Rick gaped at her. “I’m a…” He broke off laughing. “Strong dreams, indeed.” He lowered himself to a chair, and then took her hands. His were ice cold. Cat flinched, and he immediately withdrew his touch. “Cathy, now you know that’s preposterous. I’m not a vampire. No such thing exists, and I don’t have a friend named Mack.”
“Not Mack. Matt. Matthew,” Cat corrected, tears stinging her eyes. “I…” Her gaze darted around the room as if the answers to her questions were hidden there.
“Your doctor tells me you’re recovering quite well,” Rick encouraged. “Now that you’re awake, it should be only a matter of days before—”
“Rick, how can you forget Matt? How can you forget everything we meant to each other?” she whispered in horror.
“Dear girl, though I’ve overseen your convalescence, you and I have barely met. I hear good things from my editors about your talent, but I’m afraid there is no Matt, and no past between us.”
She watched him shrewdly. “Then why would you do all this for me?” She gestured around the room.
Rick sighed. “The accident that put you here was due to an impaired driver from the Consort Group. I hoped, in some small way, to make up for our neglect.”
And to avoid a law suit. She froze perfectly still. Thinking. Thinking. Was it actually possible? Could all she remembered of Matt, vampires, everything, be merely an injury and a drug-induced hallucination? What other explanation could there be? Vampires? She knew they were creatures of fiction, nothing more. Her mind whirled even as the sedative they gave her created a sense of indifferent detachment.
After she responded to his summons, Rick nodded to Georgia. “I’m afraid my visit has tired Cathy.” He effortlessly lifted Cat and bore her to the bed. Georgia busily tucked the covers around her. “I’m going to excuse myself to let you rest. Later, they’ll bring you something to eat.”
The pull of the sedative became irresistible, and Cat succumbed to more induced sleep.
* * * *
Rick growled into the phone, his outrage barely contained. “It’s not working,” he snapped, “at least not completely. She remembers your name and our association. Clearly, the thralling and drugs have been only partially successful. It’s just a matter of time before the whole damn thing unravels.”
Rick’s phone call was disturbing to say the least. “I’m hoping we won’t need much time. Just buy me a couple weeks. Can’t you treat her as any other vampire witness? Denials and redirection might eventually extinguish her lingering memories.”
“You don’t have to lie right to her face. There are times I think you really are a monster for behaving this way.”
“Yeah, me too.”
Matt clicked off his cell, balanced unerringly on the slate parapet of the brownstone opposite Cat’s window. The wind buffeted around him, howling its distress in a way strikingly similar to his own. Despite the swirling gusts, he was immoveable in his determination to catch a glimpse of her. Longing for her kept him in place as the stars and moon moved above him, and minutes grew into hours. Still, he stood, watching her blurred image as she paced past the textured glass shielding the bottom half of her massive Queen Anne windows.
She’d undergone medication and thralling for only a couple days, meaning that in reality, Cat was confined to bed for an abbreviated time. The row of stapled sutures in the back of her scalp were superficial and implied a serious procedure where there had been none. His knowledge that she was actually in excellent health, despite their deception, should have comforted Matt, but he found no peace in it.
Had this whole sham been in vain? He’d hoped to give her a fresh start. Instead, he led her to self-doubt. Time would tell if her obsession with finding him would fade from lack of confirmation, or whether they’d have to intervene again.
The gleam of Cat’s ceiling light, flickering with the rotation of its slowly circling fan, was replaced by the softer glow of her bedside lamp. In the early hours, only the nightlight remained. Matt shrank back into the shadows reluctantly as the first rays of sun broke the dawn. The guilt he labored under was almost insufferable. Knowing he’d layered implied trauma over the emotional damage he’d already caused ate at him like acid.
* * * *
Rick flipped a switch and drew up the motorized shades protecting his penthouse suite from New York City sunshine. The light of day was unimpeded by anything surrounding the seventy-sixth floor of the Frank Gehry building. His New York home in the sky was ostentatious, yes, but he’d never shied away from a little glitz. The prestige of “the tallest penthouse in Manhattan” amused him. Those in the know were duly impressed he could absorb the six figure monthly rent with a curt nod to his accountant.
