Rajmund (Vampires in America #3)

Rajmund (Vampires in America #3) Page 8

The garage was mostly dark inside, but that was no problem. Vampires could see as well in dark as light, maybe even better. In the dark, one saw only what was necessary. By lamplight, one could be distracted by beauty or whimsy.

Feeling poetic, tonight, Raj?

He grunted at his own idle thoughts. It was more morning than night by now. He had only moments to get inside or he'd be sleeping on the garage floor next to his car, and there was nothing poetic about that.

The interior door closed behind him with a heavy thud, locks sliding home automatically. He walked directly to the security panel, rearming it with his thumbprint and a six digit code.

His Buffalo lair was in a small warehouse, fifty feet on a side and nearly three stories high, echoing in its emptiness and lit only by the green glow of the alarm panel's LED. This was his private place, a place even Krystof didn't know about. Raj might hate this city, but he came here far more often than the vampire lord was aware. He crossed the bare concrete floor to a short stairway running down below ground level. Ten steps, a turn and five more steps and there was another heavy door, another security panel. A different six digit code and the door cracked opened with a rush of warmer air.

Raj shouldered the vault-like hatch open, letting its own weight swing it shut behind him. There was light here, a dim, golden glow that rose up automatically to touch the otherwise dark furnishings and bring out the ruby depths of a burgundy carpet. The room was spacious, covering two thirds the square footage of the warehouse above. A huge custom-made bed dominated to the left, linens neatly tucked in by Raj himself the last time he spent the night here. To each side of the bed was a table of dark mahogany, and against the wall, a suede headboard the color of old blood. A matching sofa and two black leather chairs were situated to the right, next to a fully-stocked wet bar. Contrary to legend, vampires could both eat and drink, although they gained no nutrition from it and the food had little taste. Booze, on the other hand, tasted every bit as good as it always had. It might not have the same kick, but for a man born and raised in Poland, the taste of vodka was as natural as breathing. Which was another thing the legends got wrong; Raj was as alive and breathing as any human walking the streets in daylight. With a few very useful enhancements.

He would have enjoyed a shot of ice-cold vodka right about now. Unfortunately, getting to the small airport outside Manhattan had taken longer than it should have, and despite the short flight, the sun was already bursting over the horizon. He could feel the urgency of the coming day in every cell of his body. Eventually he would succumb to its effect—the legends got that part right—but he was old enough and strong enough to resist the fall into unconsciousness for a while. He deliberately took his time, checking the security panel and entering a final code to lock down both the warehouse above and this room. He was kicking off his boots when daylight finally began to suck away his awareness. With his last threads of consciousness, he stumbled to the bed, ripped off the rest of his clothes and pulled back the covers. The last thing he felt was the slide of crisp, clean sheets against his bare skin.

Chapter Nine

Sarah nodded her thanks to the barista as she grabbed her latte and eased her way through the caffeine starved morning crowd back outside the cafe. The cold air hit her like a wall after the heat inside, and she shivered slightly, pulling her coat closed with one hand, being careful not to spill the hot drink. The weather had been nice enough recently that the cafe had resurrected the umbrella tables from winter storage, and she dropped onto one of the cold, metal chairs, thankful for the heavy wool of her coat. She pulled out her copy of the local newspaper, The Buffalo News. It wasn't the New York Times, but if one wanted local news, this was the newspaper of record. And what Sarah was looking for was very much local news.

She sipped her drink and flipped open the paper, nearly choking when she saw the front page. She snapped the newspaper closed and sat back in her chair. Deliberately lifting her cup, she took a sip, and then another, watching the cars drive by on Elmwood, watching mothers with their babies in giant strollers maneuver through the door of the cafe to congregate in a far corner inside and trade stories of dirty diapers and sleepless nights. Her eyes wandered to a park across the street, where a swing set waited forlornly, its seats hanging empty on their heavy chains, one of them a baby's seat, its safety enclosure tilting unevenly, the chain kinked somewhere above.

The cold spring air stung her lungs as she drew a deep breath and put her cup down on the table, resting her hand on the folded paper for a moment, her eyes closed in resignation. She sighed and opened both her eyes and the paper.

The story was on the front page below the fold, along with a black and white photo of a pretty girl with curly black hair, a thin face and the smile of a child who knew she was loved. Sarah stared at that smile and wondered what it looked like by now.

