The warm fingers of sleep held him tight and did their best not to let him go, but in the end they slipped away, and his eyes fluttered open in the quiet darkness of his room. For a second or two, he didn't know quite where he was, for his last dream had been comfortable, serene, and not of this place or time. He blinked sluggishly and wondered what exactly it was that had stirred him from slumber. A drowsy glance at the glowing green numerals of his clock radio told him that it was not the alarm. What then? He was normally a deep sleeper, even at night, and this unknown interruption irked him. Damn it, but he'd put head to pillow not more than twenty minutes ago. Then, distant in the house, he heard it again.
As he fought to full wakefulness, Richard Dun reached for the bedside lamp and flicked it on, wincing against its soft golden luminescence. The dim light demolished the gloom of his bedroom and seeped through the half-open door into the hallway beyond. The noise that had disturbed him came from out there somewhere. He couldn't quite place it and knew that he should be able to, that for some reason it was important.
It was not the sound of an intruder who had somehow gotten past the house security. Even without clamor Richard would have sensed such a person long before he heard him. This disturbance was mechanical and muted, as if coming from far away. Definitely not a fire or burglar alarm, but something very similar and just as urgent. Then with a cold swoop of dismay he realized exactly what it was, and was suddenly quite wide awake and moving.
The sound repeated as though in reproach for his tardiness. He arose quickly, pulling a long blue bathrobe over his naked body, tying the belt loose around his waist as he hurried from his bedroom, padding silently along the hall. Down the stairs he rushed toward his office and his computer. It was from there the sound originated.
He didn't bother with lights this time for he could see well enough without and was now fully alert. The pale glow of the computer screen spilled out like a beacon to guide him, pulsing gently in the gloom. That was another disturbing thing. It shouldn't have been pulsing; it should have been on the screen saver. The sound grew in intensity as he approached and, rounding the corner of the doorway, hit him with its full force. It wasn't really loud, simply insistent and impossible to ignore, like the cry of a baby. Then he saw the screen, and it confirmed what he already knew. His stomach turned to ice.
The screen was blank save for one thing, a letter, flashing on and off, the letter S.
Richard dropped heavily into the leather office chair and cut the sound. It was Stephanie, an emergency e-mail. This was the private alarm system he'd set up just for her, her cry for help to use when everything else failed. In all the years since he'd arranged the program, she'd never had cause to employ it. In fact, she had laughed when he'd explained it to her, chiding him for being such a worrier, then gently listened and promised that if she was ever in trouble she would use it. She'd understood the deep caring behind his worry.
"But I'll never need it," she said lightly, so full of sweet innocence that she honestly believed herself.
He knew too much of life and she not enough, but he did not gainsay her, not on this of all days. Not for the world would he hurt her more than he'd done already.
And she kissed him chastely on the cheek, and they went back inside to her wedding reception, she to her new husband, he to his own gut-wrenching sadness. Yet another that he had loved and lost, that he'd had to give up because of his nature and fate. Immortality did indeed have its harsh price.
Richard closed his eyes and sank his head into his hands from the photographically clear recollection. He thought that he'd forgotten the pain of her loss, that he'd grown beyond wanting her so much and that his heart was all healed. Wrong.
But this was no time for self-pity or sad reflection. Stephanie using this method of contact meant that something was awfully, terribly amiss. She had all his phone numbers, and could get in touch with him at any time no matter where he might be on the globe. Why had she not simply called? She would have—unless she feared a line tap at her end. That was entirely possible.
Richard punched in the access code to tell the computer to begin the complex retrieval of the message. He chafed at the brief wait; then it was on the screen, a scattering of random-seeming numbers and symbols. He hit one last command key, and the mess instantly deciphered itself into readable words.
Richard, something is wrong. It's lots of little things—gates left open, mail coming late, and there's been a lot of static and clicks on the phone. Luis says to ignore them but I think it's Alejandro. I don't know what to do. I'm afraid. Can you help us? S.
