Eternal

by V. K. Forrest

  The two ate in silence. Glen was halfway through the second pint before he looked up at her across the table. “Look, I don’t like this any better than you do. You think it’s your case. I know it’s mine”—he didn’t pause long enough for her to answer—“but my SAC says we’re in it together. We might as well make the best of it.”

  He was right. She knew he was right. Her little silent temper tantrum was unprofessional. It wasn’t his fault he looked like Ian. Wasn’t his fault the FBI had drawn these particular jurisdictional lines. She needed to be civil, at least until she could figure out how to get him out of Clare Point and off the case. She was already planning on making a call to Malley’s office in the morning.

  He was still waiting.

  She sighed and sat back in her chair. He was offering a truce, and it was up to her to accept it.

  “I don’t mean to seem bitchy. I’m just preoccupied. Bobby McCathal—”

  “You don’t need to apologize. I’ve never investigated the murder of someone I knew, but I can imagine it would be difficult.”

  His phone vibrated again. Again, he looked at it and then laid it screen down. She guessed it was the fiancée again. The woman was persistent. Twice in half an hour.

  “Frankly,” he said, pushing his empty tray away, “I suppose that was why I was surprised when the chief said you’d been called in. Guess you know someone in Senator Malley’s office, or someone knows you.”

  She didn’t answer that. Instead, she asked him how long he’d been at the Baltimore Field Office, why he was an FBI agent, where he went to college. Fortunately, he picked up the ball and began to tell her about how he’d come to be sitting in this pub with her, investigating a murder on just another Wednesday night.

  She smiled inside. He didn’t realize how high the alcohol content was in the stout, and she sure wasn’t going to tell him. Alcohol always made humans talk. Fia thought about saying something, but decided against it. It wasn’t her problem if he had a headache in the morning.

  The pub began to fill up with those who had eaten at home and were just coming in for a pint and to see what news there was of Bobby. Shannon brought Glen a third pint. All around her, the voices seemed to swell, growing louder in Fia’s head, then quiet, then building, then quiet, again and again, almost in a rhythm. Some people were angry she’d brought the FBI agent into the family pub. Everyone wanted to know how he’d ended up in Clare Point and the explanation, apparently supplied by the chief of police, had to be repeated over and over, until everyone was in the know.

  When Glen finished his stout, he rose, excusing himself to go to the men’s room. While he was gone, Fia took the opportunity to ask if anyone had seen Dr. Caldwell tonight, but no one had. She was wondering if he had started the autopsy. She almost regretted asking, as she set off a new tangent for all of them to follow. Unfortunately, she couldn’t communicate with Dr. Caldwell directly. Although there were a couple of people in the sept who could “talk” over great distances, she didn’t have that gift. Even the walls of a room stopped her short.

  The small pub had gotten crowded and noisy. It was time to get back to the hotel. She was looking for Shannon and the check when Fia’s father walked in. “Fia, your mother was wondering where you were, she was,” he said, approaching the table stiffly, his hands stuffed in his pants pockets. He reeked of cigarette smoke. “You should have come by.”

  She nodded, looking up. He was never stern with her, not even when he was well in his cups, but ever since Ian, he had seemed emotionally distant from her. Even during her teen-year cycles, when she became his child again. She knew she had deeply disappointed him, though he had never actually come out and said it. “I was planning on coming by tomorrow, sometime. I have to be careful.” She glanced up to be sure Glen hadn’t returned. “I guess you heard I got stuck babysitting this other agent.”

  “Your mother has extra rooms open now that they’ve gone home.” In her father’s world, the tourists were simply them or they. “You should have come to the house.”

  He was a big, stocky man with inky dark hair and hooded eyes. He made her feel small. She nodded.

  He was quiet for a second and then tapped the table, turning away, sticking his hand back in his pocket. “You should come tomorrow.”

  She watched him walk through the crowd, wondering how long it had been since they’d had a conversation that didn’t involve him telling her something she should or shouldn’t be doing. Sighing, she glanced around again, looking for Glen, wondering where he was.