Patricia Beverly Cowens, called Trish, the article said, eighteen and a first year student at the university. She'd attended a party on Sunday night, two nights ago, and hadn't been seen since. Sarah frowned and thought back. Her first dream had been nearly a week ago, long before Trish disappeared. She'd never known for sure, but she'd always believed her dreams happened in real time. And now, reading about Trish Cowens, she was sure of it. In her dream last night, Regina had—Sarah didn't even know what to call it. How do you describe being in someone else's head, someone else's nightmare? Regina had remembered hearing her abductor bring in someone new, a new victim, on what could easily have been Sunday.

Sarah fisted her hands against the desire to pound the table. If he had taken Trish, did that mean it was already too late for Regina? Please, she begged any gods who might be listening. Please don't let Regina be dead.

She closed her eyes against a nearly overwhelming despair. I can't do this, she thought desperately. Not again. But she had to, didn't she? Because there was no one else. Feeling fate laughing over her shoulder, she picked up the paper again.

The Police Commissioner himself had presided over the press conference, which struck her as odd until she read further and discovered who Trish's father was. William Cowens, self-made billionaire, friend to presidents and movie stars. In a perverted way, she thought bitterly, it was lucky Trish was the latest victim. Not for Trish, of course, but for the others because Trish's father had the influence to make things happen. Sarah continued reading. As usual, the police were very circumspect in what information they released. Sarah had hoped for some mention of Regina, some confirmation that there were other women missing. But it wasn't there. So, maybe this was an isolated case. Maybe someone had kidnapped Trish for ransom, or even that hefty reward her daddy was offering. Maybe Sarah herself was seeing serial killers where they didn't exist and Regina was just a figment of her imagination, a function of too much stress and too little sleep. It was possible, wasn't it? She sighed. What did it mean when she didn't even believe her own rationalizations anymore?

She skimmed through the rest of the article, stuttering to a halt when she saw the name of Cowens's spokesman. She stared at the words, unable to believe what she was seeing. What were the chances? she wondered. Edward Blackwood. One of the few people who could connect Sarah Stratton to a young teenager from California, and he was here in Buffalo.

Not that Blackwood's presence was surprising, given William Cowens's net worth. Blackwood was a prodigious fund-raiser for Humanity Realized, which was the institute he'd founded for the announced purpose of facilitating the “achievement of full human potential,” whatever the hell that was. He'd been interested in Sarah once upon a time, had offered her parents a full college scholarship in exchange for her cooperation. Unfortunately for him, her parents didn't want his money. What they wanted, and what no one, not even Humanity Realized, could give them, was a normal daughter, one who didn't channel traumatized women in her sleep. Sarah only knew she didn't want to be anybody's lab rat, especially not Edward Blackwood's. And now he was here, just as her dreams were starting again.

His participation in the case vastly complicated Sarah's life. If she'd been wary of getting involved before, his presence clinched it. She wanted no part of him or the tabloids that reported on his every movement. She would have laughed if it hadn't been so tragic. The one person guaranteed to believe her dreams, and he was the one man she wanted nothing to do with.

She stood abruptly, throwing her half-full latte into the trash container and the paper after it. She strode down the sidewalk toward her office, determination in every step. She had a class to teach, a life to live. The police were investigating. They didn't need Sarah and her dreams.

The faculty parking lot was only half full that afternoon as Sarah headed back to her car, deftly sidestepping the puddle of ice melt she'd somehow managed to park right next to. The day's early promise of sunshine had come through, and even now the air felt almost warm. She lifted her face to the weak sunlight and wished she could just take off, maybe drive into the countryside, stop for a sandwich and sit at a picnic table, enjoying this first real sign of spring because she was pretty sure it wouldn't last. There were apparently no halfways in this part of the country—you were either freezing your ass off or melting into a big, steaming puddle.

Stop complaining, Stratton. You have a job, don't you? Sometimes she felt guilty about that. So many of her friends from grad school were struggling to make a go of it, people with families and obligations, while she had snagged a tenure track position at a decent university. Jobs like this were hard to find anymore, but even so, she sometimes wondered what she was doing here. It wasn't that she didn't enjoy teaching. She did, although she knew most of her students viewed her classes as a necessary evil, something to fill out a breadth requirement on their way to whatever career they'd chosen—law school for too many of them. Like the world needed a whole new batch of lawyers every year. And it wasn't that she didn't enjoy the research part of it. She loved history, loved discovering obscure bits of knowledge about people and events long past. What she didn't enjoy was doing the kind of research that would gain her tenure—the footnotes and the literature reviews, the presentations and the conferences, with their incumbent glad-handing and ass-kissing. And academic politics were a world all to themselves—backbiting elevated to the finest of arts.