He read it twice, his mouth going dry. For Stephanie, always cool-headed and so self-possessed, this was close to gibbering panic. Stephanie, Luis, Alejandro, how those names brought the memories crowding back upon him. Such memories. He rubbed his eyes reflexively and entered a simple response to the plea.
Of course. On my way ASAP. Hold on. R.
How in hell had Alejandro found them? Richard had set their new lives up using every trick he'd ever learned and a few he'd invented himself. A vast expense, but worth it where Stephanie and the children were concerned.
Richard checked the miniature clock face at the bottom corner of the screen. It read six minutes short of four A.M., confirming the temporary futility of his reply. Nothing was flying at this hour, nor would be for several more. By the time he woke people up and arranged for a charter, the commercial flights would be running. Would Stephanie know that? She must, but it was nearly three in her area, and he knew how worry and lack of rest could erode common sense and feed one's fears in the darkest hours of night. He could picture her hovering by the glow of her own computer screen, biting her lip, waiting for his answer to come.
She'd have it now. His turn to wait for her to respond.
Two minutes crawled by. He gave in to impatience and hammered out another message.
Tell me more, he sent.
Another minute. Then: Take too long. I don't want Luis to know I've asked for your help.
Well, that explained her desire for secrecy. Her husband Luis, despite all civilized protests to the contrary, must still possess a lingering apprehension about Richard. Understandable. It would take a most remarkable man indeed not to be jealous of his wife's one-time lover. After the marriage Richard had certainly never given Luis cause to doubt Stephanie's faithfulness, nor had she. She took monogamy very seriously indeed, but some men were born insecure. Stephanie was aware of it and reluctant to stir things up, especially now if Alejandro was back.
Get to a public phone and call me. Richard demanded, craving more details.
I don't dare leave the house. Don't call here, either. Think the lines are tapped. Just hurry.
Will be on the first flight in if I have to bump the pilot himself. I'll be there in the morning. Noon latest.
Nonono. Come to house at NIGHT!
Hurry, but wait???
Make it look like one of your visits. I'm sure we're being watched. Safer for all.
Tell me more, he repeated.
The reply was quick in coming. She sent only one frustrating line:
Tomrow nite Luiis awake havve too go
He frowned at the haste the misspelled words implied. Why was she afraid of keeping this cry for help secret from her own spouse? Was it to protect herself from his reproach or spare Luis's ego? Probably a combination of the two. It was an old, old dance.
Richard had seen a thousand and more variations of such tensions between couples in as many years, taking all forms, ranging from mild annoyance to violent murder, inspired by insecurity or obsession or both, resulting in infinite degrees of soul-destruction. It was love's dark side, having transmuted from initial delight with one's partner into a form of mutual slavery, something Sabra had wisely banished between herself and Richard from their very first night together. She'd apparently been less successful with Luis. Why in God's name did people let themselves get caught in so intimate a trap? And choose to stay? Fear of loneliness, perhaps, but there were worse fates than being alone. Most of the time, he guessed, they didn't know any other way to live, couldn't even imagine it.
But Stephanie had always been so strong within herself and independent. That was one of the many things he'd loved about her. However motivated she might be to spare Luis's feelings, for her to be snared the same as so many others angered and saddened Richard. How could she let herself change? How could Luis do that to anyone he professed to love?
Richard made himself break off his speculation. What's done was done. Much as chivalry and preference inspired him to take Stephanie's part, he did not know all the facts. He was, in the end, an outsider to their marriage and would ever be so. Basing such imputations toward her husband on a single line of words only revealed to Richard how deep his own feelings still ran for her.
Stephanie was long married to another and gone. He could be a good friend to her now, but nothing more. Sabra's words often came back to him over the years, her tender warning against becoming too attached to another's swift-passing life.
But dammit, time and again, he just couldn't help himself.
Stephanie . . . Luis . . . Alejandro.
