A soft hand fell on Morgan's shoulder as she sat there on the beach, sobbing.
"Why do you cry?"
It was a woman's voice, deep and rich, slightly accented. Morgan lifted her head and swiped her hands across her cheeks. She could barely see the woman who'd walked up beside her. She was a tall, slender blur. Dark hair, cranberry-colored coat. "Oh, God, you must think I'm an idiot."
"No. I, too, had a very strong reaction to the film. Not as strong as yours, however." She sat down in the sand beside Morgan.
"You... you were at the theater?"
"Mmm. I saw you run off, weeping, and I was concerned."
Finally Morgan cleared her eyes enough to look at the woman who was sitting beside her on the sand. Her wine-colored trench coat reached to her ankles and was buttoned all the way down. Long black boots on her feet, hugging her calves. Her hands were gloved in matching black leather, and her face was partially hidden by exquisite masses of black curls. She wore a lot of makeup. Way more than Morgan would usually find tasteful. And yet she had the presence to pull it off.
She stared out over the waves, not looking Morgan directly in the eyes.
"What made you run from the theater that way?"
Lowering her head, Morgan shook it slowly. The woman didn't seem to know who she was, and she preferred to keep it that way. Her sunglasses and head scarf remained in place, and she was grateful for them. "The story seems very real to me," she said softly. "I've seen it play out a dozen times." More than that, in her mind. "And every time I have the same reaction when his family rejects him that way. Sending him out into a world of darkness all on his own. I guess it just hits me on some level."
"Mmm. Me, too. I was treated much the same way by my family." She turned now and seemed able to lock on to Morgan's eyes right through the sunglasses. "You also, I would guess?"
"Yes." She spoke without meaning to. As if the words were drawn out of her. The woman had stunning eyes. Dark, maybe black, and somehow luminous. The sun had long since set, and the waves lapped gently at the shore beneath a star-dotted night sky.
"Tell me," the woman said, her voice soft and low. Compelling.
"I... was never close to my parents. It was only after they died that I learned I was adopted."
"Ahhh," she said on a breath. "Poor thing. And you wonder, then, about your real family. Your blood." As she spoke, she reached out a hand, gently moving Morgan's long hair off her shoulder, letting it fall down her back. Her eyes slid over Morgan's chin, touching her throat, and the skin there heated as if the touch were a physical one.
"Yes," Morgan said. "I do wonder about them. What they were like."
"Perhaps this history of yours is why you feel such empathy with Dante-the vampire in the film."
"Or maybe it's just that I live in his house."
The woman started, her eyes widening slightly and jerking up to Morgan's again. The spell of her quiet voice was broken. It was sharper now. "Whatever do you mean by that, child?"
What was she thinking? God, a slip like that could annihilate her budding career. She could never, never admit that the character in her films had been someone else's creation-much less that she lived in the home that had once been his. If she did, the rest would come out, too. That she had plagiarized his mad ramblings to create her award-nominated work. She tried a false smile, shaking her head in self-deprecation. "The house in one of the films reminded me a lot of my own, that's all."
"Oh."
She had the distinct feeling the woman didn't believe her. Getting to her feet, she brushed the sand from her clothes, turning her back to the woman as she did so. "I should go, it's getting late and... " She turned back again.
But there was no woman there.
Morgan blinked rapidly, searching the beach in one direction, then the other, scanning the water and the distance back toward town. Nothing. No one.
My God, had she imagined the dark woman? She pressed a hand to her forehead, closed her eyes. "Maybe I need to get away from here for a while. Just for a while." But even as she said it, she knew it wasn't possible. She couldn't leave. It was no longer a matter of simply not wanting to. The moment the words left her lips, she felt sick inside, a sense of panic stirring at the mere thought of leaving here. Leaving... him.
"What the hell did you think you were doing with that girl, Sarafina?" Dante demanded, and his tone was harsh. Too harsh, perhaps, as it caused Sarafina's perfectly arched brows to lift in question.
"Then you know her. Mmm. What is she to you?"
"Nothing." He snapped his answer without looking at her, lest she see too much. "What are you even doing here? I couldn't believe it when I sensed your presence in that theater."
Sarafina shrugged innocently, though he knew too well there wasn't an innocent bone in her body. She gave her head a shake, taunting the wind with her riotous hair. "I came to see you. I couldn't help but feel you in the theater as I passed through town, so I went inside. Imagine my surprise when I saw our history being played out on the screen."
