Twilight Illusions

What, exactly, are you doing here. Shannon?"



His anger vibrated in those low, measured tones, but seemed to be held in rigid control. She opened her mouth to answer, still staring straight ahead at his gleaming skintight boots. No words came out.



"Much as I might fantasize about the implications of your present position, I think you ought to get up now."



She did, quickly, and she felt her face heating beneath the mask.



That's right, the mask. How the hell did he know it was me?



She tugged it off and glared at him. "Look, I tried to talk to you at the theater, but you left. When I called, you hung up. You really didn't leave me much choice--"



"The choice I left you with was to leave me alone."



His dark eyes burned with some inner fire. Black fire. Dark light. How was that possible? She blinked and shook herself. The wind picked up a little, and it made a deep moaning sound when it passed through the branches of the big oak tree. Perfect October night wind. She faced him, and tried to ignore the shiver of apprehension. How could a man as attractive as this one make her feel so afraid? Nothing scared her. Not even death. Not that she'd admit it, anyway. She couldn't afford to, in her present condition. "I'm afraid I can't leave you alone."



"Why not?"



"Let me in and I'll tell you." She watched his face, and knew when he didn't refuse that he was wavering. "It's important."



"It must be." He glanced down over her attire as he said it, and his sarcasm couldn't be missed. Just when her chin rose and a few choice set-downs jumped to her lips, he nodded once and stepped aside. "Ten minutes. Shannon. Then you either leave on your own or I call animal control."



She sauntered past him, feeling triumphant, glancing back over her shoulder. "Who do you think they'd pick up? Cat Woman or Batman?"



He grimaced, as if her little joke had been so bad it was painful, but he couldn't hide the twitch at the corners of his lips. She wondered, for a second, why he'd want to. Then she turned to see where she was going, and all her thoughts stampeded from her mind like cattle from a burning barn.



The short hall she'd traversed opened into a circular room that would put the Oval Office to shame. Black marble fireplace with two arched openings. One for the fire and the other to hold the neatly stacked logs. The mantel stretched the length of it, and was littered with artsy objects encased in clear-glass cubes of varying sizes. The floor gleamed, the same swirling black marble as the hearth, accented here and there with colorful Turkish rugs. Their patterns were wild, order less, vivid. Were those black eyes peering up at her from behind swirls of scarlet and gold? God, these things, with their braided tassels and secret meanings, could pass for Aladdin's magic carpet. One lay near the fireplace, all but invisible under a mound of pillows. Round, square, oval, satin, silk, velvet, blacks and reds and golds.



A chaise lounge the color of goldenrod, and big enough to hold a crowd, held court to one side of the fireplace. Its shimmery fabric would glow with the firelight when there was a fire. There was a couch, but it wasn't really. It had no back. The plump red cushions angled upward at either end, curving over scrolled wooden arms. Long strands of red fringe hung to the floor all the way around it. The wooden legs and trim were engraved with obscure shapes and symbols.



She blinked and gave her head a shake.



"Not what you expected?"



It was as though an icy wind had just blown over her, the way she shivered.



But it wasn't an icy wind. It was a warm breath, and four simple words spoken softly, close to her nape.



She drew a breath, closed her eyes, calmed herself. She wouldn't let the man's mystic demeanor shake her. After all, it was only part of the act. A persona he put on and took off like the satin cloak he wore. An image. He took it further than she'd anticipated, but that wasn't proof he'd taken it to the ultimate extreme. Was it?



"Perfect setting to keep the image intact, Damien." She continued scanning. There were two wide, arched doorways, at ten o'clock and two o'clock if the fireplace was noon. Neither of them had a door. Instead they were draped with countless strings of beads that looked like onyx. "Although," she went on, trying to keep the amazement from her voice as she found one wondrous item after another, "I don't know why you bother. I was told few people ever get past the front gate. So, who are you trying to impress?"



"The room is for me. I like it this way."



The walls and high ceiling were plastered, their surfaces rough, like stucco, and slightly yellowed, as if very old, although she was sure they were new. The lights were recessed into the walls, with half circles of intricate plaster work shading them from below. The effect was a muted glow that seemed to emanate naturally from above.



She stepped closer to the mantel, eyes widening as she looked more closely at the items within the glass cubes. Small figures of bearded, almond-eyed men. What looked like a billy goat standing on its hind legs, apparently plated in gold. A chipped piece of pottery shaped like a glass, with animals and designs painted in dulling colors and perfect symmetry. An uneven, rather rectangular hunk of stone with line after line of tiny, detailed marks. Writing? "Are these things as old as they look?"