  During their meal, he had mentioned how surprised he was that not a single person had approached their table. They wouldn’t officially begin their interviews until the following morning, but he had been hoping people would be talking freely to him. The poor soul had no idea….

  Still not seeing him, Fia rose. She caught Tavia’s eye. The room was getting louder. Check—I better get him out of here before things get rowdy, she told Tavia.

  I don’t know where that worthless colleen is now. Just pay up before you leave town. Better yet, find out who did this to Bobby and your fish and chips are on me. Tavia gave a wave of the bar towel that always seemed to be in her hand and pushed through the kitchen door.

  Glen’s cell phone vibrated, humming and hopping across the tabletop. Unable to resist, Fia picked it up. The front screen said “Stacy.” She didn’t answer it, but she took it with her as she got up from the table.

  Several people stopped Fia on her way toward the restrooms. Everyone had the same questions concerning Bobby’s death. How was this possible? Who could have done this? She, of course, had no answers yet and her job kept her from speculating aloud.

  As she turned down the dark, narrow hall, she spotted Glen. Shannon had him backed up against the wall near the pay phone, breasts thrust up and forward, practically touching his chin.

  “There you are,” Fia called. “Your fiancée called again.” She waggled the phone.

  He looked guilty at once, which had been her intention, though now she didn’t know why. Why did she care if he cheated on his fiancée? Of course, if he was going to cheat on Stacy the hygienist, Shannon was not the person to do it with.

  “Shannon, Tavia’s looking for you,” she said lightly, passing them. You know better. Leave the human alone.

  Shannon didn’t move.

  “She wants you now, Shannon.” Fia pushed open the ladies’ room door. Council members are watching, she warned. “We better head back, Glen,” she continued aloud. “I already took care of the check.”

  When she came out of the bathroom, Glen was still standing next to the phone. As she approached him down the long hall, it struck her how handsome he was. No wonder Shannon was attracted to him.

  “You call her back?” She walked past him and he followed.

  “Uh, no.” Glen glanced down at the phone in his hand. He didn’t know why, but right now Stacy was the furthest thing from his mind. “I’ll, uh, call later.”

  As they wove their way around the tables, through the noisy barroom, Glen got the impression they were being watched. But he knew that was to be expected. Small town. Big city FBI agents. He followed Fia out the door, into the warm, muggy, August air and took a deep breath.

  “Wow,” he said, drawing his hand across his forehead. Out on the not-quite-level brick sidewalk, he realized just how off-balance he was, though he wasn’t entirely sure it was the beer. “Pretty strong brew.” He certainly didn’t feel drunk, but he didn’t sound stone-cold sober either.

  Fia surprised him with a laugh. One that was deep. Sensual.

  “Tavia’s a talented brewer.”

  He glanced at Fia Kahill as they turned the corner, walking closely side by side on the sidewalk. The moon had risen, but still hung low on the horizon, bathing the treetops on the street in strange yellow light. He knew very well he hadn’t had that much to drink, but he felt odd. Slightly off.

  Fia was as beautiful a woman as he had ever seen. He’d always liked redhe
ads, but there was something different about her. Something tantalizing, that suggested she might be just a little bit dangerous. He hadn’t been interested in the brazen waitress beyond listening long enough to see if she had anything to say about Bobby McCathal’s death, but this Fia, she was in a completely different league. As much as he might like to deny it, he was attracted to her and his attraction was growing by the second. It was the damnedest thing. He’d never reacted to a woman like this, especially not one who irked him the way she did. He liked his women uncomplicated. But there was no denying the tightness in his chest and in his groin.

  In the dark, Glen seemed even more familiar to Fia. The gait of his walk. The rhythm of his breathing. When they passed a red maple tree growing against the side of the walk, his hand brushed the sleeve of her jacket.

  She tried to breathe slowly, deeply, as she walked beside him. She’d only had the one pint, but now that she was on her feet, outside, she felt a little off-kilter. Overly warm. Slightly disoriented. It made no sense to desire him, but she knew the sensation entirely too well and it was dangerous. Dangerous for her. More dangerous for him.

