Dark Desire (2 page)

The nurse closest to her regarded the doctor with com
plete shock. In all the time she had worked with O'Halloran, admiring her, almost idolizing her, she had never seen the surgeon lose her focus, not even for a second. This time, Shea had stood perfectly still—a few heartbeats, that was all—but the nurse couldn't help noticing because it was so unusual. Her hands had trembled, and she had broken out in a sweat. Automatically the nurse reached up to wipe the moisture from the doctor's forehead. To her horror, the cloth came away stained with blood. Droplets were beading up, seeping through her pores. The nurse wiped the surgeon's forehead a second time, attempting to hide the cloth from the others. She had never seen anything like it.

Then Shea was once more herself, snapping instantly back to attention. The nurse swallowed all her questions and returned to work, the images of what Dr. O'Halloran needed coming into her mind so fast, she had no time to think about the strange phenomenon anymore. She had long ago become used to knowing what the doctor needed before she asked for it.

Shea felt an unfamiliar presence in her mind, felt the dark malevolence beating at her for one more heartbeat before she closed it out; then her attention was completely taken up with the child and the shredded jumble that was his chest. He would not die. She would not allow it.
You hear me, child? I'm here with you, and I will not let you die,
she silently vowed. She meant it. She always meant it. It was as if part of her merged with her patients and somehow managed to keep them alive until modern medicine could kick in.

Jacques slept for some time. It didn't matter to him how long it had been. Hunger was waiting. Pain was waiting. The treacherous heart and soul of a woman were waiting. He had an eternity to gather what strength he could, and she could never escape him now that he knew the mental path to her mind. He slept the sleep of immortals, his lungs
and heart stopped as he lay in the earth, his body close to the soil it so desperately needed to aid healing, yet a thin layer of wood away. When he awakened, he scratched at the walls of his coffin patiently. He would reach the healing soil someday. He had managed to make a small hole to coax his prey to him. He could wait. She would never escape him. She was his single-minded purpose.

He haunted her. Day or night. It didn't matter to him. He no longer knew the difference when it had mattered so much before. He lived to try to appease his ever-present hunger. He lived for revenge. For retribution. He lived to make her life a living hell during his waking hours. He became good at it. Taking possession of her mind for minutes at a time. It was impossible to figure her out. She was so complex. There were things in her brain that made little sense to him, and the few moments he could stay awake without losing his precious remaining blood did not give him sufficient time to understand her.

There was the time she was frightened. He could taste her fear. Feel her heart pounding so that his own matched the terrible rhythm. Still, her mind remained calm in the center of the storm, receiving quick, brilliant flashes of data she processed so quickly that he nearly missed them. Two strangers were hunting her. Taunting her. He also saw an image of himself, his thick hair hanging in strands around his ravaged face, his body savaged by brutal hands. He clearly saw the stake driven deep within his tissue and sinews. It flashed for a moment in her mind, there was the impression of grief, and then he lost contact.

Shea would never forget their faces, their eyes, and the smell of their sweat. One of them, the taller of the two, couldn't take his eyes from her. “Who are you?” She stared at them, wide-eyed, innocent, totally harmless. Shea knew she looked young and helpless, too small to give them trouble.

“Jeff Smith,” the tall one said gruffly. His eyes devoured her. “This is my partner, Don Wallace. We need you to come with us and answer a few questions.”

“Am I wanted for something? I'm a doctor, gentlemen. I can't just pick up and go. I'm due in surgery in an hour. Perhaps you could arrange to ask your questions when my shift is over.”

Wallace grinned at her. He thought he looked charming. Shea thought he looked like a shark. “We can't do that, Doc. It isn't only our questions, there's an entire committee looking to talk with you.” He laughed softly, a film of perspiration on his forehead. He enjoyed inflicting pain, and Shea was altogether too cool, too haughty.

Shea made certain her desk was solidly between her and the men. Taking great care to move slowly and appear unconcerned, she glanced down at her computer, typed in the command to destroy her data, and hit the enter key. Then she picked up her mother's diary, and slipped it into her purse. She accomplished everything easily, naturally. “Are you certain you have the right person?”

