Shadow Image

by Jaye Roycraft

  Yet as much of a nightmare as all that was, it hadn’t been the worst . . .

  Ric loosed an anguished scream into the night, so high-pitched that only other inhuman creatures could hear it. He raked his hands through his hair, but trying to maul the memories was as difficult as trying to deny the beast. He lost all track of time as he fought the images, driving them at last back into the darkest recesses of his mind.

  One day. That one day, so long ago, was the reason he had shunned human society for the two hundred plus years of his existence. It was the reason he had cultivated his cold, scientific demeanor. Human contact for others of his kind meant sustenance and entertainment. For him, though, humans meant only pain. Their presence either stirred a desire to avenge himself for the death of his family, or threatened to beguile him into caring for a creature he could never hold onto.

  Shelby, with her unadorned beauty, strength, and fighting spirit, had seduced him thoroughly, stirring both his beast within and the image of the man he pretended to be. She was as dangerous to him as an entire mob would be.

  A ringing sound vied with the voices in his head for attention, and after a few seconds he realized it was his phone. He reached for the tower room extension. “De Chaux.” His voice emerged somewhere between a rasp and a growl.

  “Tuxbridge. I just got a call from the sheriff. She wants to see me again, first thing tomorrow morning. You’d better know what this is about.”

  Ric shook his head, trying to focus on the present. “Ah, the privy digger was attacked this evening. He gave a description of the suspect as tall, well-built, and with dark hair.”

  “So? That fits a lot of people in Shadow Bay. Why is she singling me out?”

  Ric clawed at his hair, sweeping it back out of his face. “I don’t know. Digger was bitten by one of us, but the sheriff doesn’t know that. There won’t be anything about puncture wounds in the police report, and Digger himself will think he was only scratched, nothing more.”

  “Well, she’s got some reason for wanting to see me,” Tux hissed.

  “Just go to the interview and play it cool. She doesn’t have proof of anything.”

  “Are you so sure of that? You’d better make sure.”

  “I’ll take care of the sheriff, don’t you worry.”

  It was only after he hung up the phone that he realized Tux hadn’t actually denied responsibility for the attack. Either he presumed a great deal on Ric’s faith in him, or he was, in fact, the assailant.

  RIC TOOK A COLD shower to cool both his body and his mind. There would be little relaxation, though, during the rest of the night. Every member of Cristallia County’s Undead Council called him on the phone. No one took personal responsibility for the death of the La Pointe man, but each was only too happy to bestow the credit on one of their brethren.

  The two females blamed each other. Zada Sinclair told Ric that Eva Hazard was a hooker who lived for nothing but blood, sex, and games, all in equal measure. Eva, in turn, called Zada a cow with fangs who wouldn’t know how to handle a man properly if she had all eternity.

  Ormie Kessler stated that in his humble opinion Lyle Livingston was the culprit. Lyle, he said, favored boys over girls, not that he, Ormie, saw anything wrong in that. “But Lyle was trailer trash in life, and, well, Doc, you know the old saying,” Ormie said. “A no-class human makes a no-class vamp.”

  Everyone else blamed Ormie. Dory Kreech prefaced his “two cents,” as he modestly phrased it, with a disclaimer, saying he didn’t want to get anyone in trouble, and of course he had no proof of anything, but he felt it was his duty to pass along his thoughts to the new Overlord. Dory then proceeded to yammer nonstop on how, as was plain to everyone, Ormie Kessler had let his job go to his head. Ormie thought of himself as a real police officer, not some casino rent-a-cop, Dory whispered. Ormie flashed his badge and biceps almost as much as Eva flashed her butt and boobs. Ormie’s security job only added to the power trip of being a vampire. Now he not only had fangs, but a uniform and a gun. Ormie’s swaggering braggadocio was clearly a cover-up for his inability to handle his power. Dory wound up his summation almost an hour later. “Besides, Doc,” he affirmed, not in the least out of breath, “Ormie hangs around with that bloodsucking slut Eva Hazard, and we all know what she does.”

