"Excuse me." He unclipped the phone and answered it. "De Chaux. Yeah. No, I'm with the sheriff.... anything yet? No ... no ...
We need to talk. Meet me at my place in a half hour. Yeah. Later."
She blinked, and when she opened her eyes, he was standing, jacket in hand. "I have to go. Duty calls."
She unfolded herself from the sofa, envious once again of limbs and joints that seemed a whole lot better oiled that hers were.
After a twelve-hour workday, every muscle in her body protested even the simple act of uncoiling and rising from the sofa. She walked him to the front door, suddenly feeling awkward, as if they had been on a date. He stopped just inside the door, standing so close she once again found it hard to breathe. She was tall for a woman, about five-nine without heels, but she had to look up nearly half a foot to see his eyes. Correction. Those damned glasses.
"You'll call me if you find anything?" she asked.
One side of his mouth lifted. The side with the dimple. "Only if you promise to return my messages." She looked up at the ceiling. "Of course. I'm really sorry about today. I was going to call, and then..."
He cut her off. "Hey, I'm only teasing. You already apologized. You're swamped, and I know that. I'll talk to you later." With that he was out the door and down to the driveway.
She drew a slow, deep breath and watched as he put his jacket on and backed the bike to the road. When he was out of sight she made a beeline to the kitchen and her new half-gallon of butter pecan ice cream.
"Pretty boy. Pretty boy."
"Shut up, Flash."
She scooped three huge spoonfuls of ice cream into a bowl, took it out to the deck, and plopped on her chaise. A second later she was leaning back on the soft cushion, her eyes closed, and the spoon jammed into her mouth. What had just happened? Their meeting had been nothing but business, all business. There hadn't been one personal word spoken beyond the explanation of her bird's name. So why had their meeting felt so personal? She wondered if he had been as aware of her as she had been of him.
If he hadn't gotten his phone call, what would have happened? Would he have politely left? Would she have kicked him out? Or ...
She shuddered with cold as she felt the melted ice cream slide down her throat. She really had no idea what she would have done.
The Chicken Palace, with its windowed tower, greeted him moments later. Ric took shelter first in the second-story bedroom, though in fact the room was used only for dressing and storage, not sleeping. The glasses and gloves came off first, followed by the gray shirt. He freed his hair, grabbed a clean black shirt, and ascended to the tower room. It always felt good to divest himself of the trappings of his daytime persona, but tonight neither that nor the peace and privacy of the tower room could dispel his anxieties.
Tux was due to arrive in twenty minutes. It wouldn't be nearly enough time to assimilate everything that had just happened with Shelby Cort. He had almost forgotten what it was like to interact with a beautiful human female in such a way. His contact with humans had been so limited for so long that with Shelby he had felt awkward and unsure of himself. It was a seriously disquieting feeling for a being who prided himself on power and control.
Experiencing her had been as much a feast for the senses as a scenic ride on his bike, but a hundred times more arousing. Her hair against her black top had glinted in the evening sun like rubies against velvet, and when he had stood close to her, her fresh, rich scent had gone far to set free two hundred years of urges corralled by abstinence and restraint. But the one thing that had stirred his desire more than any other had been the warmth and life-based energy of the touch of her hand, brief and innocent though the contact had been.
And it hadn't only been his desire he had felt. He had sensed her reaction to him all too easily, and he still marveled at it. Her pulse had quickened, her breath had become labored, and the heat had washed from her to him in veritable waves. All that, yet he hadn't unleashed a single manipulative device to try to seduce her. He hadn't utilized the power of his eyes or his mind at all, and not a thing in their conversation had been the least bit provocative or personal. It had been all business. It was almost enough to make him sorry he couldn't help her in her investigation.
He was glad all around that Tux had called when he did. He wasn't sure how much more temptation his untested body could have withstood, and if he had given in, he wasn't sure how she would have responded. Even with the desire plain in her every pore, she was still the sheriff, and he had no wish to be on the business end of a shotgun, harmless though they were to him.
He sighed. The dead were much easier to deal with than either the living or the Undead.
