None of it was of much help, but Ric strove to keep his breathing steady. It would accomplish nothing to lose control and take out his frustrations on Tuxbridge. "Tell me about yourself, Tux. Where are you from?" Now was as good a time as any to learn more about his adjutant.
Tux smiled. "I'm from 'God's Country'-that is, if I still believed in a God. The Upper Peninsula. My father was a Frenchman. Did you know that?"
Ric shook his head.
Tux's grin spread. "Unlike yourself, he was typical of the courouers de bois, the French fur traders, jovial and happy-go-lucky. It was a period of great romance, but also of hardship. The traders were fettered by laws as harsh and biting as the jaws of their steel traps, but my father and his cronies were notorious in their disregard of the decrees. They cared only for one thing, and that was the hunt. By the time I was born, markets were overstocked, prices fell, and the decline of the fur trade had begun. My father died, as did I, but I passed to the Other Side, and he did not. Still, all in all, I feel a kinship to him to this day. He enjoyed the hunt, and so do I."
"When I lived in Eidolon Lake I heard about the fur traders. There were old men in town who loved nothing better than to relate the legends of the fur traders, miners, and lumberman, and of the ghost towns that are all that's now left of them."
Tux pulled a matchbook out of his pocket and lit a match. "Have you ever heard the French legend of the feu follet?"
"The will-o'-the-wisp. The friar's lantern. Of course. Strange, glowing orbs of light that flit through the woods, luring weary travelers not to safety, but to their deaths in a marshy bog or down a steep ravine."
"Umm. A phenomena the scientists have dubbed ignis fatuus, the phosphorescent light caused by spontaneous combustion of gases emitted by rotting organic matter. But when I lived near what is now L'Anse it was myself and my brothers carrying lights in the forest to lure the humans to their doom. We fed well, and if we killed our victims, it didn't matter. The missing were always blamed on the feu follet. It was great sport. I miss those days." Tux stared at the flickering flame.
"Not enough to go around killing humans, I hope."
Tux blew out the match. "Of course not. We're more civilized now, and even we French no longer flaunt authority, do we?"
One side of Ric's mouth twisted downward. "Civilized, yes." He looked at his watch and sighed. "I have to finish the autopsy.
We'll talk more tonight. Two o'clock. Be early."
Tux nodded as he drew a long breath. The gesture summed up Ric's own feelings. It was going to be a long day, and an even longer night.
* * * *Shelby arrived home at nine o'clock in the evening, dead to the world except for the tireless little gremlins who kept her and her headache alive with the merciless pounding of tiny hammers against her temple.
A familiar greeting welcomed her. "Hello, baby."
She smiled in spite of her exhaustion and throbbing head. "Hi, Flash. Did you miss me?"
"Hello, lover. Lover boy. Lover boy."
"I wish." She opened the door of the cage, and the blue and white budgie hopped onto the lowered door and then onto her finger.
She brought Flash to her face, and the tiny beak stretched out to peck at her nose in a bird-kiss. "Go on, now. I'm too tired to play."
She raised her hand with a jerk, and the bird took off, flapping noisily around the room.
Flash had been named after the first partner she'd had as a patrol officer in Milwaukee eight years ago. At first Flash had been exciting to work with. He had loved nothing more than to chase stolen cars through the streets and alleys of Milwaukee's north side, and hardly an evening had gone by that Shelby and Flash didn't engage some hapless slug in a foot or car pursuit. She had even dated Flash for a while, but his nickname was just as appropriate in the bedroom as it had been on the streets. Gradually Shelby began to see Flash as conceited and unsafe, and she was glad for the next squad change in which he was paired with a guy dubbed "Crash" for his propensity for getting into squad accidents. Flash and Crash. It was a match made in heaven.
Suddenly she was angry with herself. It must be the exhaustion, because she knew better than to think about her ex-partner Flash.
