Authors: Karen E. Taylor
Hunger (57 page)
“Well, you can't tell me that The Cadre as a whole and Victor in particular are so careful that they haven't had some run-in with the law during their long lifetimes.”
“I don't know, Mitch. It seems like such a long shot.”
“It can't hurt, Deirdre. And if I come during the day, none of them can bother me.”
“I'm not sure I like the thought of you being in here alone.”
“Jesus, Deirdre, I'm a grown man. I was able to keep myself safe and alive before we met. I'm not your child or your pet that you need to protect. And I'm going crazy with all this happening to you and not being able to do something. This I can do; it's what I good at. And you can't stop me.” He was extremely angry, angrier than I had seen him for a long time. But I was not upset, for, other than our lovemaking, it was the best sign that the man with whom I had fallen in love had returned.
I walked across the room and put my arms around his waist, hugging him tightly to me. Then I smiled up into his face. “I love you, Mitch. And I'm sorry if I was treating you unfairly. You do what you want, but be careful. You carry my life in your hands.”
He seemed surprised but pleased by my reaction, and his mouth came down on mine in a crushing kiss. Then he pulled away from me abruptly. “What did you mean, I carry your life in my hands? You don't think I would ever do anything to hurt you, or your chances at beating this rap, do you?”
When I had reached the decision to marry Mitch, I had also decided that I would stay with him until he died and then kill myself. But I didn't want him to know that, and even if I did, this was not the time to discuss it.
“Your life is my life, Mitch,” I said softly, offering no further explanation. “Now, let's get out of this tomb and go home.”
Chapter 28
T
he next two weeks went quickly. Ron and I worked evenings preparing our case, but without Max's journals, there was no proof available as to the state of his mind and Ron did not have any luck turning up a similar case in The Cadre's archives. Victor bemoaned the theft of the journals, admitting that they could have helped my case, but assured us that his organization would never operate in such a fashion. Mitch had found fingerprints on the chest other than mine and had spent a long time at the precinct trying to match them up with their current files, but had been unsuccessful. And both Mitch and I had, however unhappily, come to the conclusion that since Victor knew about the existence of the room, a match of his prints wasn't substantial proof that he'd been involved in the theft.
he next two weeks went quickly. Ron and I worked evenings preparing our case, but without Max's journals, there was no proof available as to the state of his mind and Ron did not have any luck turning up a similar case in The Cadre's archives. Victor bemoaned the theft of the journals, admitting that they could have helped my case, but assured us that his organization would never operate in such a fashion. Mitch had found fingerprints on the chest other than mine and had spent a long time at the precinct trying to match them up with their current files, but had been unsuccessful. And both Mitch and I had, however unhappily, come to the conclusion that since Victor knew about the existence of the room, a match of his prints wasn't substantial proof that he'd been involved in the theft.
For the three nights prior to the trial, I fed. Each time, I chose a street person from different locations in the city, forcing myself to take more than I needed, to prepare for the sentence of starvation that seemed sure to follow. But I felt no elation in these feedings, no exhilaration, no rejuvenation. Instead, I felt cheapened and unclean, and the fresh, warm blood that I stole from their veins tasted more bitter than ever before.
“Have you ever wondered,” I questioned Mitch when I returned from my third victim, “whether a condemned man enjoys his last meal?”
He was sitting at his desk, poring over the files he had brought home from the precinct, and he must not have heard me enter, for he jumped when I spoke. “No,” he said distractedly, “I can't say that I have.” Then he shook his head and smiled. “I'm sorry, Deirdre. This whole case just gets stranger and stranger. Did something go wrong tonight?”
“No, something went wrong over a hundred years ago.” I did not try to disguise the bitterness in my voice. “Now my life is just one eternal picnic.”
Mitch got up and held me to him tightly, stroking my hair while I sobbed on his shoulder. “It's okay, babe,” he crooned, “we'll get through this. And after it's all over, we'll go away and forget that The Cadre ever existed. Don't get discouraged now; we can beat them.”
I sniffed a bit. “I suppose you're right. But, God, I'm so tired, Mitch, so tired. I feel as if I could sleep for a hundred years.”
He kissed me on the top of my head. “Then go to bed. I'll be just a little while longer here, and then I'll join you.”
Obediently, I went back to the bedroom, stripped off my clothes, and crawled into bed, not even checking to see that the curtains were drawn for tomorrow's dawn. But I did not sleep. I wanted no dreams tonight, no visits from Max, no glimpses of lives not mine. I lay on my back and stared at the ceiling for an hour until Mitch came in.
