Realm of Shadows (Vampire Alliance)

by Heather Graham

  Malone had stayed behind. Such a good looking fellow. And Tara was all but rude to him. Ah, well, the American from the café had been there. Very sexy. Not that she was really ready to tumble into a deep relationship again so quickly, but ... well, the fellow was American. And he was giving her the courage and conviction to stay away from Willem.

  She didn’t even know how long Rick Beaudreaux intended to stay in the area. And yet ... um ... he might be just what she needed right now. The attraction was there. Sparks, delicious little tingles of electricity swept through her when they talked, danced, moved together. And that was the thing, of course. It was either there, or it was not. It was possible to know a man forever, a man with all the right qualities, virtues, whatever, perhaps even good looking, well employed, mature, kind ... and it would not matter in the least if an attraction was not there.

  The American might not live in Paris, he might not even be gainfully employed, she didn’t even really know.

  But ...

  She wasn’t sure that she cared. She wanted to see him again. Or, she would want to see him again if she weren’t so ridiculously tired. She could imagine a night teaching him about French wines ... and then time alone. Yes, quite frankly, she didn’t need a dinner, more dancing, or anything. She would love just one night alone with him. And then ...

  Well, she wouldn’t allow for a heartbreak. She would indulge herself because she was out of a relationship, because he had that very sexy quality and the right sparks, and she was a woman with the right to desires and an affair if it was her choosing.

  And, of course, she wanted Willem to know. She wanted him to know that she had forgotten him, could truly live without him, and could be adored and swept into a brief but passionate, absolutely fiery relationship with another man. Even as he tried to make amends.

  But she was tired. So, so, tired ...

  “Ann?”

  Startled, she looked up. She blinked.

  The man of her thoughts had suddenly materialized in front of her desk. He was wearing a business suit. Well cut, it enhanced his height and his shape. The suit was dark, Armani, perhaps, or Versace, very simply cut, clean, and appealing. He appeared very blond and bronzed in it. And he smelled ... divine.

  To her dismay, since she did consider herself a logical and businesslike, competent and assured woman, she stuttered.

  “Monsieur Beaudreaux.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “How—how did you get in here? Without being announced?”

  “I spoke to the receptionist outside. Told her that I was trying to surprise you, take you to lunch.”

  “Lunch,” she murmured, afraid that she sounded a little stupid, as if she didn’t comprehend the word in English.

  “I’m sorry, maybe a surprise wasn’t such a good idea.”

  “No, no, it’s lovely that you’re here,” she said, quickly collecting herself. “I hadn’t thought about going to lunch. I have stacks of work, and I’m afraid that it hasn’t been my most productive day.”

  “Maybe a break will get you going.”

  She stood up. The hell with work. She gave her job eighty hours some weeks.

  “Perhaps you are right.”

  She collected her purse. The weather was beautiful, a little cool, but sunny. She didn’t need a jacket. She walked around her desk. He took her arm, smiling. A warm, wonderful smile.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked him.

  “Wherever you would like to go.”

  A discreet hotel room, she thought. But she didn’t say the words out loud. His smile deepened, as if she had.

  She was delighted as they passed by the outer offices of the very contemporary Paris high rise. The receptionist and a few workers were about. They watched her with envy.

  She paused by the receptionist’s desk. Henriette, young, pretty, and now, somewhat bug-eyed, apologized quickly. “Ann, the gentleman said that he was an old friend and wished to surprise you. I should have rung through . . .” She paused, looking a bit perplexed. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t, and I hope ... I guess ... that it’s all right?”

  “Yes, Henriette, it’s all right.” She glanced at Rick. “My old friend and I are going to lunch. I may run a bit over. But I’ll be back for the art meeting this afternoon.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Thank you, Henriette,” Rick said. He smiled at the receptionist. Ann could almost see Henriette’s heart flutter.

  Then Beaudreaux took her arm. The electricity shot through her arm.

  They walked to the elevator. Others were leaving for lunch. She felt their eyes, and knew that she and the American made an attractive and appealing couple.

  They reached the street.

  Rick looked down at her. Dear God, what wonderful, powerful blue eyes he had. She couldn’t have looked away if she had desired to do so.

  He asked softly, “So, where would you like to go?”

  She met his eyes, and answered simply and honestly.

  “Somewhere ... anywhere ... with . . .”

  “With what?” he asked her.

  She’d meant to say, with a nice salad and warm bread.

  Somehow, those words eluded her.

  “Somewhere with . . .” he prodded in a warm whisper.

  She let out a long breath, her eyes still locked with his.

  “Somewhere with a bed,” she said.

  The library door was closed when Tara returned. She ignored the fact, and, without bothering to knock, walked in.

  Her grandfather was behind the desk.

  And, as she had surmised from the battered old BMW in the driveway, Brent Malone was still with him. He stood, leaning over her grandfather’s shoulder, as Jacques made marks on a map of the area.

  “What are you two doing?” she demanded.

  “Studying a map of Paris and its environs,” Brent said.

  Her grandfather was looking up at her, too. He didn’t appear particularly frail—rather, his cheeks were flushed, and his excitement in his work was apparent.

