by Barb Hendee
Julian hoped that between the two of them, Mary and Jasper possessed the ability to count to twenty-four. He unsaddled his horse, set it loose in the pasture, and walked back toward the manor.
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA
Jasper Nesland tossed the keys of his BMW to a valet, paid his cover charge, and walked into the Cellar nightclub on Sutter Street. Loud music and purple-red lights washed over him before the door even closed. The place was packed, but he still noticed a girl in a short skirt by the wraparound bar flash a smile at him.
Sometimes, he couldn’t believe how much his life had changed. Six months ago that girl wouldn’t have bothered to spit on him. He walked through the crowd, straight to her.
Jasper wasn’t into playing games when he hunted. He didn’t like to dance; dancing was for losers who didn’t care if they made fools of themselves. And unlike Julian, he never drank red wine or tea, so hanging out at a table with someone seemed equally pointless.
He did, however, get satisfaction from the way flashy girls treated him now that he had money, now that he got his hair cut at L’ShearHair and bought his clothes at Uomo in Union Square.
Money changed everything.
He didn’t bother smiling back and just slid up to the bar beside her. She had layered brown hair with blond highlights, and although she wore too much eye makeup, it was artistically applied. But her eyes held no warmth, no light of their own. She was his favorite type.
“You want to dance?” she asked without asking his name.
She wasn’t shy.
“No. It’s too loud in here. Let’s go somewhere else.”
He turned on his gift ever so slightly, just a hint. When he’d first learned his gift, he’d hated it, been humiliated by the thought of it, and he would have taken anything else. He’d longed for a gift like Philip’s or Julian’s. But in the nights that followed, Jasper had come to understand the benefits of his gift: pity.
There was great power in pity once he learned how to use it.
Right now he was making this girl feel sorry that the music was too loud for him and that he wanted to leave. She grabbed her clutch purse off the bar.
“Sure,” she said.
He took her hand and led her toward the doors. He’d been inside the nightclub less than ten minutes.
A different valet went to get his car, and he stood on the curb, enjoying the night breeze blowing across his face.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Jasper.”
“I’m Melanie. You married?”
No girl he’d ever picked up had asked him that before, and he looked at her.
“No. Why?”
She shrugged. “I always seem to end up with married guys.”
Well, if you didn’t leave bars with guys you just met, that might not happen so much.
The thought passed quickly through his mind, and he didn’t say it out loud. The BMW pulled up, and he watched her face. Her eyes flickered once, but she made no comment. He opened the door for her, tipped the valet, and jogged around to the driver’s side.
“Where should we go?” she asked once he got in.
“How about the waterfront? Take a walk down by the Cannery? Maybe get some coffee?”
This time, she couldn’t stop her face from registering surprise. He’d learned quickly that suggesting things like walks by the waterfront and then having coffee were unexpected to girls who hung out in expensive nightclubs . . . but the suggestion always worked.
“Sure,” she said again.
He pulled out into traffic and headed for Jefferson Street. To his relief, she didn’t talk much on the way. He found a parking place near the wax museum, and got out, jogging around to open her door. Then he headed toward the water and she followed him—even though she was wearing five-inch stiletto heels.
“I like to look at the boats,” he said, moving toward the docks and listening to the sound of the waves. “Sometimes I think about living on one.”
That part was true. He’d thought about living on a boat since long before he was turned.
“Yeah?” she asked, but didn’t seem too interested. “What do you do?”
What did he do? He followed Julian’s orders. That was what he did.
“This way,” he said without answering her question, and led her down Pier 45 toward the Fishermen’s and Seamen’s Chapel. Halfway down, there was a narrow opening between the buildings, and he slipped inside. “Here.”
She paused. “What’s in there?”
“Just come talk to me for a while. I’m lonely.”
He let his gift flow and watched her expression change from one of caution to one of sympathy. She followed him in without another word, and they were alone in the shadows and darkness. In his early hunts, he had sometimes kissed his victims and allowed them to become completely immersed in sympathy for him before he suddenly shut it off and then rejoiced in their fear—rather like revenge for years of rejection. But he didn’t do that anymore. He still tended to choose a certain type of girl, but now he wanted no connection whatsoever and no reminders of the past.
As soon as she reached him, he pushed her up against the wall and held her there, but he turned his gift up until her mind was clouded by feelings of pity for his loneliness. He could see she wasn’t the type to offer anyone comfort, and yet she still wanted to comfort him. He pressed up against her, smelling her skin. While she was dazed and clouded, he drove his teeth into her neck and started drinking. She bucked once, but he used his strength and his gift to hold her in place, and she barely knew what was happening.
He drew down hard and swallowed quickly over and over, feeling his own body growing stronger.
Her memories were predictable: many nights dancing and drinking in clubs; running up credit card bills until her father threatened her; sex with numerous men at least ten years older than she was—most of whom were already married. He saw a white cat name Percival that she loved, and the wrinkled face of a grandmother she called once a week.
He pulled away. He didn’t want to see those last two things.
