Realm of Shadows (Vampire Alliance)

by Heather Graham

  She felt ill. Brent had lied to her. It was impossible. If he wasn’t a—vampire, one among them, how could he have lived back during the war?

  “What do you mean? Tell me quickly. Brent couldn’t have been in the war. He’d be old now, really old now. He said that he wasn’t a vampire, he told me twice that he wasn’t a vampire—”

  “He’s not,” Jacques said.

  “Then—”

  “He’s a werewolf.”

  “Oh, God!”

  Ann DeVant lay on the sofa, eyes open but unfocused. Louisa stared down at the woman, hating her.

  She longed to strike right then and there. Slide her teeth deep into the woman’s throat—so white against that spill of dark hair—tear into her, rip her to shreds, draining every last drop of blood from her body.

  She forced herself to move away from the girl.

  Gerard had said that she must live, and it was true—she was the bait to get the other, and now, Tara DeVant would have to come, of course. She was certain that Gerard would have killed the wolf by now. And Lucian was busy seeking the body of the wolf ...

  It had all been so well planned. The only torture was now . . . waiting. And hating the girl, of course.

  She stood over her again. Jealousy was eating at her, consuming her. Actually, when the time came, she wanted to kill the girl in front of Gerard. Wanted to see that she meant nothing to him, that she could be drained, used up ... and discarded like refuse.

  She felt his arrival. Sweeping black shadows that she knew long before they touched her.

  “Did you kill him?”

  “Yes,” he said, but there was a hesitation.

  Louisa said angrily, “Did you kill him?”

  “Yes, of course, I struck him with a silver bullet.”

  “And you saw his body?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “Then—”

  “He’s dead! Don’t you understand? I hit him with a silver bullet.”

  “I understand,” she said, “that he was the one to ruin things when you should have been there to welcome me from the coffin. That he wormed his way into a job with Professor Dubois, and was watching, waiting, all along. He was the one who summoned Lucian, and the one determined again to find Jacques DeVant and seek out what information he had ... and he is the one who has created so much trouble all along. And you did not see his body!”

  “It does not matter, I tell you. I struck him with a silver bullet.”

  She studied him for a moment. “I thought you would have been more determined on being certain that he was dead. After what you tell me that he did to your . . .”

  “It was ten years before my injuries even began to heal,” Gerard said bitterly. “He tore me to shreds. He came back for the prisoners. When they were freed, they stabbed and shot me, hung me up like a slaughtered steer. DeVant knew that I should have been decapitated, and he would have seen to the deed himself, but that’s when the fires began, and he was forced to run. To take that traitor, Weiss, and get the hell out. Weiss! I never found that sniveling little coward, either. He was never prosecuted—prisoners defended him! He went to America and lived in peace and plenty and died at the age of ninety-nine. Yes, I loathe and despise Brent Malone! I should have finished him off when he was brought in, but he was the only one to withstand the onslaught of the wolves. There were many more then. They attacked both the Allies and Axis soldiers, heedless of their uniforms. They left a field of devastation worse than that of any bomb or slaughter. But he was alive. And I knew he’d be one of them. And I wanted to know what caused it—what made him stronger, what made him weaker. What caused him the most pain ... he is dead! I know that I hit him. And . . .”

  His voice trailed away. He saw Ann prone upon the couch. He walked over to her. Louisa was certain that he stared down at the girl with the greatest affection.

  Louisa sat on the couch, running her fingers along the bare length of Ann’s arm as she looked up at Gerard.

  “Let me kill her ... now. Watch me kill her ... now. We can share her, but I must confess. I tasted her blood when I shape-shifted to you, luring her to the balcony. Delicious. And I’m still so hungry. But if you wish . . .”

  He drew her to her feet. “Not now!” he said. “This is our chance to take them, one by one. Tara DeVant will come. She will have to come alone ... the others will be too far behind. You left the note—as I told you.”

  “Of course. So there is no reason to keep her alive.”