When he settled next to me, I rolled over, pressing myself against his warm, human body.
“Hey,” he said with a catch in his voice, “you're supposed to be sleeping.”
I didn't answer, but put my mouth to his shoulder, taking gentle nips, my hand exploring his chest and his muscular thighs. When this preliminary love play brought no response from my feeding instinct, I grew bolder, kissing his nipples and tracing my tongue down his stomach. Shifting my position so that I lay between his thighs, I continued my attentions and he groaned softly and whispered my name.
I looked up at him for confirmation, and he nodded slightly, his eyes glittering in the darkness, but with passion, not fear. Grasping his buttocks in my hands, I took him fully into my mouth, something I had never done before for fear of my sharpened fangs. I did not think of blood or feeding, I knew only that this was Mitch, a man I loved more than anything else in the world, and I wanted to please him, tonight of all nights. It might be our last together.
So I continued, licking and kissing him, coaxing him time and time again closer to climax. Finally, when he moaned and pulled my head away from him, I crawled up his body and smiled. “How was that?” I said, kissing the side of his mouth.
“Jesus, Deirdre,” he gasped, “you make me crazy. I can barely catch my breath.”
Then he rolled me over and entered me quickly. I began to cry from the sheer beauty of the unity we shared, and the painful thought that we might soon be parted. But I laughed too, and whispered encouraging endearments to him in the darkness, until half an hour later we both pulled apart from each other, sated and exhausted. Mitch's body and mine were slick with his sweat. Playfully, I licked the salt from his neck and he shuddered.
“Enough,” he half laughed, half groaned, “or you'll kill me for sure.”
Then he snuggled into me, draped a hand over my breast, and we fell asleep.
Â
Mitch woke me at five the next afternoon with a cup of fresh-brewed coffee in his hand. I pushed my hopelessly tangled hair from my face and sat up in bed, taking the mug from him. “Thank you,” I said after my first sip.
“Good morning, my love.” He had a smile on his face that not even The Cadre could remove; I knew because I wore the same smile.
“I'm sorry to get you up before sunset, but I thought you might want a shower.”
Setting the coffee cup down, I stood up and stretched. “Yes, I do. How about you?”
Mitch shrugged. “Oh, I had mine hours ago, but”âhis eyes lit with a mischievous grinâ“I'll keep you company if you like.”
We got into the shower together, and Mitch soaped me all over as if I were a child. He shampooed my hair, then stood back and watched me while I rinsed it. “You're so perfect,” he said, his tone of voice almost reverent, “and I love you so much. I can't even begin to explain how much you mean to me, how special our time together has been.” Then he reached around me, turning off the water, and kissed me full on the lips. But he did not touch me, or hold me in his arms, nor did we make love. It was as if our experience of the previous night was such a strong bonding, cementing us so firmly to each other that we never needed to make love again, but could stand forever, naked skin against naked skin, heart against heart, always together.
The phone rang and we both jumped.
“Wouldn't you know it?” he said with a twisted smile, and wrapping a towel around himself, climbed out of the shower to answer it.
I toweled my hair, then dried my body and put on Mitch's green robe, tying the sash tight around my waist. By the time I reached the living room, his phone conversation had grown animated, almost angry.
“What the hell do you mean, you don't remember? You were on duty in the morgue that night; I have your name on the log sheet. Goddammit, Harry, I've heard you recite the list of corpses you've handled over the years, including the dates and causes of deaths, and the names of their next of kin. And all that after putting away a six-pack or two. How on earth could you forget this one? Jesus Christ, Harry, he had a hole in him large enough to stuff your fist into, for God's sake.”
Mitch paused for a minute listening to the agitated voice on the phone, then he nodded, discouraged. “Okay, okay,” he attempted to pacify the caller, “if you don't remember, you don't remember. Thanks anyway.” Nervously, he shifted the towel around his waist. “Yeah, you too.” He slammed the phone down impatiently, then sat down on the couch, running his fingers through his still-wet hair.
“What's wrong, Mitch?”
He looked up at me, startled. “I didn't know you were out here. Look, I'm sorry. I really meant to tell you about this last night, but you came in so upset. And then”âhe gave a reminiscent smileâ“you sort of distracted me.”
“Tell me about what, Mitch?”
“Larry Martin. There's no report on the final disposition of his body, and the morgue guy can't even remember seeing him.”
