones he couldn’t fill. He had remained, foolishly thinking he still needed MacArthur, but nothing was ever the same. Given his pick of women convicts, he had tried to find another like Sabra, but most had been slovenly and too easy. The things they saw reflected in his eyes frightened a few, but most were only too happy to be invited into his bed at night. Their misfortune and his pleasure, but too short-lived.

  “Ummm. Dallas?”

  “Yes, love?”

  She squirmed in his embrace and pulled away so that she could see his face. “Why did you call me that?”

  He couldn’t lie. He couldn’t tell her he loved her. As much as he didn’t want to lose her, love was a human emotion. She would know the lie. “An old habit. A very old habit.”

  “Sabra.” It was no question. The truth swam in her liquid blue eyes.

  It was all he could do to nod.

  “You never told me about her.”

  “Are you sure it’s something you want to hear?”

  “No, but . . . ” All her conflicting emotions warred in her eyes, and her thoughts laid themselves bare to him at the surface o
f her mind. Her reason fought the reality of what he was, yet the rest of her itched to be led deeper into the mystery of what he had been. She was almost ready. It was the point in the relationship that vampires savored most, the point at which the victim has completed the journey from appearance to reality. All outward attitudes have been peeled away, all facades knocked down, and all masks ripped off. The victim, stripped to the core, revealed only their most basic desires. Tia was almost there. The time was approaching. The time the vampire’s destruction of its victim was most satisfying.

  His vampiric lust stirred, awakened by her nearness and the distress of her eyes. And her blood. Always the blood.

  Maybe he shouldn’t wait. Maybe he should just put an end to the dilemma right now. He couldn’t let her go back north. Drago would follow and kill her. And yet he didn’t want to lose her the way he had lost Sabra. That had been a lingering agony that had never had an ending. This was the only path left. A quick end to her pain, and a resolution to his problem.

  “Dallas . . . ”

  Plea or protest, it didn’t matter. He pulled her higher on his lap and took her face in his hands, his eyes lowered to the white column framed by his forearms. Better he do this than Drago. He couldn’t bear the thought of that ancient creature holding her like this. He leaned his head forward, and his lips sampled hers, reveling in the sweetness that greeted him.

  She managed to whisper his name again in between kisses, but he neither stopped nor answered her.

  He could already taste her energy, her life force, in the warmth and passion of her mouth. Soon he’d taste her blood again, and that, combined with her energy, comprised her very essence. Last night when he was injured was need. This final time would be the perfect harmony of need and desire.

  A sound broke through the roaring of his own blood in his ears and her blood under his hands and mouth, so close. In the next instant Tia was pushing away from him and slithering off his lap. Someone was knocking insistently on the door.