Double Image

by Jaye Roycraft

  “I’d like to spend what time I can with you. Is that possible?”

  She held her breath, her whole life hanging on his reply, but all he did was nod.

  When he did speak, it wasn’t what she really wanted to hear. “Are you hungry or thirsty? We can go back upstairs if you are. And there’s a bathroom to the right.”

  She let out her breath and pasted on a brave smile, trying not to show the disappointment that suddenly burned the back of her lids with bitter tears. After what they had just experienced, how could he still consider asking her to leave him forever? Had he in fact already made the decision and was just too cowardly to tell her? Perhaps it was something he didn’t want to face yet at all.

  She would not cry in front of the vampire. She had never cried in front of any man, not even Bret when he left her. She would not cry now, though the pain was far greater than any loss or sorrow she felt at Bret’s final good-bye. She hid her feelings in a quick reply.

  “I could use something more to eat, I think. I’ll just clean up a little first, if you don’t mind.” She grabbed her clothes from the floor and headed for the bathroom.

  “Be my guest.”

  But she was already around the corner and out of sight before she heard his words.

  THE DOOR CLOSED behind her, and he leaned his head back against the formidable curved headboard. He felt the unforgiving hardness of the wood not in the least.

  She had done it. She had seen the vampire as he really looked. The sight had shocked her, but she had still wanted him. She had given herself to the demon creature with the unholy black eyes, the abnormal canine teeth, and the death-pale skin just as easily as she had to her fantasy lover Dallas Allgate scant days ago.

  Such a destruction of the fantasy would have sent any other woman screaming in terror. But not Tia. It would seem that whatever she felt for him was truly stronger than the mark of blood.

  Harder to understand was what he felt for her. The ritual of human lovemaking had indeed been sweet. A pleasure long forsworn, he had immersed himself as thoroughly as he could in the light and warmth of her body. He had reveled in her sweetness and life, but to deny satisfying the bloodlust had been hard. This was but one night. Could he take her night after night and not take her blood? The need would only grow stronger with time. And if he should take her once, with consent, stopping well short of doing her permanent harm, what was to prevent him from taking her a second, third, and fourth time? Eventually he would kill her. He couldn’t bear the thought.

  Tomorrow, as hard as it would be, he would have to order her to leave.

  Eighteen

  THE PERSISTENT BUZZ of the cellar intercom finally broke through Dallas’ sleep of the dead. He cracked his eyelids open. Tia was nowhere to be seen. Turning his head, he looked at the time display glowing at him from the nearby clock, its cold luminescence as dispassionate as the droning of the intercom. Just past five o’clock in the afternoon. A low sound like a growl rumbled from deep within his chest. Far too early for him to be up.

  Drago’s last visit had been less than twenty-four hours ago. If Drago was back again so soon to ask more of his idiot questions, Dallas was going to be upset. Or had Tia left and gotten herself into more trouble? Only if by some miracle it was good news would this interruption of his sleep be worth it.

  He hit the intercom button. “Yes, Gillie?”

  Gillie’s usual calm voice was almost stuttering. “You’d better take this call, sir. It’s the inn. There’s a . . . hostage situation.”

  “Is it Tia?”

  There was a short pause. “No, sir. It’s the inn. It’s Angie.”

  Where was Tia? “All right, Gillie.” He picked up the extension. “Angie? Stay calm and tell me what’s happened.”

  “There’s a man here. He’s got us in the banquet room, and he . . . he threatened to do terrible things to us unless I called you.”

  Dallas could feel her fear through the phone line. “Who’s ‘us’? You and who else?”

  “Me, Jaz, and your friend, Miss Martell.”

  Dallas could taste an unfamiliar sensation in the back of his throat, sour and caustic. The welling of raw fear. “Is it a man with blond hair?”

  “Yes . . . ” It sounded like she wanted to add more, but she didn’t.

  “It’ll be okay, Angie. I’ll be right there. Just do as he says until I arrive, okay? And make sure Jaz and Tia don’t provoke him. Do you understand, Angie?”