  He smelled like her Ian….

  His hand brushed her arm again and this time she knew he had done it on purpose. He was feeling it, too.

  Against her will, that familiar tease curled low in her groin. Tendrils of desire. Her blood quickened.

  Blood…

  Chapter 4

  They followed the sidewalk up to the 1950s-style motel and Fia muttered something nearly incoherent about getting an early start in the morning. She fumbled for her key in her pocket as she halted at room 104. She knew she needed to get inside quickly. Didn’t trust herself with Ian.

  Glen.

  She jabbed at the doorknob with the key, missed, tried again.

  She felt his warm hand close over hers. “I’ll get it.” His tone was light, mocking.

  Ian mocking her from the grave. Not Ian.

  Despite the three pints of ale he’d consumed, Special Agent Glen Duncan, unlike Fia, had no trouble sliding the key into the lock and turning the doorknob.

  Her pulse throbbed, her breath tight in her chest. It had been a long time since a man had made her feel like this.

  She reached for the key, moving toward the open door, inadvertently toward him.

  The same height as Fia, all he had to do was turn his head slightly, and then his lips were on hers. She couldn’t tell if he had done it of his own will, or had been lured by the age-old spell of the vampire.

  His mouth tasted of stout, of the excitement of the unfamiliar, and at the same time, of the smoky past. She felt surrounded, overwhelmed by the scent of his skin and the warmth of his lips.

  It took every fiber of self-control for Fia not to grab him by the shoulders, push him into the room and onto the bed.

  “Agent Duncan,” she heard herself say against his mouth.

  It seemed to snap him out of his fugue.

  “Agent Kahill.” He seemed as surprised by his behavior as she was. He cleared his throat, stepped back and made a beeline for the next door down.

  She heard the rattle of his key as she closed her door and set the dead bolt. She leaned against the doorframe. Her blood rushed in her ears as she breathed heavily, her thoughts darting in opposite directions, one after another.

  All she would have to do was knock on his door. She knew he would let her in.

  She couldn’t do it. Wouldn’t. Too much at stake.

  She tried to think fast.

  Pulling her cell phone from her pocket, she made a call she hadn’t made in some time. He answered on the second ring. A moment later, she was out of her room, walking down the dark street again. She put one foot in front of the other, putting more distance between herself and the FBI agent with every stride.

  Perspiring heavily, she removed her jacket, carrying it over her arm.

  She couldn’t believe she’d let him kiss her. Almost kiss her…their mouths had barely touched.

  Was she out of her mind?

  The path of the yellow moon led her four blocks through town, directly to Arlan’s door. He was waiting for her on his back porch, a four-foot-long creature with a curling tail and slanted gold eyes one moment, a lanky six-foot-tall man the next.

  “Heard you were in town,” he said lazily, leaning on the bowed porch rail. It needed paint.

  “I didn’t come to talk.” She hurried up the steps.

  His arm shot out, grabbed her.

  She gave a little grunt of surprise. Her jacket fell as he spun her around, pushing her up against the corner post. The back of her head hit the post, smarting. She took his mouth hungrily. “Just tonight,” she warned between kisses.

  He bit down gently on her lower lip, then harder. “Just tonight.”

  “Don’t want to talk.” She ran her hands over his bare, muscular chest. He was barefoot, just in jeans. He must have jumped in the shower right before she called. He smelled fresh. Comfortable. Safe.

  “No talking,” he repeated, forcing his knee between her legs.

  She moaned, grabbing a handful of his shaggy, dark hair. Nipped at his ear lobe, then his neck…just lightly. No blood.

  He slid his hand up over her breast and squeezed. She moaned again. He pulled at the high neckline of her blouse. When the silk fabric wouldn’t give way, he jerked downward and it tore down the middle, exposing her breasts in a lacy bra.

  “Ass,” she muttered. “It was a Ralph Lauren.”

