Realm of Shadows (Vampire Alliance)

by Heather Graham

  The man was looking at him, watching him, and he couldn’t tell if a small smile curved the fellow’s lips, if he was amused, or if he was merely understanding what Paul was trying to say.

  “Yvette has sought to fly by catching on to the coattails of others . . . of other men,” he said, finishing lamely.

  A hand fell gently on his arm.

  “We will find Yvette,” he was told softly.

  They kept driving. Very far. Paul had grown up here, run in the fields as a child, sought out every little place of mystery, but he was unfamiliar with the trails that they traveled through now. The car drove over grass and roots, and circled through trees and more.

  At last they came to a halt.

  They entered what must have once been a place of riches and great charm. Still, a certain alluring ambience remained. Darkness and shadow, however, seemed to abound, as if the inhabitants shunned daylight and the sun.

  “Come, Paul, we need to know what you know. Everything there is to know about your Yvette, and her . . . friends.”

  At the doorway, he felt a strange hesitance. Then he entered within. And he met those waiting to greet him.

  Tara drove to the village. Though she didn’t expect to see Brent, she parked near the café, found a table, and ordered café au lait.

  She picked up another newspaper, and spread it before her. She wasn’t really reading; she was trying to appear as if she was not watching everything that was going on around her.

  But there wasn’t much going on.

  The café was quiet. The waiters were whispering among themselves, and when she ordered her second cup, the man who served her spilled some of the hot liquid. He apologized, and she quickly assured him it was nothing. When he smiled ruefully, she wondered if she couldn’t get him to talk.

  “I’ve noticed . . . you all seem a bit distant today,” she said, encouraging him to talk.

  He was about twenty-five, slim, with something of a buzz cut that was becoming to him, since he had a fine face and deep, dark eyes.

  He hesitated, then indicated her newspaper. “Such things simply don’t happen here.” He leaned closer, mopping up the spilled coffee. “One of our girls has disappeared now. Monsieur François, the owner, went into the morgue in the city to identify the corpse, but it isn’t Yvette. At least, she is not the body that was discovered. But . . . we are a small village. It’s unnerving to have people disappear, to have bodies found. It was one thing when it was the man at the dig. We could all believe that he was killed because someone wanted the riches from the corpse. But now . . . there are others who are gone—and there is the one corpse that has been discovered. We have not seen this kind of trouble here in ... in hundreds of years! So naturally, we are afraid. But,” he added quickly, “you don’t need to be afraid here. We are at the café, on the street, in broad daylight, and the police station is right down the street.”

  He was trying to reassure her after saying far more than anyone dependent upon tourist francs should have said. But he hadn’t frightened Tara, certainly not any more than she was already. He had, however, said something she was anxious to pursue.

  “You’ve not had this kind of trouble—in hundreds of years?”

  “Well, there is a lot of legend here, you know. Back in the days of the Sun King, there were all manner of things going on. I’m not a great student of history, so I’m not all that up on the particular events that occurred. But of course, you know, the body that was stolen from the dig was that of Louisa de Montcrasset. She was a mistress of Louis. She had the king wrapped around her little finger, so they say, and she was able to practice great atrocities because the king was so infatuated that he refused to believe ill of her. They say, though, that she kidnapped poor young people—men and women, she was not particular—and used them in strange rites. She bathed in blood, drank blood, lived in blood, so they say, in the belief that it would help keep her young and desirable forever, and add to her amazing hypnotism over others. But at one point, the king could no longer be fooled, but he would not allow her to be humiliated before the people. She was the daughter of a great knight who had fought long and hard for France, and also, no matter what she had done, the king could not completely rid himself of his love for her. He refused to see her, however, after proof was brought against her. Proof of her misdeeds, as well as proof that she had been cuckolding the king with another man. He was not so protective of her lover—it’s said that he ordered his men to burst in upon the fellow, stab him to death in his bed, and have his body cut to pieces and cast into the Seine. The king was helped in all these discoveries, forced to see the evil and death perpetrated on the people, by a strange sect composed of a group of religious men who had gathered together for the sole purpose of bringing down Louisa and her evil companion. But even at the end, the king would not agree to Louisa coming before the public, or having her beauty destroyed. By his command, she was buried and sealed into her coffin, and then the terror that had raged in Paris and the village came to an end.”

  “I’ve heard the legend of Louisa de Montcrasset,” Tara said, “but I hadn’t heard that she’d had a lover other than the king, or that he had been killed when she was buried.”

  “You won’t find any of it in the history books,” the young man told her. “It is all local legend—but of course, we know that it’s mainly true, since her coffin was discovered. Or, should I say, at least it’s true that she existed. If, indeed, she was the corpse in the tomb. Hard to be certain, now that she has disappeared.”

  “Ah, well,” Tara murmured.

  “Would you like another coffee?” the young man asked.

  “No, no, thank you,” she said. “Just the check, please.”

  He brought the check, and she put the appropriate number of francs on the tray. As she did so, she felt a presence near her, and she looked up.

