Realm of Shadows (Vampire Alliance)

by Heather Graham

  She ran toward the door. She nearly reached it when she heard the whisper take form.

  Almost here, you are almost here, I have told you, I have her, and I will have her, come, yes, come toward the door, come to me, I am waiting ...

  The shadow was lengthening, widening. In seconds, it would be all-encompassing; she would be engulfed . . .

  Wake, wake, wake up! she told herself in the midst of her dream.

  She hadn’t screamed; she hadn’t moved. Her eyes were wide, unfocused. She blinked, and bolted upright.

  Ann.

  Tara leaped out of bed, and went racing to Ann’s room. She was insane, she told herself, her heart thundering. She was simply insane. Ann was sleeping. The balcony doors were closed, and covered with garlic, she had checked them herself.

  She threw the door open with a vengeance.

  It nearly flew back at her. There was a strong, chill breeze rushing through the open balcony doors.

  The garlic had been tossed into a corner of the room.

  Tara forced the door open again and stepped in, anxiously looking to where Ann should be sleeping in the bed.

  Her cousin was there.

  And so was a man.

  Tall, blond.

  Bent over her cousin, touching her . . .

  He was so close to her, fingers brushing aside the tangle of dark hair around Ann’s face. Stroking her throat. Lips nearly against her cousin’s flesh.

  “No!” Tara shrieked.

  He straightened, looking at her. She knew him.

  She’d seen him before.

  “No!” she shouted again, and went flying across the room, pulling at the large, ornate cross Jacques had insisted she wear, not ripping it from her neck, but twisting it to use as a weapon.

  “No! No! No!”

  She threw herself against his form. It was like hitting steel. It didn’t matter. She curled her fingers around the cross.

  Fingers curled around hers with a brutal strength, and the man began to swear.

  “I will kill you!” she vowed desperately. She found that her own teeth were baring; she meant it. No matter what his strength or his power, she would not let him harm Ann.

  She felt an incredible rise of power and strength, and believed that she could kill him—because she had to. She had heard that faced with impossible situations, parents could save children, siblings could rescue one another, lift cars, break down massive doors, and do all kinds of amazing deeds, because of adrenaline brought on by sheer desperation. She was desperate to save her cousin. She would break free. She managed to jerk a hand from his hold and lift the cross high, ready to bring it down against his face, his eyes. If she hadn’t the power to really down him, she hoped, at the least, to wound him, blind him, hurt him badly enough so that she could begin a new offense with him at a disadvantage.

  “Tara!”

  At first, she was barely aware of her name being called.

  “Tara!”

  It might have been coming from elsewhere, a voice in her mind, from far away, but a voice calling out to her, louder as she struggled.

  “Help!” The word escaped her lips.

  “Tara!”

  It was Brent. It was as if he had been far, far away. As if, perhaps, he had heard her from a distance, had sensed that she was in trouble.

  He wasn’t far away. He was there now, in the doorway.

  “Brent! Thank God, help me!”

  She was shaking, caught in a deadly game of wrestling, in which, still, amazingly, she was managing to hold her own, yet . . .

  Weakening.

  “Brent, help me!”

  He came striding into the room, steps long and sure and determined. She thanked God. He had come to help her, she wouldn’t have to try to bring down this deadly giant of a monster alone.

  “Tara!” The word, her name, was harsh. It seemed to scratch down the length of her flesh.

  Then . . .

  He had her.

  He ripped her from the tall blond man, held her in an iron grasp.

  A grasp she couldn’t break.

  “No!” she screamed.

  His arms seemed to squeeze tighter. She couldn’t see, for shadows seemed to burst before her eyes. She couldn’t breathe, she could only hear the thunder of her heart, slowing . . .

  Tara . . .

  It was as if she heard his voice, a deadly whisper at her nape.

  And she knew . . .

  He hadn’t come to help her. To save her life.

  He had come to kill her.

  CHAPTER 16

  They had brought Paul to a wonderful hotel room. The furniture was old, but grand. They had left him with everything that he could desire—coffee, wine, fruit, cheese, bread, crackers.

  The men had left. The woman remained.

  She was in the other room, her attention riveted on a computer. What she was doing, he didn’t know, but it seemed very important to her that she find whatever it was. She was beautiful, and very kind to him, checking on him now and then.

  At first, the novelty of the hotel suite kept him fascinated. He had walked around and around, running his hands over the polished wood furniture, sitting on the plump sofa, rising, sitting again. He adjusted pillows, picked at the fruit, enjoyed a glass of wine. He liked playing with the remote control and the television, but as time wore on, he grew restless. He walked over to the balcony, opening the windows, and looking out at the streets below. It was a wonderful view. He had never really seen the landscape this way. He saw it from working the land most of the time. But here, where the hotel sat on a little hill, the view encompassed much of the countryside, in many shades and colors. Those colors changed as the afternoon waned, and he was fascinated by each subtle variation in tone. It was all very beautiful.

  The woman came out briefly to smile, say hello, and make sure he was all right. Or perhaps she was making sure he was still there.

  He smiled in return, and told her that the wine was very good.