And himself.
It was all Bourland's fault.
There had been an embassy party some dozen years before. Richard was recently arrived in Toronto, complete with a new life background and in need of VIP contacts to establish his security business in the right levels. Such a gathering was the perfect means to do so, otherwise it was the last place he would willingly take himself. His height, crown of blond hair, and good looks made him memorable, and there might still be some aging political codgers around from the last time he'd opted for a moderately high-profile position. If he was spotted, then he could always pass himself off as his own son or grandson. It wouldn't be the first time, but it was often difficult keeping his stories (and generations) straight.
One of his past connections in Britain had recommended him to Philip Bourland, who held a nondescript civil service post in the Canadian government. Out of habit Richard had researched him prior to their first meeting, turning up a long, if somewhat bland career—that did not precisely fit the man. He found Bourland's drawling speech pattern and lazy demeanor were at odds with his sharp blue eyes, and the expensive, hand-tailored suit on his back certainly did not jibe with what should have been a humble salary. After a few minutes of hypnotic questioning—which Bourland never later remembered—Richard confirmed his suspicions. Bourland was rather more than a simple civil servant when it came to his range of government duties. He'd created a unique niche for himself within the various hierarchies, and over the course of time he proved to be an exceedingly valuable contact indeed.
But these were still the early days yet. A slight nudge of a suggestion and Richard secured an immediate liking between them. That would probably have happened anyway; they were similar enough in attitude and goals to assure it. Long after his initial suggestion wore off Richard became aware of a trust and a deeply felt kinship he felt for Bourland that surprised him, though he made no mention of it. It was the way Bourland reminded him of certain knights whom he'd served with in the past. Bourland was honest, responsible, and deeply committed to ideals beyond his own personal ambitions. A rare combination in any age. Definitely a man to be cultivated.
Bourland proved to be most cooperative and useful from the start, coming up with the idea of their attending the embassy party himself and offering to extend his invitation to cover Richard.
"I'm not sure it's my sort of function," Richard hedged. "I'm trying to set up as a security consultant. Low visibility is preferable for someone like me."
"There'll be hundreds of people there far more concerned with you noticing them than the other way around. What's one more man in a tuxedo?"
He had a point there.
"Besides," Bourland drawled on, "while they're all jockeying to get next to the politicians, I'll introduce you to the people who really run things around here."
That decided it. "Then I'll be glad to come, thank you."
"Bring a date if you like."
Richard flashed a regretful smile. "I haven't been in town long enough to make any friends."
"We'll cure that tonight, then. If she likes you, you can borrow my secretary for a dance or two. Normally I'd be taking my daughter, but she's studying for a law exam or something, so Stephanie fills in for her at social functions. They're both good girls."
Richard took that last little tidbit to mean Bourland's secretary was hands off. Fine with him, he had to concentrate on work, anyway.
He arrived on time, found his name had indeed been included on the guest list, and drifted into the crowd, artfully avoiding offers of champagne and hors d'oeuvres. His practiced eye picked out the security people as a matter of course before Bourland found him and began introducing him around. From that point Richard was all affable business, shaking hands and committing a dozen or more names and their attendant jobs to memory for later recall and use. He projected the polished charm and confidence necessary to such encounters and made sure (with a subtle hypnotic nudge here and there) that the people he met would remember him as well—with a very positive cast to the memory.
Throughout the evening Richard had purposely avoided sitting at Bourland's table so as to skip the whole awkward business about not eating and drinking. Several young women congregated there, and one of them broke away to join them now on the edge of an area set aside for dancing, lightly taking Bourland's arm. He did the honors and introduced his secretary.
"Assistant really," he said, presenting her to Richard. "More. God knows how I'd manage without her. She's an absolute gem."
Stephanie Andersson held out her hand for Richard to shake, but he took it gently and kissed it instead, adding a gallant little bow that put him very close to her. She didn't flinch or go self-conscious at his courtly manner, as many women in the New World were wont to do, and merely smiled, gracious as royalty.
