Blood Memories vm-1 Read online

When I came back in, he was sitting in his chair, waiting. After covering his clothes with a large tablecloth, I held a struggling brown rabbit up to his mouth. He bit down through soft fur and drained the animal until it stopped kicking and fell limp in my hands. He smiled slightly with blood smeared all over his mouth and began pulling at the tablecloth.

  "Hang on," I said. "Let me wipe your face first."

  He was surprisingly careful about his appearance, in spite of the fact that no one ever saw him except me.

  Most other vampires are obsessed with beauty and perfection, and so William made them uneasy. Edward couldn't stand the sight of him and often remarked about what a horrible lot I had. "Julian is a pig, pushing his responsibility off on you," he used to say. Of course, he never said it to Julian's face. Edward may have been cynical, but he wasn't stupid.

  My old charge was one of a kind. He couldn't hunt or protect himself. Edward had been wrong about my lot, though. I loved William's sweet, wrinkled face and honestly didn't mind taking care of him. It gave me something to do.

  After cleaning him up, I took him into the study and built a fire. Then I brought him some small blocks of wood, a knife, sandpaper, and paint.

  "Could you make us a new set of checkers? I've got to go out and find us a place to stay for a few days. If you make us a new set, we'll have something to do when we get there."

  "Will you play with me?" he asked.

  "Even let you win."

  He smiled and picked up one of the small wood blocks. We had nineteen sets of checkers and two half-finished sets of chess pieces upstairs, but he loved to work with his hands, and I needed something to keep him busy for a few hours.

  Hurrying into the bathroom, I looked in the mirror and grimaced.

  My face was smeared with dirt, my clothes smelled like dead cats, and my hair was dotted with dried blood flakes from leaning against Edward's kitchen wall. Oh, that story about us not being able to see our own reflection is absurd, too. We're solid. Of course we can see our reflection.

  I took a shower, blow-dried my hair, and put on a peach, ankle-length sundress. That's kind of funny, isn't it? A sundress?

  William was already settled in the study, so I didn't bother popping back in on him before leaving. Too many intrusions would only confuse him.

  I put my car in the garage, as driving it seemed risky. I could just picture some overzealous rookie spotting it and picking me up for questioning. I really don't like cops. Besides, the walk toward downtown Portland is nice.

  Portland was a great place for us. Old, but not too old. Vogue, but not too vogue. Decent crime rate, but nothing like New York or Chicago. Plus… besides Edward, none of my kind had ever been drawn to set up a home here, which was a good thing. Stepping on someone else's territory could be a real problem for me. I'd get my head ripped off. We all have certain gifts that make survival possible-except for William, of course-but physical strength wasn't one of mine. We don't choose our gifts.

  My particular gift has so many advantages that I'm not sure I'd trade it in if I could. As the smell of Portland's downtown air blew gently into my nostrils, I put my talent into motion. Too easy.

  The dim light of Mickey's, my favorite bar, glowed off my dress as I walked in the door. I drew my shoulders forward slightly. My wispy blond hair fell down to cover half my face as I assumed a long-accustomed role: fragile and helpless. It never failed.

  The dance floor was crowded. Unrecognizable bodies clutched at each other, moving slowly to the sappy lyrics of Journey's "Faithfully." This place was one of my ideal hangouts.

  "Eleisha."

  A familiar face called to me from the bar, but not the face I'd come looking for. I shifted my features to a frightened, hesitant expression.

  "Hi, Derek." I moved up to the bar and to the inside of his stool, as though intimidated by the crowd and the noise. He knew me pretty well-at least in this persona-and put his hand on my waist in a protective gesture.

  "Where you been?" he asked. "You ain't been here in weeks."

  Derek was okay. I actually thought of him as sort of a friend, as much as he could be. Irish American, with red hair and a short-trimmed beard. Nice guy.

  "I came to see Brian. Is he here?"

  Derek looked surprised. "Yeah, he's around somewhere. Doesn't strike me as your type."

  I flashed him an embarrassed smile. "It's nothing like that. I just need a favor."