  Ric could almost see Dory sitting at the phone, his head nodding sagely and his free hand stroking his chin. “Thank you, Dr. Kreech,” Ric responded dryly. “Your input is invaluable.”

  Dory seemed to take no note of the sarcasm, but purred in delight. “Oh, any time, Doc. I’m always happy to help out.”

  Five minutes later, right on cue, Lyle Livingston called.

  “Hey, boss. You said to call if we had any . . .”

  Ric’s patience was wearing thin. “Yes, Lyle. Who’s number one on your hit parade?”

  Lyle hesitated in confusion. “Well, I certainly don’t know who did it . . .”

  None of the group, with the exception of Tux, would provide enough wattage to light a closet. Ric’s voice lowered with annoyance. “Of course not. Who do you want to tell me about?”

  “Ormie’s got a chip on his shoulder big enough to use as a dumbbell. Dumbbell, yeah.” Lyle gave a small laugh at his joke. “Always has had it. He thinks he’s better than the rest of us. He even challenged Jud for the position of adjutant last year. Ormie never wanted the responsibility—he only wanted the prestige of the title. Fact is, he’s always wanted to go his own way. He’s never wanted to be part of the melting pot with humans—never wanted to be middle-of-the-road or majority or mainstream. Ormie does what Ormie wants to do. And don’t let his job fool you. He doesn’t do it to fit in. He does it for the games and the power it affords him.”

  “Thanks, Lyle. Your insight is very helpful.”

  Lyle grunted. “Oh, and one more thing, boss. Ormie’s been around here longer’n anyone ’sides Jud. If anyone knows every hole in the woods, it’s Ormie.”

  Ric hung up the phone with a long sigh. It wasn’t unusual for vampires to back stab. In fact, it was to be expected. Friendship and loyalty were simply not vampiric traits. Still, in a group this small he somehow had expected more cohesiveness. He hadn’t mentioned the new attack to any of the callers. He would do that when he met with each of them in person. That way, he could look into their eyes and gauge their reaction, something he couldn’t do over the phone. He had meetings with Eva Hazard and Ormie Kessler lined up for tomorrow night. On the surface, they seemed the most likely two in the group to get into trouble.

  The interviews were separately scheduled and would be one-on-one. He had learned long before observing Shelby Cort’s interview method that such conferences were more reliable when done privately. Group discussion and the sharing of thoughts and comments tainted any statement made in such a setting.

  Ric, wearing a pair of black shorts and a black robe, sat on his front porch and listened to the music of the night. Crickets sang, and somewhere nearby bullfrogs added a counterpoint to the buzz of the insects. He thought about the evening, but this time it was the attack that occupied his mind, not his time alone with Shelby Cort. He wasn’t ready just yet to deal with the run-wild emotions that thoughts of Shelby set loose.

  The attack on Digger had occurred at sunset. Most nocturnal vampires could function at dusk and dawn with the aid of dark glasses and cover-ups, but it was Digger’s description of his attacker more than the time of occurrence that narrowed the field of suspects. “Tall, dark, and well-built” effectively eliminated Ormie—short and stocky, Dory—short and slight, and Lyle—tall and thin. Blond Eva was definitely out, and Zada, even with her height and corresponding bulk, would only be mistaken for a man by a long stretch of the imagination.

  Judson Tuxbridge was the only match—Tux and the mysterious Joel Branduff, whose existence had not yet been corroborated by others in the group. It wa
s well within Ric’s rights as Overlord to satisfy himself by any means necessary of his adjutant’s loyalty and motives. Tux might not like being questioned, but he could raise no legitimate objection.

  Tomorrow Ric would not only make sure Tux wasn’t one of Shelby’s suspects, but he’d do his own investigation into the mindset of his right-hand vamp.

  Six

  SHELBY WAS ON her fourth cup of coffee, and it wasn’t even nine o’clock yet.