  “Yes. He said to tell you one more thing. Not to bring any weapons or he’d kill us.”

  “All right. Tell him I got the message. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  Dallas hung up the phone and sighed. Damn Drago and his useless sanctions! Dallas had known St. James would be back, and with a renewed vengeance. He ran up the stairs and set to dressing quickly. Gillie appeared in the doorway.

  “It’s St. James again, Gillie. He’s got the girls at the inn, including Tia.” Dallas couldn’t keep the accusation out of his voice.

  “I’m sorry, sir. She said she wanted to go out for a walk. I thought it would be safe.”

  “Damn it all! Gillie . . . ” In his frustration, Dallas was at a loss for words.

  Gillie wasn’t. “You can’t go, sir. It’s only five.”

  “I know what time it is. It ends today. One way or another.”

  Gillie sighed, but it was one of sadness, not disapproval. “Instructions, sir?”

  “You know what to do should I . . . not return. If anything happens to the girls, make sure they’re properly taken care of, understand? No expense is to be spared.”

  “Sir . . . ”

  Dallas saw the old man’s eyes gleam with an uncharacteristic moisture, but there was no time now for sentimentality. “Bring the car around, Gillie.” The softness in Dallas’ voice was the only concession to his feelings for his friend.

  The man nodded, turned, and left without a word.

  There were several hours of daylight left, but if Dallas could confront St. James within the dim interior of the inn, that was much more preferable to confronting him outdoors. Dallas’ strength and abilities would be diminished indoors, but as long as he avoided direct sunlight, he would be able to maintain a measure of control over his power.

  Dressed again all in black, he donned dark sunglasses and his long coat and hurried to the shelter of the Lincoln with its tinted windows. During the quick sprint to the car Dallas felt a wave of dizziness wash over him, and he sat with the engine idling for a full minute before he put the car in gear.

  Badly done, mon ami, badly done! Drago’s admonishments filled his mind and, like a back seat driver, scolded him anew. It was easy to damn Drago, but Dallas knew the reprimand was deserved. Dallas should have made sure the job was done properly in Rodney. He hadn’t then. This time he would.

  Five minutes later he was at the inn. He parked the car as close to the rear door as he could, swiftly unlocked the door, and entered. The inn should have been animated with the good cheer and efficient operation of the early dinner crowd, but the rooms were strangely quiet. There were no patrons in the dining room, and half-eaten dinners sat neglected on several tables. Drinks on the bar waited to be consumed. The kitchen was void of cooks, and a pot of soup warmed on a still-hot burner. Dallas turned off the stove and oven and returned to the dining area. He shrugged out of his coat, draped it over a chair at one of the empty tables, and flipped the sunglasses onto the place mat.

  One thing did fill the room. The stink of the Undead. Dallas had no trouble recognizing the unmistakable odor of Jermyn St. James. Dallas followed the trail of scent up the narrow staircase to the second-floor banquet room. The door was closed.

  Dallas pushed the door open, at the same time trying to avoid being framed in the fatal funnel of the doorway. If St. James had a weapon with silver sh
ot, Dallas had no wish to make himself an easy target.

  “Come in, Aldgate, and join the party.”

  Dallas, taking a peek into the room, saw St. James seated at the largest table, like an honored guest waiting to be served.

  St. James spread his arms wide in invitation. “I’m afraid you missed the first course. My compliments to your staff. Delicious fare. Especially the redhead. She fought like a wildcat. Life force brimming with unbridled energy and blood as sweet as any I’ve ever tasted. Pity you didn’t have three or four more like her working for you.”

  Dallas flowed into the room like raging water but stopped cold when he saw the tangled bodies of the three women on the floor. Those of Angie and Jaz were still, but Tia, though bound and gagged, was conscious and breathing. His eyes briefly met hers—round eyes brimming with fear and a supplication so heartfelt he had to look away. He couldn’t afford the distraction.