  At last, he tired of wandering and watching the view. He even tired of playing with the television and the remote control. There was no show on that could hold his attention.

  He couldn’t help thinking about Yvette.

  He wondered why he loved her. But he did, and he had, forever and ever, so it seemed. He was the one who had been there for her, so many times. Through the years, there were times when he had been angry and indignant, but she had told him over and over again that she was a free spirit, and would not be tied down, and if he was going to try to hold on to her, like a giant brick around her neck, she simply wouldn’t talk to him at all. And they wouldn’t be friends. And there wouldn’t be those times when she had no other great interest in life, and spent hours with him, doing things that all but made him stop breathing, that escalated life to such wild fields of pleasure that it made the agony of her constant betrayals all the more complete. But still, all in all, in the end, he believed that she would tire of her hunt for adventure and riches. She would remember the times that he had been there for her, rock hard and steady, always waiting. Always. No matter how she turned from him. He had always thought that he would be there for her under any circumstances. He had fantasized about occasions when she had been in trouble, when he had stepped in, swung a practiced right hook at some abusive fellow, and become her hero.

  And now . . .

  She hadn’t been the headless corpse at the morgue, he reminded himself.

  There was hope.

  He lay upon the sofa, legs sprawled over the elegantly carved end of it, and let the remote control fall to the floor. He listened with half attention to the sports channel that was on, but found himself drifting off as he did so. He dreamed about Yvette. He should have been so much angrier with her. She had certainly emasculated him frequently enough, not with her words, but with a look. Why, why, did she have to run around with other men? Money did not mean so much in life. The way she looked at him with her beautiful eyes, so pityingly ...

  No one w
ould ever love her the way he did.

  As he drifted, she came into his dreams. Yvette. So pretty. She was in one of her playful moods, and a sensuous mood, strolling toward him slowly, hips swaying, shoulders somewhat back. There was that look in her eyes that he hadn’t seen very often . . . not in the last many months, at least. A look that was all for him, that said she wanted him.

  Paul, silly boy, there you are. Such a silly squabble we had. I need you now, you know. I know I’ve been bad, but you’ve forgiven me so many times. You’re the one I really want, the one I’ve always wanted in the end. And you know, Paul, I want you now . . .

  I want you now ...

  It was such an incredible dream. She was swathed in some gossamer stuff that seemed to lift and swirl around her as she walked. He knew that beneath it, she was naked. There were hints of flesh to be seen, hints of color at her breasts, shadows at the juncture of her thighs. His mouth went dry as he traveled through the dream, a silly grin on his face, he was certain. He shouldn’t smile so. He should be like so many of her other lovers. Suave. Sophisticated. Lying back, waiting, musing, assessing, making her play out the full game, tease and taunt as if she was desperate for once ...

  For him.

  It was a dream, of course, which made it far easier not to move. And it was strange. The closer she came to him, the more he felt certain that it was Yvette. Really Yvette. She was in trouble somewhere, and she was reaching out to him. The words formed in his mind.

  Yes, Yvette, I love you, I’ll save you, I’ll come . . .

  As she moved, ever closer, that gossamer fabric flaring around her as if it were caught in a strange wind tunnel within the hotel room, he felt the strangest uncertainty. It was Yvette, yes . . . Yvette, yet she was different. At times, there would be flashes of something else, and he would think, that isn’t really her face. It isn’t really Yvette’s face, and yet . . .

  Paul, I need you.

  Where are you?

  Silly boy, come closer, closer. I need you, open your arms to me, Paul, help me, Paul, save me, Paul, let me love you, ask me to love you. I am close, and afraid. Can you really forgive me, Paul, can you welcome me to you?

  He wasn’t sure if there was a sudden burst of wind at the windows, or if he had left them open, and imagined the chill gust of wind.

  Perhaps not.

  I’m cold, Paul, so cold ...

  So, yes, my love, come, and I will warm you.

  Greet me here, I can come no farther. Come, Paul, please, I need your arms around me now, I need your warmth.

  She was so near. He was sleeping, he thought, and it was a divine dream. He saw some ethereal part of himself rise to meet her. She was there, framed in the falling dusk, that shimmering fabric still all around her.

  Come, Paul.

  The breeze swept away the slender threads of material. Yvette, his Yvette, yes, she was there, she had come to him, because she had been lost and afraid and lonely, and now she knew what was to be found in his arms.

  He hesitated suddenly, coming forward. Because he had that strange feeling again. Yvette, and not Yvette. A flash of something now and then that was so confusing. The face, in certain fractured sections of time, seemed to be that of someone . . .

  She was real. Flesh and blood and real. He could see the pulse beating at her throat. He could even see the moisture as she wet her lips. She was cold, she did need him, her breasts were swollen, the nipples hard. He started to reach for her.

  He blinked, wondering how she could be so very real in a dream. How he himself could be standing where he was, and feel the floor beneath his feet, when he was sleeping on the couch. Of course, it was a dream. The balcony was high above the ground. But she was here. And real, real, real . . .

  He stretched out his hand.

  He touched her flesh . . .