  “There is every reason. She may have real talent. An instinct deeper even than that in the old man. She’s young—”

  “She hasn’t the least idea of her own powers. She doesn’t know what to do.”

  “She may know if her cousin is dead, and then she may not come.”

  “I think that she is coming already,” Louisa said, licking her lips, looking at Ann.

  “We have all manner of creatures from which you may take greater nourishment—or entertain yourself. Leave her be. For now.”

  Louisa returned to the fire.

  “Fine. But when Tara arrives, I will deal with her. You will wait for Lucian’s arrival—and he will arrive.”

  “What if she is not so easy as you seem to think?”

  “My love, we have a little army ready to greet her when she arrives. She will be half-dead when they finish. I will merely deliver the final blows.”

  Jacques had spoken quickly, almost tonelessly, trying to explain how he had come to know Brent Malone. How Brent Malone, under the care of Doctor Weiss, had survived, how he had returned to the camp to rip it apart before anymore prisoners could be executed, and how he and Weiss had, in turn, taken care of him.

  Taught him the ways of the Alliance.

  She had listened for several minutes, listened as if hearing an impossible fairy tale. Then she had glanced at her watch and said, “None of this matters. They’re going to kill Ann.”

  “I know that Lucian will be here. Any minute.”

  “Then when he arrives, you must send him after me. You know now exactly where to send him. But I must get there first.”

  The argument had already been won, she knew. Katia had been useless—she had taken a seat in an overstuffed chair where she sat and moaned and rocked to and fro, almost as if she were catatonic. But Jade had acquired everything her grandfather had said she needed, and she was ready. Her faith would always be her greatest protection, Jacques told her. Her faith, and her gold cross. Unless she had buckets of holy water, she could only burn and scald them with it, but not bring them down completely. She was armed with a stake that Jacques had owned since his father had given it to him when he was a boy, and a newer weapon for backup. She was also armed with his army sword, sharpened to perfection, as apparently he had kept it, always. She had understood that heads must be removed, or that corpses must be burned beyond recognition.

  Afraid, she set out, driving as far as she could.

  Then she set off through the woods.

  And it was her dream again ...

  Darkness, incredible darkness. Shadows broken only by the light of the moon, and that disappearing far too often, as if the clouds were conspirators along with the vampires.

  She felt the wet grass against her ankles. Felt the coolness of the air, which wasn’t the natural coolness of the breeze. Something more.

  Some part of the darting, changing, shifting shadows.

  With each step, she felt a greater dread. She knew that the house lay just before her. That she was walking toward it, though she longed to run away.

  A silent plea escaped her.

  Help me, please, come, help me ...

  She knew now, knew far too much. Knew what lay in the shadows, stretching before her. Knew to whom she cried for help.

  But he was in jail. He had gone to jail to keep them from incarcerating her grandfather. She had realized, so late, that they had just known each other. They had formed a bond. They had saved one another’s lives. They had taught once another, they
had learned to live through one another. He had let them take him, so that they would not hurt Jacques. He had said that it would be all right, that he would be all right ...

  But he wasn’t here!

  And she was walking. ...

  Walking alone ...

  A strange birdcall sounded in the night. Not a birdcall at all. It was the breeze picking up. Growing stronger, colder, louder.

  Her name came to her on the breeze.

  Tara ... Tara ... Tara ...

  Darkness descended deeper ... deeper ... deeper ...

  There were footsteps behind her. Furtive. Stealthy. She walked, she stopped, she turned. And there was nothing, no one, just the fleeting shadows.

  Cold, she shivered. She gripped the stake she carried fiercely in both hands, so fiercely that her fingers were knotting and cramping. It was harder and harder to walk, to make herself go forward. There was darkness ahead, and then light, and then shadow wings falling over the illumination, and laughter, and her name ...

  Close, she was so close to the house.

  She heard whisking sounds that chilled her, for it felt as if the shadows were real, real and cold, and they passed by her and touched her, an evil, menacing caress, calling to her, taunting her, teasing her.

  Her dream, her nightmare, oh, God, she was living it ...

