Reaper watched the reactions cross her face one by one. There was surprise, a slight lifting of her lush, dark brows and a widening of her deep brown eyes. That reaction was brief, little more than a flash. It was followed quickly by those same eyes narrowing, the brows gathering close, a look of suspicion and perhaps even dislike.
"We're not going to start having sex on a regular basis, Reaper."
He shrugged. "I didn't say anything about a regular basis."
"The next thing you know, you'll be going cow-eyed and sappy-like Jack is over the princess. It would make me puke."
"I was offering sex, Briar, nothing more. If you're not interested, it's all the same to me. Just don't go to sleep with the idea that I'm going...what did you call it? Cow-eyed or sappy over you. You're not the type to inspire that sort of reaction in a man."
She turned away as he watched her, and he wondered if his barb had stung her just a little. But that would imply that she had feelings, and she'd gone to great lengths to make sure everyone knew she had none.
"So you're just like every other man I've ever known, then. You just want to get laid."
"If I just want to get laid, I'm a bastard. If I feel something for you, I'm a sap. I can't win with you, can I, Briar?"
"No. You can't. Why don't we leave it at that and call it good?"
"Fine." He turned and stalked back into the suite's shared living room, then paused. "The truth is, I thought you could use a little relief. Despite your denials, I can see that you're worried about Crisa, frustrated by her sudden rebellion against you, drained by sharing her pain. A little distraction from all that, a little release, would do you a world of good."
"Sounds remarkably sappy to me. As if you give a damn."
He turned to see her standing in the bedroom doorway. "Not at all. I'm just a bastard who wants to get laid."
She smiled just slightly. "That's better. Go find a pretty victim, Reaper. Take her by force, or make her submit by controlling her mind, drink her and fuck her and enjoy yourself." Then she tipped her head to one side. "No doubt you'll top it off by making her forget it happened, or telling her to remember it as a pleasant, erotic dream."
"Is that what you intend to do with what's left of the darkness?" he asked.
She met his eyes, and a spark of desire, unmistakable, flashed in hers. "Jealous?"
"Not in the least."
"So are you going to take my advice, then?"
"No."
"So it's not just sex you want. It's me." She narrowed her eyes on him, curious now, rather than suspicious. "Why?"
Lifting his gaze, Reaper met her eyes. "Not because of anything sappy or emotional, don't worry on that score. Good night, Briar."
He turned and walked to the door.
"Why, then?" she called after him.
He didn't answer, just opened the door and left the room.
Why? The question plagued him all night. Why did he want her? Physical contact with others tended to make him extremely uncomfortable. It had for a long time. Ever since Rebecca...
No, he wasn't going to think about that, about her, She was off-limits. And yet, since he'd met Briar, Rebecca had been popping into his mind on a regular basis. More and more often, with more and more insistence. And it was getting harder, night by night, to keep the memories at bay.
He had an hour to get through before the day sleep would take him. As he retired to the room Topaz had deemed his, he noted the big-screen television and the stereo system, and knew both were bad ideas. Any program, any song, might contain the single word that would send him into a murderous rage, thanks to the brainwashing techniques of his old friends at the CIA.
His misfits all knew what the trigger word was. Briar knew. They wouldn't utter it in his presence. But the television or radio might.
Gregor knew the trigger word, as well. The difference was that Gregor also knew the word that would bring him out of it again.
That was information for which he could easily kill.
He undressed and sank into the bed, trusting the automatically darkening windows to keep him safe. Topaz wouldn't lie to him about something like that. He yanked out a cell phone from his pants pocket before dropping them back onto the floor beside the bed, deciding to kill the remaining time by trying to get a message to Eric Marquand.
Rhiannon answered on the first ring. "Hello, darling" she purred. "I wondered when you'd get around to thanking me for my help on that little Mexican adventure."
Reaper smiled slowly. Rhiannon wouldn't have needed caller ID to know who was calling. She was his maker. They shared a psychic bond that couldn't be stronger.
"Hello, Rhiannon. Thank you for your help on that little Mexican adventure."
"Right. That's not why you're calling, though, is it?"
"No."
"What do you need, Reaper? Has that bitch vampiress bitten you too hard?"
"If you're referring to Briar, no. She hasn't bitten me at all."
"You are such a liar. You're doomed, you know. You stand no chance against her."
"I'm not against her."
"But you want to be." She laughed softly, enjoying her torment of him. "I like her," she said, when her laughter died.
"You're the only one, then," he said.
"Oh, I don't think so. You like her, too."
"I want to like her," he admitted. "She's not making it easy."
"She wouldn't. But there's Crisa. That one seems to adore her."
"Not anymore."
Rhiannon went silent. "What's happened?"
"Crisa is having debilitating headaches, hearing voices, seeing things. Briar gets the headaches when Crisa does. We don't know what's causing them."