  He trembled because he could feel her. He could pull her to him, bury himself against her, smell her, taste her, drown in the woman he loved, such an expert, so much more experienced than he, and though he resented it at times, she was such a lover that he felt time and time, he could die in her arms.

  Yvette, oh, Lord, Yvette ...

  Paul . . .

  The draperies began to blow in the breeze, surrounding her, wrapping around them both. His trembling fingers reached for her, through the line of the balcony doors. His hands came around her waist. He began to pull her to him.

  “Paul!”

  It was the woman. Her shout was loud, anxious, warning.

  He turned, a sudden anger filling him. Here was Yvette, naked and waiting and wanting him, and she was interrupting. His dream would fade, his beautiful love would vanish.

  “Paul, get back! Quickly!” she commanded.

  “Too late!” Yvette called to her.

  He turned back to Yvette. Yes, of course, this interloper didn’t matter. He had only to hold more tightly to Yvette.

  “Come in, come in, come to me, Yvette!” he cried.

  He heard a throaty laugh.

  And then he saw her face. Really saw her face.

  And he began to scream.

  “One of these . . . one of these . . . right here, in this area,” Jacques explained to Lucian. They were poring over the map of the area that lay on the desk. Jacques had X’s marked in various places. “It’s so hard to remember now where everything lay . . . it was an occupation, of course, and so much of the city survived, yet here, in the countryside, so many places were abandoned after the war . . . left to rot and ruin. And so many men didn’t come back. Families left, never to return. The chateau survived, of course, and here is the Dupré house, which still stands as it was ... there is a new development here, but as you moved into the country farther and farther here to the outskirts ... there was some heavy fighting, and much was lost, and to this day, the ruins remain. And many of the places were hundreds of years old. If only I had followed more closely at the end . . . but you see, I was ill then. By the time it was all over, really over, I was in such a fevered state that I wound up in the hospital, I was in a coma, I met my wife . . . and I moved to America. There were years when I couldn’t come back, and with the illness, there were so many years when I believed that everything in my life, the war, the camp, and anything else that occurred, had been a nightmare. So now . . .”

  Lucian laid a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve remembered everything when it has mattered,” he told Jacques.

  “No, no,” Jacques said unhappily. “There are many more dead now . . . many more dead. I wasn’t ready when I should have been. The old Alliance . . .”

  “The old Alliance faded years before your time, Jacques,” Lucian said. “You’ve done well. Look, we have been here, here, and here. And you are right—it is somewhere here. When there is a disturbance, I know it. And there are times when I need nothing more than concentration, and I can reach out and know exactly where someone is ... I can enter their thoughts, bring them right to me. But Louisa isn’t alone—and she isn’t even the real danger. She is with someone who knows that I am still alive, and very aware. Very old, and powerful, and they are able to block a great deal. I have been able to follow Louisa, but I seem to get where she has been once she has left. She rose alone, uncertain, and traced her old paths first. Though she came into a new world, she went first to what she had known in the past. I believe she traveled first to the Louvre, and from there, she went out to Versailles. She was on her own, but not for long. She was back here . . .” he pointed to the map, “and here. And I know now that their lair is in this area, where you have shown me the places that can be found in the overgrown forest areas. We have gone over much of it, and still, there has to be something that we haven’t discovered. You have done more than you can imagine, but we must find them quickly now, before she grows more powerful, like her mentor, because then, between them, they will have tremendous strength.”

  Jacques stared at Lucian and let out a breath, his shoulders slumping. “I was just thinking of the old days. There was a time . . .�
�

  “A time when we would not have stood together so,” Lucian said flatly. “But that was before. When the world was different. And there was a time, of course, when it was the disputes among my own that were brought before me, and when my kind were only handled by the old rules when they were so besotted with their power that they endangered us all. But that was the old world, and this is the new, and survival has become even more difficult. War is open, and sides have been drawn. And so, Monsieur DeVant, we are together in this, as we were when we met.”

  “We are all strange bedfellows,” Jacques said.

  “Live long enough, and the world is strange indeed,” Lucian agreed.

  “The full moon is coming too soon,” Jacques said glumly.

  “Yes, but of course . . . that gives us distinct advantages as well.”

  “It’s almost night,” Jacques said.

  “It is night,” Lucian said. “Night again.”

  He frowned, stiffening.

  “What is it?” Jacques asked anxiously.

  “Something is wrong.”

  “Here?”

  Lucian shook his head. “No, there is something very wrong . . . with my wife.” He turned, long strides taking him to the door. “Tell Brent . . . never mind. Brent will know. Stay tight, stay in the house, let no one in—”

  “I know this, of course,” Jacques said somewhat impatiently.

  But it didn’t matter.

  Lucian was gone. He had been there, and then he was gone. Jacques wasn’t sure how he had left. He had blinked, and the man was gone. He sighed softly.

  And it was then that the screams began to tear through the chateau.

  “Tara, calm down, stop it!”

  The serious shake that she received, and the fact that she couldn’t breathe, caused Tara to pause in her struggle, gasp desperately for breath, and meet Brent’s eyes, her own laced with hatred and determination.

  “It’s Rick, Rick Beaudreaux,” he said.