  Dallas’ gaze swept the rest of the room quickly. He wanted to make sure no other surprises awaited him. “What have you done with the rest of my staff? And the patrons? If there’s a panic and the law shows up on my curb . . . ”

  St. James’ manic laugh cut him off. “Really, Aldgate. The law worries me even less than you do. If they do show up, it’s of no consequence. But do you really think I planned this little outing so carelessly? The customers were told the restaurant was closing early because of a power outage. Everyone left calmly. Your minions are in the cellar. A victory feast for when I’m done with you.”

  Dallas thought about his remaining staff. All young and hard working. At least Sovatri, Richton, and Keller had had some expectation of danger in the work they had done for him, but the employees at the inn were simply cooks and waiters. Innocents. Just like the citizens in Rodney St. James had killed. Survival was one thing, but what St. James was doing was just needless slaughter, bad not only for the human population, but the Undead community as well.

  Dallas turned his furious gaze on St. James with all the power he could muster, but could do no more than stare at the man’s hideous face. Circular red and black wounds, two on the left side of his face, one on the right, and one on his neck, gaped angry and raw. The combination of silver shot and fire had not killed, but they had caused damage that would never heal. St. James leered, a mockery of the charming smile that once graced his handsome face.

  “Behold your work, Aldgate. Are you pleased with it?”

  Renewed anger surged through Dallas, giving him the strength the light stole. There was rage in abundance at the monstrosity before him, but even greater was the self-vehemence Dallas felt. If he had not botched the job in Rodney, the women would still be alive. “Nothing about you will ever please me except to see you sent to the True Death.”

  St. James rose, the splatters of blood on his ruffled white shirt now clearly visible in the late afternoon rays angling through the windows. “Oh, but you’ve tried twice and failed, haven’t you? You’re the one who will die tonight, and the sweetness of that memory will help me endure eternity with these wounds that no amount of blood will ever heal.”

  Dallas stood well out of the shafts of light, but even so, when St. James opened his dark eyes wide, Dallas felt caught by their power. Anger alone was no match for St. James and his weapon of the light.

  “That’s right, Aldgate, look at me. Look at the pain and suffering you’ve caused one of your own kind. Look at the abomination you’ve created with your vengeance. And when you can stand no more of the hideous creature before you, turn your vision to all the rest of the horror you’ve wrought in two hundred years. See it and relive it all before you perish.”

  Dallas fought to resist, but his will, no more substantial than a shadow, disappeared before the inescapable daylight. Silver and gold dazzled his eyes, blinding him to all but his own reflection. To humans, the mirror showed fantasies. To an inhabitant of Midexistence, the reverse, as always, prevailed. The mirror showed truth.

  He saw Devon Alexander standing in this very room in 1829, shaking hands with Liam Bishop to seal a pact that would change his life for decades to come. Wealthy and cunning, Bishop was a survivor. Not unlike MacArthur. Only the strong survived. Bishop had raised a glass in toast to the bargain, and though Devon had declined to drink, he had shared all too heartily in the joyous prospect of seeing the mute stable boy, Rowan Kiley, dispatched to a better life.

  Dallas tried to fight the memories, but they flashed before his mind’s eye with a vengeance, bringing with them all the sensations of that faraway time.

  Lust. What did Devon care for the life of one human? Veilina was his prize, and he meant to reclaim her. Beautiful and filled with a wicked spirit, she had been the epitome of vampiric conquest, promising countless hours of pleasure spent in the pursuit of unwrapping layer after layer of vanity and pride.

  Betrayal. Rowan, the mute, had been weak. But the stable boy had taken it all away from him in the one unselfish act of saving her life. And his love, Veilina, had not been true. When she needed help the most, it was not him she turned to, but Rowan. All his attentions and all his flattery were forgotten in the single touch of the mute’s hand.

  Revenge. Killing the stable boy had been easy. Too easy. There had been no satisfaction in the deed, any more than there had been in the destruction of Christian St. James only a few years before. It had left him feeling empty, still hungry for something that could never bring satisfaction in a thousand years.

