He didn’t exactly “close” upon her, but he did stop her, his fingers closing around her upper arm.
“Willem—”
“Ann, you are a silly little fool. And you don’t realize that you are mine, and that I will prove it to you, very soon.”
Absently, she drew her fingers over her neck, thinking that a stray strand of hair was irritating her flesh.
“Let me by.”
He lowered his head toward hers. “No, my love, you’ll see. You’re mine.”
“Good night, Willem,” she said firmly.
As she walked out of the office, she was afraid. She knew that he remained where he was, watching her, until she had left the reception area, and closed the door behind her.
She quickly pushed the button at the elevator, looking over her shoulder, more afraid of him than she wanted to let on.
The elevator door opened. She entered the little cubicle, leaning against the back wall. The door wasn’t closing.
She stepped forward to hit the lobby button once again. But as she did so, Willem stepped into the elevator.
She backed away. The door closed.
“So, Ann,” he breathed softly. “Here we are. Alone.”
There were things that he could touch in the twilight period between sleep and wakefulness, when day gave way to dusk, and dusk to full night.
Things he could see.
Images.
That night, he saw her, walking along the street, aware, and yet still seeking those who had called her.
Hungry.
He saw her . . . saw the two men and the woman in the street, and her smile as she joined them, taking the bottle of wine, and then taking the lead. He could even see the street signs as she led her companions through the city.
He saw the old house, saw her work her will as she prepared it, and saw her practice her art of seduction, amused, and yet . . .
Thirsting.
He saw her tease and play . . .
And then he saw her as she came in to kill.
And kill again.
The images faded as he felt something else. A call, a warning. Words that came to him through the channels of his mind.
They have touched her, reached her.
Who?
Ann. Ann DeVant. But I will follow. I will follow.
CHAPTER 13
Katia was serving her grandfather dinner in the library when Tara returned to the house. The housekeeper busied herself getting another setting for Tara, bustling about as she did so.
Tara stood quietly waiting for Katia to be done, watching her grandfather, not speaking. Then she frowned suddenly, remembering the time.
“Where is Ann? She should be home from work by now.”
Jacques shook his head. “She called and told me not to worry. She took a long lunch break today and had to clear up a few things in the office before coming home.”
Katia smiled at Tara, seeing her frown. “Mais oui, Tara. She is just running late. She wanted to make sure that Jacques went ahead without her. He must eat. He must keep his strength up!” Katia touched her on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Tara. Roland and I have the house and grounds all locked up. We’re safe.”
Katia left the room. Tara kept her eyes on her grandfather as she took a seat by the side of his desk where her plate had been set. She started to speak, but Katia knocked on the door, bringing in a bottle of white wine to accompany their fish.
When Katia left again, Tara at last spoke. “I still believe that this entire thing is insane.”
“Insane, perhaps, but true,” Jacques said firmly. He took a bite of his fish and seemed to savor the taste. “Katia is an excellent cook.”
“Jacques, excuse me, but I have to tell you. There is a vampire loose in the Paris area.”
“No,” he said, pausing for a sip of wine.
“There is no vampire loose in Paris?”
“No, no. There are vampires loose in Paris,” he replied.
“I thought Louisa de Montcrasset was the vampire.”
“She is indeed a vampire. But we are quite certain now that it was not happenstance that she should be dug up after all these years.”
“We—that would be you and Brent Malone?”
“Yes. And of course, there are others. On the side of good.”
“Naturally,” she murmured, still watching him. “His friends, of course, are on the side of good.”
Jacques nodded solemnly, as if he was relieved that she was understanding the situation at last.
She shook her head. “I do believe that there are very strange things happening. And your friend, Brent, has something of a quality about him that is very . . . that induces trust. But I still don’t really understand the connection. You didn’t see him here, in Paris, before you became so worried about the dig?”
“No.”
“But you do know him. I mean—you knew him ... before.”
“Yes.”
She felt as if she was trying to pull teeth. “Okay, so when did you meet him?”
“He didn’t tell you?”
“No.”
Jacques frowned. “He followed you out to talk to you, to try to make you understand.”
“He—he had to leave. Rather quickly,” she said.
“Ah.”
“Well?”
“We met years ago, here in France.”
“But . .. you were living in the States years ago.”
Jacques shrugged, giving his attention to the fish. “France has always been my home, I’ve always come and gone,” he said, his eyes not meeting hers.
“But years ago?”
“He may be a bit older than he appears.”
“How did you meet?”
Jacques waved his fork in the air. “It doesn’t matter now. But yes, you see, I knew him before. Just as I knew before that vampires did exist. But the last time there was real trouble . . . in which I was involved, was long ago. Around the time of the war. And back then . . . there were many in Europe who believed, who knew, and there were many who were part of the Alliance. But the war ended, the world went on. New wars came with new weapons and the world became so sophisticated and high tech that people forgot. I forgot. And those I knew ... those I knew well are gone now. But there will be a new generation, and times change, things change, people change. Even the undead change,” he murmured thoughtfully.