  "Why didn't you tell me?" He pulled out his wallet. "How much do you need?"

  "No, that's not it either."

  Lightly, I touched his wrist with the tips of my fingers. The tiny hairs on his arm stood up and his breathing quickened.

  "Then what?" he asked. "You never let me do anything for you. You come in here and talk to me and then either leave by yourself or with some loser. I thought we were friends."

  "That's why you never leave with me. I need to keep my friends. Find Brian, please."

  If this had been anyone but me, he would have spat, "Get lost," and turned back to his beer. But he didn't. His eyes were hurt and confused and bright green like Edward's. Sometimes he actually got to me.

  "Okay," he muttered. "Stay here."

  I watched him work his way through the crowd, and then I turned to Christopher, the bartender, a pseudointellectual with a master's degree in anthropology.

  "What does Brian usually drink?"

  "Rum and Coke."

  "Get me one of those and a red wine."

  He grunted something unintelligible and reached toward the glasses. People here were an odd mix of lower-middle-class folks looking for company and a good time. I hung out here because that particular social level of men is especially susceptible to a pretty, young girl who needs someone to "take care of her." I think it's because they work so hard, and they sometimes just look at their lives and think, "Why am I doing this?" Then they meet some tiny, helpless creature who looks up to them, and they don't stand a chance. It's not really fair, but that's my gift. That's what I was given. I don't like killing. I hate it. There just isn't any other way.

  Derek worked his way across the dance floor, followed by a stocky Italian. Relief washed up into my throat. Brian was a perfect mark-an egotistical pig who owned a cheap basement condo on the south side.

  I pulled my small body back up against the bar and looked desperate. "Hi, Brian. I ordered you a drink."

  He seemed amazed and excited but was trying to play it cool. He'd been hitting on me for months. Pathetic.

  "Derek says you want to talk to me?"

  "Yeah," I answered quietly, "but it's private."

  Christopher, the anthropologist bartender, slammed our glasses down on the bar. Derek looked miserable. Brian paid for the drinks and motioned with his head toward an empty table.

  "Over there."

  With the sounds of Journey still rolling through my ears, I made a point of following, not leading, Brian to the table.

  "What's up?" He was still playing the unshakable uptown boy. Poor thing.

  "I'm in some trouble. I need a place to stay for a few days."

  His eyes lit up like candles in a dark room. If I had said «weeks» he might have balked. Taking advantage of some frightened girl's situation and letting her sleep in his bed for a few nights was his style. Any longer than that and he'd get bored. Of course, as soon as he unlocked the condo door, I was going to kill him, steal his keys, dump his body, and go get William.

  "What kind of trouble?" Brian asked.

  Maybe he wasn't so gullible. I crossed my arms as though shivering and stared at a knot in the wooden table.

  "I moved in with this guy a few months ago… and then he got mean. I just need someplace to stay. Please."

  He was almost hooked. "Why not stay with Derek?"

  "Because he can't take care of himself like you."

  That did it. Catering to the male ego is so easy it sometimes scares me. They lap that shit up like a cat turned loose on a dairy farm.

  "Okay." He nodded,
and I could see a lecherous-father speech coming on.

  I look about seventeen years old, and he looked about twenty-eight, but he was going to warn me about the evils of the world anyway. I had phony ID under six different names. Nobody believed I was twenty-one, not even Christopher, but nobody really cared as long as the ID looked real.

  "Listen, Eleisha," Brian began. "You got to watch out for people. Most of the crowd here would eat someone like you for breakfast. You don't just ‘move in' with some guy you just met."

  I nodded, still staring at the table. Of course, his gallant words wouldn't stop him from coming on to me the minute we were alone.

  "Stay here," he said. "Let me get my coat and take you home. Don't worry about anything."

  Yeah, right. For about a week.

  God, he was a pig. I almost didn't feel sorry for him.

  Watching his broad back move through the crowd, I wondered how long it would take me to move William in and get him settled. Since his memory was so short, he had probably already forgotten that Edward was dead and we were in danger. I glanced at my watch: ten forty-five p.m. I'd have to hurry.

