Mortal Illusions
by
Kathryn R. Blake
(c) copyright July 2003 Marcy K. Piland
Published by New Concepts Publishing
Smashwords Edition
Cover art by Eliza Black (c) copyright July 2003
New Concepts Publishing
4729 Humphreys Rd.
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to my mother, who never really understood vampires, but supported me in whatever I did. I wish she had lived long enough to read this.
This is also for my closest friends and critique group who had faith in me, even when I had none. You know who you are, Kathleen and Pam. You are very special to me.
For my editor, Tiffany Ayers, who did understand vampires and happened to like mine enough to help me share them with others.
And most of all, for my husband, who supported my writing by doing everything else while I created characters and worlds that I now share with you.
Thank you all.
KRB
PROLOGUE
“Wishing you were somehow here again....
Knowing we must say good-bye....”
A woman's dulcet tones floated from the stage to Germaine St. Justine in a sweet but hollow entreaty that made his teeth ache and stomach churn as if he'd ingested a giant cone of cotton candy.
Germaine knew better than to fault the woman. Her voice was technically perfect and she was quite pretty, in a plastic, theatrical sort of way. But she wasn't Lucy. At least not his Lucy.
As the last notes of Christine's lament trebled into silence, Germaine spoke into the mike that amplified his voice on stage. “Thank you, Ms. Lacey, that was very nice. We'll be in touch.”
The moment he flipped off the mike, William Hailey, his director, turned to him. “Well, what was it this time? Was her nose too long, her mouth too wide, or her legs too short?”
“None of the above,” Germaine answered evenly as he picked up the next resume in his stack. “She just wasn't right for the role.”
Hailey sighed as if he was being persecuted. “Why do you insist on pursuing this folly?”
Pretending not to hear, Germaine gazed at the picture he held without really looking at it. This would be the ninetieth hopeful they’d auditioned that week and, though he loathed admitting it, Germaine had the sinking feeling his stage director might be right. Maybe it was a folly.
“Serena Williams is hot right now,” Hailey continued, keeping his voice low although they sat too far back in the darkened theater for anyone on stage to see or hear them. “And she's expressed a keen interest in working with us. She'd be perfect for the role, Germaine. She's young, talented, a box office draw, and she's worked with Nick before. She'd make an excellent Lucy to his Dracula.”
Keeping his unkind thoughts about Serena Williams to himself, Germaine turned over the picture and scanned the next actress's resume beneath the lighted, desk-like ledge clamped to the seats in front of them. Not because he needed the light to see, but because disdaining it would only attract the kind of attention he preferred to avoid.
This next aspirant had a couple of major roles in college to her credit, but only a few bit parts and some chorus work Off-Broadway since then. Not very promising, but Germaine wasn't interested in experience. He sought something else. A unique quality that couldn't be taught.
“Please, Germaine, do us all a favor. Call an end to the auditions tonight, and let me phone Serena's agent tomorrow. They're so eager to discuss terms that I bet she'll even audition for you. Give her that much, at least. If you're still not satisfied, we can continue this torture next week.”
Germaine flipped the tiny red switch on his headset that connected him to his stage manager, John Percy, working backstage. Reading from the resume, he said, “Call Ms. Daniels in next, John.”
William Hailey groaned out loud. “Why won't you even give Serena a chance?”
“Because she's not right for the role. Lucy is an innocent whose love and spiritual strength shine forth so brightly that even the Prince of Darkness can't extinguish them. Serena Williams is an accomplished, young femme fatale who lost her innocence long before she knew she had any.”
“So she's been in the tabloids a few times,” Hailey murmured a little defensively. “She can still act, Germaine. She could give Lucy all the innocence you want.”
“You can't act innocence, Bill,” Germaine insisted as he watched the auditioning actress walk on stage. Her step was light, but confident as she moved across the boards with a grace more inherent than studied. She had the look he was after--a youthful visage with large, guileless blue eyes and long, lustrous dark-brown hair that cascaded like a waterfall of soft curls to her shoulders in a style that reminded him of the nineteenth century. Watching her, he had the distinct feeling they had already met. He glanced at her resume again. Claire Daniels. An attractive name, but not one that held any special significance for him. She lived in Manhattan. No surprise there. She'd studied at Julliard and Yale. Again, nothing remarkable. Putting his impression down to one too many auditions, he watched Hailey scribble notes over her sparse resume with his tooth-worried pen.
“As I was saying,” Germaine continued, “you either possess an aura of innocence or you don't. Once lost, it can never be regained, and Serena Williams never had any to begin with.”
“What about this one?” Hailey inquired, indicating the young woman on stage with a jab of his pen. “She certainly doesn't have any experience. Has she got this elusive quality of innocence you're looking for?” he asked, his frustration edged with sarcasm.
“Possibly. That's what we're here to find out.” Switching off his headphone to avoid the earsplitting feedback, Germaine leaned forward and spoke into the mike. “Before you begin, Ms. Daniels, I'd like you to tell us a little about yourself and why you want to play Lucy Seward?”
He could hear her softly in-drawn breath and see her blue eyes widen slightly, but even Germaine's extraordinary faculties couldn't determine whether it was surprise or stage-fright that prompted the reaction. Stepping forward, she peered out into the darkened house with her right hand shading her eyes from the spotlight and asked, “What would you like to know about me, sir?” Her voice was clear and perfectly modulated. His interest heightened, Germaine wanted to hear more.
“Tell us a little about your interests and what brings you here tonight,” he suggested helpfully.
“Well, I like to study dance and I'm currently taking singing and acting classes at NYU. As to why I'm here....” she paused, looking uncertain for a moment. “Bram Stoker's tale has always fascinated me, and I feel I have a special understanding of Lucy Seward's attraction for Dracula.”
“And what special understanding is that, Ms. Daniels?” Germaine asked, his insides tightening with apprehension as if he were the one auditioning rather than she.
“I think that Lucy loved Dracula more than she did her fiancé, her father and her own life, yet she feared the power he held over her.” She paused and swallowed as if to gather her courage, then added, “I think she loved him not because he was a vampire, but in spite of it.”