Rick loved the spot for the nightscape that lay all of Manhattan, the East and Hudson rivers at his feet. He sighed in contentment as he gazed at the dying glow of the sun, dispersing itself into the Hudson. His favorite time of day, the magic hour, when the world was lit with gold, but with sunlight defuse enough to protect his vulnerable vampire hide.
The silk of his late summer robe whispered as he pulled it into place and secured it around his waist. He paused for a moment, considering the exact bouquet and finish he desired from his donor blood tonight. After making his choice, he reached across his desk for the intercom to order. As he moved, the sleeve of his robe nudged his computer mouse and CNN popped up, showing the day’s news.
Before his dismayed eyes, a news clip ran, showing a smoldering ruin where the Maynard Pharmaceuticals factory in Germany used to be. An online headline screamed, Industrial Terrorists Target Maynard Property. In rapid succession, Rick watched with gritted teeth and bared fangs as video of Maynard facilities in Germany, Colombia, India, Mexico and Japan ran over the news report.
“A coordinated attack at noon Frankfurt time, resulted in explosions at all Maynard Pharmaceutical plants, and the disappearance of Clementine “Cici” Maynard. The industrialist’s wife was in Frankfurt to bestow awards at an Employee of the Year ceremony. A spokesman for Maynard Pharmaceuticals says Frankfurt police and Interpol are combing the area for clues…”
“Bloody hell!” Well, Rick guessed they’d been right about the Humanité. He cursed and grabbed his desk phone. “Get me Giles Paquet.”
“Yes, sir,” his assistant acknowledged, his tone surprised.
“Tell him my office in five minutes.”
* * * *
Giles Paquet hadn’t planned to end his day this way, but when Hiatt sent for you, it didn’t matter that it was your anniversary. If Giles’ wife wanted to continue her comfortable Manhattan lifestyle, she’d just have to understand. He skidded to a halt to collect himself outside Rick’s home office, and then knocked respectfully.
“Come.” The clipped response and swing of the automatic doors ushered him into Rick’s presence.
Paquet swallowed down the unaccustomed nerves. “Sir?” he ventured with obvious concern. “Is there a problem?”
Rick gestured at the ninety-inch flat screen now broadcasting the story of the Maynard terrorist attack. “Why am I hearing about this from CNN?” he demanded. “Why wasn’t my security team on top of it?”
“On top of…”
“This Maynard facility is a hole in the ground. What the hell is going on?”
“I…” Paquet cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t realize your security extended to Maynard Pharmaceuticals.” He turned a shocked gaze from the massive television to Rick.
“What?” Rick blew out a frustrated breath. “No…No, I’m sorry I was…abrupt…I…anytime there’s a security breach of this magnitude it reminds me everyone is vulnerable.”
Paquet guessed there was more to the story than Hiatt was telling him, but it did him no good to speculate. “Yes, sir.” What the hell else could he say?
“Just double check everything, Giles,” Rick instructed. “We don’t want something like this happening to our own plants.”
“Of course, sir.” Paquet w
as nonplussed, but far too political to tell Rick he sounded like a paranoid crazy man.
“I want us on the highest level of alert until I tell you otherwise. That’ll be all.”
* * * *
Matt smelled charred flesh before the huge, ornately wrapped package rolled past the threshold of his suite. The concierge grimaced, and offered a wan smile of thanks in exchange for the twenty-buck tip. Matt guessed it was poor recompense for such an offensive delivery. He eyed the package with dread, dismissing the attendant with a frown, and then hauling his delivery past the doorway in privacy.
He wheeled the shipping crate, large as a casket, to the bathroom’s walk-in shower, anticipating oozing fluids at any moment. The top of the box lifted easily after the heavy poly-tape was cut. Matt wished it otherwise, but suspected his discovery wouldn’t be a pleasant one. He could never have prepared himself for what he saw.