  “Miss Adair, how are you?”

  Inspector Trusseau was standing there. She definitely didn’t want to get into a conversation with him. She had gained nothing at the café, and it suddenly occurred to her that there was something she should be doing—something practical.

  She should get Jacques out of the house.

  “Inspector, hello, how are you?” she said, standing quickly.

  “Well, thank you. And you?”

  “Quite well.”

  She stood there for a moment, feeling awkward as she stared at him.

  “I believe we’ll be visiting you quite soon,” Trusseau said. He was a smooth, tall, and attractive man. He didn’t fit the mold of a forensics expert, but then again, perhaps he was excellent at his work. He had a handsome appearance and apparently the social graces that might get him what he wanted when brash authority might fail.

  “Yes, I understand Inspector Javet wants to speak with my grandfather.”

  Trusseau nodded. “I’m afraid Javet is convinced that your grandfather knows something about the murder in the crypt.”

  “Um—and do you think that my very aged grandfather can also be guilty of decapitating a body and leaving it in the river to be discovered?”

  “Miss Adair, I’ve read about your grandfather for years. I don’t believe he’s guilty of anything at all. But then . . . I am not Javet. Of course, I mean to see that Monsieur DeVant is not grilled too rigorously. I am aware that he is an old and failing man.”

  “Well, then, I’m glad to hear that you will make the session as gentle as possible,” she murmured, anxious then only to leave, find a hotel room, and get her grandfather out of the house.

  “Yes, of course, you’ll be glad that I accompany Javet?”

  “Naturally.”

  Trusseau smiled. “I shall see you soon, then, Miss Adair, at the chateau.”

  “Certainly,” she murmured. “I’m afraid I have some errands to run.”

  “Excuse me, I didn’t mean to delay you. It’s a pleasure to see you.”

  “And you, of course. Au revoir.”

  Tara hurried to her car. She du
g in her purse for her cell phone as she drove, cursing as the phone rang and rang.

  Louisa slept restlessly, waking fitfully when she should have been calm and in a deep state of relaxation, gathering strength. She needed this time.

  “What is it, my love?” he asked her. He never left her for long. He was up against those whose minds he could not touch, and he trusted no one. There were things, of course, which he must do during the day, but he returned to her, always.

  She turned to him, sighing as she found some comfort in his embrace. “It is ... this place.”

  “This place is safe,” he told her firmly.

  “Ah, but there is so much else in the world, in Paris, I want to live!”

  “In time.”

  “In time . . . you forget who I am.”

  “And you forget that the world is large, and dangerous.”

  “I have the power to take charge of the world around me,” she said, her tone both imperious and petulant.

  “In time,” he repeated. “When those who would fight us are removed.”

  She drew back. “You should have destroyed them long ago.”

  “Louisa, I could not. I dared not create a disturbance before you had awakened. There are many forces out there today that you do not understand.”

  “More powerful than a king?” she said, insinuating that he was weak.

  He sighed. “The population is far more vast today than you remember.”

  “Vast—and stupid.”

  “Many are ignorant, but not stupid.”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “Very soon, you will feast on our enemies, and then you will have the strength you seek, and the freedom you so long to have.”

  “I’m hungry,” she repeated.

  “I will find you prey.”

  “You said that you would bring me prey before.”

  “The time wasn’t right.”

  “No, you weren’t strong enough to lure her here. Either that, or ... you have a greater interest in the girl than you pretend.”

  “There is not, nor has there ever been, anyone but you. There were years while I pined, hating what you did, who you were.”

  She laughed softly. “You never pined, mon cher. You have always taken your amusements where you would.”

  “While I waited,” he said softly.

  She reached for him. Elegant perfection, sheer carnality. There seemed no reason not to indulge. And yet, at the end, when she had driven him to distraction, she whispered against his ear, “Tonight. I want her here tonight. And I want it finished. And if you will not, or can not, bring her, then I will see to it all myself.”

  “I will bring her!” he roared in return, and then she gave in to him, and far above them, the fire roared to life in the old hearth, and in their maddened embrace, they were consumed.

  “You have to tell us everything, everything that you can,” the tall man informed Paul.

  He had been taken to an elegant apartment in the city and given wine to drink, offered food, which, of course, he was far too nervous to eat.

  “There are so many men at the café. And I do not spend my days there, watching her. I wish I could, but a farmer’s life is not an easy one,” Paul said. He looked longingly at the door, wishing he had not come so easily.

  “Think, tell us about them.”

  “Well, there are the officers from the police station, of course,” Paul said. “There have been students, but she seldom agrees to meet them . . . she prefers to see men with ... with . . .”

  “Money?” the second man suggested softly.

  Paul hung his head. “Yes, of course. Those who can buy her presents.”

  “So, have you seen anyone at the café who appears to be affluent?”

  Paul stared at the man speaking to him, then pointed nervously. “You have been at the café. You . . . are supposed to be a laborer. But you look as if you have money.”

  “She did not go with me.”