* * * * *



"That depends on how old they look."



She faced him, frowning. "They're artifacts, aren't they? You collect them. But where do you find things like this, in some pharaoh's tomb?"



"Nice guess. Try a bit earlier and a little farther south." She bit her lip, racking her brain, but he cut her off. "It doesn't make any difference. Shannon. I've given you ten minutes, and you've wasted the first three gawking at my living room. Are you going to tell me what it is that drove you to dress in that ridiculous outfit and break in?"



Her anger returned, and with it, her awareness of why she was here. "You think it's some silly thing, don't you? That I'm an obsessed fan and all I want is an autograph or a souvenir of Damien the Eternal."



He tilted his head to one side, crossing his arms over his chest as if waiting patiently for her to get to the point. It was infuriating. She unzipped the small fanny pack that was snapped around her hips. The manila envelope she pulled out wasn't sealed. "How often do you do that levitation routine, using an audience member as a volunteer, Damien?"



His gaze dipped to the envelope, then met hers again. "It's new. Tonight was only the third time I've done it. I like to keep the act varied."



"This was the third time," she repeated. "Do you happen to remember your volunteer last week?" She pulled out the photos, not giving him time to answer. She kept her eyes on his, careful not to glance down at the pictures she held out to him. She'd seen them too many times already.



He looked at her for a long moment, brows creasing. She saw some kind of war going on in those glittering black eyes. When he took the stack, his fingertips brushed over hers and she shivered. She turned away from him, paced to the piece of furniture that looked like Cleopatra's bed and sat down.



She refused to look at him. She gazed, instead, into the cold hearth, noticed the crumpled bit of paper there, wondered what was on it and whether he'd leave the room long enough for her to get a look.



She never heard him approach, so it shocked her when his hand closed around her wrist and he jerked her to her feet. His grip was like iron, and he glared down at her with a fire in his eyes that was potent, and dangerous.



"What in hell is this garbage?" His other hand clutched the photographs.



Fear should have taken over. That it didn't wasn't on account of her unshakable courage. More that she had nothing to lose. Nothing at all. What was the worst he could do to her? Kill her? So he'd beat the disease to the punch. Big deal. It was laughable.



"Don't you recognize her, Damien? I'll admit, it's tough with her skin white as candle wax and her eyes glazed over like that. Still, her hair is the same. Tangled, but basically the same. She was an actress, you know. At least, she wanted to be."



His grip tightened. "What kind of sick prank are you trying to--"



"You do remember her. Good. It's no prank, Damien. Tawny Keller is dead. She died in her bed, a few hours after she performed for the last time, as your audience volunteer."



His gaze narrowed. His grip on her arm eased, then his hand fell away. He turned slightly, shook his head.



Shannon reached into the fanny pack again, pulling out several stapled-together pages. "Don't believe it, huh? Well, try this, then." She thrust the papers under his nose. "Medical examiner's report, autopsy results."



His gaze rose to hers again. Anguished. She had the brief sense that he was bleeding inside, but it vanished as fast as it came.



"How did you get these things? Are you a cop?"



She squared her shoulders. "Not a cop, a PI." He hadn't taken the papers, so she tossed them aside. They spread their pages like wings and fluttered to the floor. Silence stretched tight between Damien and her. She didn't want to live it again, didn't want to feel it again. "I found the body." The memory rushed over her, even though she fought it with everything she had. Pounding on Tawny's door. Worried because she hadn't answered the phone, and they always talked first thing in the morning. The door hadn't even been locked. God, she was careless!



Shannon felt a cold hand grip her heart as she recalled walking in, calling, hearing no answer. But she'd known, she'd felt that dread even before she'd entered the bedroom and seen what no one should ever have to see.



She turned to hide the pain from him and paced away. "They're keeping the whole thing quiet. There'd be a circus if the apparent cause of death leaked to the press. But I saw her. I knew. I traded my silence for the photos, the reports. I've worked with this ME before, and he's a stickler for the rule book. He wouldn't have let me have these things if I'd given him a choice." She stared into the darkened fireplace, battling tears and eventually winning. "They threatened to pull my license if I got involved in this, but I don't really give a damn. She was my best friend."



He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry." He'd moved closer to her, stood right behind her now. He must walk like a cat. "But I still don't see--"



She whirled on him, poking his wide chest with a forefinger.



