Realm of Shadows (Vampire Alliance)

by Heather Graham

  She parked in almost the same spot where she had been the day before.

  From a table in front of the café, she could see that large expanses of the area remained roped off. The church door had been jerry-rigged back together with new wood that didn’t begin to match the patina of the centuries-old wood she had seen broken the night before. But the “new” church itself had reopened. Tara was certain, however, that access to the tunnels or corridors leading to the ruins of the “old” crypt were still blocked as well.

  Having chosen her table, she picked up a newspaper and ordered café au lait. She slid her sunglasses on, trying to pretend that her eyes weren’t drawn to the church every other minute. Not that it mattered. Though people were speaking quickly around her and her French was very rusty, they were all talking about the bizarre murder. And few of them seemed the least hesitant to simply stare at the church.

  Her eyes were fixed across the road when something suddenly fell in front of her, rattling her coffee cup. She started, nearly cried out, and looked up to see the worker from the night before. She instantly felt a flood of heat rush through her. She wondered in amazement that she hadn’t sensed him behind her, she was suddenly so aware of his presence.

  She looked down to see that it was her purse that had landed on the table.

  He pulled out the chair at her side before asking, “May I join you?”

  He sat. She looked at the purse, and then back to him. “How did you get this? I thought you went straight to the police.”

  “I did. I’d picked it up and forgotten to give it you.”

  She stared at him suspiciously. He was wearing dark glasses. If he hadn’t spoken, she might not have recognized him. He was freshly shaven and apparently just out of a shower. Whatever aftershave he wore was subtle, pleasant, and alluring. He was wearing light chinos and a dark shirt. His hair was loose, but not as long as she had thought. It reached just past his collar. He was tanned, at ease, and again gave a sense of casual physical power, not overly burdened with straining muscles, but smooth and sleek and taut as wire. Tara wondered if he was into the martial arts—or perhaps an avid member of a fencing club. She immediately found herself noting that he was more than attractive, while a million warning signals seemed to leap to her mind. He gave the appearance of a grad student or a teacher on break rather than a stockbroker, but he was neat and clean and far more than merely presentable. A long-haired executive on break.

  Long-haired executives did not dig into ancient graves for hourly wages.

  The waiter must have thought he gave the impression of a man with some means or importance as well, as he hurried back to the table the minute the man was seated. “Café au lait, s’il vous plait,” he said, offering a broad and casual smile beneath the dark lenses of the shades. He was undoubtedly American, but his French was far superior to her own. She couldn’t begin to detect the usual, guttural accent that those with English or a Germanic native language seldom ever lost.

  “I don’t remember agreeing that you should join me.” The words, Tara thought, were required. She wondered what she would have done if he had walked away.

  “And they wonder why we get a reputation for being rude!” he said with a mock sigh. “Last night, I saved you tremendous trouble and a great deal of time. I risked life and limb to save that—” he paused to indicate her small leather handbag, “and here I am to return it, and you’re far less than gracious.”

  “I’ve been told not to speak to strangers. There’s a murderer loose, if you’ll recall.”

  “Yes, but you’re privileged to know that I’m definitely not a murderer. Although to others,” he continued, leaning close, “I may remain suspect. There you go. In my defense of you, I have created my own hell with which to deal.”

  “There was no reason.”

  “There’s every reason.”

  “And that is?”

  He shrugged, cordially thanking the waiter when his coffee came. Then he leaned close to her again. “There would be no sense in playing it safe for myself. Everyone in the area knew that Jean-Luc and I were the primary workers Dubois hired. But there was no reason for anyone to suspect that you were in the crypt at the time—or that you had more than a casual interest in the dig.”

  “I had nothing more than a casual interest in the dig,” she said.

  “Right. That’s why you were crawling around in the underground corridors after making a point about knowing how to leave on your own.”

  “Quite frankly, I know nothing about the dig.”

  “Nothing at all?” he queried.

  “I just arrived from New York.”

  “And you had a casual interest in what was going on. After a long flight, and probably no sleep, your casual interest brought you to the dig.”

  “I don’t have to explain myself to you. Come to think of it, I don’t even know your name. And I’m not sure that I want to know it.”

  “Pick up a newspaper, and you’ll read it. But since you’re here, you don’t need to bother. My name is Brent Malone.”

  “And you know my name, of course, because you went through my bag.”

  “It’s hard to return property when you don’t know the name of the person to whom it belongs.”

  “Well, you’ve returned it.”

  He ignored that. “Tara Adair. And you gave us a far different name. Something very French, if I recall. You pretended you have French relatives.”

  “I do have French relatives,” she said, annoyed with herself immediately for being defensive.”

  “I believe you. So—what is your keen interest in the tomb?”

  “When I tell you that I really know almost nothing about the dig, it’s the absolute truth,” she said.

  He ran a finger around the rim of his coffee cup, then slid his glasses to the top of his head and watched her curiously. She noted again the almost golden color of his eyes. Very unusual.

  And it seemed almost impossible to draw her gaze from his.