"A pleasure, Mr. Dun," she said in a honey-smooth voice.
Richard did not reply. He was far too busy drinking her in with his eyes. She was a vision. Her milky skin and black hair, cropped close like a latter-day Mia Farrow, was most striking when matched with the palest blue eyes that he had ever seen. Her ancestors had come from Iceland, he later learned.
Her hands were long and slender, the nails short and perfectly manicured. She wore a light silver sheath of a dress and clearly very little else beneath it except for a spectacular figure. He noted almost in passing her lack of jewelry, and knew instinctively that she was well aware she needed none. A vein pulsed gently in her throat.
"I have a distinct feeling that I'm rather superfluous here." Bourland's voice cut through the uncanny silence that had established itself between them in the midst of the party noise.
Richard became aware that he was still holding her hand near his mouth, and disconcerted, released it and straightened.
"Let me know if you need a ride home," Bourland said to her in a dry tone.
"I will," she murmured. She continued to smile at Richard.
Bourland was a perceptive man. He shot Richard a piercing look, one brow slightly raised. The message was clear: Make her cry and I'll murder you. He then kissed her briefly on the cheek and disappeared into the swirl of people, leaving them alone.
Richard made a slight motion toward Bourland's retreating back. "Are you and he—?"
Stephanie shook her head, her smile turning rueful. She'd obviously fielded this question many times before. "No, nothing like that. We're close; my late mother and his late wife were good friends, and I'm best friends with his daughter. He's more of a father or an uncle to me than anything else."
"Ah." Now, that was excellent news.
"And he's usually rather more protective."
"Indeed?"
"He always warns me about the predators who work these parties looking for a tasty morsel like myself."
Richard pursed his lips, then puffed out a single soft laugh. How very, very apt. "Well, perhaps he trusts me to be a gentleman with you."
Her gaze flicked over him, appraising and approving. "I certainly hope not."
"Ah," he said again, which seemed to be more than enough for the moment.
"Do you dance?" she asked. The music, geared toward the preferences of a mature crowd, was balanced somewhere between slow big band and jazz. It had enough of a beat to attract couples onto the floor.
"I've picked up a few steps in my misspent youth," he modestly admitted.
"Show me," she said. From anyone else it would have been an order, but from her it was a guileless request that only a fool would refuse, and Richard was no fool.
He recalled the time he once told Oscar Wilde about dancing being a vertical expression of a horizontal desire. Never before had he felt so right about that particular observation as he swept the beautiful Stephanie into his arms. She followed his lead as though they'd rehearsed for years.
And the rest of the night passed for him in that wonderful magical lightness that is the start of falling in love.
Stephanie had not needed a ride home. Not from Bourland, anyway.
They dated for months, but despite the warm intimacies of bed, intense mutual affection, and—for Richard—occasionally feeding from her, nothing permanent was ever established between them. That, of course, was an impossibility.
Stephanie remained unaware of Richard's true nature; he made sure of that. It was for the best for them both. Over the course of centuries he'd had many lengthy affairs with exceptional women, though none of them could ever approach the wholeness of bonding he shared with Sabra. Whether it was mentioned or not, most of those women sensed or knew he wasn't entirely free. The ones who wanted more from him he gently discouraged by means of hypnosis, seeing to it that they always parted as friends. In Stephanie's case, even for her, he could make no exception no matter how much his heart ached.
She'd wanted marriage and children, neither of which Richard could provide. Even with hypnotic help to ease things, the blunt fact of it hurt her deeply, and their relationship entered a long cooling stage. Though he would have liked continuing things for decades, her biological clock was running, so he finally stepped back. It did not take her long to meet another man at another embassy party.