Under a plushly upholstered satin casket blanket lay a woman he immediately recognized despite the mutilation. She was a vampire now, but when they last met, she’d been mortal and Elliot Maynard’s wife.
She was staked through the heart, her mouth paralyzed in a scream of agony, which was understandable, considering the torture she’d endured. Matt removed the stake that tormented her, and it released its hold on her body with a sickening, sucking hiss. An infinitesimal amount of blood spattered from the finely polished spike, and hit his hand, causing immediate blistering. Silver! Somehow, her blood was permeated with it. Torture indeed, for any vampire. Matt hurried to the sink and attacked the few drops of blood with strong soap and heavy scrubbing before it could do more damage. He swallowed back dizziness and nausea, equal parts shock and silver sensitivity.
Satisfied he’d removed all the silver he could, he returned to his unfortunate guest and carefully drew back more of the casket blanket shielding her. Huge patches of skin on her nude body had all but melted away, revealing eroded tendons, muscles and bone like some sort of macabre anatomy model. This result might have been caused by the infused silver, but Matt guessed she’d been paralyzed, and then set out in the sun to burn before being sent to him. In the name of God, why?
The beeping of an iPhone secured to the side of the crate promised more answers. Matt clicked it on, and a man he instantly recognized as Papa Moreau appeared on the digital screen.
“I see you have received my package,” Moreau began with a wicked smile, his accent heavy with the Haitian sing-song rhythm.
“You sick bastard!” Matt’s eyes closed tight, then reopened slowly, “Why?”
“I felt I must impress upon you the seriousness of my objections to Humanité,” Moreau intoned, steepling his fingertips. “Mortals who associate with the vampires creating it may find themselves in jeopardy.”
“Maynard and his wife knew nothing about the Vampire Nation, they were innocents.”
“Collateral damage.” Moreau’s hands rose in mock surrender, “Used to illustrate my point. You will cease your search for Humanité and the formula that creates it. To take away further temptation, you will terminate your association with your mortal lover, Miss Temple. If you do not, she will find herself in the same unfortunate position as the former mortal before you. Am I clear, Mr. Brenner?”
“Crystal, and if you’ve been monitoring us, you know my association with Catherine Temple is already over. I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to erase myself from her life.”
“What I know,” Moreau continued, “is you are not interacting with her. Nevertheless, you continue pining after her, watching her.” He smiled a sinister smile. “You will not do so again, unless you want…” He gestured toward the body in the crate. “It is time for you to move on.”
“I understand,” Matt bit out in impotent fury. “I’ll leave New York today. No more contact of any kind. You have my word.”
“Very well.” Moreau’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “On a more pleasant note, Mr. Brenner, let us discuss my offspring, Veronique. She is headstrong, as I am sure you know. She has always been so.” He sipped blood from a Baccarat brandy snifter as he spoke. “Still, she is my delight, and I want her to be happy. You, she tells me, would make her happy.”
Matt shuttered his appalled response, and kept his features impassive as Moreau studied him through the screen and found him wanting.
“I have ceased to reason a woman’s heart.” He grinned demonically. “Many men find Veronique’s spirit, and shall we say joie de vivre, appealing. She comes from a well-established and wealthy family, pillars as you would say, of the vampire community. You could do worse than to ally yourself with us. She needs a strong man to tame her. I would not object to you taking on that challenge.”
Matt’s response was cagey. He wanted no retaliatory punch to land back on Cat. “Your offer is tempting.” He tried to smile pleasantly. “There’s a great deal of unfortunate history between Veronique and me. I don’t know if it can be overcome.”
Moreau sipped from the snifter, and his smile wasn’t so conciliatory. “You need to honor your lineage. Return to your sire and your blood family. I would appreciate your effort to try.” It wasn’t a request.
Matt stood his ground to the extent he could. “For now, let me say I get your message. I’ll no longer search for Humanité, and my relationship with Catherine Temple is dead and buried.” He steeled himself not to beg for Cat’s life and betray his depth of feeling for her. Instead, he insisted, “No other innocent needs to become a living example of your demands.” He spread his hands in supplication. “What else can I do to reassure you?”
