Duncan

by D. B. Reynolds

  He straightened, then lifted her from the waist and pulled both of them fully up and onto the bed. Emma sat up enough to peel off the remains of her thigh-high stockings, then collapsed against him, her cheek resting on his muscled shoulder. She flattened her palm over the ridges of his abdomen, stroking with possessive pride. Duncan’s rumble of laughter vibrated beneath her ear.

  “I hate when you do that,” she muttered.

  “Do what?” he asked innocently.

  “Oh, please. You read me like a book. Besides, I was just admiring your muscle tone.”

  “All right.”

  She lifted her palm and slapped the muscles she’d been admiring, but he only laughed harder. Emma smiled. At least he wasn’t sad, like he’d been earlier.

  “Duncan?”

  “Emma.”

  “Do you actually read my thoughts? I mean, can you?”

  He squeezed her closer and touched his lips to her forehead. “It’s not that simple. I can easily read the thoughts of any vampire sworn to me, and especially those of my own children, like Miguel and Louis. With humans, it’s the difference between listening to your neighbor’s music, or walking over and turning on your own. I don’t hear every thought, but if necessary, I can delve into almost any human’s brain and know what they’re thinking. I’m also capable of manipulating a human’s thoughts and memories. It can be something as simple as dissuading a cop from giving me a speeding ticket, or as complex as what Victor did in making those women forget. Though I like to think my own manipulations are far more skilled and far less malicious than anything Victor did.”

  He reached down and lifted her chin to look at him. “I would never probe your thoughts without permission, Emma, but you should know that the more blood we exchange, the closer our thoughts will become, and the more open your mind will be to me.”

  “But you already know what I’m thinking!”

  “I don’t. Not really. I’m a fairly strong empath. I read emotion. I’ve always had some ability along those lines, even when I was human. But with becoming a vampire, my ability to read the emotions of others is nearly perfect. And, as I told you when we first met, I have decades of experience reading the human body language that goes with those emotions.” He shrugged. “It’s only the words that are missing.”

  His fingers were still playing along her upper arm, but she felt the rest of him go still, as if waiting for her reaction. She frowned, thinking about what he’d told her, about what it meant. He knew her emotions, her feelings . . . about him. That she loved him. Emma knew she should be embarrassed, but on the other hand, he knew she loved him, and he wasn’t running away screaming. So, okay, then.

  “Hardly seems fair,” she muttered, pulling the small hairs on his chest.

  “Ow! What’s not fair?” he asked, rubbing his abused follicles.

  “That I can’t tell what you’re feeling, too.”

  “You know how I feel, Emmaline. You’re mine.”

  Emma sighed softly. Maybe it was a vampire thing, this whole mine hang-up. “So, who do you think the woman was?” she asked, changing the subject. “The one Violet heard yelling that night.”

  “Tammy Dietrich seems likely,” Duncan said. “Powerful men always call their lawyers first when they get into trouble. And it might explain why she was at Lacey’s service. Grafton would have been too obvious, but Dietrich could show up to check things out, and no one would notice.”

  “But why would she sign the mourner’s book? It would have been smarter not to leave a record like that.”

  “Who knows? Force of habit? Maybe there was someone who knew her and she thought it would look odd if she didn’t sign it. Besides, who looks at those things afterward? She probably didn’t give it a second thought. They had to have known by then that Victor had disappeared, or at least couldn’t be reached. And with Lacey’s body being found, I’m sure they were eager to know what story was being given for her death, and whether the police were involved.”

  “Well, that’s one thing we all agree on. No police.”

  “No police,” Duncan confirmed. “I’ll take care of this myself.”

  “We’ll take care of it,” Emma said firmly. “Lacey was my friend.”

  “And you’re not a killer, Emma.”

  “But you are?”

  “When I need to be, yes.”

  Emma considered all the years Duncan had been alive, and how different justice might have been back . . . She frowned. Back when?

  “How old are you, Duncan?” she asked, wondering if he’d tell her. “I mean how old are you really?”

  “I was born in 1836.”

  The unreality of that took Emma’s breath away for a moment. Duncan was nearly two hundred years old, which meant that even when he’d been human, he was already old enough to be married, to have children, especially back then.

  “Did you have a family? I mean before you became a vampire. Were you ever married?”

  He didn’t say anything for a moment, then he got up and left the bed. Emma thought she’d gone too far, that she’d touched on another vampire taboo, or maybe something that was too painful for him to think about. Duncan crossed over to a tall dresser, opened the top drawer, and removed a wooden box about the size of an old cigar box. Emma watched curiously as he lifted the lid and took something out, then stood staring down at whatever it was before finally turning and coming back to the bed.

  He held it out to her, and she saw it was an old-fashioned photograph, the kind they called a daguerreotype. It was a portrait of a young woman and two small children—a boy somewhere around four years old, and a second child of indeterminate sex, maybe a year old, sitting on the woman’s lap. Emma stared at the photograph, then looked up at Duncan.

  “My wife and children,” he said simply. “They died while I was at war.”

  Emma’s heart clenched in sympathy. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “What happened?”

  “They were murdered.”

