Twilight Illusions

CHAPTER FIVE

Damien sat in the car near the front of her apartment building. It wasn't much of a building. Tall, narrow. Too few windows, and fire escapes with huge sections missing. The ugly red bricks looked ready to crumble. The security was nonexistent. It wasn't a slum, but he didn't like the idea of her living here.
She came onto the balcony twice, glancing down at his black car. He shivered a little when she leaned on the iron rail. The damned thing probably wasn't in any better shape than the rest of the place. After that he saw her part the curtains a few times, and he knew she was looking, checking to see if he was still there. Almost as if she expected him to leave.
Maybe she'd be better off if he did.
Damien couldn't bring himself to believe he'd killed those other women, but he couldn't ignore the possibility, either. He didn't know whether this change in his hunger was normal, something every immortal felt with age. He didn't know if others had killed without even being aware of it. Was something like that possible?
He thumped his fist on the steering wheel as the questions tormented him. Traffic and people passed by. Lights in buildings blinked off one by one as this less-than-elite section of Arista went to sleep.
He wished now that he hadn't avoided all contact with others of his kind, wished there were someone he could ask about these things, and about this DPI, whatever it was, and the murder of Tawny Keller. Damien ought to know. As far as he was aware, he was the oldest of any of them. He ought to have the answers, but dammit he didn't.
He thought of the letters he'd received from the one who called himself a scientist, Eric Marquand. If anyone could shed some light on all of this it might very well be that young, curious man. Damien grimaced at the idea of asking for help. The very thought of contacting Marquand made him squirm with unease. He'd existed alone, in a vacuum for so long now. His only emotional ties were the safe ones he felt with his crowds of fans. When they stood and cheered for him it was almost as if time melted away, almost as if he were an adored ruler again, a beloved king, basking in the unconditional love and loyalty of his people. It was the adoration of those crowds that had driven him to perform all these years. A man could only do without love, connections, for so long. The audiences gave him enough to sustain him. It was the only love allowed into his solitary life, and it was enough. It had to be enough.
He shook his head slowly. No, he'd try to solve this thing on his own. He'd only use Eric Marquand and his studies of the undead as a last resort. And in the meantime he'd watch over Shannon, keep any harm from coming to her.
A job that would be a lot easier if only he could listen to her mind. The idea of trying it again sent a bolt of phantom pain throbbing through his temples. Still, it was one of the benefits of being who he was. He ought to use every tool he had to solve this puzzle, to keep her safe.
He braced himself, and very slowly, began to lower his defenses to allow the myriad vibrations outside to filter into his mind. He consciously kept a thin veil in place and focused all his energy on her, putting her image firmly in his mind's eye. He tried to attune his senses to hers, to feel what she felt.
For an instant the rush of sensations surrounded him, but he forced himself to bear it. He grated his teeth against the bombardment and concentrated harder. Gradually, the intensity eased, quieted, lightened. He sifted, searched, sent his mind out in search of hers.
She wasn't in the apartment.
He stiffened in his seat as he felt her thoughts. Anger. Alarm. Urgency. Something about her car. She was running... a rear exit. A parking lot.
Damien was out of his car like a shot and speeding around the building. He saw her there, her feet and legs bare and cold in the autumn chill. She wore a short blue nightgown that shimmered like silk, but wasn't, and her hair was pulled up into a bushy blond ponytail that bounced wildly as she ran over the pavement.
He looked in the direction she ran, and saw two young men crouched at the door of a primer brown Corvette that had to be as old as Shannon was. One of the men turned as Shannon approached, and he laughed. She never slowed her pace. The thief started toward her and lifted his hand. Damien saw the tire iron he held. He lunged forward, knowing as he did that he couldn't reach her in time. Already the two stood close, and the man's hand swung down, no doubt about to crush her skull.
But Shannon's small hand shot up and gripped the man's wrist, stopping the tire iron's descent. Her knee jammed hard into his groin, and the man grunted loud, doubled over. The tire iron clanked to the broken pavement. Damien froze for a shocked instant as Shannon spun backward, smacking her heel across the man's chin and laying him flat on his back. It happened in two clicks of a second hand.