The girl’s throat was a mess, blood running freely down her dress. Within a few seconds, her heart stopped beating, and her head lolled. He listened for any footsteps, and, once certain they were still alone, he picked her up with one arm, carried her out to the rail, and dropped her body into the water. It vanished beneath the waves.
He wiped his face and checked his shirt for blood.
Then he walked back toward his car. He was going home. He’d told this girl he was lonely . . . and he was. But he cared for the company of only one person, a ghost named Mary, and Julian kept her busy in Portland most of the time.
Maybe she could find a way to see him again soon.
Mary materialized inside Jasper’s apartment at the Infinity complex, happier than she’d been for a while—grateful Eleisha was following a lead. A new mission for Eleisha meant a mission for Julian . . . and that meant Mary and Jasper would work together.
“Jasper, you here?” she called.
But even before speaking, she knew he must have gone out. She couldn’t sense him anywhere.
Floating just inside the front door, she looked around. The place was amazing, with marble-tiled floors and a state-of-the art kitchen of stainless steel appliances. One wall of the living room was a giant window overlooking the bay. The whole room was decorated in black and white.
She noticed a few additions, such as a large-screen TV and a silver DVD rack.
Julian paid for everything here via an account he’d opened for Jasper with Wells Fargo. The whole situation made Mary uncomfortable—as if Julian had sort of “bought” Jasper—but there wasn’t much she could say.
Turning, she could sense an undead presence coming down the hallway, and she floated farther into the room. After a loud click, the door opened and he walked inside.
“Mary,” he said, smiling slightly, glad to see her.
He was the only one who was ever g
lad to see her.
But he looked so different now.
When she’d found him, he’d been a shabby, skinny mess, wearing dirty pants and scuffed athletic shoes. His hair had been a disaster. He’d always slouched back then, with his shoulders pressing inward.
Then Julian turned him.
Some expensive local stylist had taken in the shape of Jasper’s face and cut his hair very short, almost into a military cut. The look suited Jasper, defining the bones of his face. Tonight, he wore a loose, button-down black shirt over black jeans. He walked straight, his shoulders back.
Jasper liked his new existence, maybe a little too much, and he’d proven he’d do anything to keep it. Mary had to look out for him, to protect him from himself sometimes.
“I was just thinking about you,” he said.
“You were?”
The smallest things like that affected her. He made her wish she were still alive.
“Yeah, I was. . . .” He paused. “Hey, why are you . . . ? Are we on the job?”
She nodded. “He’s going to England. We’re supposed to meet him at the Great Fosters hotel on Stroude Road in Surrey.”
God, what a mouthful.
“You’re supposed to fly into Heathrow,” she added. “Then take a taxi to the hotel.”
Jasper blinked and walked into his bedroom. Mary floated after to see him digging through his dresser drawers. “London?” he said with some hesitation. “I got myself a passport a couple of months ago, after he told me to . . . but did you see where I put it?”
“Um, yeah, I think I saw it with your emergency credit card.”
He looked at her briefly and moved to the nightstand, opening a small drawer. His face relaxed. “Here it is. Thanks.”
Jasper knew how to handle everything else, and he grabbed a box out of the closet to package his sword. “What’s the job?”
“I don’t know yet. Seamus found somebody over there. Julian’s hoping for an elder, but I haven’t learned too much. The vampire’s a guy . . . kind of crazy, and he’s been attacking people out in the open enough to make the newspapers. Oh, and he can make animals, like dogs and cats, protect him.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, should be interesting.”
While Jasper continued packing, Mary floated over to look into a mirror hanging on his bedroom wall. She put a transparent hand to the top of her head, wanting to grimace.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
No matter what he was doing, he always noticed her. He always put her first.
How could she tell him what she was thinking?
“My hair,” she said finally. “I wish I could dye it brown again and grow it back out.” She paused, trying not to sound sad. “I wish I could take out the nose stud and wear other clothes, any other clothes.”
She would always appear exactly as she’d died.
He took a step toward her, shaking his head. “No. I like your hair. I like the way you look. It’s you. Those girls I pick up in bars . . . They’re all fake, all the way through to the inside. You’re real.”
Tragically, this was the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to Mary, but she drank it in and looked back at her spiky magenta hair. He liked it.
She didn’t know how to answer him.
“I’ll try to book a ticket out for tonight,” he said, changing the subject since he may have been a little embarrassed.
Julian’s warning flashed into her head.
“Be sure to count the hours,” she told him. “London’s eight hours ahead, and I think the flight is something like nine or ten hours. You gotta make sure you’ll land in the dark.”
“What? Oh . . . yeah, okay.” He pulled out his cell phone and his wallet. “You’ll meet me there?”
“Sure. I’ll always meet you.”
chapter four
LONDON
As Philip stepped from the taxi out in the Bloomsbury district, right in front of the Montague hotel, he was surprised by an unexpected sense of satisfaction. Eleisha climbed out behind him, staying close to his side and looking around. Instead of a suitcase, she’d brought a backpack, and she shifted its weight on her right shoulder.
“Oh, this is nice, Philip,” she said, looking at the front of the hotel and the manicured flower beds along the street. “Better.”