  It seemed like her coffee consumption rose in direct proportion to her ever-diminishing hours of sleep. Yesterday had been another long day. It was close to midnight when she had finally been able to go home, and yet falling asleep hadn’t been easy. For one thing, she wasn’t used to conducting three-hour-long investigations in high heels. By the time she had kicked off the offending footwear, she had at least two blisters to vie with aching leg muscles for the title of sorest body part.

  But thoughts of Ric De Chaux and the way he had kissed her were better than the most powerful drug to make her forget about her aches and pains. The dinner date had been more mild flirting than anything else, and she really hadn’t found out a whole lot more about the man, but it didn’t matter. When she was with him, his presence seemed to drown everything else out. It wasn’t just his accented voice that vibrated and purred like some animal, or even his extraordinary looks, but an aura that seemed to constantly press against her while at the same time pushing the rest of the world out. It was an energy, an unseen force, that surrounded her and penetrated her, like a chill breeze that sends shivers deep. This energy made her hot, not cold, but sank just as deep, into her mind as well as her body.

  He was a paradox to her, seeming both new and old to the world, at once a babe and an elder, like a very old soul reincarnated in a fresh, young body. On one hand he was all shyness and innocence, hiding his youth and good looks behind dark glasses, but at other times he was as seasoned as any sage, no secret unknown, no question unanswerable. He was in control, yet seemed always only a heartbeat away from an unleashed passion.

  What he did to her body was no puzzle at all. She wanted him. Period. Maybe it was the exotic amber eyes and thick, tawny hair, or maybe it was the long, lean body that exuded such power and grace. Perhaps it was just the strange feeling she got when he looked at her, or the way she felt when he touched her that wasn’t strange at all, but made her feel as though she had known him for years instead of days.

  This morning had been no different. Her mind held the memory of his words, and her lips held the imprint of his kiss, as if they had just been together but a moment before. She gulped down more of her coffee, hoping the added caffeine would put a stop to her uncharacteristic fantasizing.

  And a fantasy was all it could be. She had made a mistake in letting his good-night kiss last night get out of hand. She didn’t dare allow it to happen again. Besides, this daydreaming wasn’t like her, and right now she didn’t have time for it, pleasant though it was.

  All the added caffeine did was make her lightheaded. Just in time for Judson Tuxbridge’s interview. Great. When he walked in five minutes later, she shook her head to clear it and took a slow, cleansing breath. She invited him into her office, but left the door open. She wasn’t sure if it was his six-foot frame or handsome features surrounded by waves of shiny, black hair, but his presence seemed to fill a room in exactly the same way that Ric’s did.

  Maybe it was her. Maybe her unusual feelings were trumpeting the initiation of a new phase in her life as she approached the big three-oh. The big three-oh without a man in my life.

  When Jud left a half hour later, Shelby exited her office and watched him glide past the desks on his way to the hall. Every female clerk in the room—young and old, married and single—turned her head to follow his progress. Shelby could almost hear the sounds of feminine swooning in the dead silence of the moment.

  No, it wasn’t her. There was definitely something about Judson Tuxbridge.

  The interview, with its charged atmosphere, had been uncomfortable. It also had been fruitless as far as the investigation went. She had asked him where he had been last evening, and when she did, it was as if the air was suddenly sucked out of the room. The simple act of breathing became difficult, and her dizziness increased.

  “Are you going to read me my rights, Sheriff?” Jud had asked softly.

  “No. You’re not in custody, Mr. Tuxbridge.”

  His green eyes glittered at her. “But I’m a suspect for something that happened last night?”

  She gave him one of her very practiced cop smiles. “Lucius Moravich was attacked. It could have been serious, but the subject was apparently scared off. You match the description Lucius gave.”

  Jud smiled back at her, but his cat-green gaze drifted over her with a look that was at the same time detached and watchful—in short, a good imitation of what she called the “cop look.” She didn’t like it directed at her.

  “Can’t be much of a match, Sheriff, or you’d arrest me. But then it wouldn’t be a match, because I didn’t do it.”