The second man turned toward her, pulling a gun from his tattered jeans. Before he leveled its sights on her, she kicked it out of his hand, sending it sailing in an arc and then skittering across the pavement. He swung a fist at her, but she ducked, and when she straightened, she brandished the tire iron the other one had dropped.
He held his hands up in front of him, backing away. "Okay, lady. Okay, you win." As Damien hurried forward, the thug helped his partner to his feet, and the two ran into the darkness. He heard their rubber soles slapping. They didn't go far, though.
He gripped Shannon's arm, still dazed by what he'd seen. "Are you all right?"
She nodded, but didn't say anything, still trying to catch her breath. Damien turned to look at the unpainted car and shook his head. He was going to blast her for risking her life over a hunk of scrap metal, when he heard the unmistakable click of a hammer being pulled back. His head went up, and his piercing night vision showed him one of the two thugs, holding the gun, pointing it at Shannon.
Damien whirled toward her, propelling himself forward just as the blast shattered the night. He felt Shannon hit the ground hard underneath him. And he felt a searing pain burn through him.
* * * * *
Anthar watched as he always watched--witness to every breath the pagan drew--and smiled slowly to himself. The bastard. The insolent, blasphemous bastard. Damien the Eternal. Whatever he called himself now, it didn't matter. He'd be gone, vanquished, destroyed by his own hand. Conquered by his own emotions. And soon.
The thugs whose small minds Anthar had implanted with the notion of stealing the woman's car were bumbling fools, yes. But at least one of them had fired his weapon at her. And the heathen had thrown himself in front of the bullet.
Finally, after endless millennia, the bastard cared for another living soul. Anthar had waited so long, tried so often to hurt him this way. But Damien kept to himself, cared for no one. Not even the women he took on occasion, while Anthar watched from the shadows, his presence so carefully cloaked even Damien couldn't sense him there. Damien drank from those women so gently, so careful not to harm them. Sickening, gutless worm! So tenderly he would use them that Anthar would become convinced there must be some feeling there. But alas, none ever came. When those women had died, Damien the Eternal hadn't even been aware of their passing.
Damn him to everlasting torment!
Ah, but this time would be different. This time there was something more. Just the something Anthar needed to hurt him in the most devastating way possible.
But he must proceed with caution.
Damn, but it wouldn't do to take the bitch too soon. He had to test Damien's feelings yet again. He had to be sure the oldest immortal alive would feel the ultimate pain, shame, remorse... He had to be sure.
Another test was in order.
* * * * *
They were gone. He heard them run and then nothing. Damien's body lay heavily on top of Shannon's. She was on her back. He was angled across her chest, his head near her left shoulder.
"They're gone," she said, and shoved at him. "You can get off me now, Damien. I don't know why you came rushing out here like some knight on a charger, anyway. I can take care of my" She'd pressed her hands to his shoulders to move him off her, and touched the warm dampness seeping through his shirt. He felt the shock that passed through her body. She sucked in a coarse breath. "Damien?"
He moved, but slowly. It hurt to do it. He sat up, and she jumped to her feet, bending over him. His white shirt was stained crimson. He pressed one hand to the front of his shoulder and tried to stand.
Shannon bent to help him, sliding an arm around his waist and holding him firm. "Damn you straight to hell, Damien, you've gone and got yourself shot. What's the matter with you, jumping on me like that?" She walked toward the building's back entrance, pulling him along with her.
He glanced down at her, almost giddy with relief that he'd knocked her out of the way in time. "That gun was pointing toward your head. Was I supposed to stand there and let them shoot you?"
"Yes!" She reached out to open the door, then held it with her hip while she helped him through. "Dammit, you're probably going to bleed to death."
He was not going to bleed to death. Actually, the wound was minor except for the excruciating pain it caused. Debilitating, momentarily paralyzing pain. His shoulder still screamed with it. But he'd expected that. One of the few things he did know about his kind was that sensitivity to pain--to any physical stimulus--increased with age, just as the strength and psychic powers did. As for the tendency to bleed dry, it didn't concern him too much. He could keep pressure on the wound until dawn. It wasn't bleeding all that badly. It would heal with the regenerative sleep. Any injury would.
What did concern him, besides the pain in his shoulder, was the feel of her small arm anchored around his waist. The way she held him tight to her side as they entered the elevator, the urgency in her eyes when she looked up at him. Her smell. Her warmth.