"Don't you? She bled to death, Damien. And the only injuries found on her entire body were those two little marks on her throat. You tell me how the hell anyone could do that to her, and then you tell me who you'd suspect if you were in my shoes."



He closed his eyes as if he were in some kind of physical pain and turned slowly away from her. "It's impossible. There had to be some other injury, or--"



"Read the damned autopsy report if you don't believe me. The cause of death is listed as extreme blood loss. They can't explain it. If this were an upstanding citizen instead of a hooker-slash-actress, they'd be probably call the FBI." She closed her eyes. "But it was just Tawny. Just some nobody who grew up on the streets and did what she had to do to survive. Just my best friend since I was sixteen years old. I'd have never lived to see seventeen if it hadn't been for her."



He said nothing, only stood with his back to her, one hand shielding his eyes.



"The police think I'm crazy. They say there's no evidence to point to you. But I'm not crazy. I'm good at what I do, and right now the only goal in my short, miserable life is to get to the bottom of this." She sniffed, and tried to erase the waver from her voice. "I'm trying to track down the woman who volunteered to be your assistant the week before Tawny did. Rosalie Mason. But you know something, Damien? I'm not having much luck. And my gut tells me I'm not gonna find her, or if I do, she won't be in any shape to tell me a thing."



She heard his slow, long sigh. "So, you came here to accuse me of murder. You've done that. Maybe you ought to leave now."



"Rosalie was a prostitute, too, you know." She paced back and forth in front of the fireplace, ignoring his words, going a little faster with every lap. "She attended the show that night with a John. No one's reported her missing. No one wants to talk to the cops about where she might be. They're ignoring the fact that she just isn't around anymore, because no one cared. But it's different with Tawny. Someone cared about her. And I'm not letting this go."



"Go home. Shannon."



His form appeared in front of her, stopping her pattern. She stared up at him.



"So, which is it, Damien? Are you insane enough to believe you really are what you pretend to be on stage? Or is this just a publicity stunt? A few vampire killings while you're in town to entice the populace. Oughtta work wonders at the box office." Her brows drew closer as she studied him. "How much did Tawny suffer before you killed her, Damien? Just how the hell did you do that to her?"



His anger pounded down at her like a physical force. "What do you think?"



If his tone and his threatening stance were supposed to intimidate her into cowering silence, it didn't work. She thrust her chin up and held his gaze. "I think this is a pattern. And if I'm right and it holds true, then I'm next in line, aren't I? I'll know for sure, then. And you know something, Damien? I almost hope you do come for me. Because I'll be waiting."



She felt his rage. It seemed to zap and spark in the very air between them. If it did, then it must be wrestling with her own, because she was furious. He hadn't denied a thing.



"Oh, will you?"



"You're damn right I will, and you'd better take me out on the first try, because I won't hesitate. And I never miss."



"Going to shoot me, are you?"



"Blow your head right off your shoulders. I don't know how many other girls you've left lying dead in your wake, but you messed with the wrong one this time. Tawny was my best friend in this world. It ends here. So give it your best shot, magic man. It's gonna be your last one."



She turned away from him, started for the front door, but his hand shot out to grip her arm and he twisted her around to face him again.



"You're not going anywhere."



* * * * *



Her eyes widened, eyes the exact color of very old amber. He felt the rush of dread that passed through her. But she didn't show it, didn't cower or even lower her head. Her golden blond hair framed her face so she looked like an angel. At the moment, a fiercely angry, avenging angel. He opened his mind, deliberately opened it, for the first time in aeons. The bombardment stunned him. He released her, his hands automatically pressing to his temples at the force of all that hit him. Voices, thoughts, emotions, sensations. Thousands upon thousands, pummeling him all at once. Too much. Too many.



He closed his eyes, took a staggering step backward. The noise of countless voices pierced his eardrums. Feelings of pain, pleasure, heat, cold, sickness, exertion, trampled over his body until it vibrated as if electrified. Visions flashed in front of his eyes, blinding him. A thousand scents assailed him, a thousand tastes coated his mouth before he managed to block them out, slamming the door of his mind like the lid of a casket. Closing it, sealing it.



For the love of Inanna! It had been so long since he'd attempted to receive the sensations of others... he'd grown in power, in strength, in the ability to do the trick, and at the same time, neglected the taming of his own abilities. He'd need to work on it, relearn the ways to filtering the vibrations, to home in only on the mind in question.