“Shea O'Halloran, your mother was Margaret ‘Maggie' O'Halloran from Ireland?” Jeff Smith recited. “You were born in Romania, your father is unknown?” There was a taunting note in his voice.

She turned the full power of her emerald eyes on the man, watched coolly as he squirmed uneasily, as he became consumed with desire for her. Smith was far more susceptible than his partner was. “Is that supposed to upset me, Mr. Smith? I am who I am. My father has nothing to do with it.”

“No?” Wallace stepped closer to the desk. “Don't you need blood? Crave it? Don't you drink it?” His eyes glowed with hatred.

Shea burst out laughing. Her laughter was soft, sexy, a melody to listen to forever. “Drink blood? Is this some kind of joke? I don't have time for this nonsense.”

Smith licked his lips. “You don't drink blood?” His voice held a hopeful note.

Wallace looked at him sharply. “Don't look into her eyes,” he snarled. “You should know that by now.”

Shea's eyebrows shot up. She laughed again softly, inviting Smith to join her. “I occasionally require a transfusion. It isn't uncommon. Haven't you ever heard of hemophilia? Gentlemen, you are wasting my time.” Her voice dropped even lower, a soft seduction of musical notes. “You really should leave.”

Smith scratched his head. “Maybe we've got the wrong woman. Look at her. She's a doctor. She's nothing like the others. They're tall and strong and have dark hair. She's delicate, petite, a redhead. And she goes out in the sunlight.”

“Shut up,” Wallace snapped. “She's one of them. We should have gagged her. She's turning you with her voice.” His eyes slid over her, making her flesh crawl. “She'll talk.” He grinned evilly. “Now I've scared you. It's about time. You'll cooperate, O'Halloran, the hard way or the easy way. Actually, I prefer the hard way.”

“I'll bet you do. Just what do you want from me?”

“Proof that you're a vampire.” Wallace hissed.

“You've got to be kidding. Vampires don't exist. There's no such thing,” she goaded, needing information and willing to acquire it from any source, even if it meant prompting men as sick as these two.

“No? I've met several.” Wallace grinned his evil grin again. “Perhaps a friend or two of yours.” He threw several photographs onto the desk, his eyes daring her to look at them. His excitement was palpable.

Keeping her face blank, Shea picked up the pictures. Her stomach lurched, bile rose, but her training didn't let her down. The photographs were numbered, eight of them in all. Each of the victims was blindfolded, gagged, manacled, all in various stages of torment. Don Wallace was a
butcher. She touched a fingertip to the one tagged with a number two, experiencing a sudden, unexpected wrench. A boy no more than eighteen.

Quickly, before tears could well up, she flipped through the rest of the photographs. Number seven was a man with a mane of jet-black hair—the man haunting her dreams! There was no denying it. No mistake. She knew every angle and plane of his face—the well-cut mouth, the dark, expressive eyes, the long hair. Anguish welled up. For a moment she felt his pain, a sharp agony of mind and body driving out all sane thoughts until there was only room for pain, hatred, and hunger. She brushed the pad of her thumb over the tormented face lightly, almost lovingly. A caress. The pain and hatred only grew stronger. Hunger became all consuming. The emotions were so strong, so alien to her nature, she had a strange feeling that something or someone was sharing her mind. Disoriented for a moment, Shea dropped the photos onto the desk.

“It was you two in Europe a few years back, the ‘vampire' killings, wasn't it? You murdered all those innocent people.” Shea made the accusation calmly.

Don Wallace didn't deny it. “And now I've got you.”

“If vampires are such powerful creatures, how did you manage to kill so many of them?” Sarcasm dripped deliberately to egg him on.

“Their males are very competitive.” Wallace laughed harshly. “They don't like one another. They need women, and they don't like to share. They turn on each other, place someone into our hands. Still, they are strong. No matter how they suffer, they never talk. Which in some ways is fine, since they can mesmerize with their voices. But you'll talk, Doc. I'll have all the time in the world with you. Did you know when a vampire's in agony, it sweats blood?”