Germaine hadn't expected her answer would affect him so strongly, but it had, and he wasn't sure he cared for the implication. He couldn't shake the foreboding feeling that his fate was inextricably intertwined with this woman's. The notion made him want to thank and dismiss her before it was too late for him to escape unscathed. Instead he said, “Thank you, Ms. Daniels. You may continue with the audition now if you wish.”
She'd also selected “Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again,” from Webber's Phantom. After ninety auditions, Germaine was well-acquainted with Christine Daea's lament before her dead father's grave. Wishing these young hopefuls possessed a little more variety, if not imagination, Germaine sat back in his seat and resigned himself to another poignant interlude. But the moment Claire started to sing, Germaine forgot to breathe. Psychic awareness flowed through him as if an unseen hand caressed the back of his neck. Every nerve in his body tingled with awakened sensitivity. The sensation was both exquisitely beautiful and excruciatingly painful. She sang with such depth of emotion, such feeling, that he experienced the grief of her loss as if they were joined. Barraged by unwanted memories, Germaine fought to bury his resurfacing emotions beneath a barricade of indifference. Whenever he opened himself to the moods and feelings of mortals, he became vulnerable to their wants, needs and desires until his subliminal bond with them forged a forbidden longing for more within him. A longing that could never be fulfilled.
Although it took more willpower than he imagined possible, Germaine managed to master his emotions and view the actress on stage through objective eyes. Technically, her voice had the range, depth and control he sought, and its sweet, lyrical quality pleased him greatly. But the emotional resonance, the naked feeling of longing she imparted to the words, took his breath away as it filled him with an aching need to ease her despair. The deep feeling of grief he sensed stemmed not from an excellent performance, but from personal experience. Personal pain.
Aware that he hadn't gained as much control over his own emotions as he'd believed, Germaine was reluctant to commit himself by declaring her his final choice. Claire Daniels was his ideal image of Lucy in every way. If she could act, he'd have no alternative but to give her the role. She was singing the last verse when he switched on his headphones again. “Is Nick here yet, John?” he asked gruffly, hoping to hide the telltale huskiness in his voice.
“He just arrived,” John reported. “Should I put him on?”
“No. Just tell him that I'd like him to read with Ms. Daniels in a few minutes.”
John murmured his acknowledgment as Claire's last note faded away and Germaine spoke into the mike. “Thank you very much, Ms. Daniels. That was most enjoyable. Would you go with Mr. Percy to the green room for a few minutes? I'd like to hear you read for the role as well.” At her stunned nod, John stepped forward to escort her offstage and Germaine turned to face his director.
“She hasn't even acted legit before,” Hailey pointed out with a trace of exasperation. “That makes her an unknown quantity. Do you really want to risk everything on an unknown?”
“What I want has little to do with this, Bill. She's Lucy in every way. Her voice, her face, the way she walks, even the way she gestures with her hands. Unless her acting skills rival a high school prom queen trying out for the senior play, I think she deserves this chance.”
“May I remind you that we open in nine weeks. If she doesn't work out, we'll have a hell of a time trying to replace her.”
“True....” Germaine concurred, but the idea that she might not work out didn't concern him. His inner conviction that she would succeed in undoing him in a way that no one else ever had--did. Germaine was just as certain that Claire Daniels would be the archangel of his personal Armageddon as he was convinced that he would be her death, if he permitted any further contact between them. He felt it in every sinewy fiber of his preternatural being.
Still, he'd never been one to shirk his responsibilities, and the vagaries of his personal life weren't his primary concern right now--casting Dracula was. He would simply keep his distance from all the actors once rehearsals began and occupy his time with the countless other aspects of the production. There was no reason, earthly or otherwise, for him to have any interaction with Ms. Daniels. Whatever it took, the show came first.
“...but it is my money, Bill,” he finished with a grim half-smile.
“So it is,” William Hailey conceded. “I guess I'm willing to risk my livelihood on Ms. Daniels if you are. However, I'll leave it to you to convince the others.”
Germaine nodded as he prayed he wasn't risking a great deal more than money and reputations by allowing his artistic vision to override his centuries-old intuition. Lost money could be regained and reputations remade. Lost lives required a funeral.
CHAPTER ONE
Nine Weeks Later
She wasn't dead--yet.
Germaine took cold comfort from that reassurance as he strode swiftly past the occasional huddled pedestrian prowling Manhattan's sleepless streets--heedless of the instinctive, sometimes painful hunger that prowled his insides like a stalking beast. The beast was with him always, but tonight the man's need predominated.
Moving silently among the shadows, like the creature of the night he was, Germaine clamped his lips together and pressed on. Nothing would deter him from his purpose this night.
Nothing.
His tread soundless yet sure upon the litter-strewn pavement, he kept to his chosen path, oblivious to even the biting wind that grabbed at his long, black coat like the small chilblained hands of starving street urchins begging for his attention.
Germaine had learned long ago that not every cold hand signified a warm heart. And tonight, with the temperature hovering near freezing, Lady Winter's grasp was lethal. But winter's frigid fingers merely passed through him, leaving him aware--but untouched. The worst of nature's fitful tantrums no longer affected him. Nothing natural did.
He closed his eyes and reached out again with his mind. The swaddling haze of a drug-induced sleep had muzzled the gnawing pain he'd felt from her earlier. Even so, she waited for him. She hadn't tried to reach him, nor had he sought any contact with her for more than ten years. Nonetheless, Marguerite Danielson knew he would seek her out tonight. Modern medicine had done all it could, it was his turn now--just as it had been so many times before.
The moment he stepped beneath the unnatural glare of the life-draining fluorescent tubes inside the treatment center, Germaine shielded his eyes behind the high-standing collar of his coat. The special contacts he wore enabled him to see in light that would normally blind him, but they didn't eliminate the pain.
He hated hospitals. Hated their bare, white-tiled walls made even more sterile by their color-leeching lights and cotton-swathed staff. No wonder everyone looked near death within these hallowed institutions that reeked of alcohol and iodine, ammonia and--blood.
