“You were obnoxious.”
“I was...scared.” She sat up and leaned against his chest, seeking his eyes. “I knew what I was doing that night. I walked in with my eyes wide-open. I just didn’t suspect that—”
He caught her shoulders. “That’s just it. That’s where Brodie and I are ahead of the game. We’re cops. We’ve learned that you can never suspect everything that might happen, so you have to be prepared for everything. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t think that we are invincible or infallible. But—”
“But I might have been fine without you. I am excellent at teleporting.”
He smiled. “I believe you. But admit it—you were really just pissed because you were scared and I saved your life.”
“That might have a hint of truth,” she said.
His smiled broadened. “I guess I’ll take that for now.”
She didn’t speak. She leaned low against him and they kissed.
Once again...
She hadn’t really suspected.
One kiss, that kiss. The room, the warmth of the wood around her—the searing heat of the man beneath her. One kiss, that kiss, and suddenly they were touching feverishly and making love again, until finally, exhausted and spent, she lay beside him in silence. Then, as he started to ease away, she bolted up. “The potion!”
Mark laughed, a husky, easy sound. “It’s all right. It’s only been two hours since we came in here.”
She looked at him, startled. “You know that?”
“I do.”
She leaped out of bed, heedless of her nudity, comfortable with it. She was an earth creature. In a different time, when people lived far apart and she had lived in dense woods, she had frequently walked around naked. Her body was a part of the earth, like the woods she loved so dearly, and she cared for it well. And with Mark...she felt an ease and a sense of comfort.
But she didn’t get very far, because he pulled her back.
“Hey—the potion.”
“Everything’s all right.”
“The potion,” she repeated firmly.
She left the bedroom and hurried to the kitchen. She lifted the cover and stirred the contents. The consistency was right. The tiny drops of her blood gave it a slight tint of mauve. She quickly turned off the heat and removed the pot from the range so that it could cool. She dug into the shelf behind the sink, finding the right size vials to hold the finished product.
She turned and saw that Mark was standing right behind her, already dressed, his holster in place. He slipped his jacket on, hiding the weapon.
“You look like a nymph. A glorious tall nymph. Really tall.”
“The nymphs might take exception to that,” she told him.
He grinned, reaching for one of the vials.
“No, no, get away!” she told him, batting his hand with a spoon. “I have to get this done.”
“I like you this way—I mean, I really like you this way,” he told her. “But I’ll fill the vials. You get dressed. We’ll rush one of these to the hospital, then I’ll take you back to the House of the Rising Sun.”
Alessande quickly ran to her room to dress, leaving him to his work. When she came out, he’d finished his self-appointed task.
She looked at the vials. “Good job,” she said.
“Hey, even I can pour liquid into a bottle.”
“You never know,” she said lightly, taking one of the vials. She swallowed the contents quickly, before he could stop her.
He immediately grabbed the vial, staring at her as if she’d lost her mind. “Why did you do that?” he demanded.
“We can’t give it to a dying girl if it causes a reaction in me.”
His expression was thunderous. “First of all, you’re Elven, so its effect on you could be completely different from its effect on her. And second, what if you do have an adverse reaction?”
She smiled. “You can stop worrying. I know what’s in it, and it can’t possibly do more than give me a stomachache. It should make me feel good—cleansed. So if we get to the hospital and I’m still fine, then it’s safe to give it to the girl who was poisoned.”
“But—”
“Trust me, Mark, please. Have a little faith that I know potions. After all, you’re the one who asked me to do this.”
He still looked grim. “It has to work, and we have to give it to her. If something from our world doesn’t save her—then she’s dead.”
He was right, she knew. And though she didn’t know the girl in the hospital and she didn’t feel the same desperation she did over Regina Johnson, she believed that all life was precious. She lived by that precept just as she honored the Code of Silence.
“I’ll carry the vials in my purse,” she said.
“I’ll put one in my pocket, just so we’ll be covered in case that big bird is flying around somewhere,” he said.