Thus did Luis Trujillo enter her life. Bourland made the introductions then, as well. A CEO in a major coffee exporting business, Luis was charming and intelligent, tall, with dashing good looks and gracious humor. He fell for Stephanie in that hard and heavy way that only a Latin can, courting her with tender and wholehearted attention. Talk of marriage was almost immediately in the air.
Richard made it his personal business to check Luis's background and found it disgustingly clean. Colombian by birth, he made his permanent home in Toronto. His years at Harvard getting a business degree had solidified his connections in the international community through its own "old boy network." He came from a good family that eschewed the easy profits of drugs for a more honorable and safer trade. He was wealthy, but not ostentatious about it, well-liked by his peers, and even his ex-girlfriends had kind things to say of him. Though none would recall being questioned on such intimate matters, Richard ascertained from them that Luis's sexual habits were healthy, his attitude toward his lovers considerate and gentle.
It would be an excellent match if Stephanie decided to accept his suit.
Damnation.
She gave Richard a final chance. She came to him in one last achingly unhappy night, waiting, wanting for him to ask the question, and he had once more simply not asked it. Instead, they made love slowly, with infinite care and sadness, each knowing that it was the last time, and each wanting to remember it, remember it forever. She kissed him in the morning, and held him tight, pressing her lithe body against him.
Still he said nothing.
Tears silently flowing, she left. Instead of a question, she had gotten an answer.
Richard, relegated now to the role of friend, eventually heard through Bourland all the painful details as Stephanie allowed herself to wholly fall in love with Luis. The wedding date was announced shortly after, and Richard had truly been happy for her, though he also carried regret heavy in his heart.
He'd tried to warm to Luis, but found it difficult, putting it down to understandable jealousy for still loving Stephanie himself. For her sake he put on a convincing show of cordiality and managed to attend the wedding with good grace. Why, he hardly felt a twinge when Bourland, standing in for her long-dead parents, gave her away.
As always, things became easier with the passage of time, especially after the birth of her first child, Michael, a close eight months after the wedding. To some, he'd arrived with unseemly haste; to Stephanie he was a greatly longed-for joy. Much to Richard's delight, he was named as the boy's godfather. The christening photo of him holding the baby had a central place on his work desk. Two years later, he once more stood in the church as godfather to her twin girls, Elena and Seraphina, and another photo adorned his desk. He couldn't have been happier or more proud than if he'd been their father himself. Stephanie documented their childhood with hundreds of pictures, always sending duplicates to Richard along with plenty of stories.
The good days were short-lived, though. Three years into the marriage, in a messy and highly publicized sting operation, Luis's export business was revealed to be little more than a cover for another far more lucrative one. Within the bags of coffee beans that arrived regularly from his home country was another cargo, that white mistress of energy and despair, cocaine.
Luis seemed relieved to be caught and quickly turned Queen's evidence, hoping for sanctuary in Canada. His story was that he was little more than an unwilling pawn paid to look the other way on certain shipments. The true kingpin of the operation, the real drug lord, was his brother, Alejandro.
Left with a small fish instead of the big one, the Queen's prosecutor wanted nothing to do with Luis, no matter how eager he was to save his skin. He was richly cooperative and helped to shut down or seriously damage a dozen other drug operations, but couldn't convince the authorities to provide him with sufficient protection. Death threats from the raging Alejandro came regularly by phone and mail. In desperation, Stephanie had called Richard, begging him to do something, anything to protect them all.
He was furious with Luis, of course, but even more so with himself for not discovering the truth earlier. Had he been more thorough in that background check, he could have spared Stephanie from making a hideous mistake. Too late now. Her chosen lot was to stand by her husband, for she did still love him. With three small children and a spouse powerless to shield them, Richard could no more refuse her than stop his own breathing.
He did not merely pull strings, he hauled them until his hands bled, calling in and promising favors with reckless abandon. Once the prosecutors had squeezed every last drop of information possible from Luis, they agreed to release him into Richard's custody. Bourland had also brought his silent but massive influence to bear, and between the two of them they managed to make the whole family disappear.