  Jud had stated he had been home all evening, but he hadn’t had any visitors who could corroborate his story. Still, he was right—she had no proof. Digger’s description had been too general.

  The day went downhill from there. During the day shift, Marc Montoya gave her long, sideways glances that were none too friendly. Was he still upset over their conversation of the day before and her reluctance to follow his advice concerning Ric? When the early shift deputies came on duty at four in the afternoon, Shelby imagined that every whisper and laugh shared among the boys was at her expense. Maybe it was the gossip about her and Ric that made her paranoid. Maybe it was the memories of Milwaukee. Whatever the reason, she was used to being the target of conversation at work. It came with the territory of being a high-ranking female in a workplace full of men, but today it bothered her more than usual.

  The media and district commissioners were still keeping the pressure on, citizens like Dan Vickers were complaining about a lack of protection, and other citizens like Jud Tuxbridge were taking offense at being questioned. When Jason Rody and Marc Montoya sent furtive glances her way, she could almost guess their thoughts. It was as if they thought it was okay to have a female sheriff as long as nothing happened in Cristallia County, but now that there was a major crime to be solved, they wished for a man who could take charge.

  I’m just tired, she thought. She couldn’t wait for the day to end, and the only thing that bolstered her during her final few hours of work was the thought that she had the next two days off. That and the hope that Ric would call.

  SHELBY REALLY NEEDED someone to be in her corner right about now, and it seemed like the only one who was willing to support her was a man she hadn’t even known five days ago. When her phone rang just before five o’clock, it was one call she was happy to take. Ric asked about the case before anything else, though, and she was vaguely disappointed, answering him with a brevity that bordered on curtness.

  “What’s wrong, Shelby?”

  “Nothing. I’m fine,” she replied automatically. No, you’re not fine. “No, I’m just . . . I don’t know . . . tired, frustrated, angry . . .”

  “Let me pick you up after you get off duty. You can tell me everything that’s happened.”

  His words were like buoys that lifted her shoulders and her spirits. “Pick me up at my house at six. Casual, though, this time. My feet are still killing me from last night.”

  “You got it. See you then.”

  Shelby truly loved her job, but she was never so glad to leave the county building as she was this day. She took a quick shower at home and dressed in a white tank top that had black and red beads along the neckline, then added her gold chain with the ruby teardrop pendant as a finishing touch. The white showed off a modest tan that she wished were darker, and the body-hugging material showed off o
ther assets that she also wished were more ample. She seldom dressed for men, but she couldn’t help hoping that Ric would like what he saw in spite of her slenderness.

  Her doorbell rang promptly at six, and she silently thanked God for someone she could count on to be true to his word. When she opened the door, she decided she wouldn’t need dinner tonight. Ric looked good enough to eat. He wore jeans, boots, and a butter-colored mesh knit shirt that conformed to his torso like a latex glove on a hand. The mesh weave was loose enough for her to be able to tell he wasn’t wearing anything underneath, and she felt a wave of heat wash over her at the image her mind conjured at the thought of his bare chest.

  When she got around to raising her eyes to his face, she saw he was wearing different glasses than before. These were darker, true sunglasses, not the self-darkening pair he had previously worn. She fervently hoped that he was wearing his contacts, because she had every intention of getting him to lose the glasses at some point in the evening. His hair was tied back, as usual, but she wasn’t worried. That, too, could be easily remedied.

  “I’ve got the bike. I hope you don’t mind.”

  She looked past him to the shiny red cycle perched at the top of the driveway. “It doesn’t look big enough to hold two.”

  “It’s big enough. Besides, it’s been almost two years since I lost a passenger.”

  She stared at him.

  One corner of his mouth curled. “It’s a joke, Shelby. I’ve been riding for years. I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”

  Doc French telling jokes. Her life was taking more and more left turns by the moment. She walked with Ric to the bike and looked dubiously at the machine with its modest leather seat. It didn’t look large enough to hold two people, and she didn’t relish bouncing along on the luggage rack that was mounted over the flared rear fender.