She smiled and leaned into him, kissing him. “Now let’s go,” she said as he groaned in arousal. “We have a girl to save.”
Twenty minutes later they reached the hospital. Mark pulled the Mustang’s replacement, a Charger, into a spot reserved for police so they didn’t have to spend another twenty minutes looking for a place to park.
His badge got them quickly through to where they needed to be. Outside Chelsea Rose’s room, a uniformed officer sat reading a paper. He stood up quickly when he saw Mark. “Detective Valiente.”
“Dave, hello. How is Miss Rose doing?”
Dave shook his head. “The doctors don’t give me reports, but, from what I’ve heard, she’s hanging in, yet with no real change. It’s a shame. Pretty girl. So young.”
He looked questioningly at Alessande and cleared his throat.
“Alessande Salisbrooke,” Mark said, “meet one of L.A.’s finest, David Robbins. David, Alessande.”
“Nice to meet you,” Dave said and shook her hand, staring at her. He seemed to be in awe. Probably because she was three inches taller than he was.
“I’m going to go in and take a look at Miss Rose, Dave,” Mark said.
“Sure. Except Miss Salisbrooke can’t go in. Only family, medical personnel, the lieutenant, you and Brodie—that’s what I’ve been told,” Dave said firmly. “She’s welcome to stay out here with me, though.”
Alessande watched as Mark casually moved directly in front of Dave and looked into his eyes. “Dave, she needs to come in with me.”
Dave stared back at Mark, a little glassy-eyed, and nodded. “She needs to go in with you.”
Mark quickly set a hand on Alessande’s back, urging her into the room.
Chelsea Rose lay in bed, an IV dripping fluid into a vein in her arm. Oxygen entered her system through a tube. She looked small and frail, so pathetic. She was a stranger, and yet she touched Alessande’s heart and left her feeling a little guilty that her passion to save her friend had been greater than her desire to save this girl.
They had to stop what was going on, and she realized now that she never could have done it alone.
Mark walked up to the bed. He touched the unconscious girl’s lips, parting them slightly.
“You’ll choke her,” Alessande said worriedly.
But Mark shook his head. “No, I’ll lift her head so that it rolls down her throat.” He drew out the vial and handed it to Alessande. “Pour it as far back in her throat as you can.”
She nodded and glanced nervously toward the door.
“Don’t worry. Come on. Your turn to have some faith,” he told her, offering her a wry smile.
She nodded. “I have faith,” she assured him.
“Then quit looking at the door.”
Alessande was impressed with the way he gently lifted and cradled the girl’s head. She parted the girl’s parched lips and tilted the vial, pouring the potion into Chelsea’s mouth. In an involuntary reflex triggered by the liquid’s passage, the girl swallowed.
“Perfect,” Mark murmured. He laid Chelsea’s head back down on the pillow, took the vial from Alessande an
d pocketed it.
“And now?” Alessande said, whispering.
“Now we leave—and pray it works,” he said.
Alessande hesitated, looking at the girl. So young, so slight...so sunken. She touched Chelsea’s cheek.
“Live!” she said softly. “Please live.”
She thought she saw the girl stir and a slight flush color her cheeks.
“Alessande,” Mark said.
As she turned and followed him to the door, she heard something like a deep breath. Perhaps a long sigh.
Maybe, just maybe, the girl was going to live.
Chapter 8
They arrived en masse at the Snake Pit and were seated at a perfectly situated table along one wall. Mark positioned himself where he could see anyone entering the room. Alessande was next to him, with Brodie, Sailor, Mick and Barrie taking the other chairs. Declan was doing his duty as owner and host, and Rhiannon sat on the low dais, playing the piano.
An intriguing assortment of Hollywood royalty was present already, several of them involved with Death in the Bowery. Tonight Sailor had pointed out costume designer Katrina Manville seated at a rear table with director Taylor Haywood, associate producer Tilda Lyons and casting director Milly Caulfield.