At his own expense Richard set up their quiet transplantation to Texas. New names, new backgrounds, new location, new jobs, their past was utterly buried.
Or so they had all thought.
Richard now stared intently at the screen as it scrolled with information long forgotten on the Trujillo case. What had he missed? How could this breach have happened? He racked his brains for any detail that he had overlooked. He'd missed nothing. They had been perfectly hidden, perfectly safe, and yet, somehow, Alejandro had found them. Over the years he had patiently searched and searched from the safety of his Colombian fortress, and finally . . .
In other witness protection programs it was often the witness himself who gave away his location to the hunters by reverting to old habits and preferences. Some had even been foolish enough in their enforced isolation to openly contact old friends and family. Though Luis may have been easily intimidated by brother Alejandro into his crimes, he wasn't a stupid man. He'd been warned again and again what to avoid. He liked French cooking, but switched to Italian restaurants. He was a great soccer fan, but would only attend basketball games. The same rules applied to Stephanie. She had a passion for ice skating, but abandoned it for horseback riding. Her love of rock concerts was restricted to watching them at home on cable. They'd both been more than careful, not just for themselves, but for the sake of their children.
Could Bourland have possibly slipped up? Certainly not in an intentional way, for Stephanie was a second daughter to him, but perhaps in some passive sense. Alejandro was determined enough to make an example of his brother and capable of arranging the most astronomical of bribes in the right places. All he needed was one person able to get to the crucial records of his case. But Philip Bourland had carefully obliterated everything concerning the relocation. Only he and Richard knew the details; nothing was on paper or in any computer.
Then it came to him in a cold white light of sickening realization.
There would be phone records of the few and far between long distance calls.
And mail.
Alejandro had no need to search the rest of the world for his brother; he had only to watch Richard and Bourland. The postal service would have been the easiest to crack. Even without a return on an envelope all he had to do was have someone check all the cancellation stampings and note their origin. He would have them all traced. Phone company records could be gotten to by any moderately talented hacker, and Alejandro could afford to buy the best. It would take him a long time, for he couldn't keep at it steadily without being spotted. And then there was the lengthy, ongoing task of sifting out anything useful from the irregular accumulation of data, but he was a patient man. He would have been at it for all these years, looking for patterns, comparing Richard's records to Bourland's and eventually finding what he wanted. A little on-site investigation in Texas, and he'd have an exact address fast enough.
The most insignificant of details could have led Alejandro to his goal. As resignation seeped in down to the bone, Richard saw the truth of it, and his heart sank with the knowledge that he'd once more failed Stephanie. He'd let sentiment get the better of his judgment. He should have severed all ties to her. Harsh for everyone, but safer, much safer.
Their cover was blown, and he had to move fast.
Richard snapped out of his reverie and glanced at the clock on his computer screen. Nearly an hour had passed. It was still early, but he was close to the margin of actually being able to do something constructive concerning transportation. The problem with the rest of the diurnal world was its inability to fit itself with any sort of convenience to his own personal timetable.
He made one call and informed the voicemail of his travel agent that he would urgently need to leave for Dallas as soon as a flight—any flight—became available. He left his cell phone number, then settled in front of his computer screen. First he wrote an e-mail to Deborah Heinrich, his secretary, apprising her of his sudden trip and lack of a solid return time. He hazarded that he might be away for at least a week. She was used to such disappearances by her employer and would reschedule appointments accordingly.
Then he copied all the files, both official and otherwise, concerning Alejandro, dropping the disk into a lead-lined pouch that went into his briefcase. Leaving the computer pulsing gently, silently in the gathering dawn, he locked the case and went to his bedroom to pack what few things he would want for his trip. Long practice meant that he inevitably took little: a change of clothing, shaving kit, passport, a walletful of credit cards, and some loose American cash. If the trip proved a long one, he could always buy whatever else he needed.