  “You need to leave,” she told Brent.

  “Tara!” Jacques said firmly.

  “My grandfather has been very ill lately. If you tire him, he could well have a relapse of pneumonia.”

  “Tara!” Jacques repeated.

  “Perhaps it is time that I left,” Brent said.

  “I have told her exactly what is happening,” Jacques refuted firmly.

  “Yes, but she doesn’t believe you.”

  She folded her arms over her chest and walked to the desk. “If you have come here to further encourage my grandfather in his belief in vampires, you are certainly not welcome.”

  “She doesn’t believe,” Brent said softly.

  “Whether she believes or not, they exist,” Jacques said, “and she must not interrupt our work.”

  Malone gave her a shrug. “Well, then, I guess you’re the one who has to pitch in and help—or leave.”

  “You’re telling me that you actually believe in vampires ? In real demons that rise from the dead?”

  “Some are demons, and some are not,” Jacques said.

  “However, Louisa de Montcrasset may definitely be described as a demon,” Brent told her. His eyes were level on hers. He might have been agreeing that there was definitely going to be rain in a day or two, or that, yes, winter always followed autumn.

  Infuriated, and more than a little unnerved, Tara turned on her heel and walked out of the room. The temptation had been to grab Brent Malone by the hair, drag him out of the room, and throw him out of the house.

  She wouldn’t have the capability. And she was afraid that touching him would be dangerous.

  As she left the room, slamming the door behind her, she nearly tripped over Eleanora. The shepherd had come to the door. She didn’t try to slip past Tara and run into the room; she stood still, as if she were an ancient Egyptian guard dog, sensing the death of the Pharaoh.

  “Eleanora, come
, let’s get away from here,” she said, stooping to pat the dog.

  But though she didn’t growl or protest Tara’s touch, she didn’t move, either. And she didn’t jump all over Tara with excitement, as she was prone to do, remembering her every time she came and left, no matter how long she stayed in the States.

  “Even the dog has gone mad!” Tara muttered, striding across the hall and heading for the stairs. She continued to her room, needing to be somewhere she could pace and explode without making matters worse for her grandfather.

  She entered her room, slammed the door, then locked it. She began to pace, and tried to make herself slow down. She had just done the worst thing possible. She had come home and lost her temper instead of sensibly explaining to them both that corpses didn’t rise up and kill the living. Greedy people, those with their own agendas, committed murder. And some people were cruel, heedless of human life, and some were psychotic and very sick. That’s why terrible things happened. She should have humored them, she should have kept a level tone and a level voice.

  She threw herself down on the bed, pounding the mattress in sudden fury. She closed her eyes tightly, shaking her head, wondering what the hell to do.

  Did she go back down and have another fit, force Malone out of the house? Or did she go back and try to be calm, rational?

  As she lay there, she became aware of a peculiar odor. Looking up, she saw that garlic bulbs had been hung over the doors to the balcony. For a few moments, she just stared at the new adornment in her quarters. This is too much! she thought.

  “He’s been in my room!” she exclaimed aloud.

  That was it. Tara jumped to her feet and ran back down the stairs. Eleanora remained before the door. When she strode toward it, the dog rose. To her amazement, the massive shepherd growled at her.

  “Eleanora! It’s me, Tara, what on earth is the matter with you?” she demanded.

  The dog held her ground, proud brown eyes razor sharp.

  “If you’re guarding Grandpapa, you’re guarding him from the wrong person!”

  And still, the dog refused to move. Tara took a step to reach over her and pound on the door. The dog began to snarl with a warning sound once again.

  “Hey!” she yelled furiously.

  A moment later, the door swung open. Brent looked at her, and at the dog. “Silly girl,” he told the shepherd, patting her head as if he were the animal’s master. “It’s Tara. She wants to come in. It’s all right.”

  As gentle as a kitten, Eleanora moved aside, sliding down for a nap by the wall. “So you’ve decided to join us?” Brent said.

  “I’ve decided to wring your neck! What the hell were you doing in my room? Why is there garlic over the doors?”

  “I haven’t been in your room,” he told her. “And I didn’t put garlic over your doors.”

  “What are you two whispering about?” Jacques called out.

  She passed by Brent, standing before her grandfather’s desk. “There’s garlic over the doors to the balcony.”

  “Yes, of course,” he told her.

  “You put it there?”

  “No, no, of course not. Katia put it there.”

  “Great. So Katia believes in vampires.”

  “Katia has an open mind, and knows that the world in its entirety is not always plain and visible to the naked eye,” Jacques said.

  She turned away, flinging herself into the ancient armchair between her grandfather’s desk and the large hearth. She made a steeple out of her fingers, staring at her grandfather. “Jacques, a man was brutally murdered in a tomb. A tomb that you didn’t want opened. That you went to great pains to keep from being excavated.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her.

  She leaned forward, ignoring the fact that Malone was in the room.

  “Javet! Inspector Javet. Do you know that they suspect that you might have paid someone to kill that worker to keep any more work from being done at the crypt?”