  She stared at him in sudden understanding. All along, Duncan had been the only one who understood her need for revenge, her need to be a part of the search for Lacey’s killer. And maybe that was because he knew firsthand the thirst for justice, not at the hands of the law, with its process and protections for the killers, but up close and personal. The biblical, eye for an eye, cold-blooded vengeance.

  “What did you do?” she asked.

  * * * *

  1836, Nashville Basin, Tennessee

  Duncan stared at the ruin of what had once been his family home. It looked old and tired, despite the cover of night. It had never been a grand building, but it had been filled with life once upon a time. No more. He was the last of his line, and now that he was Vampire there would be no one after him. And no one to care either way.

  It had taken him and Raphael several nights to get this far. Raphael had told him that their ultimate path was westward, all the way to the western ocean. The journey back to what had been Duncan’s home was a detour, but Raphael had never voiced a word of protest. He’d seemed to accept Duncan’s need for vengeance as if it were his own. At first, Duncan had thought it was simply the bond between a vampire and his child, but he’d soon realized it was more than that. It was a measure of the man Raphael had been and the vampire lord he had become. He would stand shoulder-to-shoulder with those he took for his own. And Duncan felt the ties of loyalty growing stronger with each step he took beside the vampire who was now, and forever would be, his Sire.

  “What happened?” Raphael asked quietly, staring at the abandoned house.

  “This infernal war happened,” Duncan said. He walked over to the tall chestnut tree in the front yard, bent over and picked up the torn remains of a thick rope. It had adorned the tree once upon a time, a swing fashioned anew every spring for his children to play on. He dropped the rope into the dirt and turned away, heading back toward the road and the nearby town.

  Raphael kept pace with him without comment, though Duncan could feel his Sire
’s curiosity through the bond they now shared. It was a strange feeling to be so tied to another man, but there was nothing sexual about it. If anything, it made him stronger, as if Raphael were a reservoir of strength that Duncan could borrow from at will. Or perhaps it was the certain knowledge that Raphael would always stand with him against his enemies. And those enemies were in the town a few miles down the road.

  “I didn’t join the army at first,” Duncan said as they kept walking. “The people around here were as content to remain with the Union as not, and many of us felt it wasn’t our battle. But then the Confederacy came looking for troops and we had to choose.” He shrugged. “We voted and the Confederacy won, or so the town fathers told us. I’ve no idea if they were truthful in that, or if it simply suited their interests better to have it so. In any event, those of us young enough and strong enough were recruited and sent off to be soldiers. And we were given assurances that our families would not suffer, that the town would stand together.”

  Duncan bent and picked up a rock, bouncing it in his hand as they walked.

  “And did they?” Raphael asked.

  Duncan considered the question. “They stood together. But not in the way I expected. My wife was a beautiful woman and I was a poor farmer. She married beneath her station in taking me for a husband, but she loved me, and God knows I loved her. There are times I think she’d still be alive if she’d married someone wealthier, or just someone else.” He sent the rock arching into the moonlit darkness of the surrounding field. “Before we married, she had a suitor. The banker’s son, a young man of money and privilege whom she rejected in my favor. He was offended, of course, and while I was gone to war, he came to our house, drunk and angry at what he considered her humiliation of him.”

  It was not necessary to spell out what had happened next. Any man would know without being told what would have come of such an encounter.

  “Your children?” Raphael asked.

  “My son tried to protect his mother and was clubbed aside. My daughter was a baby, little more than a year old, not even walking yet when I saw her last. She lay next to her mother for days before anyone discovered what had happened. My wife’s father came looking for her eventually and found them like that. The children were dead, my wife nearly so. But before she died, she told him what had happened, and who had done it. He went to the town law, but the brute was long gone, sent off to the war before his crime could be exposed. I was sent for, of course, but returned only in time to visit their graves.”

  “And is this killer still alive?” Raphael asked in a cold voice.

  “He is. But not much longer.”

  Raphael grunted his agreement. They walked another mile in silence, until the buildings of the town came into sight, candlelight flickering in distant windows. They stopped on the outskirts of town, and Raphael did a slow turn as he surveyed the cluster of buildings. “His house is here somewhere?”

  “His father’s house.That one, near the stand of hickory trees. You can’t see it from here, but there’s a small lake, too. It’s quite lovely in the summer, though the common folk are discouraged from using it now. It was open for all before he built his house there.”

  The banker’s house was brightly lit, lanterns burning on the porch, candles glimmering in every window. Duncan started for the steps, Raphael beside him. They reached the front door and rang the small bell hanging to one side. This was the part of their plan that had Duncan most concerned. The banker’s house was a private residence, which meant, as vampires, he and Raphael would need to be invited inside.

  A uniformed maid opened the door. She was young and pretty, and African, which meant she was probably a house slave. She stared up at them, her gaze going from their faces to their dusty clothes.

  “We’re invited guests, child,” Raphael said. “Invite us in.”

  Duncan jerked in surprise, but the slave continued to stare up at the big vampire lord, her eyes blank and unfocused, until she smiled and said, “Come in, gentlemen. I’ll tell the master you’ve arrived.”