They had just ordered drinks from a lovely young were-cat waitress when Brodie’s phone rang.
Mark watched across the table as he answered it. “That’s great,” Brodie said after a few seconds, then listened for a moment more and rang off.
“Edwards?” Mark asked him.
“Yep. He said Chelsea is still extremely weak, but she’s out of the coma. The last thing she remembers is that she and her boyfriend—Steiner—had decided to score something so they could have a fun night. Her mind is still fuzzy and she’s barely able to speak, but we can interview her tomorrow.”
“It worked,” Alessande breathed. “It really worked.”
Mark smiled at her. “Yes, you saved her life.”
“Don’t look now,” Brodie said, interrupting them, “but the plot thickens.”
Mark turned casually. The Hildegard family had just entered the room. Alan was the epitome of L.A. casual in a tan sports jacket and perfectly creased trousers; Brigitte was wearing a slinky blue cocktail dress, and Charlaine...Charlaine looked regal in a long spangled creation. He wondered if she was going to offer her hand to Declan so he could kiss it.
She refrained. Instead Declan greeted her with a kiss on each cheek, Continental style. Alan Hildegard said something to Declan, who indicated the group from Death in the Bowery.
“Who is it?” Alessande asked softly.
“The Hildegards. Alan, his sister Brigitte, and their cousin Charlaine,” he explained softly.
“No Jimmy,” Brodie said.
“Who is Jimmy?” Sailor asked.
“The butler,” Mark told her.
“I was kidding,” Brodie said. “They’d never bring the butler.”
“How rude of them,” Alessande said.
“Not to that trio,” Mark said.
“Don’t judge too harshly,” Mick said, smiling. “I mean, we don’t really know them. Perhaps they’re lovely people.”
“I should know them, since they’re shapeshifters,” Barrie said. “My domain.”
“I’m pretty sure Declan only knows them because they come to the club,” Sailor said. “I’ve never met any of them.”
“And they’re joining the film crew of Death in the Bowery,” Mark said, “so there definitely is a connection.” He glanced at Barrie. “Well, you started the interviews, so you should continue.”
“I can’t just walk up to their table,” Barrie said.
“I can,” Mark told her. “Give them a minute to get settled.”
“I’d wait another minute if I were you,” Alessande said softly.
“Why?”
She indicated the doorway, where Declan was busy greeting someone else.
Greg Swayze.
“Well, this is getting interesting,” Mick murmured.
“I could become a fly and buzz on over,” Barrie suggested.
“No,” Mick told her. “They’re shapeshifters, they might suspect.”
“Only the Hildegards are shapeshifters,” Barrie argued. “If I were to settle around one of the others...”
“Mick is right. Too dangerous,” Mark said. He stood before they could argue, pretending to stretch and then notice the Hildegards.
Charlaine was looking his way. She smiled. He pretended to be startled to see her, then walked over to her table. “Hello. Nice to see you,” he said, smiling at them one by one, first Alan, followed by Brigitte—and then Charlaine.
“Detective. What a surprise to see you here,” she said.
“I come fairly often. Declan is a friend,” he explained.
“Well, of course,” Charlaine said softly, and he heard in her tone an acknowledgment that it was natural for one Other, especially a cop, to know another, especially someone with a public profile like Declan’s. “Let me introduce you to our friends. This is Katrina Manville—”
“Of course. The renowned costume designer,” Mark said.
“Pleasure. I’ve seen you here before,” Katrina said.
“And Taylor Haywood, Milly Caulfield, Greg Swayze and Tilda Lyons,” Charlaine said. “And, of course, you know my cousins Alan and Brigitte.”
“Detective Mark Valiente,” Alan said, introducing him in return. “He’s working on that dreadful business that occurred at our family tomb,” he added, as if to explain why he would know a civil servant.
“Nice to meet you all. Actually, I’m not on duty tonight. I’m just here with a few friends who I believe know you,” Mark said, smiling at the film crew. “They’re actresses.”