The distinctive coppery scent taunted and teased his senses the moment he stepped through the sliding doors. Gritting his teeth against the wolfish hunger the heady lure evoked, he forced his thoughts back to his task and continued toward the elevator. A nearby orderly cast a wary glance in his direction. Having neither the time nor the patience to rebut a volley of bothersome inquiries, Germaine merely caught and held his stare. Seconds later the bewildered attendant turned back to the perky nurse's aide he'd been talking to--completely and blissfully unaware of Germaine's presence.
On the seventh floor the lighting had been dimmed to help promote whatever rest its troubled residents might find. Long, white tubes recessed behind partitioned rectangles of opaque plastic gave off little more illumination than a night light. Germaine's eyes instantly adjusted, allowing him to see clearly and without pain. The corridor was empty, but he knew the room number by heart--713. As he silently traversed the narrow gray and white tiled hallway, he could hear the soft moans of distress punctuating the uneasy sleep of the patients.
The seventh floor was the terminal floor.
He gave the handless door a push. It swung open without a sound. Slipping inside, he kept a steadying hand upon it while it closed. His tread as silent as the mist, he approached the softly lit bed and gazed down at the figure tautly curved in a pain-filled slumber. Though she was turned away from him, Germaine saw at once how this illness had robbed her. Her glorious brown hair, which once curled softly about her neck and shoulders, was now gray and less than an inch long. Her figure, once slender but sweetly curved was now all bones and sharp angles. Her body, which once challenged and nearly won a game of night tennis from him, was now too weak for anything but sleep.
Like a thief in the night, the cancer had taken everything of value from her but her life, leaving little more than an emaciated body, unable to eat or breathe without the aid of the thin plastic umbilical lines that sustained it. He knew all this and more, yet she'd never told him of it.
She hadn't needed to.
He stood for a moment watching her sleep, allowing his senses to absorb the many changes in her that his mind alone could not detect--such as her scent. Even the hospital's acrid antiseptics couldn't mask the essence of death’s perfume from his preternatural senses. A bittersweet fragrance that painfully confirmed what his probing mind had already surmised.
Wishing he had the power to grant her another half-century of life, he closed his senses to all but her and concentrated on forcing air in and out of his lungs until his breathing matched hers and his heart mimicked the shallow but steady beat of her own. Fully attuned, he leaned over and brushed a kiss upon her temple. Her lips curved into a half-smile, half-grimace, but she did not waken. Placing a trail of kisses along her jaw, he stopped at the pulsing beat just below her ear.
Although her eyes remained shut, her smile widened and he knew she was awake.
“It can't be time to take my temperature again, John,” she murmured in a voice so husky it made him wonder if she enjoyed John's nightly visitations.
Pressing his lips to her ear, Germaine whispered, “I fear you are to be sorely disappointed, madam, for I am not--John.”
“Oh.” She exhaled slowly, and Germaine could feel the effort it took for her to talk. “Then it must be Michael, here for my nightly back rub.”
“You mistake me, still,” he replied, smiling inwardly at her teasing even as he longed to bring her ease. “I should be honored, however, to perform such a gallant service in that tardy gentleman's stead.” His fingers sought the area between her shoulders and gently kneaded the muscles inclined to stiffen and cramp due to their enforced idleness.
Her moan of pleasure was so sweet that Germaine felt his body respond with a piercing need. It had been a long time since he'd been with a woman. Nearly a quarter century, but he wasn't there to romance her. Placing a firm restraint upon himself, he asked almost casually, “Tell me, who comes nightly to take a sample of your blood?”
“Peter,” she replied with a grimace that was nearly audible. “I don't care much for his visits though, as he's nearly out of uncharted territory.” She stretched out her bone-thin arms and Germaine could see the IV needle embedded beneath the bruised and mottled skin of her left hand. His gaze traveled the length of both arms, noting similar testaments to the countless other small invasions her doctors had made to defeat the deadly enemy that had retaken her body.
Attuned as they were, her pain had become his own. He would obliterate all her pain and suffering if he could, but a miracle like that was beyond even his powers.
“I'm sorry,” he whispered, knowing his response was inadequate, but she went on as if he hadn't spoken.
“I do hope you haven't come to replace Peter. He's visited me once this evening already, and I don't think he's left me anything to spare.”
Germaine trailed a finger from her ear to the hollow of her throat. “Would you begrudge me a small sample of what you give so freely to Peter?”
Her answering sigh ended in a throaty purr. “I suppose not,” she finally managed to answer. “That is, if you really must--” Her teasing protest ended in a soft gasp of sensuality that trailed off into a moan of blatant disappointment when he carefully withdrew after extracting only a few seconds worth of her blood.
Stepping around the bed, he noticed her narrowed blue eyes and arched one eyebrow in inquiry as he shrugged out of his coat.
“You always did end things far too quickly,” she admonished him weakly as she watched him remove his jacket and roll up his sleeve.
He retrieved a thin, black box from his coat pocket and placed it on the small tray table stationed near her waist. “Are you accusing me of leaving you unsatisfied?”
“No,” she conceded, her gaze fixed on the hypodermic syringe he lifted from the box. “Merely reminding you that I wasn't the one who wanted you to stop. In fact--” She drew a sharp breath and winced when he stabbed the long needle into his arm. A bright crimson fluid flowed into the syringe, reflecting light in the way that rubies might, if they were reduced to liquid form. “In fact,” she repeated a little unevenly, “I wasn't the one against prolonging our lovemaking to its natural conclusion.”
He smiled then, but his expression contained more self-recrimination than humor. “Consider it an overzealous attack of scruples on my part,” he replied, laying the filled hypodermic on the tray table and reaching for the insulated juice pitcher seated on the cabinet near the head of her bed.
Her gaze remained riveted on the softly glowing syringe. “What would happen if you were to inject that directly into someone's vein?”
“That would depend upon who that someone was,” he answered, setting a glass of room-temperature orange juice near the needle.
“Say, me, for example. How would I feel afterwards?”
“Are we talking about before or after I put you over my knee?”
She wrinkled her nose at him even as her frail fingers encircled the syringe. “Is this enough to do it?” she asked, her eyes alight with so much hope it pained him to meet her gaze, knowing that he would be the one to extinguish her hopes of tomorrow--forever.
“No, Marguerite. Even if it were, an existence such as mine could never be what I would willingly choose for you.”