"You're pale. Did it bleed much?"
"I'm always pale. And no, it's nothing."
She narrowed her eyes and stared at the spot where he pressed his hand to the wound. "It's not nothing--it's a bullet. We'll call an ambulance from the apartment."
He shook his head, but studied her determined face, noting the strength in it. "Why did you rush out there in your nightgown, Shannon? Why risk your life, when calling the police would have been just as good?"
"What're you, kidding me? My car would have been long gone by the time the cops got here. Do you know how long and hard I work just to keep up the payments on that car?"
"Corvettes don't come cheap." Not even primer-coated ones whose rust spots had been sanded off, he supposed.
The doors slid open. She tightened her grip on him and started into the hall. "Not just a Corvette. A 1962 Stingray, mag wheels, four barrel carb and an engine that would blow your black Jag's doors off."
He smiled. He couldn't help it, and the pain didn't stop it. "Your dream car?"
"Abso-freaking-lutely. Nobody messes with my car."
"I'll keep that in mind."
She stopped outside her apartment door and pushed it open. She hadn't locked it and that bothered him almost as much as the hole in his shoulder, but he refrained from commenting on it. He'd seen firsthand why she kept insisting she could take care of herself. She hadn't done half-badly at it.
She pulled him inside, kicked the door closed, and didn't let go of him until she'd eased him onto the sofa. And when she did, he felt the absence of her touch like another wound in his flesh. She hurried back to the door, locked it. So she wasn't completely careless with her own well-being. Then she knelt in front of him and reached up to tear the sleeve away from his shirt. She tried to push his hand aside so she could look at the wound.
"It's barely a scratch." He kept his hand where it was.
"That's a lot of blood for a scratch, Damien."
"I'm a heavy bleeder. I'll be fine."
She scowled at him. "Hey, you jumped in front of a bullet for me. The least I can do is take a look at it." She reached for the shoulder again.
He ducked her hand. "Oh? Then you're admitting that I probably just saved your life?"
She straightened, propping her fists on her hips. "Yeah, for what it's worth, you probably did."
"At no small risk to my own?" He prompted. She said nothing, but tilted her head to one side. "Well?"
"All right. Okay, I'll give you that much. So what's your point?"
"That I'm not planning your murder, for starters." He got to his feet, not waiting for her reply, and walked to the bathroom. He was a bit weaker than usual, a response to the amount of blood he'd lost. Good thing he'd had the presence of mind to put the pressure on right away. It wouldn't take much to incapacitate an immortal as old as he was.
He closed the door behind him. One place he did not want to spar with Shannon Mallory was in her bathroom, where mirrors abounded. But he felt her presence there, even though he'd locked her out. It was in the still-damp towel slung over the shower-curtain rod. And in the clothes she'd been wearing earlier in a little heap on the floor. And in the scent she favored. Subtle. Not floral or fruity. More enticing than that. Herbal. Like exotic incense or some rare spice. It clung to everything, even the air was tinged with it.
He opened the cabinet and tried to put her out of his mind and focus on the matter at hand, namely applying something to the wound to staunch the blood flow until dawn. He'd sit with his hand on it for the next few hours if necessary, but he'd prefer not to. There. A roll of gauze. Some adhesive tape. A hairbrush with a few honey gold strands catching the light and glowing at him. It was like a halo around her, that hair of hers. Like something unreal. "Angel hair," Netty had called it.
Dammit, stop thinking about her!
He peeled the shirt away from his chest, tearing it so he didn't have to ease the pressure on the wound. He tossed the ragged, blood-spattered white garment into her wastebasket. One-handed, he wrestled the little cardboard box open and dumped a pile of gauze pads into the sink.
She thumped the door. "Are you all right?"
"Fine, Shannon. Relax."
"Let me in. I want to help."
"I'll be out in a minute."
"Damn you, Damien--"
"You're repeating yourself. Shannon." He didn't think the gauze pads would be enough, and glanced around for something more substantial to pack the wound. "Tell me something, will you? Why didn't you bring your gun out there with you?"
"Because I'd have killed the little bastards if I had." She pounded on the door again, jarring it. "Open the damn door."
"No."
"Fine, see to yourself. There's a little brown tin in the cabinet. Pine tar. It's made from the sap of pine trees. An old folk remedy. If you're too pigheaded to see a doctor, then at least use some of it. It'll stop the bleeding better than Super Glue."
