Double Image

by Jaye Roycraft

  Dallas had loved Sabra, but that had been as a human. Had every woman he had met since then been an attempt to relive that experience? Veilina had apparently been “loved” well enough by Dallas-Devon until she made the mistake of turning from him. Then his true self had emerged from the cocoon of gentility with a vengeance. If she stayed, would she, too, be “loved” until he decided she no longer fit the role to be played? What then?

  She couldn’t love a man—any kind of man—who wanted nothing more than to use her. The dream of the double image had been a warning from Veilina. She was sure of it.

  There was another life out there for her, one that embraced the light of day. If she left now, she could put a lot of distance between herself and Dallas. She doubted she meant enough to him for him to follow her north. And St. James . . . well, St. James wanted Dallas, not her. She would go home, resume her relatively normal life, and forget her trip to Natchez had ever happened.

  She showered and dressed quickly. When Gillie tapped softly on the door to see if she wanted any breakfast, she asked him if she could just have coffee and fruit. She finished packing, took a last look at the room, then descended to the kitchen.

  She met Gillie’s eyes and felt guilty. “I have to go, Gillie. There’s too much here I can’t handle.”

  “I understand, miss.”

  “He’ll be angry with you for letting me go, won’t he?”

  “I’ll blame my incompetence on my advancing years and feeble mind. He won’t buy it, but it’ll dilute any wrath he feels inclined to direct my way. Here, have a biscuit. It’ll give you energy.”

  She smiled. She would miss Gillie. A small voice somewhere in the back of her mind told her she’d miss Dallas, too, but she ignored it. “You know his secret is safe with me, don’t you, Gillie?” she asked in between mouthfuls of warm bakery.

  The old man nodded. “I believe that. I think Mr. Allgate will, too, once the lava cools.”

  She winced. “Come on, Gillie. I can’t possibly matter that much to someone who’s lived, for . . . how long? Two hundred years?”

  “Two hundred and thirty-five years. I think you underestimate yourself.”

  “It’s not me he wants.” Tia popped the final crumbling bit of biscuit into her mouth and washed it down with the last of her coffee. “Thanks for everything, Gillie. Everything. Especially your help with this.”

  “Oh, I haven’t begun helping yet. Run back upstairs and prepare a second outfit. One you can either wear over your first outfit or can carry in a small bag. Make sure the second set is something that disguises your looks as much as possible. Oh, and put up your hair.”

  She cocked her head in question.

  “The house is most likely still being watched,” he said, his voice patient.

  “But I’m sure my car is known. What good does it do to change clothes?”

  “I’ve taken care of that. Hurry now.” He clapped his hands together as if to encourage a lazy child.

  Tia gave him a broad smile and obeyed. Fifteen minutes later, wearing a sleeveless blouse with a long skirt and carrying a large bag, Tia left with Gillie in the Rose Hill truck. He drove, and at the first stoplight they halted at he handed her a set of car keys.

  “I had Mac rent a car for you first thing this morning. It’s parked in the lot of the store we’re going to. We’ll both go in, as if to shop, then once inside, you’ll find the ladies’ room and change clothes. You let your hair down, put on sunglasses, dump the extra outfit and the bag, then you leave alone and head for the rental car. Anyone watching will, hopefully, be put off by the switch long enough for you to get away.”

  Tia was dumbfounded into momentary silence. “You planned all this before I even woke up? How did you know I’d want to leave?”

  “I had a sense of it last night. As I said, I get presentments, too.”

  “But why? Why do all this for me when it goes against your orders?”

  Gillie’s short gray hair seemed to bristle on end. “I don’t take orders. I follow suggestions. Most of the time. Let’s just say that while I have no regrets in my own life, I’m a big proponent of choice. If it’s your wish to leave, you should be able to leave.”

  She wanted to hug the old man. Moments later, inside the city’s largest superstore, she did just that. Shortly after, wearing capri pants, a long-sleeved shirt tied at the waist, and sunglasses, she strode with confidence out of the store. Carrying a plastic shopping bag, she headed for the red Mustang parked six aisles down from where Gillie had parked the truck.