  He grasped one of her legs, above her knee, and lifted it to wrap around his waist. She pressed her groin to his, grinding against the hard bulge in his jeans. All Kahill males were well-endowed.

  He grasped the lacy edge of her bra and pulled back the cup to expose her breast to the humid night air. Her pale nipple hardened at once and she guided his head downward, encouraging him to take it in his mouth.

  Arlan had been her lover on and off for hundreds of years. He knew her as well as she knew herself, and knew her body better, perhaps. He’d always had a thing for her, even before Ian; she had never been able to reciprocate those feelings. For that reason, the guilt occasionally got to her and she’d stay away from him for awhile. Sometimes as long as a life cycle. But she always came back to Arlan and he was always waiting for her.

  He pushed her bra strap down, covering her breast with his warm hand, massaging her nipple with his thumb. “Inside or here?” he panted in her ear.

  She nipped his neck a little deeper this time, feeling his pulse against her lips. He would offer her his blood. He didn’t always, but tonight, he would. “Inside,” she whispered.

  The following morning, Fia met Glen at the breakfast buffet inside the lobby of the Lighthouse Motel. He was already at a table, drinking coffee, eating scrambled eggs and sausage links, when she walked in. She made herself a cup of hot herbal tea, grabbed a plain bagel and sat in the chair across from him.

  An elderly couple stood at the breakfast bar arguing over the fat content of a blueberry muffin; the other tables were empty.

  “Morning,” she said.

  He didn’t look up over the edge of the newspaper he was reading. “Morning,” he said cheerfully.

  Cheerful enough that she wondered why she was feeling so awkward and he wasn’t. Had he really tried to kiss her last night or had that been a figment of Fia’s overactive imagination, spurred by the fact that she couldn’t get over how much he looked like Ian?

  Or had it happened and he didn’t remember? Maybe he didn’t hold his liquor well and he really was drunk last night. Or maybe he was just embarrassed and good at covering for himself.

  For whatever reason, it didn’t appear they were going to have one of those clumsy morning-after conversations, for which she would be eternally grateful. She dunked her teabag in the hot water in the Styrofoam cup in front of her and nibbled on the uncut, untoasted bagel.

  Glen finished reading whatever had been holding his attention and folded the newspaper and set it aside. “
Sleep okay, Agent Kahill?”

  There was something in the tone of his voice now that made her think he had tried to kiss her last night, and he remembered it all too well.

  “Fine. You, Agent Duncan?”

  “Like a baby.” He scooped up one last forkful of scrambled eggs and pushed it into his mouth. He wasn’t exactly avoiding eye contact, but he wasn’t looking at her, either. “You have a plan for this morning?”

  “Of course, but you go first.” She pulled the teabag out of the water, wrapping it around a spoon.

  “No, no. Your hometown, Agent Kahill. Your connections with the senator’s office. Go ahead.”

  She dropped the bagel onto her napkin, instantly annoyed. Fine. They’d do it her way. Her way was usually better in most situations, anyway. “While we’re waiting on the autopsy report—”

  “Which should be interesting,” he interjected.

  “We take another look at the crime scene, get some additional photos, clear it so the federal building can be reopened, and then we start interviewing anyone who saw the victim the evening of his death and work backwards from there.”

  He took a drink of coffee from the white mug. “We order a background check on the vic. Have a look at his bank accounts, credit cards, nose around in his personal life.”

  She worked her jaw, raising her cup to her lips. He’d have to know about Mary…Mary his girlfriend, not his wife. Of course, his wife had a steady thing with Joey Hill. Tuesday nights. Had for twenty-five years, at least.

  Men and women of the sept remained with their own spouses or partners life cycle after life cycle, but were free to have sex with whomever they pleased…so long as he or she was not human. It was the way they had been doing it for centuries and it made everyone’s lives less problematic.

  This investigation in Clare Point was going to get complicated. It wasn’t going to fit into any neat FBI investigative-techniques box. She really needed to get Glen Duncan out of here before he got hurt.