He frowned. There was a slight trembling in her voice, one that belied the careless way she tried to throw her words at him. He spotted the tin, flipped the top off and sniffed suspiciously at the dark brown goop it held. Piny. Okay, it was worth a try.
"Did you find it?"
He thought she'd walked away, left him to fend for himself. She was still standing on the other side of the door, waiting. "Yes. It looks disgusting."
"Smear it on."
He nodded, dipping two fingers into the stuff, then removing his hand from the wound just a little. The bleeding began again immediately, but he was able to spot the edges of the graze, and pinched them together. Then he smeared the thick, tarlike substance over the wound.
It was almost instant. The blood flow stopped. Cautiously, he eased the pressure of his fingers. But the flesh didn't pull apart. The tar held it sealed tight. He shook his head in wonder.
"Damien? You okay?"
For such an obstinate thing, she was certainly worded about his health. "I'm okay. Your concoction works wonders." He pressed a gauze pad to the wound, wrapped a strip around it and taped it in place. Then he ran a little water in the basin and washed the blood from his chest, his arm, his shoulder, his hands. Only when he'd rinsed every trace of the pinkened water down the drain did he open the door. And when he did, she was still standing there. He couldn't have missed the way her stiff stance relaxed slightly when he stepped out.
Her gaze flew over his face, to his shoulder, back to his face again. He saw her worry, her fear for him, and it touched him in spite of himself. Then her eyes moved downward, over his unclothed chest, lower, to the snap of his pants. Her cheeks colored, and he smiled a little, wishing he had the energy to try to read her thoughts again right now.
"Stupid jerk."
Damien blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You're a jerk, locking yourself in like that. What if you'd passed out in there? Huh? What am I going to do--kick the door in?"
He laughed. She got angrier, so he forced himself not to laugh anymore. "You have a very strange way of showing gratitude. Shannon."
"Gratitude? You think I'm grateful to you for almost getting yourself killed on my behalf? What're you--dense? You pull any more crap like that and I'll--" She blinked fast, and turned her back on him. Not before he'd seen the moisture gathering in her eyes, though.
Something in his throat expanded, cutting off his airway. He lifted one hand, and without intending to, settled it on her shoulder. Her hair brushed his knuckles and he shivered. "Shannon--"
She stepped away from his touch, paced to the center of the room, turned, her face expressionless. "I don't think the attempt on my car was related to this other business. Do you?"
He stared at her, wishing he knew why it bothered her so much that he'd helped her. Why it was so hard for her to accept that he wanted to protect her. "I'm inclined to think not" was all he said. "They only shot at you because you charged at them like the cavalry."
"Yeah, well, if I hadn't they'd have had my wheels."
"How did you know?" She'd turned again, walked to the sofa, sank onto it as if she were exhausted.
"I have a remote car alarm. Someone tries to get into the 'Vette, this little device in my purse sounds a warning." She pushed her hair away from her face with one hand, then paused in the act. "How did you know?"
"I..." He glanced away from her narrow, piercing gaze. "I was walking around the building, just checking for anything unusual. I heard them, but by the time I realized what was happening, you were..." He turned to her again, trying to see more than just what her delicate face revealed. "You were kicking the hell out of them. Where did you learn to fight like that?"
"Trial and error, mostly." She looked past him, and he wondered what she was seeing. "Tawny and I used to practice on each other. Usually ended up a pair of walking wounded, but you have to be able to take care of yourself when you're a kid on the streets. She's as good as I am... I mean, she was. That's why I can't understand why--"
She broke off, met his gaze again, licked her lips. Damien knew what she would have said. Why didn't Tawny fight off her attacker? Why did she submit? The answer was all too simple, really. A vampire doesn't have to attack his victims or struggle with them. He seduces them. They offer themselves, willingly, even eagerly, to his promise of ecstasy.
Guilt reared up inside him, and he couldn't hold her stare. Some immortal had rewarded that willingness, that childlike trust, with murder. Some immortal. But who?
Not me. It wasn't me...
"It wasn't you, was it?"
He shook himself free of the instant notion that she'd read his mind, or that he'd spoken the thought aloud. Coincidence. She rose and stepped closer to him, staring up into his face, her eyes narrow, darkening to the color of cinnamon.