  Damnation. Killing had been easy. Reclaiming his prize had not. Rowan’s love had revealed Veilina’s true spirit in a way that all Devon’s seductions had failed to do, and the woman thus exposed was true and pure, imbued with an innate goodness he had never seen. But her heart could not do one thing. Forgive Devon for his treachery. For he had not asked it.

  He heard her voice from across time—from a time when Mississippi was a new state, Rose Hill was a new jewel adorning Natchez, and he himself, newly come from England, was starting a fresh life in a land full of promise.

  How could you, Devon? How could you do such a thing? What kind of cold-blooded monster are you to kill a boy who never did anything to harm anyone? Veilina’s blind eyes could not look upon him with accusation, but he felt her words touch even his cold heart. I thought you loved me, Devon. I trusted that love, even after the accident. How could you do that to me?

  Her words had moved him; still, he had been unable to ask for her forgiveness. He had no explanation for her, nothing that she would understand, but neither would he repent to her. He was what he was, and he never apologized for that.

  Was he any different from St. James? Had he ever been any different? He had perceived a “need” in all his killings, but had they, in fact, been any less wanton than those of St. James? The memories of the passing years curled away like pages of a burning book, only to reveal the dark side of every new life he had begun. When the promise of war between brothers threatened the South, he had fled Mississippi altogether for California, trying to put as much distance as he could from his past. But it was the same wherever he went. Dalton Allgate in Sacramento and San Francisco after gold was discovered, Dalys Alexander in Australia, and Devon Aldgate in Alaska in the early 1900s—all had done whatever they needed to in order to survive. Poverty had given him the tools for survival when he was young, his tutelage under MacArthur had developed a wealth of skills using those tools, and the demands of life as one of the Undead had honed them to perfection.

  But to what end? He had survived, but countless others had not. Images of those faces flashed in his mind, one after another, and while not all were as hideous as that of St. James, each triggered its own horror.

  Dallas suddenly felt old. Weary and weak, he sagged to the floor next to a hutch full of glassware, his remaining strength drained by the emotion spent in reliving the memories. The room was stifling, yet he felt a cold touch at his shoulder. Mistress Death was standing in t
he wings, waiting patiently for St. James and the sunlight to make their final moves.

  Not yet. Not yet. He wasn’t ready. If he couldn’t kill St. James, there was still one thing he should have done and hadn’t. It was what would set him apart, once and for all, from St. James. It had unknowingly haunted him for one hundred and seventy-two years.

  It was simple. It was the one thing the young stable boy had done so easily. It was the one thing that Dallas, with all his strength and power, had never been able to do. It was the selfless act.

  Dallas struggled to clear his vision, concentrating all his remaining strength on breaking free from the grasp of St. James’ terrible gaze. With a final shake of his head, the reflections shattered. The years of memories were bound together and put away, and his mind was freed. Dallas opened his eyes and saw no horror but St. James. Weakened as well by the ordeal, St. James stood before Dallas, braced against a table, his arms outstretched, his wounds oozing fresh blood.

  Dallas pushed himself to his feet. He would not do this final thing from a position of defeat, but from one of strength and control. He stood and gathered all his remaining resources.

  “Veilina! Forgive me! I should have never made that pact with your father. Forgive me, please . . . ”

  Dallas heard a slam. An inside shutter of one window had banged shut.

  St. James’ desperate laughter filled the sudden silence. “You fool! What are you doing? There’s no one here but me, and I’ll never forgive you for what you’ve done.”

  “Veilina, I was wrong! I was wrong to kill Rowan. His love for you was truer than mine. Forgive me!”

  Another slam sounded. The inside shutter of the second window. The room was thrown into a comfortable gloom. St. James glanced around the room in confusion. “Are you daft, Aldgate? No one’s going to forgive you for anything. You’re damned, and you’re going to die the True Death a damned man.”

  A measure of strength returned with the darkness, but it wasn’t enough. “Veilina, please hear me.”