With a resigned sigh, Marguerite Danielson returned the hypodermic to his outstretched hand. “Have you come to watch me die then, André?” she demanded in a tone that insisted there be no illusions between them--only honesty.
He injected his blood into the juice and stirred the mixture until the liquid turned the color of summer-ripened strawberries. “It's Germaine now,” he advised, easing her into a sitting position. With her head propped within the curve of his arm, he held the glass to her lips. “Drink this first, then we'll discuss my plans for you.”
She made a disgruntled face, but did as he asked--just as he knew she would. He watched her cheeks regain the bloom of health with every swallow. Joined as they were, he could feel her heart grow stronger as the heat of her low-grade fever broke. The pain that had lain in waiting just beneath the surface of her consciousness receded into nothingness, and for a moment she was well again. Lowering his arm from its supportive hold, he fluffed her pillow and raised the electric bed into a more comfortable position for her.
“How long will it last?” she asked, her question making it clear she had no misconceptions regarding her recovery.
Germaine watched her carefully for a moment, wanting to be assured she suffered no ill-effects before he answered her. She had demanded honesty, so he would be honest. The words he'd use would be as perfunctory as the swift efficiency with which he put away his supplies, but even proficiency with a task did not negate the regret for its necessity. And Germaine's response, though honest and direct, was also filled with deep regret.
“Eighteen hours. Possibly twenty-four.”
“I don't wish to sound ungrateful ... Germaine,” Marguerite added, as if his changed name was a meaningless ruse rather than an unfortunate but necessary condition to being immortal. “But haven't you got anything that lasts a little longer--say twenty years?”
“If I did, you would have received it ten years ago, when you were first diagnosed,” he assured her, turning his attention to the painless removal of the two small marks he'd left on her throat. “I thought my visit then had cured you, but it seems even the immortal are fallible.”
She turned away, but he put his hand under her chin, turning her toward him. “You insisted we be honest with each other, Marguerite,” he reminded, gently squeezing her chin before he reached up to remove the oxygen line she no longer needed. Adjusting the control until the soft hissing finally ceased, he asked. “Why didn't you call me? Why did you wait for me to come to you on my own?”
A thoughtful smile curved her lips as she entwined her fingers with his. “I remembered how much you detested hospitals,” she admitted, gazing at him. “I knew you'd come for me tonight. Only I'd hoped it would be to take me with you.” Her smile faltering, she quietly drew her hand back.
Marguerite's disappointment filled Germaine with an aching remorse. He knew what his refusal cost her, but nothing could make him change his mind. Not about this.
Longing to ease her, he lifted a hand to her hair, but she jerked away from his touch.
“Don't. It's ugly, and I know it. It's the poison they've been feeding me to kill the cancer. Except it's killed my hair, and now it's killing me.”
With the press of a finger, he gently tipped her face back. “I don't think it's ugly,” he replied, pretending to assess her through critical eyes. “A bit short, perhaps....”
Marguerite laughed, but the sound was hollow and strained. “It's hideous, and you're a terrible liar, André. You always were.”
When he didn't refute her, she asked casually, “So, how's Dracula coming?”
Not wanting to jinx the show, he hesitated briefly before admitting, “The previews have been promising, and opening night is just twenty-four hours away.”
“You're pleased with the cast, then? No problems or concerns?”
“I assume the cast is doing fine, since no one has stormed my door down with complaints, but I haven't attended any rehearsals or previews. I plan to go tomorrow night.”
A brief look of disappointment creased Marguerite's forehead. Germaine presumed it was because he couldn't give her any details about the show when she said, “I don't think you know just how much I'd like to be able to go with you tomorrow night, André ... Sorry, Germaine.”
A tidal wave of regret washed over Germaine as he recalled how she'd urged him to do this musical nearly twenty years ago, when he'd started investing in Broadway productions again. But he couldn't grant her wish, no matter how deeply it hurt him to deny her. Feeling his conscience war with his guilt, he said teasingly, “If you continue to call me André, your family will begin to doubt your sanity. André would have to be about fifty-five now I think.”
“Fifty-three, the same age as me, but who's counting?” She glanced down at his strong hand that remained, like the rest of him, at the permanent age of thirty. She had been that young when they parted. “I'm dying, André,” she admitted, her fingers gripping his in an unspoken plea. “We both knew this time would come eventually, but I'm not ready for it--not now, not yet.”
“Marguerite--”
“Don't. There's nothing you can say. There is something you could do--only you, damn your golden eyes, refuse to do it.” She blinked back her tears. “Not all of us have eternity to live out our lives, André. And some of us feel cheated when our time is cut short.”
“Don't do this, Magpie,” he pleaded, gathering her into his arms. “Don't cry.” Then, before she could say more, he kissed her deeply, much in the same way he used to kiss her twenty-three years ago. For him, the time span was no longer than an eye blink, and her impassioned response made it seem even shorter. They were both so engrossed in the moment that neither cared nor drew apart when the door opened. At the sound of an enraged gasp, however, Germaine started to tactfully withdraw when a furious female verbally accosted him.
“Who the hell are you, and what are you doing to my....”
Germaine turned in time to see the young woman's luminous blue eyes grow wide with astonishment. “Mother?” she asked, then blinked as if she didn't quite trust her vision.
“Yes, dear, it's me.” Marguerite Danielson responded quietly and Germaine knew without being told that the livid young woman was Marguerite's daughter, Clarissa.
“You look surprised. Were you expecting someone else in my bed, dear?” Marguerite asked with a slight rise of her brows.
The daughter flushed a shade of pink that Germaine thought becoming and vaguely familiar until the lovely creature said, “Certainly not in there with you. Or more accurately on top of you!”
Feeling a little like a confirmed priest being labeled as a French Romeo, Germaine retreated into polite aloofness. “Pleased to meet you, too,” he murmured smoothly before whispering to Marguerite, “Should I salute her or will a mere bow suffice?”
“She's just worried about me,” Marguerite insisted, but Germaine sensed a sudden quickening in her pulse rate and reached for her wrist in an overly protective and unnecessary gesture.
Your pulse is racing, he cautioned her silently. Calm down.