Once showered and dressed, he wound his way down to the Jaguar E-Type slumbering in his garage, opened the trunk and deposited the briefcase, carelessly flicking his overnight bag in on top of it.
His mouth twitched as he slammed the lid shut.
Oh, for an early flight.
The trip to Pearson Airport was thankfully uneventful. For once, there was no construction to delay the flow of dawn traffic through which the E-Type Jag moved with catlike ease, slipping past the lowlier vehicles, heading away from the rising sun. It promised to be a hot and brilliant day, and even through the dark tinted windows of his car, Richard felt his skin prickle in protest at the coming light. Had he remembered sun block? Yes, there it was, reassuringly in his coat pocket as always. How easeful it would be to go back to the days when he'd fully shielded himself with armor before departing on a quest. It may have been like wearing an oven, but there was nothing to match metal and leather for stopping a deadly sunburn.
His cell phone came to sudden life, warbling insistently. He flipped it open, cradling it to his ear. A voice on the other end of the line identified itself as belonging to Sasha with Ulysses Travel. For a brief second, his mind raced until he registered her face in his imaginings. She was a pretty young thing, tousle-haired and wide of smile, with freckles. How he loved her freckles. He might have been interested in her, as she certainly was in him, but something always stopped him from pursuit. For an instant he wondered what it could have been, and dismissed the thought. He had enough on his mind without pondering the intricacies of his admittedly flexible conscience. Sasha's voice purred in his ear, turning her bald facts into a lush seduction, not unlike listening to Marilyn Monroe give a weather report.
"The first available flight is at seven twenty-five from terminal three and gets you into Dallas at nine fifty-one. The best they have is business class."
"No first?"
"Doesn't exist on this one. It's Canadian."
Richard scowled, his eyes following the graceful curve of the road as he left the Q.E.W. and headed north on 427.
"And the price will be pretty steep for such short notice," she added.
"Just put it on my account as usual and book me in."
A pause at her end. He thought he could hear the swift clicking of her keyboard as she worked. "It's set up. You can claim your ticket at the counter."
"Well done, thanks."
Her voice murmured back to him, loaded with what he was sure she thought was subtle innuendo, "My pleasure, Mr. Dun. Whatever you want."
He smiled as he slid the E-Type out of the center lane to pass a gently rusting Camaro, and flipped the phone shut. Why was it that each succeeding generation thought that it was the one that had first discovered sex? If only they knew. His long existence at vampiric unlife had taught him many things, but most of all it taught him that in the whole of the world, there was nothing new.
He pushed the accelerator to the floor, feeling his heart leap at the pure power he controlled. What wonderful cars these were. A quarter century gone and he'd still not tired of the model. He surged past the other traffic, safe in the knowledge that no speed cop would be able to give him a ticket, one of the advantages of his hypnotic ability, and was soon at the required terminal. He parked in his usual reserved space, and took out the scant baggage he'd packed. Then he locked the door, activated the alarm, and was gone.
The land throbbed in the heat. Not a breath of wind stirred the air. The sun glared down from the noon sky, daring anything to move, and nothing took up the challenge. The song of cicadas rasped loud in pure concert.
Richard was surprised that he wasn't burning. Clearly, the combination of a long overcoat, fifty-plus sun block, sunglasses, and a wide-brimmed Stetson worked well for him. Sweat prickled on his upper lip, though, and ran down salty into his mouth. He should have been blistering by now. Best not to push things. He'd be of no help to Stephanie if he let himself get careless in the open furnace of a Texas summer.
He had difficulty making out the lines of her vast low house in the heat shimmer. Determined to get under its shade, Richard started toward the building, moving silently, as only he knew how. Dust spiraled up from his boots in tiny talcum gusts as he stepped carefully between rocks and clumps of cactus until reaching the white edge of the gravel driveway. He caught a single flash of movement as a lizard scurried frantically under a stone, then heard the solitary scream of a turkey buzzard circling impossibly high in the pale blue above.