Tux knocked on his door five minutes later. "So how's the sheriff's investigation going?" he asked as he swept through the door.
"It's going nowhere, and I'll make sure it continues to go nowhere. Lucius Moravich should be taken care of. The sheriff's going to have a talk with him, but if she doesn't convince him to stop digging, I'll have a little heart-to-heart with him."Tux paced the room, running one hand uselessly through his unruly hair. "Uh, listen. Talking about Digger got me to thinking about someone. Last summer a vamp came through here. I don't know if you'd call him a rogue. Our old Overlord was gone by then, and we weren't having regular meetings anyway, but..."
"Quit stalling and get on with it. What about him?"
"Well, he was a day vamp, and he wanted some work, so I took him with me on some of my jobs. He knew his way around a toolbox. Anyway, after a while he started taking jobs on his own, using me for a reference. He had access to a lot of yards around here. I think he even did some work with me last fall at the Luslow place."
Ric wasn't sure if he welcomed the sudden revelation or not. Something smelled like tainted blood-pleasing at first sight but downright nasty when you got close. "Why didn't you tell me this last night?"
Tux lifted a hand in a gesture of doubt. "It didn't occur to me to single him out. We've had lots of rogues come through here during the past year. It wasn't until I got to thinking that whoever did this had to know the back yards to know the holes were there..."
Ric interrupted with some urgency. "You didn't mention this to the sheriff yesterday, did you?"
Tux made a face. "No, of course not. Besides, I didn't think about him until today."
Ric sighed. "Okay. Tell me about him."
"He went by the name of Joel Branduff. About my size and apparent age, short dark hair and blue eyes. I haven't seen him since December or January. He complained about not liking the winter here. When he dropped out of sight I assumed he moved on."
"Yeah, well, maybe he's like the summer people. He goes south for the winter and shows up for the fair weather."
One of Tux's brows quirked, and he shook his head slowly. "I don't know. I get wind of most of the rogues that come through, and I haven't heard about him returning."
"Got an address on him?"
"I know where he used to live. It was vacant for a long time after he left. I haven't been by there recently."
"Who else in our group knew this Branduff?"
Tux shrugged. "Most if not all. Eva used to take him with her to the roadhouse. He got off on seducing the strippers."
"Come on, let's go."
"Where?"
Ric was already at the door. "Branduff's old house. If he has returned, he could be there. If not, maybe we'll find something useful."
He exited the front entrance, leaving Tux to close the door behind him, but pulled up short when he saw what was in the driveway.
Tux's momentum pushed Ric down the final four steps of the porch. Ric landed gracefully on the ground without so much as a loss of balance. To his body, at any rate. Sitting in the drive was a rusty, baby blue Plymouth Fury that was almost as old as his bike was. "Is this snow tank yours?"
Tux lovingly patted the hood of the car. "I use it mostly in the winter, but I didn't think it was a good idea for my truck to be seen too often in front of your house."
Ric raised his brows. "And this eyesore is any less noticeable?"
"It's a whole lot less conspicuous than that Frenchie red putter of yours. Didn't three years in Eidolon Lake teach you anything about blending in with the locals?"
"Get in the car." Ric slid into the front passenger seat. A long, fluffy foxtail hung from the rearview mirror. He knew Tuxbridge was right, but that didn't make it any easier. A sudden longing for the familiar comfort of France swept over him. Just as quickly, the feeling left him. This land, these people, are my destiny now.
Tux drove, and in moments they were on a back road about a mile off the highway. Trees encroached all the way to the edge of the road, and the few homes that existed were umbrellaed from the world by the canopies of tall ashes and hickories. Tux eased the car to a stop in front of a "For Sale" sign that hugged the narrow gravel shoulder. The house itself was set back from the road, dark and visible only as a shadow among the trees.
"Doesn't look like anyone's here," said Tux, his voice barely audible above the uneven rumble of the snow boat's idling engine.
"He wouldn't advertise his presence even if he were here. Pull farther down the road and park on the shoulder."