He closed his eyes, unable to reply to that. He'd been shocked to his core to see his own life in that film. And it felt far too much like a betrayal. Especially now that he knew the truth. It was Morgan. She had written the screenplay.
Once again a woman who claimed to love him had betrayed his secrets to his enemies. To everyone. To the world.
"Apparently it had an equally upsetting effect on the girl, whoever she is. The way she ran out of there." Sarafina locked her black eyes on his. "I'll ask you again. What is she to you, Dante?"
"She's an innocent mortal, nothing more." He didn't tell her that he had been nearby, listening to every word of her conversation with Morgan. He had fully expected to have to intervene.
"Oh, she's far more than an ordinary mortal, my love. Far, far more." She took his hand, and they walked side by side along the beach, a mile from where Sarafina had been talking to the girl. "But we'll get to that," she said. "Why did you interrupt me when I was having such an illuminating discussion with the whelp?"
"To stop you from ripping out her jugular, dear gentle aunt. She's a local and would be missed."
Truth to tell, he'd been following Morgan with half a mind to do just that himself-to destroy her. But when he'd seen his bloodthirsty Sarafina with her, he'd felt a stab of fear and an undeniable instinct to protect. He had shouted to Sarafina with his mind, and she had responded by rushing to his side in a blur of motion too fast for any human eye to follow.
"It goes to show just how poorly I've taught you, doesn't it?" she asked. "And how isolated you have made yourself all these years. I couldn't have harmed her if I'd wanted to. She's one of the Chosen."
He nodded. "That much I had put together on my own. But I admit I know very little of just what that means, aside from the fact that she shares the same antigen we all do, and that she can become as we are."
Sighing, Sarafina nodded. "I knew she was in the theater before I'd been there a heartbeat," she said. She stopped walking when she came to a large boulder, took a seat upon it like a queen taking her throne. Dante stood nearby, watching her as she stared out at the sea. It was the blue-black hue of wet slate. "We can feel their presence. This much you know. We cannot harm them."
"Cannot?" He pondered that for a moment. "I thought it was more that we tended not to want to. What would happen, do you suppose, if we tried?"
She glanced up at him quickly. "You have some reason for wanting to do the girl harm?"
"I barely know her." He looked away as he said it.
Sarafina shrugged delicately. "If we tried-well, I'm not sure what would happen. The truth of the matter is, we're more often compelled to protect them when we encounter them in passing."
That explained his urge to come between his aunt and the weeping Morgan.
"They have abbreviated life spans, you know."
His head snapped up. Morgan had said as much, but he hadn't wanted to believe it. "No. I didn't know that," he lied, unwilling and unable to let his aunt know how much he and Morgan had communicated in her dream.
Sarafina only nodded. "Mmm. Rarely live beyond thirty mortal years. She looks as though she's deteriorating already." She shrugged.
"What can be done?" he asked, searching Sarafina's face.
"Nothing. Bring her over or let her die. It's a simple choice, really." She shrugged. "They say that for each vampire, there is one of the Chosen with whom the psychic bond is stronger. I've always found it to be so much hogwash. Romanticism and nothing more."
"Oh, do you? You're saying your bond with me wasn't like that?"
"My bond with you was nothing like that, Dante. You were my family. My nephew. The only one of my clan with any kind of link to me. I loved you because of that." She stared out at the sea, and the wind lifted her curls from her shoulders. "No, this other bond, this one that is spoken of in whispers among the undead, is said to be intensely more. It manifests itself as an extreme psychic link between the minds. Some claim a vampire can communicate mentally with their special mortal, and he or she with them. It also creates an extreme sexual hunger between the two that becomes even more heightened should they share blood."
She swung her gaze to Dante, and he quickly averted his eyes. "Is she living in your house, Dante?"
He schooled his expression, guarded his thoughts. "Yes."
"Then where are you staying?"
He did not want her seeing the inside of Morgan's house, he thought. She would realize Morgan was the one writing the stories for the screen-a secret it would be difficult to keep for very long anyway, if Sarafina were to stay in town. But the longer, the better. He thought that if anyone could get past the instinctive distaste for harming one of the Chosen, it would be Sarafina. And she would, if she knew the truth. She would kill the girl and let the consequences be damned.
"A cave. Nothing that would suit you, love."
She crooked a brow. "There is a house for rent only a mile or so from here. Shall we procure it for our use?"
He nodded vaguely, thinking how very badly he wanted to see Morgan tonight, wondering how the hell he was going to rid himself of Sarafina in the meantime.
