At Twilight
Page 11
The spikes at the top of each of the fence’s bars looked real, and
sharp.
Climbing over would be impossible.
But there had to be another way inside.
She squared her shoulders and began walking the perimeter.
It seemed like a mile as she pressed through tangles of brush and a
miniature forest, but it couldn’t have been that much.
The fence bowed out, and curved back toward the house in the rear.
She didn’t find a single flaw in it, and she bit her lip in dismay when
she reached the end.
The last spiked bar of black iron sank into the ground at the edge of a
rocky cliff.
Below, the sound roiled in white capped chaos.
The wind picked up and Tamara shivered.
She had to do something.
Go back?
After all this?
She eyed the final spear of the fence.
The ground near its base didn’t look too solid.
Still, she thought, if she gripped the fence tightly she might be able
to swing her body around to the other side.
Right?
She gripped a filigree vine with her right hand, the right side of her
body touching the fence.
She faced the sound and the biting wind that came off it.
She had to lean out, over, and twist her body in order to grip the same
vine on the other side of the fence with her left hand.
Bent in this awkward, painful pose, she glanced down.
Points of slick, black rock jutted sporadically from water of the same
color.
They appeared and disappeared with each swell.
They winked at her, like supernatural, unspeakably evil eyes.
Her hair whipped around her face.
Her nose and cheeks burned with cold, and her eyes watered.
She edged forward until her toes hung over, then drew a breath and
swung her left leg out and around, slamming it down again on firm,
solid earth.
She couldn’t stop her gaze from slanting downward once more as she
straddled the iron fence, one arm and one leg on either side while her
rear end jutted into Space.
A wave of dizziness, almost exactly corresponding to the waves of
seawater moving below, temporarily swamped her brain.
She had to close her eyes to battle it.
She swallowed three times in quick succession before she dared open
them again.
Grunting with the effort, she released her right hand from the outside
of the fence and brought it around to cling to a bar on the inside.
She clung for all she was worth.
All that remained was to move her right leg around to this side now.
She lifted it, drew it backward, out over the water, and jerked it in
again, slamming her foot down on the ground near the edge.
But the ground she stood on dissolved like sugar in hot coffee.
Too near the edge, she had time to think.
Her right foot scraped down over the sheer face of the cliff until the
entire leg, to the thigh, made an arrow pointing to certain death on
the rocks below.
Her left leg lay flat, heel down, on the ground so she was almost doing
a split.
She still clung to the fence with her left hand.
Her right had been torn free when she’d slipped so hard and so fast.
The filigree vine she gripped began slowly to cut into her fingers.
They burned, and in moments they throbbed incessantly.
She knew she couldn’t hold on another second j with each second that
she held on.
The muscle in the back of the thigh that lay flat to the ground felt
stretched to violin-string proportions.
Frantically she dug at the stone face with her toe, knowing as she did
that it was useless.
She was going to die on those rocks beneath the angry black water.
and all for the chance to prove to herself that Eric Marquand was not a
vampire.
Her fingers slipped.
Her thigh throbbed with pain.
She slid a couple more inches.
Then her toe struck a small protrusion in the cliff face.
She pressed onto it, praying it would hold.
It did, and she was able to lever herself higher, and get a grip on the
fence with her free hand.
She pulled, scraping her foot along the sheer stone, wriggling her body
up until she was completely supported by the solid, snow-dusted ground.
For a long moment she remained there, hands still gripping the cold
iron bars, face pressed to them, as well.
Her body trembled and she wished to God she’d never embarked on this
crazy mission.
Fine time to change my mind, she thought.
I’m certainly not leaving here the same way I came.
She sighed, lifted her head and pulled herself to her feet.
She’d just have to go inside, confess her lunacy to Eric and hope he
wouldn’t laugh her off the planet.
Then she sobered.
He might not find her intrusion funny at all.
He might resent her snooping as much as he resented Daniel’s.
She brushed snow and damp earth from her jeans, wincing and drawing her
hand away.
A thin smear of blood stained the denim and she turned her palm up to
see spiderweb strands of scarlet trickling from the creases of her
fingers.
She fought the tiny shiver that raced along her spine, balled her hand
into a fist and shoved it into her pocket, then strode over the snowy
ground toward the rear of Eric’s house.
She knocked at a set of French doors similar to her own.
When no response came she thumped a little harder.
Still no one answered.
He wasn’t home.
And she was stuck in his backyard until he got home, she thought
miserably.
The wind howled off the sound, battering the house and Tamara with
it.