  “Why don’t you tell me about the crypts and the tomb and whatever you were on to that was so important that someone was killed over it.”

  “It was a deconsecrated church crypt, you know.”

  “That much, yes.”

  “Another St. Michel stood directly on top of it, once. They razed the original church, and built a hundred yards to the south. The corridors had been blocked and sealed for centuries. Then, recently, there was some work done in the basement of the new church, and there had been water damage in some of the walls. While the new church was being repaired, one of the old underground corridors to the old crypt ruins was discovered. Professor Dubois had been bugging the fathers at St. Michel for years, wanting to get down to the ruins. When the chance came up, the good gentlemen of the church knew that Dubois had some money and would definitely see that a large portion of it made its way to the church if he was given sole control of the dig. He has a reputation of a learned scholar in archeology, history, and especially local lore.”

  Tara found herself listening to the tone of his voice; it was lulling and alluring. She had taken off her own glasses. Long ago finished her coffee.

  He smiled, seeing that she was watching him raptly. “Another café au lait?”

  “What?”

  “Coffee. Would you like more coffee? I could use another one.”

  “Ah, yes. I guess.” She was being less than gracious. She managed a curt sounding, “Thank you.”

  He smiled. Generous mouth, good teeth. She wanted to kick herself. She wasn’t buying a horse. Yet she might have been looking over the qualities of an animal. Everything about him seemed to be exceptional and fine.

  If she had met him at a different time ...

  A different place, a different way . . .

  Yes, she would have found him attractive. Very. Even now, she found herself tempted to touch. He had an elusive quality of sexuality or sensuality or both that was almost ridiculously hypnotic. She gritted her teeth, irritated with herself. It
was simple chemistry, and he was in great shape, the right age, with strong, masculine, attractive features. There was nothing in the least mysterious about his appeal.

  And then again, she assured herself, the world was populated with any number of attractive men. She met many in her line of work. He was just one in the world. The same.

  No . . .

  Different.

  But then, of course, that was because she had met him in a crypt.

  He lifted a hand and their waiter nodded, returning with two more coffees. When he was gone, Brent Malone once again leaned toward her.

  “The crypt was rumored to be the resting place of the damned and demons from hell.”

  Tara smiled slightly. “That makes no sense. I’m assuming that the original church was deconsecrated when the new church was finished. So until then, it was a working House of God. How could the evil of past centuries have been buried there?”

  “Oh, not your penny-ante evil people. Only the most truly evil and abominable—and those, of course, who earned the hatred of the king. You see, it was sealed off hundreds of years ago, but there was always a way in. It was known by the kings and their most powerful lords, and by the hierarchy of the church as well. And when someone was to be entombed—someone truly wicked—the corpse was taken in secretly—at dawn rather than the dead of night, since the powers of the unholy are said to be greatest in darkness—and sealed into their graves.”

  “Ah.” His tone had carried a wonderful, almost spooky, storytelling ability. She nodded, as if accepting it all word for word. “Well, we all have illusions, I suppose. The pharaohs of ancient Egypt thought that their wrappings and their rites would give them eternal life, that their preserved bodies would rise again, and they would live in splendor. And you can walk into the museum in Cairo and see room after room of once great rulers who lie in glass cases for the public to stare at, rather than have their bodies rise to renewed glory.”

  “Mummies ... ah, well, they’re a completely different story,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand and a touch of dry irony in his voice. “So, you don’t believe in evil, or the powers of the dark, Miss Adair?”

  “Evil? Oh, my God, yes. The world is full of it. But there are so many evil men and women out there, we don’t need to go looking into old stories and legends to find more.” She frowned, realizing that she had made a very similar, determined, and rational statement to her grandfather. Too bad Jacques didn’t have this man to talk to—he wouldn’t have to be worried about sounding as if he had become senile.

  Even as the thought occurred to her, she felt a strange tension seize her. She didn’t want this man near her grandfather. And yet, at the same time, she continued to feel that very odd attraction to him. Almost as if ...

  As if she’d been waiting all her life to meet him.

  She instantly and angrily dismissed such a ridiculous thought. He had that rather raw, masculine appeal, and she had been alone for quite a while, determined that her comfortable relationship back home had simply not been right. Artists and stockbrokers didn’t always go together well. She suddenly wished that she hadn’t split with Jacob, and had insisted that he come to Paris with her. If he were just sitting here now, she wouldn’t be feeling such a strange urge to undress another man.

  She wasn’t having that urge.

  Yes, she was. She’d like to see him naked. Feel him next to her. Find out if it would be as thrilling to be touched by those hands as she was imagining.

  Dear Lord, Tara! You’re not that desperate! she told herself. She was thinking these thoughts about a stranger, a suspicious stranger.

  He’d been in the tombs when a man was murdered. But it was true, she was the one person—other than the murderer—who knew for certain that Brent Malone was not a killer.

  “I’m just telling you the history of the crypts, Miss Adair.”