Richard had watched for a long time before breaking cover, satisfied that the whole area was clear of all intruders except for himself. It seemed safe enough to announce his presence. He stepped carefully onto the back porch, grateful for the relief of the sheltering overhang that ran around the whole of the house. He knocked at the flimsy screen door, making quite a racket as it banged in place, and waited.
No one answered. The inner door beyond the screen remained unopened. The knob would not turn in his hand.
The window shutters, once a proud deep shade of blue, now faded to the same color as the sky, were tightly closed, blocking any view within. Not unexpected if Stephanie anticipated trouble. He tried one gingerly. It was locked from the inside. He did not attempt to force it, as he easily could, but moved instead around to the front of the building and its large, ornately carved door.
That was a new addition since his last visit. Its quasi-medieval style didn't match with the informality of the rest of the place, but it did look sturdy. He had seen one like it somewhere else, in some other time he could not immediately recall. The memory—or lack of it—bothered him. He tried the heavy iron handle, but found it, too, was sensibly locked.
"Stephanie?" He knocked firmly enough to be heard through the thick oak. His heart beat fast with impatience to see her again. Perhaps she was no longer his, but he couldn't help his feelings or his anxiety for her. He needed to know that she was all right.
The cicadas turned up the volume, thwarting his effort to listen for sounds within the house. The damned things were everywhere, surrounding him, screaming in their frenzy of noise. But screaming what? The buzzings rose and fell with annoying irregularity, a language he did not know and could never learn.
Against the aged blue paint of the door he noticed a streak of bright red rust running down from one of the bolts that held the great hinges in place. Once aware of it, he saw another, and another. Instead of a long dried trickle, the rust trails were still fresh and liquid, as though from a recent rain. But it couldn't have rained here for weeks. Entranced by the anomaly, he watched the red threads dance their way down the furrowed wood. Amazing that even here, in this arid heat, iron rusted so.
The trickles thickened, grew darker and more substantial in their flow.
That was wrong . . . very wrong.
The longer he stared the worse it got, until a steady stream of red welled forth. It made a viscous pool near his boots, and he stepped backward to avoid it.
Oh, no.
Now thin red streaks ran from the cracks between the boards of the door, which had begun to shudder. He sensed some great force pressing against it, trying to break free. The stout wood beams, fused together by metal and age, were actually bending outward like so much rubber.
No.
As they bent, more streaks appeared and more rust flowed forth. Only it wasn't rust, he could see that now.
He could smell it.
All but taste it.
Dear Goddess, no!
The door bellied out to the breaking point, and the buzz-saw rasp of the cicadas sliced into his head, and the red streams ran swift, gathering on the planks of the porch in gleaming lakes that blazed in the sun like fire. He went suddenly weak from the unbearable heat and fell to his knees, one hand out to keep from dropping flat. He clutched his free arm against his heaving stomach in a vain attempt to still the abrupt cramp there.
The closeness of the flow filled all his sight. It covered his supporting hand; the dark stains crept up his sleeve and soaked through to his skin. He made himself straighten and brought his trembling fingers to his lips.
Despite the pain, he felt his eyes flush red with vampiric lust, his manhood going hard, pushing urgently against his clothes; his corner teeth were fully extended. The rich scent around him teased and tormented his hunger, awakening his beast.
No!
Then the thick boards of the door groaned and abruptly split into kindling that shot past him with deadly force. A great, warm wave crashed into him and over him, sweeping him back. He thrashed for balance. His mouth was full of the stuff, and he roared, raising his hands as though to catch more as a second surge burst forth from the house like a sea tide. It overbore him, and he fell splashing as it swept him away. It was miles deep now, the undertow trying to pull him under.
The cicadas screamed, and the buzzard shrieked high overhead as the scarlet sea drowned him, and he tasted it, how he tasted it.
It was blood . . .
And it was good.