  She nearly stopped, ready to drop to the earth, throw her hands over her head, and do nothing but scream and pray for the light.

  But Ann was in there.

  And so she kept following the footsteps ...

  Of her dream.

  She reached the house. Ivy hung around it, nearly obscuring the facade. But a fire burned within. A fire that soared in the hearth, ripping and tearing against the walls, and creating a new realm of shape and form and shadow.

  As she neared it ...

  The door opened.

  The breeze whispered her name again.

  Tara, Tara, Tara ... come in ...

  We’ve been waiting. Waiting for you.

  CHAPTER 19

  The house was as she had seen it. Exquisite ancient furniture. Paintings on the walls. Paintings of depraved scenes and acts, executions, bloodshed, orgies ... paintings in vivid colors, paintings with fires that seemed as real as that which burned in the hearth.

  She looked around her carefully, for the strange noises and brushes of air seemed to sweep by her and touch her with an ever greater frequency. She knew that she had to go down the hallway.

  Saw it.

  Saw the dark, and saw the light.

  And the first door that she knew she must open.

  Her hand trembled upon the doorknob. The feel of her own flesh against cold metal was real. But everything in the dream had always been real as well. And still she knew that this was different, and for a moment, she stood trembling, seized with an absolute panic. She hadn’t believed any of it ... and here she was, alone, facing fears beyond comprehension, and it was ridiculous that she was here. Ridiculous that such creatures could exist, that there could be vampires ... and werewolves, and that she was desperately praying that one of the two would arrive quickly, because it seemed that it was all true, and she was horribly afraid that she wasn’t up to the task.

  Jacques seemed to have faith. She was the one to inherit the strain of the Alliance. And what did that give her? A determination to die foolishly ?

  If she ran now, they would only come after her. Even if she escaped, she would fail, and her cousin would die.

  Or worse.

  She forced her fingers to twist the knob. The sound of the door creaking open was hideously loud, ripping and tearing her nerves.

  She stepped back quickly, certain that something would spring at her, that the body parts would be waiting to form together, to come after her. But when she opened the door, she at first saw nothing. Then, from beside the bed, a woman rose.

  Young. Not Louisa. Tara had never seen her before.

  She was naked. She looked at Tara as if it were the most natural thing in the world that someone had walked in on her. She stretched, lifted her long hair to let it fall back again upon her shoulders. Then she looked at Tara, smiling salaciously. “Hello ... shall we play? I love to play, love to play . . .”

  One sultry step after another, she came toward Tara. Tara stared at her, tense, afraid, wondering if she was a prisoner, poor, pathetic, needing an escape, or if ...

  When she was almost upon Tara, the girl opened her mouth. An eerie hissing sound escaped from her.

  She had fangs ... the size of a saber-toothed tiger’s, or so it seemed. Tara prayed desperately that she wouldn’t falter.

  She slammed the stake into the girl’s chest, bit her lip, nearly doubled over. She forced herself to take the sword into her hands. She had to look away to deliver the first blow.

  It didn’t sever the head.

  She had to take another whack, and as she did so, she heard herself protesting. “No, no, no!” was coming from her own lips. A slow keening. And then ... the head rolled away.

  She stared at her own handiwork, shaking once again. There was very little blood. She hadn’t known what to expect. That the body would become a pile of ash, and disappear in a sudden breeze? It did not. It lay on the ground in its mangled pieces.

  Even as she stood there, staring, she felt the tension, the cramping in her fingers, for she still held Jacques’ war sword. She swallowed hard, bent down, and pulled the stake from the girl’s torso. She had to tug hard upon it. It came free with a sickening sound.

  Tara, Tara, Tara ...

  She heard her name being called again. The tone was soft, sultry, amused. She knew then that she had accomplished very little. The girl was just a piece of a shield. A foot soldier, not at all valued by the real enemy; totally expendable.

  She stepped back into the hall carefully, trying to see in every direction. She couldn’t allow her panic to take hold.