I'm trying, but I don't want her to think badly of you . . . Her response came to him slowly while her mind stretched muscles it hadn't exercised for many years. He recognized the effort it took for her to reuse a skill she'd long forgotten she possessed, but what bothered him more was the energy she was expending to rectify her daughter's impression of him.
To his mind, he'd done nothing that warranted a defense. Although he was honest enough to admit that the daughter might not view things exactly from his perspective. Even so . . .
“Clarissa,” Marguerite began in a reasonable tone, “this is--Germaine. André's son. You remember me telling you about André, don't you? He's French. He was merely greeting me in the usual way of his countrymen when they renew long lost acquaintances--no more.”
Clarissa Danielson's brows raised in open skepticism. “Is that so?” Blue eyes glared at him with hot suspicion. “I saw you take my mother's pulse. Was that another French custom, or do you profess to be a doctor as well?”
Despite his growing annoyance, Germaine's senses caught a trace of uneasiness beneath the young woman’s belligerence. An uneasiness that was steadily developing into an unreasonable and inexplicable fear. Her fear surprised him. Anger he expected, but why would she be afraid?
“Clarissa, please!” Marguerite protested. “You're being rude. Germaine is a family friend and he has come a long way to see me. It wouldn't hurt you to be gracious.”
“I'd be a lot more gracious if I hadn't just witnessed his attempt to perform a tonsillectomy on you with his tongue.”
Marguerite's eyes widened and she laughed in a way Germaine had thought lost to her forever. Despite his irritation, he couldn't help smiling in response. Marguerite's lightened spirits did much to ease his own heavy heart. Turning, he was about to ask the younger woman if she spoke from personal experience when he noticed a sullen young man lurking near the doorway. The scowling youth looked to be about nineteen, certainly no older than twenty. He was thin, almost to the point of being gaunt, and from his agitated gestures Germaine suspected they were about to come face-to-face with one of New York's junkies out prowling hospitals for an easy mark. Germaine stepped forward to stave off the potential thief when Marguerite motioned the young man forward.
“Robert, come in, please. I want you to meet Germaine. Germaine, this is my son, Robert.”
The other man's gaze flicked uneasily over the three of them. Then with a final look of apology to his mother, he slipped back into the shadowed hallway. Marguerite tightened her lips in frustration, but didn't call him back. She gazed over at her daughter again. “Where's Harry?” she asked, her voice tight with disappointment.
“He's paying the cab driver,” Clarissa answered, dragging her regret-filled gaze from the empty doorway to her mother. Germaine caught the fleeting sense that she really wanted to run after her brother, but had restrained herself due to the futility of the exercise. The feelings she had for her brother were strong, almost maternal, but her heartfelt concern for her mother was nearly palpable. Although it was unusual for Germaine to register feelings from a virtual stranger with such intensity, he was neither surprised nor alarmed by his responsiveness given his strong link with Clarissa's mother.
Yet, the heart-pounding fear he sensed in her when she stepped over to fluff her mother's pillow still puzzled him. “He should be here any minute,” she added with a reassuring smile.
Her lips curving slightly, Marguerite gave her daughter a knowing look, then cast a sideways glance at Germaine. “That means Harry's interrogating the staff on my condition again. It's become his daily ritual ever since Clarissa suspected the doctors weren't telling her the truth. She's set herself up as my personal watchdog--wanting to know what kind of treatments they're giving me, along with all the other gory details about my care here.”
“Well, somebody's got to do it,” Clarissa murmured begrudgingly as she leaned over to kiss her mother's cheek. Sitting close enough to touch her, Germaine noticed beneath the young woman's admonishing pose that she was actually trembling. She was scared, all right, but of what? She straightened and moved away as if his nearness bothered her, but spared him only the briefest glance before she smiled warmly at her mother. That smile nagged at him, too. It was familiar somehow, yet he couldn't quite place it.
“You're looking much better this evening,” Clarissa said with the false brightness mortals reserved for the very old and the very sick--conditions for which recovery was neither expected nor possible. “I think your fever's finally broken.” She retrieved an old-fashioned glass thermometer, definitely not hospital-issue, from the nearby chest and shook it down. “Let's see what your temperature is tonight, shall we?”
Marguerite averted her head. “Germaine's already taken it. It's normal. Isn't it, Germaine?”
He smiled at the reminder of her earlier playacting. “Perfectly.”
“Do you mind if I confirm that?” the daughter snapped at him.
“Not at all.” He appropriated the thermometer from the young woman and held Marguerite's chin. “As your daughter seems reluctant to accept our word, I suggest we humor her.”
Marguerite accepted the thermometer without protest, but her eyes remained fixed on Germaine's. Well? she asked him silently.
Germaine could hear the frustration in Clarissa's sigh as she turned away from them in a pointed show of disapproval.
I begin to wonder if George wasn't just a little too lenient with both his children, Germaine answered her.
George believed in solid reasoning and praise, she responded in quick defense.
Spare the rod . . . Germaine intoned. Retrieving the thermometer, he extended it toward Clarissa without looking at it. “Miss Danielson, you requested this I believe?”
She practically snatched the glass tube from his fingers, then skirted around him to read the tiny numbers by the room's only light, a chrome-based lamp with a sixty watt bulb. “This is no better than candlelight,” she grumbled, her face nearly pressed to the plastic shade. While she was preoccupied with deciphering the tiny numerals, Germaine conducted a longer, more thorough appraisal of Marguerite’s daughter. She was taller and thinner than he liked, as most young women of her generation tended to be, yet not too thin. She had a delicately boned face capped by a fluff of wind-combed hair that was short by his standards, but not unattractively so. And though he much preferred petite, soft-spoken women with long, silken curls a man could wrap his hand in, something about this female appealed to him in a strangely familiar way.
Perhaps it was the softer side he sensed in her. A vulnerable side she kept buried beneath her sharp tongue and brusque manner, the same way she sought to conceal her more feminine curves beneath the bulk of her fisherman's knit sweater and heavy wool jacket. A jacket that she had yet to remove despite the warmth of the room. Her slender fingers, gripped around the thin glass tube, bespoke a worried frustration that he suspected would never be voiced. And her blue eyes, now narrowed in concentration, gave hint to a deeply sensitive and caring soul. None of these things would be obvious to the casual observer. But to him, they were silent beacons luring him toward dangerous, if not fatal, shores.