  “And you’re telling me that the man who was killed opened up a tomb while you were gone and therefore opened a Pandora’s box—a coffin filled not with the earthly remains of a heretic or other, but filled with evil. ”

  “I never told you anything like that,” he said. “I repeat, I’ve just told you something of the history of the place. And of course, you are aware that centuries ago there were many people who did believe in the powers of witchcraft and that men and women could sign pacts with demons and devils. What happened in Salem, Massachusetts, in the United States was indeed tragic, but pales beside some of the executions in Europe, where thousands sometimes perished in a day for their practices.”

  She sighed. “Now you’re making it sound as if it would be ridiculous for anyone to believe that there could truly be witches or other supernatural creatures—evil creatures—buried in the ruins of an old church.”

  “My point is, Miss Adair, that years ago, many holy people did believe in the existence of evil in many faces. Often, thousands of innocents died because of fear, greed, politics, and religion. But fear was often very real. And if someone was greatly feared and considered evil and certainly no part of any church, that person was entombed in unholy ground. Such people were usually buried with all manner of rites and perhaps physical symbols so that they wouldn’t rise again, or practice their evil again. History has shown us some very visible monsters, men such as Hitler, with such a cruel disregard for human life that they could be considered evil. There have been many—not great leaders, but often nobility. Countess Bathory—no one knows how many innocent young people she had killed to satisfy her blood lust and her search for eternal youth. She is but one of many cruel, wicked—or evil, if you will—people who have passed through the centuries. And . . .” he hesitated, leaning toward her. She leaned closer, fascinated with the power of his eyes. “I am warning you, and I do with my whole heart. Stay away from the church. Never let it be known that you were there at the time of the murder. Keep that cross that you are wearing around your neck on at all times. Trust no one. Never be out in the dark alone. I’m afraid for you.”

  “You’re afraid for me. Should I be afraid of you?”

  She was startled, and yet didn’t make a move, didn’t jerk away, when he brushed his knuckles along her cheek. “Miss Adair, I swear it, there is no need whatsoever for you to be afraid of me.”

  No need? She was all but mesmerized. His touch had brought a sense of heat to her that seemed to stir senses and soul.

  She needed to be very afraid.

  She needed to rise, and tell him to stay away from her, and from her grandfather. But then, she hadn’t even mentioned Jacques, and there was no need to be afraid that he might know anything about an old man living in a quaint chateau, even if Jacques had acquired more than a following in his day.

  She didn’t manage to make herself get up. Or move away. She kept staring into his eyes. She didn’t know if he was still touching her or not, because it seemed as if the warmth was still with her.

  She couldn’t break away.

  He could.

  He rose suddenly. “Excuse me, some of my friends have arrived. I look forward to seeing you again.”

  He pushed in his chair and walked away. She saw him greeting people, a couple, a very tall dark man and a slim, elegant, blond woman. They were dressed casually, as tourists, the woman in jeans and a denim jacket, the man in jeans as well, his jacket leather. They were an attractive, arresting pair, but then, Paris was filled with attractive people. She had the feeling that their intent was to blend in with the crowd. They moved away, walking down the street.

  They had gone a long way before she realized that she still hadn’t moved.

  And that she still felt his touch.

  CHAPTER 5

  There was a new freedom in sleep.

  And freedom in dreams. Now, when she rested, she could fly.

  Rise above the darkness, and fly in mist, in shadow. Concentration was essential, and she was glad of her chosen resting spot, for she felt completely secure, and therefore able to focus entirely on her task.

 
A flash of joy filled her as she felt the presence of another. Of course, they were guarded, all of them. She was careful. Yet she felt elation and a whisper in the wind that surged around her as she soared through the world of darkness.

  Is it you? The air, the darkness, spoke to her. And she replied, feeling glorious and powerful.

  Yes! I am back.

  I know. I meant to be there for you. Now, you must come to me.

  The world has changed.

  The world will always change.

  There is great danger. I sense it.

  Yes. Come to me. We must be together. We can begin a new world once again.

  I will come, of course.

  There are others. You must beware.

  Ah, but I am powerful. As are you!

  Yes, but you must beware, there are others—and others who have changed. Who fear, who command that we deny the power we can wield.

  They are cowards.

  They are strong. And still, there are those of the Alliance . . .

  Then they must be killed, and quickly. I am not afraid. I was always the strongest.

  Ah, my love, you forget that it is I who have managed to free you. We know where to begin to create a world in which we can live, revel, love . . . and be safe. I have planned long and carefully. We will have with us those who would not cower before those weaker than we are. Come to me, and I will show you what this life can be. But come with care. You will laugh still more when you find what I have done in this world!

  When Tara returned to the chateau, she found Jacques at work in the library. A large, ancient volume was open on his desk.

  He looked up when she entered.

  She set her purse on his desk and he arched a brow.

  “The man from the dig returned it to me at the café in the village, across from the church.”

  Jacques looked relieved. “And everything is in it?”

  “Everything.”

  “There are no papers missing?”

  “No. My passport, ID, money, credit cards ... everything is there.”