"You wouldn't risk your life to save a stranger if you were cold-blooded enough to kill another one. Would you?"
"Of course not."
But what if I did? What if I killed that innocent girl, and what if this one is next in line? The next time the thirst becomes unbearable, the next time it overpowers my will... Inanna, save me, but already the scent of her, the warmth of her skin, the pink ness of it, is getting to me. I can hear the sweet river of blood running in her veins. I can smell it. And she's so soft, so beautiful... I want her. I want all of her....
"You stayed. I really didn't think you would."
"What?" He shook free of the voices in his mind.
"When you said you'd come here, watch out for me, I didn't believe you. You surprised me." She frowned, and paced slowly away from him, head tilting to one side as she walked. She stopped a few yards away, turned toward him once more. "So if you're not going to kill me, then what are you after?"
He looked at the floor, shook his head deliberately. "I should go."
"Why?"
He was turning toward the door, when she asked the question. He stood where he was, his back to her. When her body heat warmed his bare flesh as she moved to stand behind him, he went rigid.
"You agreed with me that the car thieves were probably not related to the murder. So the killer might still try, right? I mean, I'm in as much danger now as I was earlier, right?"
He closed his eyes as her scent assaulted him. "At least. Maybe more."
"Then stay."
Oh, but this wasn't right, this roar inside him, urging him to turn around and crush her to his chest. To take her mouth until she gasped for breath and to-- It just wasn't right. It hadn't been long enough for the thirst to bring on this need. And it wasn't thirst alone this time, burning through him. It was desire, too. Not the desire that coupled with the hunger, but one born of itself. Or born of her.
Her hand touched his uninjured shoulder. Her small fingers squeezed his flesh. "Look, Damien, you saved my life. Much as I hate to owe anything to anyone, I can't overlook something this big. Last night, when I was sick, you took care of me. I just want to return the favor."
He shook his head, tore the door open. "You'll be safe by day."
"By day? What--"
"I'll keep watch until then, but not here. From the car. And if you come down there. Shannon, I can't guarantee anything. So stay put."
"But I--"
"Good night." He stepped into the hall, closed the door behind him, and with a burst of speed, managed to be halfway down the stairs before she'd yanked the door open again.
* * * * *
Okay, so she'd misjudged the guy. Badly. All right, she'd flat out accused him of murder. He'd pretty much convinced her she'd been wrong. Twice he'd appeared out of nowhere right at the moment she'd needed help. So far he hadn't asked a thing in return.
Of course, she wasn't stupid. He wanted something; he just hadn't gotten around to asking for it yet. Nobody helped anybody without a damn good reason. She'd learned that the hard way. Oh, the lovely foster family that had taken her in had seemed hunky-dory at first. All that bull about how they loved children, couldn't have any of their own, wanted to help a down-on-her-luck teenage orphan who had just about run out of hope of ever being adopted.
Right.
Tawny had been with them a month before Shannon moved in. She'd come from another institution, but Shannon had been in most of them by then. They'd never met--a small miracle, since their paths must have crossed a hundred times as they both went through the system. They'd hated each other's guts at first. At first. But then the insanity began. Mr. Gray son had some pretty sick ideas. And his wife knew all about it, but was too much of a mouse to let him know she knew.
Anyone who thought two sixteen-year-old girls couldn't fend for themselves on the mean streets ought to try living with that kind of threat looming for a while. The streets are a breeze after that.
God, to think she and Tawny had toughed it out through hell and high water, only to come to this. Tawny dead. Shannon not far behind her. Why the hell had they bothered surviving at all?
But that thinking was borderline self-pity, so she swiped her mind clean like a blackboard under a damp sponge and started over. Damien. Yes, she'd been thinking about Damien, and whatever it was he wanted from her.
For a second there, she could have sworn it was sex. Something about the way his body went all right when she touched his bare skin.
But she dismissed that idea almost as soon as she thought it. The guy was an idol. He could have any woman he wanted, just by snapping his magic fingers. Why the hell would he be interested in her?
So there had to be something else. And it would be only a matter of time until she found out what.
Meanwhile, she needed to concentrate on something else. What in God's name had he meant when he said she'd be safe in the daytime?