"Is it part of the girl's...condition?"
"I don't think so. She says not. And she's insisting there's a boy somewhere who needs her, who keeps calling out to her, and that she has to go to him. Briar forbade her, and Crisa defied her."
"Really? That must have come as quite a shock to Briar."
"Came as a shock to all of us."
"Well, it would, wouldn't it? It's the first hint of a backbone the girl has shown."
He nodded, sighed. "Do you think Eric Marquand might be able to help us figure out what's happening to Crisa?"
Rhiannon was silent for a moment. Reaper could hear her long nails rapping in steady rhythm on some surface. Finally she said,
"I don't know for sure, of course. But I can't think of anyone who'd more likely be able to help. Where are you?"
"At Topaz's place, Emerald Isle, North Carolina."
"I'll pass on your request," she told him. "I'll phone you when I have his answer. Meanwhile...I have another answer for you."
Reaper frowned. "An answer to what? I haven't asked a question."
"Well, you must have, or I wouldn't have an answer screaming in my mind right now, would I? I don't know what the question is that's been plaguing you, darling, but I do know the words you need to hear right now."
Closing his eyes, Reaper lowered his head. He knew damn well what question had been plaguing him. Why was he so drawn to Briar? But he didn't like opening himself up, revealing his weaknesses, his feelings, to anyone. Even Rhiannon.
"Shall I tell you?" she asked him.
"Do I have a choice?"
"Of course not. The answer is, because you think you can't hurt her."
"Because I think I can't hurt her," he repeated.
"Yes. That's it. Now, sate my burning curiosity and tell me, what was the question?"
"None of your business."
"It's about that prickly bitch, isn't it?"
"It's nearly dawn, Rhiannon. I have to go. Good rest."
"Stubborn prick," she muttered. Then she hung up.
Reaper ended the call and set his cell phone on the nightstand. Then he lay down in the bed, pulled up the covers and waited for sleep to come, all the while trying not to replay his own question-and Rhiannon's answer-in his mind. He didn't need this, not now. Besides, he could already feel the day sleep pulling at him. His body grew heavy. His eyes fell closed. In his mind, he saw Briar, straddling him in that car, bouncing up and down on him, kissing and biting at him as she drove him toward the most shattering climax he'd ever experienced.
Thank God, he thought, that vampires didn't dream during the day sleep. Otherwise, he thought the memory of that one explosive encounter would haunt him until sundown.
She probably should have taken him up on it, Briar thought, as she examined her new digs with appreciation and ridicule warring for top spot in her mind. She took a long look at the giant Jacuzzi tub, the bottles of oils, scents, lotions and soaps that filled the shelves around it, the loofah and the candles, all of them with clean white wicks. She wondered if Topaz threw them all out and bought new ones every time one of the wicks was blackened by flame. How stupid was that? And what was with the towels? she wondered, as she tugged one off the rack. It was as big as a bedsheet. Who needed a towel that big?
For a moment she envisioned herself soaking in the giant Jacuzzi and making use of the girlie shit that surrounded her. Then, with a roll of her eyes, she opted for the stand-alone shower instead.
It was opulent enough all by itself. Corner-shaped and huge, with not one but three showerheads-so that she could wash, rinse and masturbate all at the same time, she guessed.
Nothing too good for the princess.
Briar made her shower quick, and tried really hard not to enjoy the pulsing pressure massaging her back and shoulders, though privately, she supposed she had to admit, it was nice.
Even so, she spent the entire time judging Topaz for her spending habits-not that she gave a damn, she told herself; she was simply keeping her thoughts from heading down the alley they really wanted to explore.
But it didn't work for long. There wasn't enough overindulgence in freakin' Buckingham Palace to keep her from thinking about that. About him.
Reaper.
He wanted something from her. He was up to something. She wasn't stupid enough to think men ever did anything for any other reason. And she thought he was a little bit beyond the caveman-level mentality. It wasn't just sex, like with her stepfather. That Neanderthal hadn't had another thought in his entire head. There'd been no motive, no scheme or scam or reason. Just beady eyes that were way too close together, and a serious death wish she had yet to fulfill.
It was on her list. Gregor first, though. Then Step-daddy-dearest. And then she would move on through the rest of them. The pimps, the dealers, the Johns. All of them. They would pay.
She wasn't a lost, weak, homeless addict anymore. She was a vampire now. Thanks to Gregor. Ironic, that.
Reaper, though...he was different. Smart. Even halfway decent. So he wanted something, he had something to gain, besides a good time, by getting into her pants again. What was it?
She didn't know. And she wasn't going to figure it out in the time between her shower and sunrise, so she towelled off, slung the giant towel over the wide rack to dry and padded into the bedroom. She snagged a fleece bathrobe from a hook on the way.
