Memories of Envy Read online

  Rose stopped feeding.

  She bit at the skin between the wounds her fangs had made, making it a ragged cut instead of two punctures. Then she slipped further inside Jason’s unconscious mind, taking him back to the moment he’d left the theater and altering his memories. He’d walked to his truck alone, but just before reaching it, he’d slipped and fallen hard, cutting his wrist on a broken beer bottle. He’d climbed into the truck before realizing how badly he’d cut himself, and then he’d passed out.

  Eleisha monitored all of this in Rose’s mind.

  “Good,” she said quietly, opening the door to slip out. “Be sure to lock his door.”

  They would leave him asleep, locked inside his truck, but he would wake up soon, almost as soon as they left him. He had given up some of his life energy, and yet he would still live.

  This was how Eleisha’s predecessors had hunted for centuries, and this was how anyone she found, anyone she helped, was going to hunt.

  Rose followed her back toward the light-rail stop.

  “That was good,” Eleisha said again. “I didn’t have to help you at all.”

  “It’s getting easier.”

  Philip? Eleisha flashed.

  Here.

  Philip Branté stepped from the dark trees behind the light-rail stop. He was so tall, Eleisha had to tilt back her head.

  “Is baseball-cap boy still breathing?” he joked, his French accent blending the words together.

  His skin was ivory, and his eyes were a shade of light amber. He wore his red-brown hair in long layers down to the top of his collar—and he spent a small fortune on products. But even in the warm night, he wore a long Armani coat to cover the machete fastened to his belt.

  “Still breathing,” Eleisha answered. “We should move to a different part of the city so you can feed, too.”

  He’d taken her downtown a few nights before, so she didn’t need to hunt again yet.

  “No,” he answered. “I’ll see you and Rose back to the church and then go out by myself.”

  She frowned. They’d all made a pact not to go out at night alone.

  Philip was the only one who ignored this agreement. He believed he could take care of himself.

  She didn’t argue with him, as she was well aware that he’d become very adept at putting victims to sleep and altering their memories on his own. He didn’t need her training anymore.

  Besides, her relationship to him was growing . . . complicated, so she picked her battles carefully.

  “Okay, but don’t come back here,” she said.

  They varied their locations every week.

  “I’ll go to the riverfront.”

  She nodded and followed him down the street, with Rose walking beside her.

  Wade Sheffield sat in the office he’d set up on the main floor of the church, scanning his computer screen for any news stories of people being checked into hospitals with unexplained blood loss.

  Summer was passing quickly—nearly over.

  Both windows were open, allowing the night breeze to carry in a scent of roses, lilacs, and hydrangeas from the garden. He lifted his eyes from the screen, gazing outside at the wrought-iron fence.

  He’d been living here for several months with three vampires and a ghost. He was probably the only mortal in the world more comfortable with the undead than he was with normal people, but he’d been able to read minds all his life, and “normal people” did not enjoy his company.

  So now the five of them were trying to make this abandoned old brick church into a home and, to his surprise, they were succeeding.

  They dubbed the church “the underground.”

  The main floor comprised a large sanctuary, complete with stained-glass windows and two offices. Wade now occupied one office, and Rose had turned the other into her bedroom.

  The upstairs was not currently in use, but it sported six rooms that had once been engaged for Sunday school classes, and later, these would be used to house any lost vampires they found.

  The basement comprised a three-bedroom apartment where Wade, Eleisha, and Philip lived, as well as an industrial-sized kitchen the old congregation had once used for potluck dinners.

  Rose and Wade had overseen much of the recent remodel.

  They’d replaced shabby carpets and refinished several hardwood floors. Fresh paint covered the walls, and thick shades covered the downstairs windows. Philip had wanted to board those windows up, as they were close to the ground and too accessible, but Eleisha talked him out of it, so he’d opted for bulletproof glass and stronger locks.

  While working on the church, they’d all at least felt busy, felt that they were making progress. But for the past week, Wade had sensed a restlessness vibrating from his companions, and he couldn’t help viewing himself as a failure in their true goal: to find other vampires in hiding and bring them here . . . before Julian Ashton could intercept them on the journey back.

  From what Wade understood, nearly two hundred years ago, Julian had realized that, even as a vampire, he would never develop telepathy—would never be like his peers—and out of fear, he’d gone on a killing spree, beheading telepathic vampires but leaving the younger ones, who had not yet been trained, alone.

  Almost two centuries passed.

  But when Wade had first met Eleisha, connected with her, and awakened her latent telepathy, they’d set a chain of events into motion, and they were now in a position to try to repair small, dangling, leftover remnants of the damage Julian had done, to find others still in hiding and create something akin to the way Eleisha’s predecessors had once existed.

  Their strategy was for Wade to search out any online news stories of homicide victims drained of blood or of living people checked into hospitals with cuts or gashes that did not warrant an unexplained amount of blood loss. He’d once worked as a police psychologist, and he knew a good deal about where to search for such stories.

  Then they would attempt to make contact, travel to meet the vampire, and try to bring him or her safely home to the church before Julian came out of the shadows swinging a sword—as he had done before.