“But Jacques—”
“I am to help them with the country, you see. There is a lair, somewhere. And they have keen senses, of course. But there are so many ruins in this area. So much abandoned and left to return to nature! The Alliance has always been there to know, you see. At one time, there were no powers on the darker side who could really be trusted. But as I said, the world moves on. And the sanctity of life, all life, or existence, whatever it might be, has surfaced, oddly enough, even among the technical mumbo-jumbo of the world today. Even above the fanatics and the insanity of some people who are human—and merely evil. You were right the other day, you know. There are human beings more evil than any imaginable demon. But that doesn’t mean that the dark powers aren’t out there, and that they aren’t cruel, careless, and brutal as well.”
“Jacques, you’re still not making any sense to me.”
“The important thing is that you believe we’re in danger. That no one is allowed entry to this house. Katia knows in her heart that there is evil. She doesn’t ask questions; she secures this home where we live. We’ll move forward with our own investigation, and take care while we are here.”
“Jacques, what I told you earlier is true. The police are suspicious of you.”
“They are welcome to question me. I am a good and innocent man.” He frowned. “What they need to do is incarcerate Dubois. I am willing to bet that he bears more guilt in this—oh, he’s not the murderer. But he is working for the vampires. Bribed, he will serve them, believing in the rich rewards they will give him. The man is a fool, and always has been a fool. His reward will be dea
th.”
“Jacques—”
Tara broke off as there was a tap at the door, and Ann stepped in. Her cousin seemed more ashen and gaunt than ever, yet she was smiling and seemed cheerful. “I’m home—I just wanted to let you know. I’m going straight to bed. I’m exhausted. Work is getting to me. But I had a great day. Still, Lord! I need some sleep.”
“You’re not having dinner?” Tara asked.
Ann looked at her, preoccupied, but still smiling and cheerful. “No, no. I had quite—yes, quite!—a lunch. I’m not hungry, just tired. What a day! I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.” She frowned suddenly. “Were you out with Daniel, Tara? You have hay in your hair.”
Tara reached instinctively for her hair, seeking the hay, as she felt her cheeks burn. “I, uh, yes, I was out at the stables.”
Ann was too distracted to do more than nod. “There—you’ve got it. Hay all gone. Oh, well, love you both, I’m going up to bed.”
She blew them kisses, then turned away.
They heard a growl.
“Eleanora! Bad dog. It’s me, Ann!” she heard her cousin say.
She turned to her grandfather, frowning. Jacques had put down his fork. His hand, resting on the table, trembled.
“Grandpapa?” Tara said anxiously.
“I’m all right, I’m all right. But I think I must get to bed.”
“Of course.”
“Call Roland for me, please.”
“Right away.”
Tara went out and found Katia who immediately called for Roland who came and smiled and gently assured Tara that Jacques was fine, just worn out. It had been a very long day for him.
She promised her grandfather that she’d be in to say goodnight.
She helped Katia pick up the plates in the library, then wandered up the stairs, thinking she would check on Ann before saying goodnight to her grandfather.
She tapped at her cousin’s door, and when there was no answer, she opened it, popping her head in.
Ann’s room was dark. Her cousin was already in bed.
Tara silently walked into the room.
The balcony doors were open. The garlic bulbs had been impatiently cast into a pile in the corner of the room.
Tara hesitated, trying to discern her cousin’s features in the darkness. Ann was definitely and soundly sleeping.
Tara decided that it couldn’t hurt to close the balcony doors and replace the garlic. She did so, then tiptoed out.
She went into her grandfather’s room. He was in bed, and like Ann, appeared to be sleeping. His eyes were closed. Tara thought of his great age, and his tenacity and passion for life—and determination that he was part of the Alliance, a Resistance fighter for good against evil.
She kissed his forehead, checked his balcony doors and the garlic hung above them, then crept out.
She was tired herself, but restless, and her mind was moving with incredible speed. Aware of her afternoon, longing to go back over each moment, yet not wanting to think and analyze tonight, she drew out her easel and pad, and sat with pencils to sketch.
Disturbing pictures flew from her fingers onto the page.
Images . . .
A churchyard, stones askew, graves split open. She stopped. Another sketch. A wolf. Huge, snarling, teeth gleaming, massive, hard.
A bat . . . flying like a shadow overhead.
The shadows then covered a Paris street, the path they had walked on the night she and Ann had gone to La Guerre.
She paused, then began to sketch again.
A man’s face . . .
She frowned. She had drawn someone she had met. She couldn’t quite place the image she had created with her subconscious mind.
She glanced at her watch. Late. Time to shower and get some sleep. The tension that was tightening within her seemed to warn that the day to follow would be long and hard. She went in to shower.
Bits of hay still clung to her clothing. There were a few more fragments in her hair. The scent of him seemed to linger about her.
She went to bed thinking that it was still true that she barely knew the man. And yet, if he were to walk out of her life as suddenly as he had appeared in it, she would be disconsolate.