He could see a lot that was her mother in her, and a lot that was not. Though he was certain they had never met before, he couldn't quite shake the feeling he knew her somehow.
“Ninety-eight point six,” she announced, giving the thermometer a vigorous shake. Even beneath that outwardly casual movement, Germaine's senses caught a subtle trembling. Whatever was bothering Clarissa Danielson, she intended to keep it from her mother. She returned the thermometer to its place on the chest, then scowled at the nearby lamp. “Really, Mother, I don't see why you're suddenly against turning on the overhead lights.”
“Some eyes are sensitive to bright lights, dear, and I prefer a soft glow to the harsh glare of fluorescence.”
The gentle warmth in Marguerite's eyes told Germaine she had made the mandate for him. Thank you, he replied mutely.
“Well, it makes it difficult for the people here to tend you properly, and Harry's been receiving complaints all day from--”
“Harry Collins is Clarissa's perennial tag-along beau,” Marguerite interrupted, as if that simple statement explained everything. “He's a financial consultant, which means he tells people where to put their money.”
“A most noble profession,” Germaine responded. “I have used a financial consultant myself from time-to-time.”
“Just what is it you do, Mr. . . . “
“St. Justine,” he supplied graciously.
The young woman turned slowly to face him, her soft blue eyes wide with dismay. “Germaine St. Justine? The backer for the new Broadway musical, Dracula?”
“Yes,” Germaine answered, his own eyes narrowing. By necessity, very few outsiders knew of his theatrical connections. He was speculating how this contradictory female had learned of his involvement when he saw her stare accusingly at her mother. His eyes, less reproachful, made the same route as a niggling suspicion wormed a path through his mind.
Marguerite clapped her hands together in obvious delight. “It looks like you two have something in common after all.”
Feeling as if someone had just slammed the lid on his coffin and nailed it shut, Germaine gazed again at Marguerite's daughter. She couldn't be that sweet-voiced, silken-haired brunette who'd auditioned for him nearly two months ago. He would have recognized her. If not her, then at least her voice. Then again, he certainly wasn't expecting to meet her at his former love's bedside. While a part of him still denied the worm-like suspicion that became a writhing mass in his mind, he rose to his feet. “Stand here, please,” he ordered, pointing to a spot just before him.
Though she bristled at his abrupt command, the young woman did as he asked, which was fortunate for Germaine would not have tolerated an argument just then. She stood tense and wary with her arms folded before her like a shield, until he reached for her chin. His fingers were less than an inch from her jaw when she averted her face with a tiny shudder. A small but telling detail that put his defenses on immediate alert. The blue eyes that had sparked with indignation mere moments ago, now avoided his gaze. Like a light cutting through the fog, the reason for her newfound complaisance and his own feelings of vague familiarity were suddenly clear.
“I should have recognized you from the moment you strode in here tonight, Ms. Daniels,” he admitted, stressing her stage name. “Undoubtedly, I would have, had you been wearing your makeup and that wig you sported during your audition. I thought it was your real hair.”
Her eyes remained downcast, but her chin retained its stubborn tilt. Although he could still sense her recoiling internally, it gratified him to note she neither cowered nor attacked. They both knew that landing the role of Lucy Seward had been her biggest break, and Claire Daniels had spent the last five minutes insulting one of the few men who could have her replaced with very little opposition. What she didn't know was that Germaine St. Justine was responsible for her getting cast to begin with--despite his own, personal misgivings. Misgivings that had suddenly taken a drastic turn for the worse.
“I won't apologize,” she informed him stiffly, but her eyes reflected her trepidation.
Despite Germaine's belief that he now understood the cause for her uneasiness, he didn't particularly care for its implications. If Marguerite had told her daughter about him, Claire Daniels could prove an even greater danger to him than he first suspected.
He sat back down beside her mother. “I haven't asked you to,” he replied evenly.
Claire's lower lip twitched slightly as she thrust her hands into the pockets of her slacks. “Should I start checking the trades tomorrow?”
“No. At least, not yet,” he answered, wanting to see if she would respond to his lightly veiled threat with one of her own.
“Stop teasing her, Germaine,” Marguerite scolded. “You know she spoke out of concern for me. Tell her there are no hard feelings between you.”
“Why? I've no intention of having your daughter removed from the cast, if only because I happen to feel she is perfect for the role. A feeling that has in no way diminished since the night she auditioned for me. The first and only time I ever really watched her perform.” He watched Claire's eyes widen slightly before he added, “It was an inspiring performance, by the way.” She flushed and looked away. Unable to tell whether it was guilt or embarrassment that brushed a wash of pink across her cheeks, Germaine added a little more softly, but no less intently, “As to any personal differences there may be between us, they play no part in the matter. Do they, Ms. Daniels?”
“No,” Claire answered softly despite the angry quiver in her chin.
Surprised and more than a bit unnerved by his unexpected and disturbing urge to smooth away that small tremor of anger and fear, Germaine wrested his attention from the woman back to the possible threat she posed.
It was no mere coincidence that the daughter of his former love was now his leading lady. And if Claire Daniels knew he was a vampire, Germaine could be faced with a serious dilemma.
He had purposely kept his business and personal life separate to protect his immortal colleagues from an unnecessary risk of exposure. Too many lives were at stake for him to simply dismiss the threat Ms. Daniels posed should she use her knowledge against him. He wasn't without enemies, both mortal and immortal, and a few of them would like nothing better than to force him and his allies to their knees. The more he thought about it, the less he liked the odds.
It was like solving a puzzle where all the pieces fit, but contradictions obscured the design.
He never would have suspected Claire had learned the truth about him if she hadn't tensed and trembled like a trapped rabbit every time she got near him. Since he’d given her no other cause to fear him, she had to have known what he was from the moment Marguerite introduced them--the moment he first sensed her fear. Which also meant she had to have already known who he was. Therefore, her dismay when she confirmed his identity was merely an act. Her prior insults--meant to keep him off track. And her contradictory display of trepidation and pride the moment he started to put two and two together--a stroke of pure genius. But to what purpose?