He made her think of the next cop she had dated, Curt Van Allen, and Curt had been the ultimate heartbreaker. V. A., as everyone had called him, had been on the early shift with her. Tall, with blue eyes, blond hair, and a body sculpted to perfection by hours in the gym, he had caught her eye from day one. And the attraction had been mutual. Maybe it was his air of authority that had made her think he was responsible. Maybe it was his smooth words, so coated with sincerity. But when he had told her he loved her, she had believed him. Not in a million years would she have guessed that V. A., as full of charm as his file was full of merit arrests, would be the one to destroy her life so thoroughly. Betrayal. Gossip. The harassment suit. Lies.
No! She had vowed long ago not to waste any more tears, thoughts, or time on Curt Van Allen. She forced the memories aside, and swept the room with her gaze, searching for some distraction.
The phone. The red message light was blinking. Well, the calls could wait a few moments longer. She needed to relax, and she wasn't quite ready to trade the painful recollections of the past for the pressures of the present. She shook her head, raised her hands with her palms facing the phone, and slipped into the sanctuary of her bedroom. The world could wait. She dropped the heavy Sam Browne belt onto the floor with a thud. Her sweaty uniform shirt was next to hit the floor, followed by an even sweatier white T-shirt. The brown uniform trousers topped the pile.
Shelby took a cool shower, pulled on cotton shorts and a baggy T-shirt, and poured herself an iced tea. The red light on her phone caught her eye again. She sighed and played back her messages. One was from a reporter from the Harbor-Bay Light, the small, weekly newspaper that covered Shadow Bay and neighboring Snoshoe Harbor, and one was from a reporter from the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel who had obviously found out she used to work for the Milwaukee Police Department. Christ!
What's next? USA Today? Requests at home for interviews were bad enough, but the last message was a lengthy tirade from one of Cristallia County's District Commissioners.
"Young lady, I know you're not a native of these parts, so let me remind you that our number one industry is tourism, and that the bulk of the dollars generated through that tourism comes during the summer months. I hold you and your department personally responsible for solving this atrocious crime and seeing that nothing like this happens again in our community. There were those who thought we were taking a risk electing you, and others who thought your experience and skills outweighed your youth and unfamiliarity with the area. I certainly hope that the trust put in you was not misplaced."
Shelby closed her eyes for a long moment, but instead of relaxation, all she felt was the persistent pounding in her head, as though some evil taskmaster was hammering out a beat for her racing thoughts to follow. She put Flash back in his cage, picked up her iced tea, and went outside to the rear deck to stretch out on her padded chaise lounge.
It wasn't unusual for Milwaukee to record fifteen homicides in a single summer month, but it was unheard of for Shadow Bay to have a single homicide in a decade. She was used to responsibility, and the fact that she had been a female put into a position of command at a fairly young age had put her into the spotlight years ago. She was used to it, but that didn't make it easier to bear.
She took a long swallow of her cold drink, then leaned her head back and stared at the dazzling display above. Even after two years she was still amazed at how different the night sky looked in the country as opposed to the city. With the tall trees, taller buildings, and artificial lights of Milwaukee, the sky at night had always been a small patch of gray, populated by the moon and a handful of only the brightest stars. Out here the sky itself was a city of stars against a vast landscape of black shadow and shape.
But instead of calming her as it usually did, the sight overwhelmed her, making her feel small and insignificant. She longed for someone to listen to her, to rub the tension from her neck and shoulders, but there was no one. She seldom indulged in regrets and "what ifs," but tonight the lack of sleep, headache, and memory of the angry phone message fought and won out against her fortitude. She closed her eyes and let the silent tears trickle down her face. What did it matter? There was no one to see her.
Ric arrived at Dory Kreech's house well in advance of the scheduled meeting time. He had managed three hours of sleep after finishing the autopsy, all the reports, and a visit to the sheriff. The body had been identified late in the afternoon via dental records.
The victim turned out to be a young man named Kyle Carver from La Pointe, two hundred miles to the south, who had been unemployed and in and out of trouble with the law. Ric was glad the body had been identified so quickly. It would be shipped back to the family now for burial instead of to Washington for further scrutiny, and the secret of his death would be buried with him.
The body would be no more of a problem, but Ric still had two very big problems remaining. The sheriff and the killer. The sheriff would go on digging, and the killer would go on killing. One of them had to be stopped.