  The next few minutes seemed the longest of all, but by the time they had elapsed, she was on Highway 61 North out of town, away from a haunted inn, a restless ghostly spirit, and three vampires that were three too many for comfort.

  She had had to leave her photography equipment and most of her clothes and belongings behind, but Gillie had promised to ship everything to her. Nothing, after all, was as important as getting away from all this madness. The one thing that Gillie had insisted she take was the Colt, fully loaded with silver ammunition. Tia hadn’t argued.

  With every mile that rolled under the wheels, Tia relaxed more. By the time she had traveled fifty miles up the Trace, she stopped looking in her rearview mirror every ten seconds. She kept her mind blank, trying to replace her slowly diminishing anxiety with nothing more than appreciation for the beauty of the Trace Parkway.

  Dallas was the last thing she wanted to think about, and she shoved him out of her mind each time he tried to intrude. If she thought about him, she’d go crazy. But more than that, if she allowed the memory of his green amber eyes and mesmerizing low voice into her head she was afraid she’d turn the car around without a moment’s hesitation.

  Fifteen minutes later Tia saw a sign for a wayside with a restroom. Stopping the car was the last thing she wanted to do, but she had consumed too much coffee to keep going much further. She checked her mirror again. No car had come up behind her or passed her for at least ten miles. She pulled into the wayside and hurried into the building. Less than five minutes had elapsed when she came out again, but the sight that greeted her sent her heart plummeting so low that she wondered how its beating could still be thundering in her ears.

  A familiar, striking figure leaned against the hood of a burgundy Riviera with both his arms folded across his chest and his booted feet crossed at the ankles. Black hair hung to below the man’s shoulders, and high arched brows gave blue eyes that might otherwise be beautiful a spoiled, bored air.

  “Bonjour, mademoiselle. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.” His soft voice lingered on the last word, giving his eyes a chance to travel the length of her body.

  It was a look similar to the one he had given her when she first saw him at the townhouse, and it made her skin crawl wherever his gaze touched her. Her feet felt as dead as the thing lounging by the car, and the Colt, so near in the shoulder bag that hung at her side, felt just as useless. If his speed was anything like Dallas’, he’d be on her before she could dig the gun out. Better to wait.

  “You know who I am. What do you want with me?” Her mind wanted to throw the words out, but they barely rolled out past the tightness in her throat.

  “And you know who I am as well, don’t you, mademoiselle Martell? But let’s do this properly.” He pushed off of the car and gave her a bow as smooth as a fold of silk. “Alek Dragovich, a votre service.”

  She told herself she wasn’t impressed, but neither her mind nor body bought it. “I don’t speak French.”

  “I think you understand my meaning well enough.”

  She was afraid she did. “I know who you are and what you are. What do you want?” She was also afraid he knew she didn’t feel as brave as her words.

  “Oh, many things, mademoiselle. But for now a little chat with do.” He swung open the passenger door of the Riviera. “
Sit.”

  Getting into his car was the last thing Tia wanted to do, but the blue eyes were as powerful an incentive as if he held two guns on her. She plopped down on the leather seat, her legs having no strength to support her, and clutched her bag on her lap, the Colt a small but needed reassurance. The creature flowed through the driver’s door onto the seat next to her, and when he slammed his door, she couldn’t breathe. He was no taller than Dallas, yet his presence seemed to expand until he completely filled the interior of the big car, leaving no room even for oxygen. But, as if he knew her distress, he turned the engine on and the air conditioner began circulating cool air around her. It helped a little.

  He turned toward her, and though she didn’t want to look at him, she couldn’t do anything else but. She had always seen him at a distance, and if his appearance had then been imposing, it was stunning close up. His hair was as blue-black and shiny as fresh tar, and it was swept back from a slight widow’s peak to flow across his shoulders in dark swells. His chiseled mouth, framed on either side by twin smile lines, was anchored by a shallow cleft in his chin. But by far the feature that held her attention was his eyes. They were as devoid of life as they were full of color.