He wasn’t going to walk out of her life so quickly. He believed in vampires. Believed that vampires were killing in Paris . . .
She tossed and turned, and at last fell into a fitful sleep.
Lucian drew the car to a halt. “Near here,” he said.
Brent got out on the passenger side. “Looks like a lot has been abandoned in this area.”
“There.” Lucian pointed to a street sign. “I saw that sign. Clearly.”
“Lead the way.”
Lucian did. They came to a house set back from the street. A fallen board stated one French word for condemned : CONDAMNÉ.
Brent followed as Lucian crawled over the sign.
“We’re too late, of course. Way too late.”
They stood in a foyer. Before time had rendered the structure dangerous, the place had been beautiful. There were delicately carved wall panels. The ceilings were covered with now peeling and fading frescoes.
They were both quiet for a moment, listening, waiting. Brent nodded toward Lucian, and moved to the left.
He came to a room where a recent fire was down to cold ash. He stood in the center of the room for a moment, then moved toward the once ornate sofa. He stooped down.
Droplets . . .
Possibly wine.
But not. He reached out and touched one of the tiny stains. Dried blood.
A sense of danger seemed to grip him. He rose quickly, striding back through the elegant foyer to the other side of the house. Lucian was there, black-coated back toward him as he inspected the contents of a desk.
Brent didn’t know what he had been sensing. He started to walk toward one of the draperies.
A sudden scream of rage tore through the dark silence of the house.
The creature, naked, wild-haired, wild-eyed, lips snarling and fangs barred, came shooting from the draperies like a whirlwind from hell. Brent was still at a distance. The creature was flying toward Lucian.
Brent took a step forward, pulling the sharpened stake from beneath his coat. The dirty, grotesque figure that had once been human could move like lightning. And still, he could move faster. His speed was natural, honed through the years.
Lucian turned. The vampire was but inches away, intent on slashing and biting, when Brent impaled it from the back. The thing wasn’t dead. Caught on the wooden spike, it thrashed and screamed in a frenzy. Brent pinned it to the floor, and bent down, avoiding the teeth. He gripped the hair. And ripped.
The head came free.
There was no blood.
Lucian crouched down, studying the body. He looked up at Brent. “That was quite clean and neat. I was really all right, though, you know.”
“You’re not supposed to destroy your own kind.”
“Those were the old rules,” Lucian said bitterly. “The world, and the rules, have changed.”
“I don’t think there are any more here,” Brent said.
Lucian held still, then shook his head. “They wanted us to be here—they meant this one as a sacrifice.”
Brent squatted down at Lucian’s side, studying the face on the dismembered head.
“What is it?” Lucian said.
“I’m not sure, the features are so distorted ... but there’s something familiar about this man.”
“Let’s hope he wasn’t a friend,” Lucian murmured.
“No, it’s not an old friend. But still . . . there’s something familiar about the face. Or would be if . . . I don’t know. Hopefully, it will come to me.”
Lucian looked around the room. “This wasn’t exactly a setup, but I have a feeling this fellow was left here on purpose. They know we’ll track them down eventually. Maybe they’re hoping to at least wound us, take us off guard. Rather insulting, however, to think we might be taken by such a ra
w and stumbling new recruit.”
“Maybe they don’t have much else,” Brent suggested.
“There has to be someone behind this who has known and tasted power.”
“Think about your enemies. There must be a few.”
“A few? Hundreds, I would imagine,” Lucian said. He studied Brent. “What about you?”
“I can only think of one, and that was a very long time ago and he is dead. But you’re right. There’s nothing else here. We need to start moving.”
“Let’s go,” Brent said.
Ann was hot. She tossed off the covers. The room suddenly seemed stifling and filled with a wretched and horrible odor.
She sat up and looked around. The damned garlic was back at the windows. And the balcony doors were closed.
Impatiently, she got out of bed and walked to the doors, throwing them open. She pulled the garlic from the top, wincing as it seemed that the bulbs had thorns, as if they were roses, and they hurt her. She threw them as far from the open doors as she could and stepped out on the porch.
Ann.
She heard her name. Or didn’t hear it. She felt it. Ann . . .
It was like a caress. The breeze, oh, it was the breeze! So good against her skin. It felt as if she were being held again, teased again, kissed and touched, all over her flesh.
Ann . . .
Yes!
There were fingers in the wind. Fingers that moved over her. They seduced and beckoned. And each time the breeze whispered her name, she felt it anew.
Ann . . .
Yes, yes.
Come! Come to me.
Yes, yes, of course . . .
Officers Surrat and Martine were driving down the street, cursing the lack of light, when they saw the pair.
“Georges! ” Martine said to his partner. “There—two men.”
“I see them,” Michel Martine replied, and he depressed the gas pedal further, then jerked the patrol car up on the curb, cutting off the two men on the street.
“Is it him?” Georges Surrat asked his partner. Martine was an older man who had worked in Paris for years before being transferred to the village a decade ago. Surrat was young, and just learning the ropes.
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