Ric looked again at the house before him. "House" was kind. The sprawling abode could easily vie with and beat out the Chicken Palace for the title of Architectural Nightmare of Cristallia County. As Ric eased his bike all the way to the end of the driveway he was able to see the side and rear of the building. Doors and windows sprouted all over the structure like eyes on a potato, and they were all open, spilling light out into the night like water through a sieve. The ground floor had both conventional doors and patios with sliding doors on each side of the house. The upper story had a door with a small deck on both the front and the side, and a larger deck to the rear with a staircase that descended to the ground.
Ric pulled the band from his hair and shook his head. The breeze caught the long strands and styled them into the type of tempestuous array that a mother would frown upon, but Ric didn't care. There was no pretense of the mild-mannered human here, no glasses and no khakis. He wore his leather jacket, worn jeans, and motorcycle boots.
A slightly built man, as unassuming as the house was eccentric, stood in the rectangle of light formed by one of the side doors. He had limp, shoulder-length, dark blond hair that any woman, and even a good many men, would have lightened to a more flattering shade.
"You must be the Doctor. I'm Dory Kreech. Welcome to the Deanery."
"Ric De Chaux. The Deanery?"
"That's what it was before I bought it and made a few modifications. Come on in. I heard you bought the Chicken Palace. A great house, yours is. Not enough doors, but still a great house."
"Hmm. Do you know why everyone calls it the 'Chicken Palace?'"
"Sure. The name dates all the way back to the Second World War. See, the upstairs wasn't finished, and the owner couldn't get any more materials because of the war. The family slept up there in the cold, sometimes in zero temperatures. Finally they declared the place a 'farm' and obtained enough cedar for a 'chicken coop' which they promptly used quite illegally to finish off the upstairs. The government would allow materials for something like a farm, which they felt was useful, but not for a kid's bedroom. Humans, huh? Go figure."
Humans, indeed. Dory led them into his living room, where extra chairs had obviously been squeezed in amongst a rustic sofa and matching armchair. "Make yourself at home, Doc. You don't mind if I call you that, do you?"
"No."
"I know who you are. We all do. Le docteur la mort. Doctor Death. You're quite famous, you know. We're honored to have you here."
Famous? How diplomatic that you don't call me notorious. Ric slid his gaze from the furnishings to the smaller man. "Are you?
What else do you know about me?"
Dory smiled. "I know that you worked for the Coterie as a Paramount and that you even made a bid for Patriarch."
And you've probably heard two percent truth and ninety-eight percent rumor, Mr. Kreech. Still, rumor and reputation could often be used to the good. "Hmm. I suggest you forget everything you've heard, Mr. Kreech." No doubt you'll not only remember everything you've heard, but I'm sure you'll spread it around to everyone who hasn't heard the rumors.
"Uh, sure, Doc."
Dory retreated to the open frame of one of his precious doors, and Ric had a moment to himself. Patriarch. His mind's eye took him back in time in a blink.
Paris, 1935 La directrice herself had summoned him. He strode the long hallways of the Directorate building, and reminders of his defeat followed him down the corridors like a shadow.
"I heard it was a landslide decision."
"He'll never be nominated for Directorate status."
"Nikolena's golden boy looks a little tarnished."
He held his head high and ignored the whispered slurs. Moments later he knelt beside the only one who mattered, and she didn't berate him.
"Mon homme dore. My golden boy. They are all fools! Evrard Verkist may have defeated you, but he was only the more popular choice, not the better choice. Mark my words. The Brotherhood will be ill served by his leadership."
He raised his eyes to her, but her hands touched him more than her gaze did. Her small fingers stroked his hair, slowly, gently, so as not to catch her many rings in the long strands.
"The outcome is of no consequence to me, madame. Evrard is welcome to the job. You know I only made the bid because you, Drago, and Philippe all wished it."
"There are other high-ranking Brotherhood positions available."
"I'm not interested."
She dragged her fingertips down his face and across his lips. "I can take you anytime I wish, my pet." The sharp tip of one fingernail scored a line down his neck. "I can transfer you to my retinue on a temporary basis, you know. A temporary assignment that will last indefinitely."She had the power and the right to do with him as she pleased, but still he pled his case. "No. Madame, if I mean anything to you, allow me to retain my old position as Paramount."