Tuxbridge complied, and soon they were loping back to the house, themselves like shadows of the night.
As soon as Shelby finished her ice cream she reluctantly went back inside and turned on the handie-talkie she always carried with her off duty. She really wanted nothing more than to unwind with a warm shower, cuddly bathrobe, and favorite video before getting the much needed sleep that Ric had recommended, but listening to the calls was a habit she felt important to continue- especially now with the homicide. Besides, maybe it would help keep her mind off Ric.
So instead of the shower and video she settled for cleaning Flash's cage. She imagined there were worse ways to unwind than talking to a parakeet and listening to police calls, but right now she couldn't think of any. After forty-five minutes, though, she was ready to reach for the radio and call it a night. Then she heard her available squad get dispatched to a possible entry in progress.
The address was only about a half mile from her house.
All feelings of fatigue now gone, Shelby tuned the radio to a side channel. "Unit One to dispatch."
"Go ahead, One."
"Read me the entire complaint for that entry."
"Sure. 'Anonymous female caller says check house at address on Dead Creek Drive for possible entry. House is supposed to be vacant, and caller saw lights inside.' Sorry, Sheriff, that's all there is. She wouldn't leave her name or number."
"Thanks. Okay, tell Rody to continue and that I'll also be responding. The house is just down the road from me."
"Ten-four, One."
Shelby grabbed the radio and her duty belt and slammed the front door behind her. As she approached the address in question two minutes later, she cut the lights on the SUV and rolled slowly past the house with the "For Sale" sign in front. She knew the building had been vacant for a number of months and that there was a good chance it was just kids fooling around, but she also knew not to assume anything. Working in the worst parts of a big city had taught Shelby that it was often the most innocuous and ordinary of calls that were the most dangerous. She spotted a car on the shoulder up ahead and pulled to a stop behind it, close enough to read the plate, but no closer. It was an old blue beater, and she didn't recognize the car as belonging to any of her neighbors.
She went on the side channel again. "Run this plate for me-Zero Zero Seven John George John. I'm twenty-three at the entry."
"Ten-four, Sheriff."
A moment later the radio crackled. "You should have a 1968 Plymouth four-door. It lists to Judson Tuxbridge, 3489 Mill Road, Shadow Bay. No wants."
"Ten-four, thanks." Judson Tuxbridge? Mill Road was about three miles away. What was he doing here? She turned the lights and the high beams of the SUV onto the Plymouth. She exited cautiously and approached the auto slowly, shining her flashlight into the interior step by step. It was unoccupied. She got back into her vehicle, cut the lights again, and did a U turn on the road. She pulled ahead slowly and parked about fifty yards from the driveway to the vacant house. She knew that when responding to a call with any expectation of danger it was never a good idea to pull up directly in front of a target location.
She proceeded on foot, both her flashlight and gun in hand. Maybe Judson Tuxbridge was interested in purchasing the house as a fixer-upper, but that gave him no right to be inside the building. Another thought came to Shelby. Tuxbridge had had prior access to the back yard where the latest victim's body had been unearthed. She hadn't really considered him a suspect, but this was a strange coincidence. Crime of any kind was rare in Shadow Bay, and suddenly Judson Tuxbridge seemed to have a connection not only to the homicide scene, but an entry. Very strange.
Where was Rody? As she approached the rear door, she saw that it was ajar. She crept closer and listened. A unique, familiar voice wafted across the stillness. She couldn't catch the individual words, but the throaty whisper with the slightly foreign lilt was unmistakable, Ric De Chaux. Was this what his earlier phone call had been about? But why?
Normally, she'd wait for Rody as backup, even for Tuxbridge, but she trusted the doctor. She stepped back away from the door and took cover behind a small shed. "Police! Come on out!"
Chapter Four.
The frame building sat crouched in silence and age, not stately and proud, but neglected and cheerless. A shutter hung loose, a window was cracked, and a fresh paint job was long overdue.
Ric took in the sad front facade from the foundation to the gutters. "For someone who knew carpentry, Branduff didn't put much stake in this place, did he?"
"No. It's a shame, too. The place has possibilities."