"Then that will be our mission tonight," she said. "Tomorrow night, we'll see that film again. All of it, this time. And we must find out who is telling our tales to the filmmakers, and how he got the information. Apparently a native of this place, if the theater marquee is correct. Though likely he's moved to some glamorous city by now."
"He?" Dante asked, frowning.
"Morgan... something or other. I'll get the full name tomorrow." She smiled at him. "But tonight, that house. It's quite isolated. We can stay there tonight, and no one will be the wiser."
Dante nodded slowly, thinking as he did. "Go ahead of me," he whispered. "See about the house. I'll join you by dawn. I have... to feed."
She crooked her brow at him. "The house will be ready. It's a mile north, on that road that runs along the coast. A once proud Victorian that has been painted a ghastly yellow, with pink-and-green trim."
He nodded, recalling the exact place she meant.
"Frankly, I'm surprised you didn't rent it for yourself already."
Why would he? He'd been living beneath the feet of the woman his body craved. And now he knew for certain why he craved her so, but that did nothing to ease the hunger.
"I require very little in the way of comfort, 'fina."
Leaning close, she clasped his collar in both hands and kissed him on the mouth. "Come before dawn, love, or I'll come looking."
"I will."
She left him. He waited until his senses could no longer detect her anywhere nearby, and then he went to find Morgan. He couldn't play with her anymore. He needed answers. Now.
It was 4:00 a.m. when Lou's cell phone bleated, jerking him out of what had damn near been a little nap. He'd been sitting in his car all night, watching Maxie's place. He thought maybe Lydia was sleeping over, because she hadn't left yet. And hell, he didn't blame her, if Max was telling her vampire stories in there.
He picked up his phone. "Yeah?"
"Malone, where the hell are you?"
He frowned at the familiar voice of his longtime partner, back when they'd had the manpower to put two cops in every car. "Denny?"
"They've been looking everywhere for you, Lou. Listen, you'd better get over here, pronto."
"Jesus, I'm not due in for another... " He glanced at his watch.
"Not the station. Your place, Lou. There's been a break-in, and... it's not pretty."
He frowned, and a tiny sliver of ice jabbed him in the chest. He knew just by Denny's tone that he would get no more than that over the phone, so he didn't bother asking. "I'll be right over."
"If, uh, you've been with anyone tonight, you might just want to bring them along, too."
Lou blinked, drawing the phone away and staring at it, then bringing it slowly back to his head. "Are you suggesting I might be in need of an alibi, Den?"
"Might not be a bad idea."
Lou swore softly. "What the hell is going on over there?"
Too late. Sgt. Dennis Kehoe had already disconnected.
Someone tapped on Lou's car window, and he damn near jumped out of his skin. It was only Maxie, though, grinning at him and holding a coffee cup in her hand. He set the phone down, rolled down the window.
"If you want to spend the whole night watching me, Lou, you could just say so. It's not like I'd object. But it would be more fun if you'd do it from closer range."
He stared up at her as she shoved the cup into his hands. "So you know I've been here ever since I dropped you off?"
She shook her head. "You left for twenty minutes or so right after. Remember?"
"Shit." He did remember. That drive to the station, the phone call to his friend at the CIA. Hell.
"What's the matter, Lou?"
He glanced at her, noticed she was still dressed. If you could call it that. She never wore much. Thin-strapped T-shirts that were tight fitting with smart-ass remarks across the front, or loose silky blouses that were even sexier. If it got cold, she tossed a jacket over them. "Where's Lydia?"
He saw her face tighten up just a little. "She's sound asleep. Why?"
"Get in, would you? I need to go to my place for a sec."
"Okay, okay, Lou. Fine." She came around the car, got in. "You don't look so good. You okay?"
"I'll let you know when we get to my place."
As it turned out, it wasn't okay. It wasn't at all okay. He knew that when he pulled up and couldn't even get into the parking lot because of all the police vehicles. Yellow tape criss-crossed every entrance, and an ambulance was just pulling away.
"What the hell... ?"
Lou put a hand on Maxie's shoulder to calm her down, stopped the car and then got out. "You'd better wait here. I'll come get you if I need you."
"Uh-huh." She opened her door and got out, walking so close to him that her thigh and hip seemed to have melded to his, and she wrapped an arm around his and held on tight.
"Malone." Captain Howard Dutton, Lou's boss, lifted the crime scene tape for Lou to duck underneath. "I need to know where you've been tonight. All night."
"He's been with me." Maxie spat out the words before Lou could so much as open his mouth. "Who was in the ambulance?"