  Paul frowned. “There . . . has been someone else. I have seen him frequently. He is tall, a blond man, well built . . . I am not sure what he does. Perhaps I have seen him at the police station. But everyone has been at the station, frightened, asking the police what they are doing . . . you know.”

  “A tall blond?” The dark haired man looked at the lighter one. “Do you know him?”

  “Perhaps,” the second man said. “Perhaps . . .”

  “Paul, can we get you water, more wine, coffee?” the woman asked.

  “I think I should go.”

  “No, no, you must stay,” she informed him softly.

  He was afraid.

  Tara reached the chateau as quickly as she was able. She came running through the front door, calling for Katia.

  Katia just stared at her when she said that they must pack up a few things, and go to a hotel.

  “They are coming with the correct papers to insist on entry and question Jacques!” she told Katia.

  By then, however, Jacques had come out of his library. “So—they will come and question me!” he told her.

  “You haven’t listened to me at all, Grandpapa,” Tara said. “They think you had something to do with the murders. And if you tell the police that there are vampires out there . . . well, they’ll . . . they might . . .”

  “They will try to lock me up with the insane?” Jacques said.

  “Yes! ”

  “No, no, you mustn’t worry, Tara. They will come, and they will talk to me, and I will not mention the Alliance, or vampires, and I will make them understand that I have not hired any contract killers. And since I did not, they will have no proof against me, and they will not be able to do anything.”

  “But, Jacques, listen to me. Be rational. We will simply go and spend a few days at a hotel, and we will be safe.”

  He shook his head, and she was tempted to scream at him that he was a stubborn old man. “Tara, my books are in this house. We are secure here. Katia has seen to that.”

  “Grandpapa—”

  “Tara, I will not go,” he said with a soft insistence that was absolutely final. “Katia, we’ll see to it that the windows and doors are truly sealed, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Mais oui,” Katia assured her.

  “Grandpapa, the police are not afraid of garlic,” she told him.

  He shrugged. “And some vampires actually enjoy it, but they are usually the Italians,” he told her, smiling. “Tara, I am joking here, please smile for me, laugh a little.”

  “Laugh?”

  “I have such an arsenal here! Stakes, crosses, so many crosses! Holy water.”

  “Right. And the Italian vampires won’t mind the garlic, and perhaps, if they are Hindu, Muslim, or Jewish, they will not mind the holy water in the least!”

  “Ah, there, at last, a sense of humor!” Jacques said.

  “You’re missing the point, Jacques. The police are coming! ”

  “Then let them come. And you, young lady, you should get some rest. Look at you! You are drawn, haggard, there are huge shadows beneath your eyes. Quite frankly, my dear child, you look like hell!”

  Tara frowned. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

  “You’re overtired, and don’t know it. Ann is still sleeping.”

  “Ann is still sleeping?”

  “Yes, and I am fine, and you should rest.”

  “I’ll check on Ann,” she said, then stared from Jacques to Katia. “Both of you, pay attention to me now, because if you don’t ... if you don’t, I’ll throttle you both. If the police come, you must get me before you even open the door. Do you understand?”

  Jacques sighed, dismayed that she was behaving as if he were a child. But he said, “Naturally, Tara, I promise that we will get you before we open the door. Now, I am working. I can’t make you rest, Tara, but it’s important that you keep up with your sleep, and be alert and aware.”

  “I’ll see to Ann,” was the only commitment she would make.

  He shrugged, and headed back
to the library.

  Katia looked at her, grimaced, and asked, “Would you like some warm milk?”

  “No!” she said sharply, then quickly added, “No, no, thank you.” Katia headed for the kitchen. Tara started for the steps, anxious to check on Ann.

  Her cousin was still sleeping soundly. She appeared somewhat ashen, but her breathing was deep, and restful.

  The balcony doors were closed, and garlic remained around them.

  Tara closed her door, frustrated, and went to her own room.

  Her easel drew her. She looked at the sketches she had been making, and started another, not sure what she was drawing, then realizing that she was shading in a man’s face. She had sketched him before, and now, with some light and shadow added, he was beginning to appear very real. She knew why she was drawing him. She was coming to know him far too well.

  Yawning, she suddenly set her pencil down. She was tired. She decided that Jacques was right, and perhaps she had some time before Javet and Trusseau actually arrived. She stretched out on the bed. Her eyes closed, and before she knew it, she was drifting.

  She was there again . . .

  The place in the woods. Deep, deep woods. This time, as she walked, her footsteps were being followed. She could hear the movement against the ground, a fraction of a second behind the sound of her own feet against the earth. She would stop and turn back, time and time again, and there would be nothing but the shadows, still shadows that swooped like wings, that seemed to have a whisper within them. Shadows that constantly darkened and changed.

  She looked forward, knowing that the old house was ahead. She kept walking. Once again, she heard that hint of sound, a whisper of movement. She stopped, but she didn’t turn around. The danger was there. She could it feel like hot breath against her neck. A warning. It was close, so close, as close as the shadows that seemed ahead of her as much as they were behind her.