The thing was as soft as down, cream-colored, knee-length. She pulled it on, and, in spite of herself, hugged it around her a little bit. Then she headed through the living room and toward Crisa's door. It was closed, but the glass of blood she'd left on the table just this side of it was gone.
She moved closer, opened the door very quietly, just a little, and peeked inside.
Crisa lay in the bed, sound asleep, but uneasy. She twitched every few seconds, and her head kept moving from side to side.
Roxy was still there, but she got up when she saw Briar peering in, crossed the room on tiptoe and joined her in the living room.
As she closed the door quietly behind her, she met Briar's eyes. "I don't like it."
"No, neither do I."
"It just doesn't make any damn sense. If she didn't hear voices or see things or get these headaches before, why now? What's changed?"
"I don't know. Maybe her damn Rey-Rey had her on some kind of medication that we don't know about. Something that kept all this shit under control."
"What kind of medication would work on a vampire, Briar?"
"Only two that we know of. The tranquilizer, and that potion of Rhiannon's that lets us stay awake by day, and makes us meaner than hell and twice as jittery. But that doesn't mean there might not be more."
"Right. Antipsychotics for the undead. Makes all kinds of sense."
She shot Roxy a look. "If it's not that, then what?"
"I don't know. Some kind of possession?"
"You don't believe it could be drugs, but demons seem like a possibility to you?" Briar rolled her eyes.
"Maybe some other vampire is messing around with her head, then?"
"Why would anyone want to?"
"I'm damned if I know!" Roxy lowered her head. "I know, I know, you're as baffled by this as I am. I just hate seeing her in pain. And so confused by it. And the way she's changing... No, I don't like it. I want to help."
Briar lowered her head, because it was becoming too heavy to hold up. The sun must be near to rising. "The Reiki helps. Both of us."
"That's something, anyway." Roxy patted Briar on the shoulder. "Go on to bed before you collapse and I have to carry you.
She's out for the day. She'll be fine until sundown."
"Yeah, but what then?"
"We'll decide when it gets here."
Briar nodded and went back into the bedroom. She just managed to crawl into the lush nest of teddy-bear-soft fabrics before the sleep took her gently into its embrace.
In the basement of the mansion in Byram, Connecticut, the ten-year-old boy stood in the open doorway and stared at the man inside the room. Derrick Dwyer dangled. His hands were chained together, the chain looped over a hook in the ceiling. His toes barely reached the floor. The man's head hung low, chin touching his chest. He was barefoot. His shirt was gone, and so was a strip of his skin, on his forearm. It looked as if someone had peeled him there, like peeling a potato.
He wasn't dead. Matt could tell, because he was still breathing. It was raspy enough to hear without listening too hard.
His father must have gotten whatever he wanted from the man, because he'd told Matt to get him down and tend to his wounds, as he'd gone running from the house. That had been an hour ago, and it had been pretty close to sunrise, so Matt thought wherever his father was going, it must have been pretty important.
He knew what his father was. A vampire. They were mean, evil creatures, but he didn't suppose they could help it. And besides, now that his mom had died, his dad was all he had left.
So he tried to obey and not be too afraid, though he sure did see a lot of things to be afraid of.
He grabbed a wooden chair and dragged it closer to the man. Then he climbed up on it, but he couldn't reach the hook in the ceiling. As he stood there, contemplating what to do, the man moaned and lifted his head just slightly.
"Hey, are you awake?" Matt asked him.
The man lifted his head higher and stared straight into Matt's eyes.
"Father said I should get you down now. Only I can't reach."
The man kept staring, as if not understanding him, so Matt pointed upward until the guy looked up, too, and saw the hook beyond the boy's reach.
"If you can get up on this chair, though, you could probably get it off yourself. You think you can?"
The man nodded weakly, so Matt hopped down from the chair and then steadied the older guy so he could get up onto it. It took some doing. The man was weak, and his wrists were bleeding. But he finally got up onto the chair and got the chain off the hook. He lowered his arms with a groan, gripped the back of the chair and climbed down again.
"Here, give me your hands." Matt tugged the key from his jeans pocket and waited. When the man lifted his hands, Matt slid the key into the little lock, wincing at the blood that was all over it, and popped the wrist shackles open.
They were not handcuffs. Handcuffs would have been worse. These things had wide metal bands that had cut into his skin as he'd hung there, but Matt was pretty sure handcuffs would have cut him clean to the bone.
The guy peeled off one manacle, then the other, grating his teeth and baring them in a grimace of pain.
"Can you walk, do you think?"
"Not very far. Why? Where are you takin' me?"
"Well, I wasn't supposed to take you anywhere. Just patch you up and leave you locked in here. But it's daylight, and my father didn't come back, so he won't be home until dark. And I'm all alone, 'cause the drones are all sleeping, too. Not that they're any fun, anyway." He knew he was talking a mile a minute. His father would have cuffed him upside the head and told him to slow down, be quiet, say only what needed saying and then shut the hell up. But this old man seemed to be listening with interest, and maybe even a little amusement.