  “What has Allgate told you about me?”

  The softness of the cultured voice frightened her as much as his eyes did. “Nothing. All I know is that you’re . . . like him.”

  “Certainement, but not exactly like him. Allgate and St. James are but children, and I am their father, here to do a father’s job. It is my duty to . . . inspire obedience and to correct improper behavior. Comprendez-vous?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  His eyes violated her like the unwanted touch of a stranger’s hands, and even when she squeezed her lids shut she felt him invade her. Never in her life had she felt as helpless against anyone or anything.

  He breathed a long sigh, almost into her ear, and she shivered.

  “Ah, I see. You have no children. Let me try something else. I am like la police. I enforce laws and punish those who do not obey. This I think you understand, yes?”

  She understood, and hated him more for it. The hostility gave her strength. “I get it. You police your own kind. Like Internal Affairs. No wonder Dallas said you were no friend.”

  Drago laughed, and it was like the ashes of a long-dead fire being poured over her. Her head shook with an involuntary cleansing shudder, but nothing was accomplished except the dislodging of long strands of hair into her eyes.

  His laughter abruptly ceased. He reached his hand to her face, and with one finger skimmed the errant locks back to their home at her temple. He then gathered a handful of hair at her neck and held it aside. The feel of his skin against hers made her shudder again, but his touch was surprisingly gentle. He let the hair fall back into place.

  “Tell me. How is it that with Allgate’s mark you are able to run from him? That is what you are doing, mademoiselle, isn’t it? Running away? You almost eluded even me with your switch of clothes and car.”

  She wanted to tell him that what she was doing was none of his business, but his blue gaze was a pressure she couldn’t fight. “I don’t understand any of what’s happened, least of all, this ‘mark.’”

  “Allgate didn’t explain it to you?”

  “He tried. I didn’t want to listen.”

  “Ah. Curious. Still, your lack of understanding should have no effect on the mark’s influence. Yet here you are . . . with me.” He raised his hand once more to finger her long hair. “And what am I to do with you?”

  She wanted to shrink from his touch, but there was no place to go. Besides, pride kept her from flinching. He might know she was afraid of him, but she wasn’t going to show it. “Let me go.”

  “That is the one thing, I’m afraid, I cannot do.” He lifted a thick strand of her hair and let it slide down through his fingertips, as if he could taste and absorb its texture through his skin. “Tell me something else, mademoiselle, and the truth only, s’il vous plait. You have no feelings for Allgate?”

  “What does it matter? He has no feelings for me.”

  “You are so sure of this?”

  She managed a small laugh. “He’s not human. He doesn’t have feelings any more than you do.” All she could think about was Dallas’ revenge against Christian St. James and his betrayal of Veilina.

  His hand moved from her hair to grasp her chin and force her gaze to his, but there was no roughness in his touch. She felt the warmth from his fingers penetrate her skin. It was a strange sensation from one so cold.

  “I hope you are right, mademoiselle, I hope you are right.”

  AS SOON AS DALLAS woke that evening and ascended from the cellar, he knew something was wrong. Tia’s scent was faint, like that of a perfume that lingers after a woman leaves a room, and he couldn’t feel her presence at all through the mark. He flew to her room and encountered nothing but her suitcase and camera bag, carefully packed and waiting patiently on the bed.

  He found Gillie seated on a stone bench in the garden, watering the flowers. “Where is she?”

  “Gone.”

  Dallas knew Gillie would never lie to him, but the small word of truth angered him as much as a fabrication would have. “Where, Gillie?”

  The old man shrugged. “Home. Back north. She wanted to go. I wouldn’t have been able to stop her. She’s a very stubborn woman, you know.”

  Dallas sank to the bench, back to back with Gillie, and shook his head. “Stubborn? She carries my mark.”