Wade and Rose’s taxi pulled up to the curb.
Philip was beginning to think Eleisha had seen too many overromanticized British films. They’d landed at Heathrow and taken two cabs to the hotel. But throughout the drive, Eleisha had seemed more and more surprised—and appalled—to find that London was just another big, dirty, crowded city.
Wade got out of the taxi and reached to help Rose step down to the sidewalk. Not for the first time tonight, Philip made a mental note to insist Wade buy himself a more fashionable coat. He was wearing a brown canvas jacket with big pockets, and the bottom hung at an awkward angle below his hips. Seemingly unaware that he resembled a bumpkin, Wade looked around. “Oh, good. Better.”
Apparently, he was of the same mind as Eleisha. What had they expected? At least seven million people lived here. Some of it was going to be seedy.
But Philip had handled the hotel reservation. He always stayed here on trips to London, and he knew Eleisha would like their suite.
She walked over to Rose. “Are you all right?” she asked.
“Yes, let’s just go inside.”
Eleisha took her hand, and they walked to the doors while Philip paid both drivers. True to his word, Wade had managed to keep Rose quiet and calm—almost asleep—the entire trip. Although he wouldn’t admit it, Philip did find the prospect of having Seamus entirely at their disposal to be a relief.
A bellhop came to get their luggage. Philip and Wade followed him inside and up to the suite.
“Philip,” Rose said, stepping through the door. “It’s beautiful.”
The suite was split level with one bedroom upstairs and one on the main floor. The color scheme was cream, brown, and light burnt orange. Most of the fabrics were silk, and a crystal chandelier hung over an antique coffee table in the sitting room.
Philip had already decided that he and Eleisha would take the upstairs bedroom, Rose could sleep in the main bedroom, and Wade could sleep on the couch. Wade never minded that, and it was better for them all to stay together.
Eleisha reached down to touch a silk throw pillow, and Philip just watched her, expecting to feel another wave of satisfaction that his greater knowledge of the world was finally useful. But the room was so familiar to him that, without any warning, a memory suddenly surfaced in his mind . . . of a night sometime back in the mid-1980s when he’d brought two prostitutes back here. He’d killed one of them quickly and the other one slowly.
The memory disturbed him—as if he feared Eleisha or Wade might enter his mind and read it—and he pushed it away while he tipped the bellhop and quickly showed the man out.
“I don’t think I can start any kind of search tonight,” Wade said once the door was closed. His eyes were bloodshot. “I need some sleep.”
“I know,” Eleisha said. “I feel strange, too. We’ve been up so long.”
At least Wade had the luxury of falling asleep. The rest of them wouldn’t go dormant until the sun rose here. But Philip had other plans anyway.
“I need to feed,” he said abruptly. “Eleisha, come out with me.”
She moved to him, and he studied her. She looked especially pretty tonight, wearing a short denim skirt and a tight-fitting black turtleneck. Some of her hair was pinned up with loose strands hanging past her chin.
“Already?” she asked. “You just fed the other night.”
“The woman was small, so I didn’t drain her much. But I want to be at full strength before we start anything here.”
“Of course.” She nodded. “Rose, would you like to come with us?”
This was a polite question, and Philip didn’t worry about having extra company along. He knew Ros
e wouldn’t be going anywhere.
“No, I’ll stay here with Wade,” Rose answered.
Eleisha looked all around the suite. “Seamus? Are you here?”
The air wavered, and Seamus materialized near the door. His colors were bright, especially the blue shades in his plaid. “I’m here.”
“Wade’s going to sleep for a while, and Philip and I are going out,” she said. “I don’t think we’ll be starting a search until tomorrow night, so you can just stay near Rose.”
He nodded his transparent head.
Philip opened the package hiding his machete, strapped the sheathed blade to his belt, and buttoned his coat over the top. He headed for the door, knowing Eleisha would follow. Shortly after they’d first met, she told him she’d follow him anywhere, even to France. But then they’d moved to Portland and started the underground. Tonight, he honestly did want to feed and gain his full strength, but more important, he wanted to show London to Eleisha . . . by himself.
As Eleisha stepped from the subway station out in Covent Garden, she could not help feeling impressed by the sheer organization of the city’s underground transportation system. However, she was completely lost in this foreign place, and Philip seemed to know exactly what he was doing and where he was going at every turn.
It was . . . disconcerting.
Staying close to him, she took in the sights around her, finding some pleasure in the old-world charm of this area—more of what she expected. Her first impression of London had not been good, and she was rather glad to be out with Philip now.
An incredible variety of colorful shops and restaurants stretched all around them, along with an overwhelming array of people even this late into the night. Voices speaking in English, French, German, and Swedish floated swiftly past. As she stepped forward into a courtyard area, she heard music and turned to see a young man sitting in a chair out in the open, playing U2’s “Sunday Bloody Sunday” at a surprising volume on an acoustic guitar.
“Come on,” Philip said. “I want to show you Neal Street. It’s so dark there.”
The eagerness in his voice caught her attention, and she realized he wanted to do more than just go hunting. Were they sightseeing? This was hardly the time or the right situation.