“Oh?” Swayze said, looking in the direction Mark had come from, but there were people in the way, blocking his view.
“Sailor Gryffald and Alessande Salisbrooke,” Mark said. “They auditioned for a role in your new film.”
Swayze nodded. “Alessande is here? And Ms. Gryffald, of course.”
“Right over there,” Mark said.
He was surprised when Swayze stood right away. “Excuse me,” he mumbled, and was gone.
“Both of them read very well,” Haywood told Mark.
“The girl is playing a fox-trot, a real fox-trot,” Charlaine said. “I do love a fox-trot. And how often does one get the chance these days? Detective, you’re already standing. Do you dance?” she asked, a mischievous smile on her lips.
“I do, yes,” he said, offering her a hand. “And I’d be delighted if you’d join me,” he said.
Charlaine took his hand and rose, smiling sweetly. He excused them to the others and led her out to the floor.
She slid into his arms easily, holding her head and shoulders at a perfect—very lofty—angle. She seemed to savor the music like a sensual touch, allowing her head to fall back for a moment, her eyes closed. Her fingers moved on his shoulders, and then her eyes opened and she looked at him. “Lovely, Detective. Few men can dance these days. Really dance. But then, you have been around for a while, haven’t you? Long enough to remember when dancing took true finesse, and when manners and courtesy were to be admired.”
“Yes, I have been around awhile,” he said.
“Vampires tend to be so magnetic,” she murmured.
“I’m glad you think so,” he said.
“Have you made any headway, Detective? My cousins are quite distraught, you know.”
“We’re searching for the truth of the situation, Ms. Hildegard,” he said. “And I promise you, we’ll find it.”
“You suspect my family has something to do with this, don’t you?” She smiled, pursing her lips slightly. “You’re quite wrong.”
He changed the subject. “Your cousin Alan led me to believe he’d passed on filming Greg Swayze’s screenplay.”
“Oh, he did pass.”
“But given his presence here tonight, it seems he is involved with
the filming?”
She smiled. “This is Hollywood, Detective. ‘Involved’ can mean so many things. Alan loved the screenplay, and though he couldn’t afford to option it himself, he made some calls to ensure that it went to a studio that would do it justice. In doing that, it seems, he has befriended Mr. Swayze. And since this is one of our favorite places, when we decided to take Greg and his associates out, this seemed like just the place to suggest.”
“I see.” He did see. Alan was still involved in the project at the heart of his murder case.
She laughed softly. “Oh, no, Detective. You don’t see at all. So,” she added softly, “you will keep investigating and...coming round, won’t you?”
“I may need your help again, yes,” he said.
“I’ll be delighted to give it.”
As she spoke, another couple swept by them.
Alessande—and Greg Swayze.
Swayze didn’t even notice them; his eyes were only on Alessande. Mark couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy.
He tried to dance closer to them without Charlaine realizing his purpose, using his heightened hearing to eavesdrop.
Swayze certainly wasn’t telling Alessande any deep, dark secrets. He was waxing eloquent about the intelligence, the courage and the passion of the heroine of Death in the Bowery.
“Are you a movie buff, Detective?” Charlaine asked him.
“Not particularly.”
“But...those actresses are your friends, right?”
“Yes.”
“Keepers!” Charlaine said with a hiss.
He grinned at that. “You don’t like Keepers?”
“We don’t need Keepers,” she said. “We need rights, the right to be free to be what we are.”
“But Keeper law allows for that. It’s the very point of their existence.”
“Ah, spoken like a true vampire,” she said. “Shifters are...different.” She shrugged. “Your friend—the Elven cop. They’re the least powerful, aren’t they? The Elven. The most like human beings.”
“I like to think that we all, Others and humans, share something that binds us.”
“Oh?”
“The soul, the belief in right and wrong that allows us to make moral choices rather than being driven by selfishness and greed.”
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