  Jacques was not in the least concerned. “Javet!” he said, dismissing the man with annoyance.

  “And not just Javet! The inspector from Paris may be questioning you as well.”

  “So you went to the police,” Jacques said. He was angry. He shook his head with tremendous disappointment.

  “The police are the ones who investigate murders,” she said flatly.

  Brent sat on the edge of her grandfather’s desk, neither angered nor amused. “They investigate disappearances as well.”

  “What are you talking about?” she asked.

  “As of today, up to seven people have disappeared in the past few weeks, reported to the main station in Paris.”

  “Disappearances—of who? And what do the disappearances in Paris have to do with a brutal murder here, in the village? Jean-Luc didn’t disappear. His body was butchered and left for discovery.”

  “Paula Denton, British student, a beautiful young woman, last spoke with her family over two weeks ago, telling them she’d be leaving Paris for home that night. Next, reported about ten days ago, John Bryner, an American. He was due at a school in Nice, and never showed up. Jillian Grieves, a Parisian prostitute, hasn’t been seen in nine days. Barbara Niemes, another prostitute, has now been missing nearly a week. The list goes on—the known list. God knows how many people have disappeared who don’t have family members who track them—or street sisters who are still able to prove their love by looking for their friends.”

  “Students have disappeared—young students, running around Europe. And prostitutes,” she said.

  Brent raised a brow. “Oh? They don’t deserve your concern?”

  “Don’t be absurd!” she lashed out. “Naturally, they are human beings, and deserve everyone’s concern. But students roam through Europe all the time. And prostitutes—”

  “Prostitutes with drug problems always return to their supply,” Jacques said with a sigh.

  She stared from one man to the other. They both stared back at her.

  “Okay, I get it. They’ve all disappeared because of—vampires.”

  Neither one of them said anything or moved a muscle.

  “Vampires are supposed to drink blood, they don’t consume every inch of a body,” she said. “If vampires had taken these people, their pathetic, blood-drained bodies would have been discovered. Their grieving families would have buried them, and then, they’d have risen again and there would be more vampires, and more vampires, all coming out of the walls like cockroaches.”

  “Vampires drink blood, yes,” Brent said.

  “There, you see?” she told Jacques.

  “They also mean to survive, and therefore, they don’t leave discarded bodies lying about. They’re also territorial, and seldom fond of competition. They rarely create new members of their own kind. There is actually a code by which they survive,” Brent said.

  “A code. A rule book. The Vampire Rule Book. Sorry, I haven’t read it yet.”

  “It’s not a book, Tara, and you can’t read it. But there is a society, and it’s ancient, and there are codes and laws by which the creatures exist—and have existed throughout time.”

  “And you dug up this countess, and now she’s a vampire.”

  “She was a vampire before I dug her up. But yes, now she’s loose,” Brent said.

  She stared at him, then lowered her head, shaking it. “You knew my grandfather before you came here today,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “Tara—Jacques began.

  She interrupted him. “You came here, Malone, way before any of this, and you filled my grandfather’s head with a lot of rubbish. You got him to lodge protests about the dig, and because of you, the police are going to wind up questioning him. You are the instigator of this nonsense, this fantasy, you’ve convinced him that he’s part of some kind of an alliance, and what you’ve done is dragged an ailing man into a nightmare.”

  “I am not an ailing man who has lost his mind, young lady!” Jacques said with level dignity.

&n
bsp; She still couldn’t look at Jacques. She thought she was beginning to piece it together. “I don’t know what your game is, Mr. Malone. Maybe you’re a writer, too. Some kind of a critic, out to malign Jacques, or make your own name somehow through him. Whatever your game is, though, it is over. I’m going to go straight back to the police and tell them everything I know.”

  “I can’t let you do that, Tara,” Brent said. His voice held either a soft menace, or a simple promise.

  “Are you going to kill me? Do you, perhaps, think that you’re one of them? That you’re a blood-sucker yourself?”

  Staring at her, he blinked, but his eyes didn’t fall from hers. “No,” he said.

  “Oh, well, thank heavens for that, at least. What a relief. I’ve yet to see one of these creatures.”

  “But you have seen one.”

  “I have?”

  “Yes, the other night. Countess Louisa de Montcrasset was here, at this door, when you and Ann returned home. And you must sense far more than you’re willing to admit, because you weren’t foolish enough to let her into the house.”

  She wanted to protest instantly, to assure him that she simply never let unknown visitors in to see her grandfather.

  But something had settled over her ...

  A chill.

  And she was afraid that, somewhere, deep inside herself, she was going as mad as they were. Because somewhere, deep inside, she was almost believing the insanity.

  “You know I’m right,” he told her.

  “Listen, Tara,” Jacques said. “I’ve tried to tell you about this, to make you understand.”

  “I—I—” She stared at both of them.

  Then she flew out of her chair. “No!” she cried angrily. “No! I will not believe any of this absurdity, and Mr. Malone, I will get you out of this house!” She stood before her grandfather’s desk. “Jacques, how can you let this man play with your mind this way?”

  “Tara—”

  “I will not be a part of it,” she said, and turning, left the room.