"So you can come upstairs if you want. I can bandage you up way better up there. And you can take a shower or a bath-if you think it won't hurt too much. And then we can eat-I never have anyone to eat with. 'Cause, you know, they don't eat."
"I know."
Matt took the man's hand and led the way out of the room, through the basement and to the stairway that led up to the rest of the mansion.
"Why do you think your father didn't come home before sunrise?" the prisoner asked.
"Prob'ly just got too busy. I'm sure he found shelter in time."
"Would you be terribly upset if he didn't?"
Matt paused on the stairs and stared up at the man.
"Well, I'd be an orphan then, and I don't really want to be an orphan."
"He told you your mother is dead, then?"
"Yeah." They reached the top of the stairs and entered the main level of the mansion. "What should I call you?"
"You can call me Derry, if you want."
"Derry. I like that. You can call me Matt. It's what Mom used to call me."
"All right, Matt. I don't want you to get into trouble for this, you know. Are you sure you won't?"
"He'll never know."
Derry nodded. "Well, first things first, Matt. I think we'd better tend to these wounds. Some ointment, some bandages, a nice washup, and maybe some pain relievers, if you have any in the house."
"We have all that. I'm in charge of making the shopping lists. Father never lets me go out to the grocery store, but I make the lists. It's one of my jobs. The downstairs bathroom will be easier for you. It's this way."
The man was smiling at him as they made their way into the bathroom. "Does your father ever let you go anywhere, Matt?"
"Oh, he takes me out sometimes. But only at night, of course, and never around other people."
"It must get pretty borin' and lonely."
"Yeah. Well, you know, I have tons of stuff. An Xbox and a PS3 and a Wii, and every game they ever invented for any of them. So not so much boring, but yeah on the lonely, and I get crazy being in this house all the time."
"Hmm." They entered the bathroom, and Derry took a seat on the toilet-lid closed, of course. Matt got all the first-aid supplies from the cabinet and laid them out on the sink counter for him. He soaked a gauze pad in peroxide and handed it to Derry, then soaked another and kept it for himself. "You work on those wrists. I'll get started on your back."
"Okay." Derry turned, then winced as Matt began cleaning the welts and cuts with the soaked pad. Matt tried to be careful, but he knew it had to hurt like mad.
"I...wonder," Derry said, in between sucking air through his teeth in pain.
"What?"
"Well, if you're sure your father won't be back until nightfall..."
Leaning around to face him, Matt said, "He can't come back before nightfall. Vampire, remember?" He grinned and was happy when Derry grinned back. Then he tossed the gauze pad in the garbage pail and grabbed the tube of triple antibiotic ointment.
"This won't hurt as much," he promised. He tried to dollop it onto the hurt places without too much contact, then handed it to Derry.
"You know, we could sneak out for a while. Maybe go to the zoo, a fast food joint for burgers and fries, a game arcade, a park. We could have fun, Matt."
"Are you sure you feel up to it, Derry?" Matt laid the strips of gauze over the wounds, then stuck them in place with adhesive tape. "I don't know why you didn't just tell him whatever he wanted to know to begin with." He shook his head sadly. "It's always best to do what he says." Then he finished and came around in front. "You really feel good enough to go out, Derry?"
"Well, I don't of course, but...you helped me. I owe you one. And this might be our only chance."
"Yeah, that's for sure."
"If only there were a car...oh, wait, there's my car. Your father brought me here in his, but I heard him tell the drones to bring mine. I wonder if he still has it?"
"Sure he does," Matt said. He was wrapping gauze around Derry's ointment-covered left wrist now, "It's around back."
"Really? That's great. I love that car." Then Derry frowned. "Still, I don't imagine you know where he keeps the keys."
"Of course I do," Matt said. He finished the first wrist, taped the gauze in place, then began wrapping the other.
"So what do you think? Should we do it? Should we get out of here for the day?" Derry asked.
Matt frowned hard, taped off the gauze, then turned to the counter to shake three tablets out of a pain reliever bottle. He handed them to Derry and spoke sternly, making his eyes very serious. "All right, but if you start feeling weak or sick or anything, we'll just chuck it and come home, okay?"
"Of course that's okay," Derry said, and patted Matt on the head.
"And my father can never know."
"Absolutely," Derry promised. "You have my word on that."
So Matthias carefully gathered up all the items he'd used and put them away, and then he took Derry's hand and led him through the house in search of some clean clothes.
Derrick Dwyer admired the boy. He was mature for his age, probably because he'd been forced to learn to fend for himself. He was smart as well.
Not smart enough to realize, though, that he was about to become a hostage.
Derrick had been pushed beyond the edge of his endurance, and while he liked the kid, he wouldn't hesitate to use him.
Or even kill him, if necessary.