  However, two months had passed and, as yet, Wade had not uncovered a single story that panned out. He knew Eleisha was becoming afraid that maybe they’d been wrong—maybe there was no one else left.

  But Wade was doing his level best to find a lead and start a new journey. He’d also been attempting to drag his companions, kicking and screaming, into the twenty-first century. In addition to having a computer and Internet access installed in the church, he’d purchased and set up cell phones for Rose, Eleisha, and Philip. Only Eleisha had shown interest. Rose was daunted by the prospect of learning to check her voice mail—and she’d simply put the phone in her top dresser drawer. Philip seemed to view his as some kind of “leash” and didn’t care for the prospect at all.

  Wade was determined to keep trying.

  “Anything?” a masculine voice with a Scottish accent asked.

  Wade half turned. “Not yet, but I’ve only just started tonight.”

  Seamus de Spenser, the final member of the group, was standing behind him, looking over his shoulder. Seamus’ body was transparent, as always. Though long dead, he looked like a young man, his brown hair hanging to his shoulders. He wore a blue and yellow Scottish plaid draped across his shoulder and held by a belt over the black breeches he had died in. The knife sheath at his hip was empty.

  He was Rose’s nephew, and he’d died the same night she was turned—but had come back as a spirit, forever tied to her.

  Wade and Seamus got along well.

  Although all four of Wade’s companions possessed some exotic element to their appearance, he viewed himself as rather common—in his early thirties, with a tall, possibly too-slender build. His only outstanding feature was a shock of white-blond hair. He hadn’t bothered to get it cut for almost five months, and it was now long enough to tuck behind his ears.

  “I’ve just finished the New York pape
rs, and I’m moving to Europe again,” he said.

  “I hope you find something soon, even if it comes to nothing again. I’d like to go out looking.”

  Seamus was a key component of their strategy. Once Wade located a possible location, he would send Seamus to investigate. As a ghost, Seamus could zero in on a vampire—or anything undead—once he was in the being’s general vicinity. Unfortunately, he couldn’t stay too long, as his spirit was tied to Rose, and the longer he stayed away from her, the weaker he became.

  She was the anchor that grounded him.

  Wade had sent him out twice in the past few weeks, once to Alaska and once to Barcelona, but any hints in the news stories had been thin at best, and Seamus had found nothing unnatural on the other end.

  “What’s this one coming up?” Seamus asked, leaning closer.

  “The Evening Standard,” Wade answered. “From London.”

  “Maybe looking in such big cities won’t help us—too many other stories to cover. Can you seek out smaller papers, for smaller towns?” Seamus floated backward, drifting toward the door.

  Wade tightened his mouth for a moment and then said, “I have. This is more complicated than just . . . oh, wait, listen to this.” He squinted, leaning closer to the screen, reading a headline. “POLICE CHASING MADMAN ATTACKED BY OWN DOGSNEARKING’S CROSS STATION.”

  “I don’t see how that—”

  “Hang on. Just let me skim this.”

  Saturday night, a disruption occurred near Euston Road outside of King’s Cross Station when the sound of a woman screaming sent two policemen racing through pedestrians. Both policemen had dogs in tow, and according to several witnesses, a grizzly scene awaited them in the alley between Crestfield and Belgrove.

  They came upon what one witness described as a “wild man biting a woman.” The attacker had blood smeared upon his face and hands, and as the police arrived, he is said to have “snarled like an animal and then run out the other end of the alley.”

  Police gave chase, only to have their own dogs suddenly break away and turn upon them, stopping any possible pursuit. Within moments, the dogs ceased their attack and are being held for observation, pending destruction. The names of the policemen have not been released, but one is in Whittington Hospital with multiple bite wounds.

  The female victim, identified as Gloria Melika, is expected to recover. Her attacker has not been apprehended.

  Wade stopped scanning. Then he read the article aloud to Seamus. They both fell quiet for a few moments.

  “What do you think?” Wade finally asked, but he really wasn’t speaking to Seamus . . . more to himself. A wild man biting a woman? Two police dogs turning on their own handlers? And near a busy station in London?

  “I think you should open up our maps,” Seamus answered.

  In addition to the desk and the computer, the small office was dominated by several large bookshelves that Wade had been filling with travel literature and maps. Seamus had found that by studying a detailed map and then “wishing” himself someplace, he could travel quickly from one point to the next if he could keep the line of travel clear in his mind.

  “Here,” Wade said, hurrying to the nearest shelf. “Start with the atlas.”

  Since Seamus couldn’t physically touch anything, Wade began pulling materials off the shelves. Moving among several maps, they began with a large image of America and England, then worked their way down to London, and finally to a street schematic around King’s Cross Station.

  “You got it?” Wade asked.

  Seamus nodded his transparent head.

  Voices drifted in from outside: the light tones of Rose and Eleisha talking as they came through the wrought-iron gate.

  “They’re back early,” Wade said. “Do you want to wait and tell them where you’re going?”

  “No, you tell them . . . but try not to get their hopes up.”