Which, at the moment, was hers.



He opened his eyes, blinking the room into focus. He was alone. He turned to stare down the short hallway. The door stood wide, with only the night beyond it.



Gone. As if she'd never been there.



Damien closed the door and stood for a moment, still trembling with the aftereffects of the blow he'd just taken. He made himself move back into his comfort room. The haven he'd created for himself. The place he felt the most relaxed. The sunken eyes of the dead woman stared up at him from photos scattered over gleaming black marble floor. The marks on her lily-white throat seemed to taunt, to laugh at him.



You think yourself the enemy of death, Damien? You think wrong. I've won at last, you see? You've surrendered. I own you now.



He lunged forward, snatching the horrible pictures from the floor, falling to his knees in front of the hearth, throwing them down on top of the cold ashes. "I didn't kill her." The words came as if on their own, in a harsh whisper. The face of the once-beautiful young actress stared at him, accusation screaming from the silent depths of her sightless eyes. He focused the beam of his thoughts, and the photo burst into flames. Red orange tongues danced and licked, spreading to the other photos in the hearth and then to the letter he'd thrown there earlier. Damien watched them burn and wondered what more he could have done to prevent this.



The thirst--the damned need--had grown stronger with every year he'd lived. It raged now like the Bull of Heaven, sent down to wreak the vengeance of the gods on mankind. It was impossible to deny, or to deprive the hunger. Animals no longer sufficed. The cold plastic liquid stolen from blood banks couldn't fill his burning need. He couldn't ignore it.



He'd tried. In fact, he'd made it a ritual of self-torment. Whenever the hunger came, he refused to feed, fought the bloodlust, resisted it until it became all powerful. He'd thought that by resisting it, he'd be the one to grow stronger. It hadn't worked out that way, though. Every time he tried, the lust raged more potent in his veins, until every cell of him screamed for the elixir, until his mind left the realm of his control and he hunted, swathed in a blood red haze of mindless need.



And even then, he'd thought he'd kept a modicum of restraint. He'd fed only in sips, and only from those women who'd hounded his steps after a performance. The groupies. The ones who slipped uninvited into his dressing room, baring pretty necks and offering themselves to him, sometimes begging him to take them.



Fantasies, he knew. And he'd laugh off their offers, only to appear in their bedrooms--in their dreams--a few hours later. There, twined in their warm, mortal arms, he could sate his roaring lust. And by his simple command, these willing victims would remember the entire exchange as an erotic, pleasure-filled dream. As they drew their first breaths; bathed in sunlight, the marks on their throats would begin to heal. If they noticed the wounds at all, they'd remember a minor accident to explain them. One that had never happened. He thought he'd been so careful. Always leaving them asleep, looking utterly tranquil and contented, having gained as much satisfaction from the exchange as he had.



Had he gone too far? Had that desire inside him overwhelmed him to the point that he'd drained one of them and not even been aware of it? Could it?



That's right, Damien. I've won. You've not only surrendered, you've joined my army. Joined it alongside sickness and war and famine. One of my horsemen now, Damien. An instrument of death.



He moaned in agony and folded his arms around his middle. No one despised the shadow of death more than Damien. No one. Death was his enemy. His greatest foe. If he'd reached the point where feeding his own demon meant feeding death another victim, then he'd end his existence tomorrow. He'd walk naked into the sunrise. He'd...



No.



He straightened his body and stared into the blackened remains of the photos in the hearth. Red still glowed around the edges of the letter, and bits of white showed amid the charred paper. Before he did anything, he needed to learn the truth. If he'd killed, if indeed he had taken a life, then he deserved to surrender his own.



But if not, then there was someone else.



He paced the floor, deep in thought. Someone who, perhaps, wanted the world to believe Damien was guilty.



His steps stopped near the first archway. Someone who was doing it by preying on the women whose blood he'd tasted?



No, how could anyone know that? He would have been aware if anyone had seen him, wouldn't he?



Preying on the women who'd assisted him on stage, then?



His gaze flew to the spot where he'd last seen Shannon.



If he didn't go after her, watch over her, and his theory was on target, her life might very well end tonight.



If he did go after her, as his every instinct was screaming at him to do, and his greatest fears were true. Her precious life might end anyway. Anu, how could he risk killing someone he wanted only to protect? How could he risk his need for solitude by giving in to the urge to protect her, when his mind was telling him to run in the opposite direction?



What the hell was he going to do?