The captain blinked, and Lou knew he wasn't used to being questioned by a mite of a thing like Maxine Stuart. He shifted his gaze to Lou's again. "You've been with this woman all night?"
"No," Lou said. "I dropped her off at her place around ten. Left to go to the station to find something I'd left in my desk. Then I went back. All told, I was gone about twenty minutes."
"Anyone see where you were during that time? Can you verify that you didn't come back here, to the apartment?"
Lou felt his stomach clench. "No."
"Yes, he can, Captain." Maxie cut in yet again. Both men looked at her sharply. Max shrugged, focusing on Lou. "Look, I admit it. I thought you were sneaking off to meet some other woman-"
"Other woman?" What the hell was she talking about?
"-so I followed you. I saw you go into the station, and I waited until you came back out. Then I followed you back to my place."
"And Officer Malone didn't see you, ma'am?"
"I, uh... I parked in back and went in the back door. He never even knew I'd been gone." She crossed her arms over her chest. "Now, will you please tell us what's going on here? Who was that in the ambulance?"
The captain sighed, again addressing Lou and shutting Max out, which Lou knew pissed her off. "We responded to a report of a prowler in your building, Lou. When we got here, your apartment door was open, the place was trashed, and there was a woman on the floor. She'd been shot in the head at close range. We found a twenty-two on the floor nearby, no prints." He turned. "Denny, where's the weapon?"
"Right here, sir." Dennis held up an evidence bag as he hurried closer.
Lou looked at it and damn near puked but tried to keep his poker face. "It's mine. The spare I keep in the closet."
"I thought it probably was," Captain Dutton said. He turned, leading them forward up the stairs toward the apartment. "We're gonna need you to look around, see if anything's missing."
Lou nodded. He walked right behind the captain, Max still close beside him. "What about the woman?" Lou asked. "Is she dead?"
"They're going through the motions," Dutton replied without looking back. "They don't expect her to last the night, though. We figure she'd been lying there for five or six hours. We never did find any prowler, but one neighbor heard what could have been a gunshot around ten p.m. She thought it was a car backfiring and wrote it off. The ID in the victim's bag read Jones. Tempest Jones. You know her?"
Max stopped walking. Lou turned to look at her even while processing the name, which seemed vaguely familiar. Then he forgot about it when he saw Max's face, which had gone utterly white. Her jaw gaped, worked soundlessly, and her grip on his forearm tightened like a vise. Wide green eyes stared into his, moistening, and she whispered, "Stormy."
Shit. Maxine's best friend. Max damn near went backwards down the stairs when her knees gave. Her hand on his arm went lax, and she sort of sagged, but he grabbed her quickly, pulled her in close, figuring it was okay at a time like this. The captain turned. "Then you did know the victim?"
"She's a friend," Lou said. Max's arms had snapped around his waist, and her face was pressed into his shirt. He felt wetness there, but she cried silently. "Listen, Captain, can you just secure the place, post a man on it? I need to take Max to the hospital."
The captain made a face but nodded. "Yeah, sure, fine, but one thing, Lou. How well did you know this girl? This Tempest Jones?"
He shook his head. "Well enough to share doughnuts and coffee with her. Not well enough so I recognized her legal name right off. That good enough for you?"
The captain sighed, inclined his head. "Go on."
"Thanks." Lou moved Max's body around his own, like shifting the position of a belt. He got her around to the side and managed to shuffle the two of them back down the stairs and past the tape to the car. Someone opened the passenger door for him, and he glanced up at Denny, gave him a nod of thanks.
Denny looked worried and maybe a little surprised. Sure he looked surprised. It must seem to him, to everyone here, as if he and Mad Maxie were some kind of couple. As if that could happen.
He eased her onto the passenger seat, and she still clung to him. "Hon, you gotta let go now, okay? Just for a minute, so I can drive us to the hospital. Hmm?"
Sniffling, she nodded against his chest, but it still took long seconds for her to loosen her grip on his neck. He put her seat belt around her, snapped it in place and closed her door. As soon as he was behind the wheel, she latched on to him again. Head on his shoulder, clutching his arm. Made it tough to drive. Not that he minded.
"What the hell happened?" she asked him as he drove. "Why would Stormy go to your place?"
He licked his lips. "I don't know. I just don't freaking know, Max." Then he lowered his head. He didn't like thinking what he was thinking. But all of this had happened after he'd made that phone call to his old friend at the CIA. And Stormy Jones was one of the people Max had said had been threatened by that goon five years ago.
It couldn't be connected, though. Goddamn, it couldn't be.