“Nothing.” Moreau drew out the word. “We will, of course, have you under surveillance.” He leaned forward to cut off the call. “Consider the benefits of my offer.” And then, almost as an afterthought, “If you are a kind man, as they say you are, you will cut off the woman’s head.” The screen went blank.
For one horrified moment, Matt thought Moreau had instructed him to kill Cat, but as the moans of the pathetic creature in the crate permeated his awareness, he realized Papa suggested a mercy killing. Matt was a kind man, and so he did the only thing he could under the circumstances. He collected his katana sword, paramount for vampire self-protection, and with a murmured, “Forgive me,” severed Cici’s head and ended her pain. Family? I don’t think so. Papa Moreau’s blood cannot possibly flow through my veins.
Matt drew in deep breaths in an effort to calm himself as he sat on the edge of the soaking tub, dialing his secure burner phone. He waited for the New York City responders to answer.
“Your emergency, please?” the responder’s voice was flat, impersonal.
“This is Matt Brenner at the Ritz-Carlton, the Consort suite, 1055.” He listened to the clicks of computer keys as the responder confirmed the information. “Let me speak with your supervisor.”
The young man’s annoyance radiated over the phone. “I’m sure I can handle any—”
“Now,” Matt’s Dom voice erupted.
“Transferring.”
“Matt?” Giles Paquet inquired after a pause and a series of transfer clicks. “Hiatt is crawling up my ass, and now you? What the hell is going on?”
As the Vice President of the east coast division of the responders, Giles was responsible for the safety and secrecy of every vampire in the area. He was doing Matt and Rick a huge favor by overseeing Consort Group at this critical time. Matt didn’t especially want to piss off the guy who was helping them.
“I have two separate, but equally critical matters, Giles,” Matt enjoined solemnly. “Thank you for handling things personally.”
“What do you need?”
“First, you have a responder team protecting Catherine Temple?”
“Yes,” Giles nodded. “We assisted Mr. Hiatt with medicating and thralling this young woman. She’s coming along quite well. We should be leaving her on her own in the next thirty-six to forty-eight hours.”
“You can’t do that, you not only need to find a reason to stay with her another week at l
east, you need to assign a full security detail to watch her around the clock.”
“There’s reason to think she’s in danger?”
“Your second task is the graphic illustration of the danger she’s in,” Matt confirmed. “You’ll need to accompany your most skilled forensic cleaners to my suite at the Ritz-Carlton. I have a dangerous removal. The remains are badly contaminated.”
“I’m sure they can handle that—”
“The body is saturated with silver,” Matt warned, “I had to decapitate her to end her misery, but that’s not all, Giles. This whole situation is a cluster fuck. Twenty-four hours ago, this woman was the mortal wife of a billionaire businessman named Elliot Maynard.”
“Maynard?” Giles’ concern was obvious in his voice.
“You’ve heard of him?” Matt asked, surprised. “There is a threat to do to Catherine what was done to Cici Maynard. An extremely powerful vamp is willing to compromise the anonymity of the entire vampire family to make his point.”
“I see,” Giles reflected on Matt’s predicament. “This is grave.”
“Yes, do what you have to do. Manufacture a threat Cat will believe, whatever, to insure her cooperation with heightened security.”
“I’ll see to it. What about you?”
“I’m headed to the Consort Group offices now. Hiatt or I will be in contact when we have a firm plan.”
Matt crumpled the burner phone in one frustrated fist before leaving his suite. It was a security measure to ensure the call could never be traced. He’d pick up a new one before the evening was done.
Giles Paquet was a trusted consultant. He’d handled Rick’s east coast security for decades. Still, with the kind of money and power Moreau wielded, betrayal was always a possibility. Matt prayed he had a firm enough friendship with the stalwart Frenchman to protect Cat.
Matt’s personal cell rang before he was halfway down the hall toward the elevator.
“Judas priest, Matt!” Rick came through the phone as every inch the business mogul. “What do you know about this Maynard thing?”
Blood Rising Page 21