  “Master indeed,” Raphael muttered, but he smiled at the young slave. “Thank you.”

  She blushed, ducking her head with pleasure as they walked past her into the house.

  “Where is your . . . master?” Raphael asked smoothly.

  “In the library, sirs. Shall I show you?”

  “That would be most kind. Duncan?”

  They followed the slave down a short hallway to the back of the house. She stopped in front of a pair of doors and was about to knock when Raphael took her hand. “There’s no need to trouble yourself, child. Go back to your chores.”

  The young slave’s eyes took on that unfocused look again, and then she turned and walked away, as if they weren’t even there.

  Raphael watched her go, then caught Duncan’s gaze. “The banker is alone in there, but there are others in the house.”

  Duncan wiped his hands nervously on his filthy pant legs and tried to calm his galloping heart. He wanted to do this right, not just for his own vengeance, but to prove to Raphael that he hadn’t made a mistake in choosing Duncan out of all the dying men on that battlefield. Earning Raphael’s respect had somehow become the most important thing in his life, and he couldn’t help wondering if these new feelings were part of the bond of which Raphael had spoken.

  Raphael pulled open the doors and stepped into the library. He radiated strength and confidence, dominating the room not just with his formidable size, but with the power that fairly poured off of him. It was so strong that Duncan thought he would see the glow of it if he concentrated hard enough. But then the banker spoke, and Duncan had eyes for only the man whose son had killed his family.

  “Milford?” the banker said, his thick body almost vibrating with its outrage. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “Your son killed my family,” he told the banker calmly. “I want to know where he is.”

  The banker leaned back in his chair, full of confident disdain. “You want money, is that it?” He stretched forward again and opened a desk drawer, pulling out a metal lockbox. The key was in the lock and he turned it, flipping the lid back to reveal a considerable amount of gold coin. “How much, Milford?”

  Duncan stared at him. After months on the battlefield, he thought he’d seen the deepest depths to which a man could sink. But this . . . this cur thought gold could compensate him for the loss of his family?

  “Come on, boy. Everyone has a price. What’s yours?”

  “I do have a price,” Duncan said, enunciating each word with precision, so there could be no doubt. “And that is an eye for an eye. I want the life of your son.”

  The banker flicked his hand at Duncan in dismissal. “Don’t be absurd. Besides, he’s not here. He went off to the army like everyone else. I have no idea—”

  Raphael made an impatient gesture and the banker stopped talking mid-sentence, his eyes bulging from his head as he struggled to speak. Fear sent rivulets of sweat dripping down his face, staining the starched collar of his shirt, which he wrenched open in his fruitless efforts to free his voice. His gaze switched frantically from Raphael to Duncan and back again.

  Duncan could hear the man’s labored breath sawing in and out of his lungs, the squeak of his fingers on the wooden chair arms. He could smell the rank odor of sweat, the stink of garlic on the banker’s breath as he panted in fear. But more than that . . . he tilted his head curiously.

  “I can feel his fear, my lord,” he whispered to Raphael. “It’s almost as if my own heart is racing, my gut churning with terror. But . . . there is no guilt. He feels only a righteous anger, as if he is the one being wronged.”

  Next to him, Raphael nodded. “Empathy. You must have experienced it as a human, but your rebirth has expanded it. It is an excellent talent to have, Duncan. It will serve us both quite well in the future.”

  Duncan bared his teeth at the banker. His brand new fangs slid into view, and he felt the man’s fear intensify in a most
satisfactory manner. Duncan had never been a particularly violent man. Always willing to defend what was his, he’d nonetheless found it easier to persuade rather than fight, and he’d always been able to find the words to work things out.

  But right now, seeing this man he’d once thought powerful tremble in fear at the sight of Duncan himself . . . it felt good. It felt right.

  “He’s lying,” Raphael said casually, reaching across the desk to help himself to the money box and all its gold. “His son is in the house.” His gaze shifted to the right, staring at the wall as if he could see through the intervening wood and plaster. He smiled slightly. “Right down the hall, as a matter-of-fact.” He snapped his gaze back to the banker. “Sleep.”

  The banker fell forward, his head hitting desk and bouncing once as he fell into unconsciousness. Duncan looked up at Raphael. “You learned of his son’s presence from his thoughts, my lord?”

  “I did,” Raphael agreed. “The thoughts of sniveling men are easily spied upon. This way, Duncan.”

  They hurried back to the hallway, back the way they’d come only a short time ago. They met no one, not even the maid, as Raphael turned down yet another hallway, this one narrower than the first, and went directly to a closed door. There was a sputtering candle in a single hurricane lamp on a shelf opposite the door, but other than that, the hallway was barely lit.

  Steeling himself for a confrontation, Duncan pulled his knife and opened the door. He ducked as he entered, expecting a rifle blast to greet him, if indeed this was the killer he sought. But the room was completely dark and nothing but a surprised grunt greeted his arrival.

  Duncan felt a wave of Raphael’s power roll past him. Candles flared, and the man he sought was revealed, hiding in the dark. He was in bed, covers drawn up to his chest, propped up on his elbows as he squinted at the intruders.