  “Pardon me for saying so, sir, but your ‘mark’ isn’t the most powerful force on earth. She was scared. Who among us mortals would not have been after what she survived in the cemetery and in Rodney?”

  “She knew I wasn’t going to allow her to be harmed.”

  Gillie laughed, a dry sound like the rustle of fallen leaves. “She was more afraid of you than of anything else.”

  “Then St. James has her, and she’s dead. Or Drago, and she’s as good as dead.”

  “Perhaps not, sir. I helped her leave in disguise and in a new rental car.”

  Dallas shook his head again. “I should have known you’d do no less. Such a trick might work with St. James, but it won’t fool Drago. You yourself warned me not to underestimate him.”

  “It’s been almost eight hours, and there’s been nothing.”

  “There will be, Gillie. There will be.”

  Dallas rose and left Gillie to the flowers, returning to his upstairs master bedroom, one of the few rooms at Rose Hill that held no recent memories of Tia, Drago, Conner or St. James. He needed to think, and he wanted no distractions from such memories. Dallas had no doubt that either Drago or St. James would soon make an encore appearance, and he needed to be prepared.

  Why was he so upset over losing Tia? Perhaps it was simple. Perhaps, as with Raemon, he was piqued by the loss of a valued possession. No. There was no such simple answer. Was it wounded pride over her defeating his mark so easily? Was it the loss of his pleasure? Surely it was both, yet there was no satisfaction in embracing either as an explanation. Yet to delve deeper was to examine feelings that were too human, and that was something he had not done for a long, long time. He doubted he even had the capacity for such self-evaluation.

  He turned his thoughts instead to St. James and Drago. The Undead were easier to understand. At least St. James was. If Jermyn made a reappearance, there was only one thing to do. Finish the job he had “done badly,” as Drago had so eloquently phrased it. Dallas knew he was stronger than St. James, even with the disadvantage of not being a day vampire. Nothing would have to be sacrificed.

  Drago was another matter altogether. L’ enforcier would not be defeated in a battle of strength. Will was the only weapon Dallas had against the more powerful vampire. If he relinquishe
d that weapon and gave in to Drago, Tia would be lost. Yet if he asserted his will, there was still no guarantee he’d be able to save Tia. The preservation of life. Could he fight to save Tia, knowing she wanted nothing to do with him? Such a selfless act was foreign to him.

  Dallas went downstairs and followed the whistling of a teapot to the kitchen. Gillie was preparing for his evening cup.

  “I need your help, Gillie.”

  “I thought you might. Tell me, is it the young lady who has you baffled, or yourself?”

  Dallas joined his friend at the table. “Both, I fear. I can’t understand a human who behaves the way she does, and even less can I understand why I care that I can’t.”

  Gillie sighed. “Oh, dear. I’m not sure the wisest man on earth can help you there, sir.”

  Dallas gave the man a look that could crack stone, and Gillie raised both brows in resignation.

  “Very well, sir. I’ll try. Let’s start by clarifying the muddle . . . ”

  AN HOUR LATER, Gillie retired for the night, in truth doing nothing for Dallas except to further muddy the waters. In frustration, Dallas wandered the rooms of the townhouse in darkness, as silent as a cat.

  The old man was right about one thing. Dallas needed to clear his vision. He needed to stop trying to see through the human eyes he no longer possessed. Clarity of vision was one of the true vampiric gifts, and Dallas needed to remember that. It was the unique talent of the vampire to be able to strip away all appearances from a person or thing, and to see it in its true reality.

  With a purpose now, Dallas turned his steps toward the small library and pulled the diary from the bookshelf, the old diary Tia had been so taken with. He hadn’t looked at it in decades and wasn’t sure why he had even kept it all these years. It contained nothing his memory couldn’t pull, undiminished, from the past, yet he’d never been able to part with the book. Written both before and after his transformation, perhaps it was a link to his human past he was reluctant to sever.