Both her small hands rose to cup his face, and she considered his fate.
In the end, he had had his way. But he always remembered her final words to him on that day.
"You can't run from your destiny forever, my golden boy. And don't think you can escape my will forever."
The sound of a vehicle in the drive ended his reflection, and he looked out the closest window. It was Tuxbridge, but as soon as Tux glided in through the nearest door, the rumble of another car engine echoed in the night. Ric glanced at his watch and then questioned Tux with the lift of one brow. It was barely one-thirty.
Tux shrugged. "I told everybody not to be late. More than that, though, I think they're just curious. You're a celebrity as far as these vamps are concerned. The great Doctor Death."
"So I've heard," Ric replied, not bothering to disguise the dryness in his voice. Wonderful. Being an Undead superstar was not something he either aspired to or welcomed, but maybe there would be a way he could use it to his advantage. A little respect and awe might go a long way.
Tux moved closer to Ric's side as the first of the vamps swept into the house. Another point in his new adjutant's favor. Tux was showing his support of his new Overlord to the others in a way that was subtle, yet would not be missed.
The newcomer was a female, tall and slender, with long blond hair fashioned into a wild display that Ric presumed was neither windblown nor unintentional.
"Eva Hazard," said Tux. "Eva, Ricard De Chaux, our new boss."
The stripper, of course. The abundance of pale flesh bared by the skimpy shorts and narrow tube top was the first thing that male eyes took notice of, and such exhibitionism might indicate an openness of character, but Ric also noted the carefully applied makeup and her appraising stare. If she felt any awe or respect, it was well hidden. She raked her gaze up and down the length of his body in what he imagined was a mockery of the typical male look sent her way.
"Uh-uh-uh. Well, aren't you the one. Too bad your blood is as dead as it is red or I'd be tempted to sign you up for my drop dead gorgeous club." The words were as soft and drawn out as her long limbs. She reached out one thin finger and ran the tip of a long nail down his neck to the portion of chest bared by several unfastened buttons. Her eyes were pale, their color shifting from blue to lilac to aqua.
Ric snared her wrist and pulled her hand away from him. "'Drop dead' had better be a figure of speech, Miss Hazard."
"Hmm. Is that the only kind of figure you're interested in, Doctor?"
"No, but I prefer even a figure of speech to any you may flatter yourself to possess," Ric replied, his voice still as dry as the corpse he had examined.
Eva smiled a smug little cat-grin, as if she was pleased to have a boss who could give as good as he got, but before either could say more, the next vamp strolled in.
Tux whispered in Ric's ear. "Ormie Kessler."
The casino security guard. Ormie reminded Ric of a large bulldog, stocky and muscular. His short hair was dark and spiky, and his features were just as standoffish.
"Well, well. Doctor Death. We're mighty honored to have you in our little community." He took a seat next to Eva and wrapped an arm around her slender shoulders. "Did you know, Eva, my love, that the Doc here was almost made Patriarch?" Ric knew the reference for the insult it was. Ric had been nominated for Patriarch in 1935, but the Directorate voting had been a landslide in his opponent's favor. The only one who had backed Ric had been his alliance partner, Alek Dragovich. It was said that his old friend had met the True Death, but Ric didn't want to believe it. He liked to think instead that Drago was still walking the earth somewhere, sowing chaos in his wake.
Ormie looked at Ric. "Well, the country's loss is our gain. Welcome, Doc."
The last two vampires arrived. Lyle Livingston was as slender as Eva, and Zada Sinclair was nearly as burly as Ormie was. Lyle and Zada sat together on the opposite side of the room from Eva and Ormie, a fact not lost on Ric.
Ormie stared at Lyle with a none-too-brotherly look. "If you ever need any help with this sorry little group, Doc, just let me know.
I'm always happy to help out."