What could she possibly gain by making him think she feared him?
He admired women with spirit, but found it almost impossible to deny a woman in distress. The notion that women were to be protected was too deeply ingrained in him for even the equal rights mentality of the current decade to undo. Only conniving and deceit could do that.
So why did Marguerite look so pleased and her daughter so wary? The next move was clearly his. If only he knew whether he faced a true innocent, or an actress beyond compare.
CHAPTER TWO
Germaine's inbred wariness kept his attention focused on Claire when he caught her flashing Marguerite a reproachful glare. Although he suspected the accusatory look resulted more from frustration than anger, when Marguerite merely shrugged and laid back against her pillow, Germaine concluded they had taxed her limited strength enough for one day.
Leaning forward, he pressed a kiss to Marguerite's cheek. “It's late, cherie. I'd better go.”
Her satisfied smile died as a shadow of deep dismay clouded her eyes. “But--”
“Later,” he promised firmly, then gently cupped her cheek. “Tomorrow's soon enough.”
He rose from the bed, aware that Claire's watchful eyes stalked every move. He sensed her suspiciousness the same way a wolf scents its prey. She distrusted him, yet he wasn't the one guilty of deceit. Tempted to snarl at her like the ravening beast she silently accused him of being, he waited until he reached the door before he met her wary blue gaze with a smile that wasn't intended to be reassuring. “Until tomorrow night, Ms. Daniels,” he vowed quietly.
Her jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, giving him the impression she'd like nothing better than to tell him to go to hell. Since, by his way of thinking, he'd already been there, Germaine offered the young woman a curt nod of farewell and made his way to the hospital exit.
He wasn't angry, precisely, but he was irritated. He was also intrigued and more than a little aroused. A complication he neither expected nor sought.
For an abstaining vampire, few things were worth the torment of remaining in a closet-sized room overflowing with warm, sweet-blooded mortals, whatever their motives. Enticed as he was to loosen Claire Daniels' sharp little tongue, he was not foolish enough to risk unmasking himself on the off-chance he was mistaken. If Ms. Daniels really had no inkling what he was, or of the threat that one of his kind represented, he wasn't going to enlighten her. And he'd make sure Marguerite kept her promise on that score as well.
The last thing Germaine needed was Dracula's female lead running around saying that vampires were real, and he was proof.
Correction. That was the second to last thing he needed. The last thing he needed was to become involved with another mortal woman.
But there was absolutely no risk of that. Never again.
So what was it about Claire Daniels that gave him the feeling she would inevitably betray him? Assuming he was right, the next question was why? Could it be because he had once been intimate with her mother? Surely she couldn't be that vindictive. There had to be some other reason. A reason directly connected to the unaccountable fear he sensed in her earlier.
Germaine forced himself to put off his concerns until he saw the lady again. He'd done what he'd intended for tonight and was content that Marguerite would sleep easier, although he still felt a nearly overwhelming urge to sink his teeth into something soft, warm and willing. Controlling his baser instincts, Germaine headed back to Illusions: a place where he could sit in a secluded alcove and think out his plans in solitude like any other patron who preferred to drink alone. Except Germaine wasn't any other patron any more than Illusions was just any other bar.
To the casual tourist, the teeming night spot was little more than a perpetual Halloween party for the affluent, if somewhat jaded, New Yorker.
Its medieval ambiance offered a skillful blend of Gothic decor, muted lighting and imagery that gave one the impression of stepping into Dracula’s lair. Along the outer walls, a catacomb of darkly lit alcoves permitted patrons a sense of privacy with a view of the sunken fireplace set in the center of the main room. A collection of richly upholstered sofas, couches and wing chairs, offset by coffee and side tables, surrounded the circular pit that crackled hotly throughout the fall and winter months for mortal comfort. Discreetly situated in the darkest corners, stately black marble columns provided a sulfurous glow from the eyes of the gargoyles seated atop them. Along the farthest wall, the serving bar, with its mahogany front, brass railing, and slightly raised top gave the suggestion of a coffin, while directly behind the bar, bottles of imported liquor sat in recessed holes before their own stone markers. The array created the image of an elaborate graveyard set in the foreground of the distant castle that had been painstakingly etched within the finely webbed cracks of the mirror dominating the bar's wall.
Illusions had no flapping bats with blinking red eyes swooping at its customers, nor did the sound of howling wolves greet them when they walked through the door. Illusions was a place of understatement and suggestion. Even the music, which was more sensed than heard, had been selected for its haunting simplicity. The effect was one of classic elegance, offering almost any drink imaginable, along with a few creatively-styled hors d'oeuvres for those who also craved a bite of food. For customers who preferred to do their drinking and dining in seclusion, Illusions provided a select number of private rooms. And for those guests who'd been placed on a more restricted diet, Illusions maintained a catalogued and dated supply of the obligatory vintage within the refrigerated compartments of the bar itself.
Illusions was like a Chinese puzzle with each piece integral to the whole yet separate from it. And Germaine knew each piece intimately since he was the true, if not the state-listed, proprietor of the exclusive club. He walked into the crowded night spot, and with a discreet signal to the maitre d' headed toward a secluded alcove.
Germaine considered Illusions a success, even though a public place that invited mortals and blood-drinkers to sit side-by-side was still viewed with great trepidation by certain venerable members within their elite consortium. Mixing vampires and humans along with their various consumables had produced some rather unpleasant consequences in the past. Nevertheless, Germaine was convinced the venture could work under vigilant management, and it had. So much so, other groups were daring similar undertakings in their own neighborhoods. To date, eleven had popped up within the varying boroughs of New York alone. If they were careful....
Germaine's solitude came to an abrupt end when a curvaceous blond bound from neck to heel in an outfit of black leather and chains slid into the chair across from him.
“Mind if I join you?” she asked, her coy smile curving carmine-tinted lips.
Several responses sprang to mind, but Germaine restrained himself. “If you're out trolling, I suggest you solicit patrons at the biker bar down the street. You'll have more success there,” he advised, spearing his intruder with an icy glare.