  What happened next is hard to describe. My mind was drifting in several directions when something touched it. The invasion was not subtle or gradual. It hit me like icy water in a sharp, sudden splash. I lost sight of the table and saw through someone else's eyes. It was definitely a man. I felt the random movements of his thoughts.

  Shock.

  Confusion.

  His name was Wade.

  I tried to tear away, but I couldn't get him out of my head. The tabletop shifted into focus, and I looked up. Two men were moving across the room toward me. In stunned fear, I recognized both of them-they had been out on the lawn at Edward's. The tall, blond man leading was the one who'd collapsed from the impact of Edward's psychic life force pouring out. He was Wade. The stocky man following was a cop. No one here could help me. Not even Derek would get between me and the police.

  I bolted for a back door.

  Fear kicked my instincts into motion. I slipped through bodies without touching them and ran down the back alley so fast that Wade's thought waves grew faint.

  He was running. He had seen me. His partner's name was Dominick. Pictures passed through his head for me to see: bodies in Edward's cellar, the framed photograph of me over the fireplace, and an oil painting of me he'd found in the storage room. The portrait perfectly matched the photograph, but it had been painted in 1872.

  How could I have forgotten the painting?

  Even knowing I could outrun both of them, I was so panicked I didn't slow down until Wade was gone, until he had completely lost me, and I was no longer tangled in his thoughts.

  What was he? How could he push into my head like that? How much had he seen? It couldn't have been much. He'd felt almost as startled as me, his thoughts rapid and scattered.

  Now what? Staying at Brian's was out. If Wade had actually tracked me down telepathically… How could he?

  "We've got to get out of here," I whispered to myself all the way up the back stairs of our house. Simply relocating to another part of Portland wouldn't help us. We'd have to go much farther.

  Chapter 3

  Ten minutes later, I was sitting in a chair by the fire, wondering what to do. William was absorbed in painting the red checkers that he'd carved out but not sanded properly. For the first time in my memory, I wanted him to talk to me, to offer me some sort of advice.

  "What are we going to do, William?" I whispered absently, voicing my wish.

  "You should call Julian."

  His answer surprised me. Not because of the suggestion itself-he always wanted to solve problems by calling Julian-but because he was vaguely aware that we had a situation to deal with.

  "We can't call him. If he finds out the police are involved, he'll kill me."

  "Then call someone else."

  Call someone else? Who? I'm sure that I would have remembered Edward's address book sooner or later, but William's suggestion jolted it to the front of my thoughts. Why had Edward kept an address book?

  "Stay here, William. I'll be right back."

  My clothes were still lying on the bathroom floor. Kneeling by the bathtub, I reached into my soiled jean jacket. The book itself was quite lovely, decorated in blue and black quilted Chinese letters. I'd never seen it before last night.

  The first name my eyes hit upon, when opening the cover, was my own: Eleisha Clevon, 2017 Freemont Drive, Portland, OR 97228. I didn't want to believe it. For a minute I didn't. My full name and correct address. It was impossible that Edward could have done this. I started flipping pages.

  The list wasn't alphabetical. The next name was Marquis Philip Brante, with his address in France. I felt numb, but kept reading. My stomach lurched when I turned the page and read its red-penned entry: Lord Julian Ashton, 6 Chadstone Road, Milesfield, Hudder-smith, HD7 5UQ, Yorkshire.

  "Oh, Edward."

  They would have murdered him for this. Of all the unwritten, unspoken rules we followed, protecting each other's identity was the most important. I mean… I knew several phone numbers and addresses, but I would never write one of them down. Edward must have been mad. Why would he do this? I had to burn it quickly.

  Then the name on the final page caused me to stop: Margaritte Latour, 1412 Queen Anne Drive, Seattle, WA 98102, (206) 555-8401. Maggie. How long since I'd seen Maggie? She lived as a vague image in my past. I remembered the sight of her in a dark red dress, holding on to Philip Brante's arm shortly before I left Wales with William in 1839. Would she help us? Could she?