Her jeans were dampened from the snow and the wet ground.
Her hand was throbbing.
She had no idea when he’d return, or even if he would tonight.
She couldn’t stand here much longer or she thought she’d suffer
frostbite.
No, she had to get inside.
Eric could be as angry as he wanted, but she’d left herself with few
options.
She wasn’t about to tempt the sound again by trying to leave as she’d
arrived.
The French doors seemed like an omen.
If they’d been any other type, she would have had no options.
But French doors she could open.
She’d had to force her own a time or two when she’d misplaced the
key.
She dipped into her coat pocket hoping to find—yes!
A small silver nail file presented itself when she withdrew her fist
and opened it.
She turned toward the doors, and hesitated.
Another gust exploded from the sound, and suddenly wet snow slanted
across the sky, slicing her face like tiny shards of glass.
She huddled into her coat and moved more quickly.
She slipped the file between the two panels, nimbly flicked the latch
and opened them.
She stepped inside and pulled the doors together behind her.
She thought it wasn’t much warmer here than outside, then saw the huge
marble firepl
ace facing her, glowing with coals of a forgotten fire.
She tugged off her boots, shrugged free of the coat and hurried to the
promise of warmth.
A stack of wood beside the hearth offered hope, and she bent to toss
several chunks onto the grate, then stretched her nearly numb hands
toward the heat.
She stood for just a moment, absorbing the warmth as the chills stopped
racing around her body.
Tongues of flame lapped hungrily at the logs, snapping loudly and
sending tiny showers of sparks up the chimney.
: After a time she lowered her hands and glanced around her.
She had the urge to rub her eyes and look again.
It seemed she’d been transported backward in time.
The chair behind her was a profusion of needlepoint genius.
Every scrap of material on the thing had been embroidered with birds,
flowers, leaves.
The wooden arms and legs had scroll-like shapes at their ends.
A footstool of the same design sat before it, and Tamara bent to run
one fingertip reverently over the cushion.
All of the furniture was of the same period.
She was no expert, but she guessed it was Louis XV, and she knew it was
in mint condition.
Marble topped, gilded tables with angels carved into their legs were
placed at intervals.
Other chairs similar to the first were scattered about.
The sofa.
no, it was more like a set tee, was small by today’s standards.
Its velvet upholstery of deep green contrasted with the intricately
carved wooden arms and legs.
She examined the room itself, noting a chandelier of brass and crystal
suspended high overhead.
Yet at one end of the room shelves had been built to hold thousands of
dollars worth of stereo equipment, and rows of CDs, LPs, and
cassettes.
Nearby, a rather ordinary-looking bar seemed out of place in the
antique-filled room, with the parquet floors.
She saw oil lamps on every stand, yet a light switch on the wall.
The sun sank lower, and she walked toward the bar, snapped on the light
and licked her lips.
She could use a drink.
She was still shivering intermittently, despite the warmth filling the
room.
If Eric could forgive her for breaking into his home, she reasoned, he
ought to be able to forgive her for stealing a small glass of—of
whatever he had on hand.
She went behind the bar and ducked down to look at the nearly-empty
shelves underneath.
Not a single bottle rested there.
Glasses, yes.
A couple of expensive cut-crystal decanters.
She stood, frowning, turning only when she heard the almost silent hum
of the small refrigerator, built in to the wall behind her.
Smiling at her own oversight, Tamara gripped the handle and tugged.
A tiny chunk of ice placed itself in the center of her chest, and
slowly grew until it enveloped her entire body.
Her jaw fell.
She took a step back, blinking, unable to believe what she was
seeing.
Blood.
Plastic bags filled with blood in two neat stacks.
She felt as if she’d been dropped into the fury of a cyclone.
She saw nothing all at once, except a thin red haze, heard nothing but
a deafening roar.
Mindlessly she shoved at the small door.
It swung, but didn’t quite close, and slowly it slipped back to its
wide open position.
Tamara didn’t notice.
She turned away, face buried in her hands, fingertips pressing into
her eyelids as if she could erase what she’d seen.
“It wasn’t real. It couldn’t have been real. I’ll turn around. If I
turn around and look again it won’t be there because it wasn’t real.”
She didn’t turn around, though.
She lifted her head, focused on the French doors and hurried toward
them.
She wanted to run, but couldn’t.
Just walking in her socks seemed absurdly loud on the parquet floor.
She felt eyes on her, seemingly from everywhere.
Her own gaze darted about, like a bird flitting from branch to branch
on a tree, in constant motion.
She couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was right behind her, no
matter which way she turned.
She moved forward, then whirled and walked backward a few steps.
Only a yard to go.
She’d grab up her boots.
She’d snatch her coat as she ran outside.
She wouldn’t wait to put them on first.
Another step.
An invisible finger of ice traced a path up her backbone.
“Too crazy,” she whispered, turning fast and walking backward again.
“It’s all too crazy—this place—me. I’m too crazy.”
Her mind cartwheeled out of control and she pivoted once more, ready to
make a lunge for the door.
Her path was blocked by a broad, hard chest covered in crisp white
cotton.
She automatically drew back, but Eric’s hands clamped down on her
shoulders before she’d moved a half step.
Frozen in place, she only stared up at him as her breaths began coming
too quickly and too shallowly.
Her head swam.
Against her will she studied his face.
His eyes glistened, and she knew more than just bald terror of this
man.
She felt a sickening sense of loss and of betrayal.
Daniel’ had been right all along.
“What are you doing here, Tamara?”
She tried to swallow, but her throat was like a sandy desert.
She pulled against his hands, surprised when he let them fall from her
shoulders.
A strange voice behind her made her whirl between heartbeats.
“Snooping, of course.
I told you not to trust her, Eric.
She’s DPI.
” The man standing near the bar waved a hand toward the opened
refrigerator.
That first glimpse of him nearly extinguished the small spark of reason
she had left.
He was dressed all in black, with a satin cloak that reached to the
floor all but blanketing him.
He moved like a panther, with inconceivable grace and latent power.
He exuded a sexual magnetism that was palpable.
His dark good looks were belied by the ageless wisdom in the depths of
his smoldering jet eyes.
As she watched he lifted a decanter to the bar, and then a matching
glass.
He reached into the open fridge and took out a bag.
Tamara had never fainted in her life, but she came very close then.
Her head floated three feet above her shoulders and her knees
dissolved.
For just an instant black velvet engulfed her.
She didn’t feel herself sink toward the floor.
Eric moved even before she knew what was happening.
He scooped her up as soon as she faltered, carried her to the set tee
and lowered her carefully.
“That was unnecessary, Roland!”
She heard his angry shout, but knew he hadn’t moved his lips.
Her sanity slipped another notch.
She sat with her back against one hard wooden arm.
; Eric sat beside her, his arms making walls around her.
His right hand braced against the back of the set tee, his left against
the arm on which she leaned.
She cringed into the warm green velvet.
“Get away from me.”
Her words tripped over each other on the way past her lips.
“Let me go home.”
“You will go home, Tamara. As soon as you tell me what you are doing
here.
Is Roland correct? Have you been sent by your employers? Perhaps by
St Claire himself?”
CHAPTER SEVEN Deny it, Eric thought desperately.
Deny it, Tamara, and I’ll believe you.
If it costs my existence, I’ll believe you.
He watched her chalky face go even paler.
He honed his senses to hers and felt a shock of paralyzing fear.
Fear.
of him.
It hit him painfully.
“Tamara, you needn’t be afraid. I’d sooner harm myself than you.”
He glanced toward Roland.
“Leave us for a time.”
He spoke aloud to be certain Tamara understood.
| He had no doubt Roland did so for the same reason.
Slanting a derogatory gaze in her direction, he said,
“And if she would lead a regiment of DPI forces to the back door?
” He stepped out from behind the bar and came nearer. ” Well, girl?
Speak up.
Have you come alone?
How; did you get in?
” j Eric shot to his feet, his anger flaring hot. “I am warning you,
Roland, let me take care of this matter. You are only frightening
her.”
“/? Frightening her? You think I felt secure when I woke and sensed a
human presence in this house? For God’s sake, Eric, for all I knew I
was about to be skewered on a stake!”
“Th-then it’s true.”
Tamara’s voice, shaking and sounding as if every word were forced,
brought Eric’s gaze back to her.
“You’re—you both are, are” — “Vampires,” Roland spat.
“It isn’t a dirty word, at least, not among us.”
She groaned and put her head in her hands.
Roland shook his head in exasperation and turned away.
Eric took his seat beside her once more.
He wanted to comfort her, but wasn’t certain he knew how.
He pulled one of her hands into his own, and stroked her palm with his
thumb.
“Tamara, look at me, please.”
She lifted her head, but couldn’t seem to meet his gaze.
“Try to see beyond your fear, and the shock of this revelation. Just
see me. I am the same man I was last night, and the night before. I