“Does that really matter at this point?”
Mitch's eyes shifted away from me for a minute. “I think it does. Maybe not ultimately to your case with The Cadre, but it does matter, very much. You see, I finally found a match for the fingerprints in Max's room.”
“And?”
“And they were Larry's.”
I must have stood staring at Mitch for a full minute, taking in his statement. And when I found my voice, it was soft and desperate. “But Larry has been dead for more than two years, Mitch.” Even as I said it, I realized it could not be true. Here, then, was the explanation for the sick feeling of dread I had whenever I thought of him, the familiar face on the Ballroom dance floor, maybe even for the fright on Johnny's face the other night. Larry Martin was still alive. More than that, Larry had gotten from me what I had not ever wanted to give to anyone: immortality in the form of vampirism.
“Damn,” I swore softly, and sat next to Mitch on the couch.
“Is there something you need to tell me, Deirdre?” Mitch sounded stern, remembering, I thought, of how I denied him what Larry had received.
“I didn't know, Mitch, and it wasn't on purpose, believe me. When you shot him, the bullet went straight through him and into my shoulder. I couldn't tell you; you would have taken me to a hospital, and that was totally out of the question at the time. You didn't know what I was then; how could I let you find out in the emergency room?” I stared unseeingly at the floor. “It never really occurred to me, but I suppose that enough of my blood could have mingled with his to enable the change.” I put my hands over my face, then looked at him. “Jesus.”
We sat silent for a few minutes. Then Mitch spoke up. “We've got to find him, Deirdre. He was unstable, crazy, and I don't believe that two years as a vampire could have improved him any.”
“But why would he want Max's journals? How would he know they were even there?”
“Larry Martin always made it a habit to find out what he wanted to know. As to why take the journals, I suspect that he is none too pleased with you and he did it just to hurt you. Or maybe to hurt me. Or maybe just for the hell of it, because he could. You once told me you couldn't explain the ravings of a madman. What makes you think I can?”
I shivered and Mitch put his arm around me. “I'm sorry,” he said again. “I shouldn't have said anything, I guess. But don't worry about it now, nothing is going to happen. And tonight, after all this is over, you should ask Victor. Maybe he knows something; I really think he owes you that much.”
As if on cue, the phone rang again. This time it was Victor. “I will be there in one hour to escort you and Deirdre to the hearing.” His voice was completely audible to me, even though Mitch had answered.
“We'll be ready.”
Several days ago, and much to Mitch's amusement, Ron had already surveyed my wardrobe and dictated what I should wear to the hearing. After he had made the selection and left, Mitch had started to laugh.
“What's so funny?” I had asked him.
“Obviously the breed runs true no matter how much it's transformed.”
“What?”
“Ron Wilkes may be a vampire, but he's still one hundred percent attorney.” Then he had sobered and looked at me intently. “I've known a lot of lawyers in my day, and I can tell he's good. I guess I'm grateful that he decided to speak for you, whatever you had to do to get him.”
Now, clothed in a basic black dress, black hose, and a low-heeled pump, I had to agree that his choice was a smart one. Unfortunately the skirt was slightly shorter than I felt comfortable with. “Damn Betsy McCain,” I muttered when Mitch joined me in front of his mirror.
“What's wrong? You look great.”
“Damn skirt is too short, like everything else she designs.”
“Oh, well,” he said, patting me slightly on the hip so that I would move out of his way while he tied his tie, “maybe they'll get one look at your perfect legs and decide to let you go scot free.”
“Chance is a fine thing.”
“What?”
“Just an expression I picked up from Pete in England. I guess the American slang would translate into fat chance.”
“Who's Pete?” By now it was easy to recognize the slight twinge of jealousy in his voice.
“My partner in England. I own half of a failing pub over there.”
“Great,” he moaned, “just what we need. Another bar owner. Don't you meet any other types?”
“But you would like him.” He gave me a dubious look and I continued. “No, honestly, Mitch, you would. He's like a second father to me.”
“Good God,” he said, crossing the room and slipping on his suit coat, “and that's another thing we don't need. Speaking of fathers, heard from Max lately?”
“Not since that last dream.”
“How typical of him. He's perfectly capable of getting you into this trouble in the first place, and then he bails out when you need him. You're not much of a judge of character, are you?”
“Oh, I don't know.” I went to him and wrapped my arms around his waist. “I've done pretty well for myself this time.”
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