  I carried the book back into the study and picked up the phone. For all I knew, she might have moved seven times since Edward had written this phone number down.

  "Are you calling Julian?" William asked from his little worktable.

  "No."

  "Ask him to send me a new smoking jacket. This one is wrinkled and chewed by moths. We have moths, you know. And mice. I keep telling you to get a cat, but you don't."

  Cradling the phone between my shoulder and ear, I read Maggie's number again and murmured to William, "I'll get you a new smoking jacket, and we don't need a cat."

  The line rang twice. I tried to keep calm.

  "Hello," a deep female voice answered. Even in that one word, I could hear a hint of her French accent.

  "Maggie?"

  The line was silent for a moment, and then, "Who is this?"

  "It's Eleisha. I need help. William has to be moved."

  She hung up.

  I should have known better. We don't make a practice of calling each other. We don't visit each other. Everyone who knew that William and Edward and I actually lived in the same city thought we were twisted aberrations.

  "What happened?" William asked.

  "Nothing for you to worry about. Just be quiet for a few minutes."

  I dialed the number again and let it ring nine times. I heard a click when she picked up, but I jumped in before she could say anything.

  "Listen to me. I'm in the middle of something here, and William's got to be moved. If you don't help, I'll have to call Julian, and I'll tell him you left us to rot. That should put him in a good mood."

  She didn't speak for almost thirty seconds, and then asked, "Where did you get this number?"

  What should I have told her? And how much? It would be foolish to make her more afraid of the police than of Julian.

  "I've got to get William out tonight."

  "Is it that bad?"

  "It's worse." I paused. "Edward's dead. He killed himself."

  Had she felt him die? Could she, from almost two hundred miles away? I didn't know how that worked.

  The line was silent for another long moment. "Do you have my address, too?"

  "Yes, on Queen Anne Hill?"

  Her voice changed. It had always been deep and smooth, but now an undertone of hatred dropped it lower. "Get on a plane and bring him here. You've got about five hours till dawn. But don't drag a
ny of this down on my head, or I'll cut yours off and burn it."

  Click.

  Two minutes later, I was on the phone with a travel agent. Notice may have been short, but she managed to book us on a 1:30 A.M. United Airlines flight to Seattle. I called a taxi, not bothering to pack much-just a few changes of clothes.

  Before we left, I tore out the page with Maggie's address on it, and then threw the book on the fire, making sure it burned completely. After that, things seemed a little safer. Then I ran outside and let all the rabbits go.

  The whole ordeal was hard on William. He hadn't been out of the house in ninety-six years. I covered him with a hooded cloak and led him to the cab.

  "I'm sorry, William, but you've got to hurry. We have a plane to catch."

  He wouldn't know what a plane was, but my words moved him a bit quicker. Poor thing. A cab ride was only the beginning. The lights at the airport and all the noise might throw him into shock.

  A middle-aged Asian sat behind the wheel.

  "Take us to the airport, please," I whispered. "We're late."

  "We'll miss dinner," William rattled through rapid, nervous breaths. "If we don't get home soon, we'll miss our dinner."

  "We already had dinner. Don't you remember? I brought you the rabbit myself. You almost got blood on your smoking jacket."

  The cabbie glanced up, but I ignored him. At that point, it didn't matter what he thought.

  "It's late. Very late," William insisted. "We must get back home."

  What was I supposed to say? That we weren't going home? That we no longer had a home? That Edward had ignited himself on purpose and the police watched it happen and now we were paying the price?

  "We're going visiting. Do you remember Maggie Latour? Philip's mistress? The dark-haired one? She always wore red dresses and held on to his arm."

  His face twisted. He tried to think back, to remember. "Katherine didn't like her."

  He did remember. Lady Katherine had been William's wife all those years ago.

  "Yes." I smiled, sitting close to him. "Katherine didn't like her because she was so beautiful and her family was poor and Philip used to talk about marrying her. Do you remember?"