“Surely I would know that if I were a vampire. I've never sweated blood in my life. Let's see if I have this
straight. Vampires stalk not only humans but also each other. The males betray one another to you human butchers because they need females. I thought they could just bite women and turn them into vampires.” Sarcastically she was ticking off each item on her fingers. “You want me to believe I'm one of these fictitious creatures, so powerful that my voice alone can enslave this strong man here.” Deliberately she gestured toward Jeff Smith, flashing him a gentle smile. “Gentlemen, I'm a doctor. I save lives every day. I sleep in a bed, not in a coffin. I am not the least bit strong, and I have never sucked anyone's blood in my life.” She glanced at Don Wallace. “You, however, admittedly have tortured and mutilated men, even murdered them. And evidently you derive great pleasure from this. I don't believe you two are cops, or officials of any law-abiding agency. I think
you
are the monsters.” She turned her emerald eyes back to Jeff Smith, her voice low, seductive. “Do you really think
I'm
a danger to you?”

He seemed to be falling forward into her beckoning gaze. He had never wanted a woman more. He blinked, cleared his throat, and stole a slow, calculating look at Wallace. Smith had never noticed that greedy, cold look on his partner's face before. “No, no, of course you're not a danger to me or anyone else.”

“Damn it, Jeff, let's get her and get the hell out of here,” Wallace snarled, the need to teach her who was in charge riding him hard.

Emerald eyes slid over Smith, fastened on his mesmerized gaze. She could feel his desire, and she fed it, fed his fantasies of her welcoming his attentions. She had learned at a very young age that she could get into people's minds, manipulate their thoughts. Initially it had terrified her to wield that kind of power, but it was a useful tool in the O.R., and it was useful now, when she was threatened.

“Don, why don't they just turn human women? That
would make sense. And why did the vampire just quit helping us? We left the area in a big hurry, and you never did tell me what went wrong,” Smith said suspiciously.

“Are you trying to say one of these male vampires actually helped you in your campaign to kill others and that's how you were so successful?” Shea asked, a little sneer of disbelief in her voice.

“He was nasty, vengeful. He hated the kid, but he particularly despised this one here.” Smith tapped the photograph of the man with the long black hair. “He wanted him tortured, burned, to feel it.”

“Shut up,” Wallace snapped. “Let's get it over. She's worth a hundred thousand dollars to the society. They want to study her.”

Shea laughed softly. “If I truly was one of your mythical vampires, I should be worth far more than that to your ‘research' committee. I think your partner is holding out on you, Mr. Smith.”

The truth was there to read on Wallace's face. When Smith turned to confront him, Shea made her move: she leapt out the window, landed on her feet like a cat, and ran for her life. She had no personal items she was concerned about, no favorite memento. Her one regret was the loss of her books.

When he felt her fear, Jacques experienced the need to protect her. The urge was as strong as his desire to revenge himself. Whatever he had done, and he was the first to admit he couldn't remember, he couldn't possibly deserve such a horrendous punishment. Once again sleep overtook him, but it was the first time in months he had not filled her body with his pain or possessed her mind for a few seconds, ensuring that she felt his dark anger and promise of retribution. This time he hadn't punished her. Only he had the right to put fear into her mind, into her fragile, trembling body. She had looked upon his image with a mixture
of puzzlement and regret. Did she think he was dead and it was his damned soul haunting her? What went on in the head of a treacherous woman?

Time continued endlessly. Wake when a creature strayed near. Scratch and claw at the decaying wood. Eventually the cloth over his eyes rotted until it fell away from him. He had no idea how long he had been there. It made no difference to him. Dark was dark. Isolation, isolation. His only companion was the woman in his mind. The woman who had betrayed him, forsaken him. At times he called to her, ordered her to come to him. Threatened her. Pleaded. Perverse as it was, he needed her. He was already deranged; he accepted that. But this total isolation was making him completely mad. Without her touch, he would be lost to the world, not even his will keeping him going. And he had a need to live: retribution. He needed her as much as he loathed and despised her. As twisted as their relationship was, he needed the moments of companionship.