  She looked down the length of the hall, wishing that she dared call out her cousin’s name. She couldn’t, she needed to move quietly, though she was certain that Louisa and her consort—whatever his real name was—were well aware that she was here.

  As she moved along the hallway, looking ahead, she became aware of a creeping sensation at the back of her neck. She paused, turning. At first she saw nothing.

  The chill continued over her. Deep dread seemed to freeze her in place. Slowly, she looked up.

  Flat against the ceiling was a man. He had curly dark hair, appeared young, and grinned down at her impishly.

  “Hello, there.”

  Even as she stared up at him, he fell from the arched ceiling, like a spider dropping down upon its prey. She fumbled with frozen fingers for her stake. She managed to lift the point just as he came down upon her. The impetus brought them both to the ground. Caught on the wood, his face was just inches from her throat as he suddenly began to snarl and snap. She struggled to force the point more deeply into his body, to throw his weight from her own. Saliva dripped from the fangs that nearly touched her throat. Gasping, heart thundering, arms trembling, she at last managed to cast him to the side. She scrambled to her feet, shaking still. He lay on the ground like an animated figure with a faulty battery, arms and legs thrashing. She slid the sword from beneath her coat and lifted it high again, bringing it down against his throat. Sobs escaped her. It wasn’t easy to sever a head. Once again, she had to strike several times. At last, the head rolled away. And this time, as she watched, the flesh seemed to wrinkle, then wither, turn gray ... slowly become ash and bone.

  She fell against the wall, staring at him, fighting the hysteria that threatened to overwhelm her and the tears that rose in her eyes.

  As she sat there, she became aware of the whispering sound again. A whooshing that made it seem as if a thousand voices were hissing in her ears. She forced herself to rise quickly, to look around, to rescue the stake from where it had fallen in the bone and ash upon the floor.

  She was still being called down the hall by an
invisible draw.

  There were doors along the way, but she didn’t pause. The door at the end of the hall, with the strange light emanating into a field of dancing shadow, was where she needed to be. Resolutely, she walked on.

  She came to the door. Her fingers again tensed and froze on the knob. She forced herself to twist it.

  The light was coming from a massive blaze that burned in the hearth. And at the hearth stood a woman.

  The woman who had come to her house.

  She was elegant in form fitting black with trailing, gossamer sleeves. Her features were classically beautiful, framed by a wealth of sleek dark hair. Her skin was pale, her lips were very red. She seemed pleased by Tara’s appearance, those lips breaking into a slow, secret smile.

  “Welcome, ma chère!” she said softly. “Welcome ... you see, you are most incredibly welcome here, though you turned me away from your home. Ah, well, the Alliance has never been known for its diplomatic tact. But ... what does it matter? You’re here now. And such a smart girl, clever girl! You knew the way down the hall, and that every door was but a roadblock, before you came to me. Of course, however, I was calling you, but ... that’s because you’re so very welcome. Isn’t she welcome, mes amis?”

  Tara started. Her attention had been so focused on the creature at the hearth that she hadn’t looked around the room.

  People ... or creatures ... were all about. A young couple huddled together against a wall, pale, anemic looking. A bearded fellow in Victorian attire was seated in a wing chair, just to the left of the fire. Two women, the one resting upon the other’s lap, were on the bed, while another man was lasciviously stroking the long blond hair of a teen-aged girl.

  “Children, my dear children, look who has come! The newest member of the Alliance.” Louisa moved away from the hearth as she talked, strolling casually in Tara’s direction. Hands on hips, she surveyed Tara. “She doesn’t look the part, does she? A tall, slim blond ... not much muscle to her. Ah, and that face! Such a lovely face, fine features, excellent bone structure, actually. And what does she do for a living? She’s an artist. An artist, can you imagine? Not a police officer ... a young service woman. Ah, well, your grandfather let you down. He might have seen to it that you had fencing lessons, or something in the new Asian methods of defense. Even some kick-boxing might have stood you well. But an artist ... what are you going to do, dear? Paint us all to death?”