Ric smiled. He suspected that no shingled horror still standing was beyond Tux's optimism. "You take the left side, I'll take the right. Look for a door or window we don't have to break."
Tux nodded, and they each went their separate ways around the house, meeting at the rear.
"Everything's locked," whispered Tux.
"Well, we tried. On to Plan B." Ric leaned his shoulder against the back door and pushed. The wood was no match for vampiric strength. It was the frame that splintered and gave, however, not the door. Dory Kreech would be proud. Doors in years past had been made to last. The rear door led to a small mud room and the kitchen, and the musty odor of age and abandon immediately stung Ric's nostrils. Underneath the staleness, though, Ric could detect the unmistakable scent of the Undead, the peculiar odor of corrupted flesh that only another vampire or a dhampir, which was the offspring of a vampire and a human, would be able to sense. Some vampires found the scent of their own kind highly disagreeable, but to Ric, who had spent so many decades among the dead and the Undead, the smell was familiar, and if not pleasant, tolerable.
Ric could see perfectly well in the dark, but he turned on a small pocket flashlight anyway. It couldn't hurt, and it might help with details otherwise missed. He turned to his adjutant. "I'll take this floor and the upstairs. You check the basement."
Tux nodded and disappeared down the cellar stairs. Ric opened the kitchen cupboards and flashed the narrow beam deep into their far corners. The Undead had no use for kitchens in the human way, but many took advantage of the room for storage.
Nothing had been left behind in any of the cabinets, however. Ric moved from the kitchen to the dining and living rooms, silent as a cat. The dining room was empty, but the living room contained an old sofa and a small wooden table and chairs. Ric went upstairs and checked the three bedrooms and even the attic. The scent of the Undead was fainter up there. It stood to reason. Vampires tended to sleep in the dark of basements and cellars, not second story rooms. Upstairs rooms were rarely used, other than for storage.
Ric sighed in frustration. There's nothing here. He descended to the living room and met Tux there.
"Anything?" asked Ric.
"Well, there is some dirt and a number of cardboard boxes down there. Clothes, shoes, blankets, stuff like that."
Ric resisted the temptation to shake his head. It didn't do to display too much uncertainty in front of others of his kind, especially minions. Still, he couldn't deny what Tux himself no doubt sensed. "There's vampire spoor here, that's for sure, but it's faint. Hard to tell, though, if it's a month old or three months old. I'll have a look downstairs."
He never got the chance. His lowered head snapped up like an animal snatching an unfamiliar scent off the wind. Tux's relaxed stance became rigid, and Ric knew he caught it, too. "We're in trouble," Ric whispered, staring back toward the kitchen. "Open one of those front windows and get out of here. I'll take care of the problem."
Tux didn't argue, but did as Ric bade. In seconds he was gone, the creak of the window the only evidence of his flowing over the sill like smoke out of a burning building.
"Police! Come on out!"
The voice was familiar, as was the new scent that assailed Ric from the rear of the house.
Shelby Cort.
Only the steady chirping of the crickets, like a rapid heartbeat, answered her.
"Ric? Come on out the back door."
A tall figure appeared in the doorway and stepped outside. Long, straight hair draped well past broad shoulders. It didn't look like Ric, but somehow she knew it was. "Ric? God, what are you doing here?"
"You can put the gun away, Sheriff. I won't bite."
She exhaled a long breath she hadn't realized she was holding and was suddenly aware of her heart pumping furiously in her chest.
The excitement and danger, of course. She holstered the gun and keyed her mic. "Unit One to Three, you can cancel. Baseless complaint."
He moved toward her in that smooth gait that appeared so boneless, like water flowing over rocks. He stepped into a patch of bright moonlight, and her breath caught all over again. The damn glasses were gone, and she couldn't tear her gaze from his eyes.
His brows were as dark as his black shirt, but his eyes were as pale as the moonlight. Slightly hooded and encircled by thick, black lashes, they held a kind of feline detachment from the world, an aloofness that was both chilling and rapacious. Yet they were amazing in their striking beauty.