  Although he’d been dead many years, Seamus retained a good deal of his humanity, and he still worried over the feeling of others.

  “I’ll be careful,” Wade promised.

  The air around Seamus wavered, and he vanished. Wade watched the empty spot a little longer, and then he left the office, heading to meet Eleisha and Rose.

  As he passed through the door into the sanctuary, he wondered, Where’s Philip?

  Philip walked along Naito Parkway above the Willamette River. He’d never been one to become fond of places, but he liked hunting down here—all the dark shadows and the rushing water made it easy to dump a body.

  On the parkway’s west side, a row of towering hotels cast more darkness over the river.

  Most of the time, he hunted exactly as Eleisha wanted him to. He’d even become good at it.

  But sometimes, like tonight, he grew overwhelmed by the need to drain an entire life, fill himself with blood, and feel a heart stop while he was still drinking.

  Eleisha could not find out about these nights. If she did, she would not forgive him, and he could no longer exist without her. She fed him something he’d never even known he was starving for, and he had no intention of ever being without her again.

  Everyone had secrets. As long as he kept his, all would be well.

  He walked along, looking down at the river, reveling in being alone. Although he’d come to need company, being alone once in a while was good, too. It meant he could do anything he wanted.

  As long as he wasn’t alone too long.

  Eleisha and Wade had shown him that there were other things to do with his nights besides just hunting, such as playing poker with plastic chips or watching movies together using the DVD player. Since settling in the church, Eleisha had also started a bizarre practice of reading books to them aloud. At first, Philip expected this to be boring beyond belief . . . but it wasn’t. She chose detective novels by Robert Crais or humorous books about an inept woman bounty hunter by a writer named Janet Evanovich. She even read older books by P. G. Wodehouse, which made Wade laugh out loud. Philip didn’t always understand what was so funny, but he liked watching Eleisha make Wade laugh.

  This last thought stirred up images of the church, of home, of Eleisha waiting there for him, and he walked faster.

  He passed a few maple trees when a familiar sound tickled his ears.

  Someone nearby was weeping softly.

  He stepped off the sidewalk, into the small park beside the river, and looked around, stopping for a moment to listen with his eyes closed. Then he walked behind the line of trees.

  A woman sat on the ground, her arms wrapped around her legs, her face pressed into her knees as she tried to cover her sobs.

  “You are sad,” Philip said, letting his gift begin to flow.

  She jerked her head up in surprise.

  She was not young, perhaps mid-thirties, with dark red hair and blond highlights. But even tear streaked, her face was pleasing. She seemed overdressed to be sitting on the ground, but then he noticed that her black velvet gown looked like something from a Nordstrom Rack, and yet she wore a slender Rolex and Prada pumps.

  She was interesting.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, using both his gift and his heavy French accent to make her study him in turn.

  Philip had never given much thought or appreciation to his gift. He couldn’t remember anything about his life as a mortal—as if his existence began the night he was turned—so his gift had always seemed a part of him.

  He exuded an overwhelming aura of attraction. The moment he spoke, his victims were fascinated by him, longing to touch him, to please him.

  She stared at his face as he moved closer and crouched down. He reached out and wiped away her tears with his fingers. She let him.

  “Tell me,” he whispered.

  “I was going to get married,” she whispered back. “Finally. To a stockbroker here in the city. We were happy.”

  He waited, cocking his head to one side.

  “He ran a credit check and found out . . . I don’t come from money,” she w
ent on as if she knew Philip, as if he were a friend. “I owe fifty thousand dollars on all my cards to . . . to look like this. He broke it off over dinner.” She let out another sob. “I couldn’t go home alone to my apartment.”

  She was in pain and, to his great surprise, she moved him.

  He didn’t like the feeling. He’d come out alone so he could hunt to please himself.

  Leaning closer, he let the full power of his gift engulf her, and she gasped, reaching out to touch his hair, her eyes shifting back and forth across his face.

  “It’s all right,” he said.

  He kissed her, like a mortal would. He did this often while hunting alone.

  But always before, when he killed to feed, he liked to take the experience to a certain point and then turn off his gift so he could feel attraction shift suddenly to terror. He liked to feel his victim struggle and fight and scream. He fed on fear as much as blood.

  Tonight was different.

  He didn’t turn off his gift. He didn’t want to terrify her. Instead, he moved his mouth down to her throat and gripped the back of her neck. In a flash, he bit down hard, but he didn’t rip her throat, just drove his teeth in to feed. He let himself drink as quickly as he pleased, swallowing without care or concern. She bucked once, but he held on to her easily, letting his gift calm her while he consumed her life, her memories, everything that she had been.

  He saw a childhood of poverty in a filthy mobile home. A mother smoking cigarettes and watching television. He felt a longing to escape. He saw a series of cubicles and computers as she typed in data at various jobs. He saw a chain of boyfriends that stopped at a square-jawed man in a gray wool coat. The stockbroker. Matthew. She loved him. He represented everything she’d ever wanted. Then Philip saw a posh restaurant, and Matthew was speaking coldly, telling her to leave, as if she mattered little more than the empty wineglass in front of him.