It was indeed an uninspiring little group, and the best Ric could think of was that at least they didn't appear to go out of their way to bring attention to themselves. Except Eva, of course. It was a little hard for a stripper to be inconspicuous. But there were no augmented fangs that Ric could see, no outlandish outfits, and no garish makeup. Ormie had several tattoos on the bulging forearms and biceps revealed by a skintight T-shirt, and long, lean Lyle had a pierced nose, but those things were far from unusual in today's society. Also missing were the glassy sheen to the hair and the intense eye color that normally marked the most powerful of vampires. Tuxbridge came the closest in that regard with his bright emerald eyes and shiny black hair.
As soon as they were all settled, Ric stood and began. "You all know who I am. Most of you know my background. I was a Paramount in France for a long time, and, yes, I did make a bid for Patriarch many years ago, but wasn't chosen. I do want you all to know I'm here in this small community of my own accord, not because of any sanction inflicted by either the Directorate or current Patriarch. This is a small group, and we are informal here, so no titles are necessary. Call me Ric."
He paused and let his gaze pan the room. Six pairs of eyes in turn followed his every move. Whether it was due to respect, disdain or curiosity, Ric didn't care-as long as he had their attention. "This isn't the kind of first council meeting I had anticipated. I know you didn't have much notice and that some of you missed work tonight, but it was necessary. As I'm sure many of you know by now, a body was found last night by the local privy hole digger out on Salt Lick Road. The body was that of a twenty-seven-year- old man who was killed about three weeks ago. What the sheriff doesn't know-what no one knows except myself, the killer, and now you-is that the man died at the hands of the Undead."
Ric paused again to gauge the reaction to his words. Eyes shifted from side to side, but there was no guilty admission, and no one person seemed to attract all eyes. Gradually, everybody's gaze settled back on Ric.
"I'm the new ME for the County Coroner's Office, but don't let that fool you. My first and foremost duty is to neither the human living nor the human dead, but to the Undead of this county. It's not my intention to turn him or her over to human authorities. My duty is to protect everyone in this room. But I must know who it is, if only to make sure the killer doesn't endanger all of us by continuing in his or her ways. Therefore, if you committed the deed, or know who did, I expect you to contact me privately by tomorrow night. We will meet, the manner will be handled swiftly and confidentially, and that will be the end of it."
Ormie spoke up. "What makes you think it was one of us? There are lots of rogues in the area, not to mention those just passing through. Hell, the casino alone draws people from as far away as Detroit and beyond."
Ric met Ormie's dark gaze. "I'm aware of all that. I have limited control over the rogues and none at all over the tourists and transients. What I do have control over is this group, so that's where I must start."
Ormie apparently wasn't satisfied. "And if no one speaks up?"
"If no one comes forward, I'll arrange for a private meeting with each one of you, and you will submit to a reading. And before you start complaining about the indignity of having your every private thought laid bare, let me remind you that this isn't some human democracy in action here. I'm your master, and I'll do whatever is necessary for the greater good. And if any of you, now or ever, entertain any notion of resisting me or hiding anything from me, you can forget about it. My removal from France and my posting here has nothing to do with a lack of power. If you doubt it, I will be only too happy to have le docteur la mort correct you."There was absolute silence, and even Ormie Kessler didn't so much as open his mouth again. Yes, a little bit of reputation can go a long way.
"Any more questions?" He allowed his gaze to bore through each of his six charges in turn.
The silence continued. Good. Normally a council meeting, especially an introductory one like this, would last at least an hour, with welcomes, introductions, and a formal statement of goals followed by a ceremony of vows sealed with blood. But Ric was exhausted, and he wanted nothing more than to go home and get some deep, restful sleep.
"Cards with my address and phone number are on the table there. My cell phone is always with me, so that's the best way to reach me quickly. I'll be contacting each of you privately during the upcoming week. Our next regular meeting, barring any more emergencies, will probably be in two weeks, hopefully at my house. Tux will contact you and let you know. This meeting is adjourned, but I'll be here for a while if any of you want to talk privately."
No one apparently wanted to be seen by the others staying to talk to the new Overlord, however, and they all quickly filtered out of the living room through the various exits. Only Tux stayed behind, and, of course, Dory. Ric's extraordinary hearing, sharper than that of the average vamp, picked up a few stray comments from the driveway.
"Hey, Ormie. Don't turn your back on His Majesty. He may just devour you."