Ignoring him, she picked up his glass, took a sip, then quickly set it back down with a grimace. “How can you drink that? It's terrible.” She raised an elegantly manicured hand and signaled the bartender. “Sam, fix me a Don Juan. Thirty-forty, straight, please.” Edging Germaine's glass back toward him, she asked, “What is that anyway, a Virgin Mary?”
“A Mary definitely, the virgin part is suspect. What do you want, Phillipa?”
Momentarily distracted, Phillipa smiled appreciatively at the blond, muscle-bound waiter ogling her with lustful brown eyes as he approached with her Don Juan. Germaine watched her reward her admirer by playfully blowing him a kiss of thanks which the waiter caught and pressed to his lips while his puppy dog eyes begged her to make him her slave. Her low, husky laugh a sensuous invitation, she winked and sent her adoring Adonis off with an intimate pat. Then with a toast to Germaine, she savored her drink. Eyes closed, she let out a deep-throated purr before admitting confidentially, “I think Hugo is interested in a little extracurricular activity.”
“Good for Hugo,” Germaine replied blandly.
“I may be dead, but I'm not impervious to pain, and I'd rather not face the prospect of--”
“Talk to Phillip, he's your husband,” he snapped, ending the discussion with an abrupt change of subject. “What’s with the dog collar and chains?”
She wriggled suggestively, causing the delicate chains to jingle like tiny bells, then plucked at the silver studded collar encircling her neck. “Like it?” At his raised eyebrow, she lowered her hands and murmured, “Really, Germaine, sometimes you are incredibly old-fashioned. My clients happen to adore this ensemble.”
He shot her a twisted smile. “Just how is the undertaking business doing these days?”
“It's a beauty parlor, not a funeral parlor,” she corrected.
“With your clientele, sweet, I believe it's all one and the same.”
She drew back from him with a soft inhalation of air. “You're in a particularly nasty mood tonight. What's wrong?”
“I didn't invite you, Phillipa,” he reminded her, picking up his glass. “You could leave.”
She crossed her arms on the table and leaned toward him. “You went to see Marguerite tonight, didn't you?” When he merely stared into his glass, she asked, “How is she?”
“She's dying, Phillipa. How do you think she is?”
Phillipa instinctively reached for his hand, and for once he didn't try to pull it back.
“Her doctor doesn't expect her to last the week,” he admitted after a moment.
“Does she want to be immortal?”
“She wants to live, but I doubt she wants to spend eternity drinking blood at night or spend her days sleeping like a corpse.”
“That's not all there is to being immortal, Germaine....” At his cautionary glare, she prudently changed the subject. “Speaking of corpses, I think you need to have another talk with Phillip.”
“Why? What's he done now?”
“He hasn't done anything, yet, but he's talking about buying a double coffin.”
“A coffin? What in earth does he want with a coffin?”
“He says he thinks it'd be kinky, but I think he's hoping our sleeping together beneath a lining of satin will make me less--restless.”
“Have him buy you one of those battery-charged feminine stress-relievers instead. It's cheaper.”
“It's not that! Well, not entirely that,” she amended softly before glancing about to make sure no one overhead them. “He's worried about his ability to satisfy me the other way--as a vampire. I think he's hoping a coffin might make me more amenable to his--couplings.”
“Then buy one, by all means.”
“Germaine....”
“Look, Phillipa, you both knew there would be consequences for your actions. Sixteen more years, and Phillip will be exactly as he once was, until then--adapt. If he thinks a coffin will help, then get one and try it out for a week. If it doesn't work, let me know. I'd like to see the salesman's face when you tell him you're sorry, but a coffin doesn't quite meet your needs at this time.”
Chuckling in spite of herself, Phillipa leaned over and pressed a quick kiss on Germaine's cheek before he could advise her against it, then stood. “I made a mistake,” she admitted quietly. “One I'll live with for eternity, but you're the one keeping us apart, not me. I think Phillip would be relieved if we had an affair.” When Germaine refused to answer her, she let out a soft sigh of resignation. “Very well, I'll let him get the coffin. But if you change your mind, you'll know where to find me. Only you might want to knock before you raise the lid. Phillip is a little touchy about who sees him without his prosthetic fang. And when the sun rises--it comes out.”
* * *
Six o'clock the next evening, Germaine held Marguerite's hand until his elixir took effect. The pain was worse, taking two syringes to pacify it this time. Even still, she appeared greatly improved. Her breathing was no longer labored and she'd begun eating again, so her doctor had ordered the IV removed--temporarily. Without all the tubing, she looked almost normal. Almost.
She lay against her pillow, her eyes closed in soft serenity, and for the moment she was at peace. Hovering between total wakefulness and a drowsy contentment, she began talking about their brief time together.
Germaine said nothing, allowing her to reminisce as she wished while he sat beside her, occasionally stroking her fingers.
“You were always there when I needed you,” she remarked with a trace of wistfulness. “Whenever I was hurt or in pain, even when the time of day wasn't--convenient.” Her fingers curled around his. “Do you remember the morning Claire was born?”
“As mornings go, that has to be one of my worst,” he recalled candidly.
“I was scared, in pain, and refused to listen to anyone.”
“You were too busy screaming to listen to anyone.”
“And you looked like the wrath of God, pushing your way into the delivery room despite the nurses' and attendants' protests. I think if George hadn't given into my wishes and told them we'd invited you, they wouldn't have allowed you in.”
“Then they would've undergone a sudden change of mind,” he assured her. “Nothing could have kept me from you that day--not even the noon day sun.”
“George was never very good in a crisis. He hated to see anyone in pain, but you were magnificent.”
“I was desperate to get you to stop screaming. You awoke me from a very sound sleep, my love, and I knew I'd get no peace until you settled down to the task at hand.” When she avoided looking at him, he tipped her chin toward him. “The nurse confided to me later that they'd offered you an anesthetic, but you refused it. Why?”
She shrugged, but her gaze remained pinned on their clasped hands. “You'll only treat me to one of your patronizing lectures if I tell you.”
“Risk it, tell me anyway.”
“I knew you could never father a child, and though I agreed to marry George when you insisted, I was still very much in love with you. I always have been,” she confessed, wandering off the subject into dangerous territory.