Dead Sexy (16 page)

"No. I am just passing through."

"That's too bad." She made no protest as he drew her closer. "You don't look like the other guys that come in here."

"Indeed?"

She nodded, her brows drawn together in a thought frown. "They seem like boys next to you." she remarked. "Not that you look old," she said quickly, "but there's something about you…"

"I am older than I look." He grinned inwardly, thinking how shocked the woman would be if she knew just how old he really was.

"I'm Lilith." She smiled in a way that told him she had played this game many times before.

He inclined his head. "Joaquin."

"I've never known anyone by that name. It's kind of sexy. Are you sure you can't stay in town a little longer, maybe just overnight? I don't live far from here."

"Alas, I cannot." He gazed deep into her eyes. "Relax, Lilith. I need something from you." He listened to the sound of her heartbeat, heard it slow as she succumbed to his enchantment. He bent his head over her neck, his tongue laving her skin. To anyone watching, it would appear he was kissing her throat. And indeed he was, but only for a moment before his fangs pierced the tender skin. He drank deeply, quickly, his arm tightening around her waist as she went limp in his embrace.

He licked his lips before lifting his head and guiding her back to the bar. He eased her onto the stool, ordered her a glass of orange juice, and compelled her to drink it.

"Lilith?"

"Hmm?" She looked at him as if she had never seen him before.

"I am going to leave you now," he told her. "You will not remember this night or anything that happened."

"No," she said, blinking at him, "I won't remember."

He patted her arm and muttered, "good girl," and then he was gone.

Regan sat on the edge of the bed, her gaze fixed on the Satellite Screen, though she had no idea what she was watching. She was thinking about Santiago, wondering where he had gone, who he was with, and, morbidly, what it would be like to drink blood to survive. Did a person's normal revulsion at drinking human blood magically disappear when one became a vampire? Was it something you got used to gradually, like the taste of champagne? Or was it just something you had to accept and learn to live with?

She swallowed the bile rising in her throat. She might be able to get used to drinking blood if she had to, but eating human flesh? No way! She tried to imagine herself turning fanged and furry, howling at the moon as she ran through the night searching for prey. Human prey…

"No!" She had to think positive. She had to believe that everything would be all right or she would never get through this. Think positive. They would find the shaman and he would cure her, if necessary, though she clung to the faint hope that Vasile's bite had been benign.

For the tenth time in as many minutes, she went to the window and looked out, but there was nothing to see except the lights from the businesses across the street. She stared at the blinking sign above a soft-serve ice cream parlor. How dangerous would it be to run across the street and buy a cone? It wouldn't take more than a minute or two, five at the most…

She had her hand on the door when her yearning for ice cream was overcome by her good sense. She had always hated movies where the foolish young woman went into the basement or up the stairs and walked right into the killer's arms. She didn't know if Vasile was outside the door, but she knew he was out there somewhere.

With a sigh, she sat down on the bed again. She hated waiting. Everyone in her family knew that. It was a family joke that Regan had hated waiting even before she was born and that was why she had emerged from the womb a month early and had been hurrying through life ever since.

Lost in thought, she looked up, startled to discover that she was no longer alone in the room.

"How did you get in here?" she asked, glancing at the door, which was still closed and locked.

Santiago shrugged negligently. "I slid in beneath the door when you weren't looking."

She stared at him, wondering if he was kidding, and then shrugged. Vampires were supposed to be able to squeeze through tight places by dissolving into mist, though she had never seen it done. Apparently, it was more than a myth.

She couldn't help feeling relieved that he was back. Even if she hadn't known where he had gone, she would have known, just by looking at him, that he had fed recently.

"Do you like it?" she blurted. "Drinking blood, I mean?"

He regarded her through fathomless midnight blue eyes. Although his expression remained impassive, she could almost see him trying to decide whether to tell her the harsh truth or a gentle lie.

After a moment, his voice devoid of emotion, he said, "Yes, I like it."

"Did you always like it? I mean, from the very first?"

"Yes."

Even hearing it from his own lips, she found it hard to believe. How could anyone possibly like it?

"Is there anything about being a vampire that you don't like? Anything that you miss? I know I asked you that once before and you said no, but…"

"I miss my people," he said quietly. He missed their way of life, missed the rhythm of the changing seasons, the sight of horses running across the prairie, the lonesome howl of the coyote, the throbbing heartbeat of the drum. "I miss listening to the Old Ones relate the ancient tales." He missed hearing the language of his childhood, missed the thrill of hunting the buffalo, and the feasts that followed. "I miss watching the sun rise over our stronghold in the mountains."

She heard the wistful note in his voice and thought how unhappy she would be if everything and everyone she had ever known was gone. It must be a terribly lonely feeling, she thought, knowing that there was no one left in all the world who shared your memories, your experiences, and your childhood.

"So, if there was a cure for being a vampire, would you take it?"

He considered it a moment. Would he give up his preternatural powers if he had the chance? Would he want to be mortal again, his senses limited, his body weak and vulnerable? Would he want to be subject to disease and death?

He shook his head slowly. "I do not think so. In the beginning, perhaps, but now I am content as I am." He glanced at her suitcase. "Are you ready to go?"

"Yes."

He quickly gathered their luggage.

She unlocked the door and followed him out of the room.

Moments later, they were on the highway heading west, toward the Black Hills.

Regan looked out the window. She had never seen the Black Hills except in movies and photographs, and she was anxious to see the place for herself. It was a land with a lot of history. When Santiago told her about the shaman, she had researched the area on Joaquin's computer. Now, she tried to recall what she had learned.

For centuries untold, the Sioux and Cheyenne had considered the Hills to be sacred ground. The Sioux had tried to regain possession of the Hills for hundreds of years, but with no success. Then, about the same time vampires had been declared an endangered species, the Indians had scored a great victory when legislation had been passed granting the Great Sioux Nation ownership of the Black Hills, which consisted of millions of acres of land. In addition to reclaiming ownership of the Hills, the Lakota had reasserted their right to be a sovereign nation, with their own constitution, their own laws, and their own army.

It was said that the Hills, which rose high above the great plains, were the very heart and soul of the
Lakota people. Pine trees grew in such rich abundance on the hillsides that the sacred Hills looked black from a distance, thus giving them their name. It was a colorful land—green with pines and red with shale and sandstone cliffs. Wildlife was plentiful in the Hills. Bear Butte, another place the Indians held sacred, was also located in the Hills, along with the Devil's Tower, which rose thousands of feet above the surrounding prairie.

Regan glanced at Santiago, wondering if being in the Hills would make him yearn for his old life. She had no idea if the Apache and the Sioux had anything in common other than the fact that they were both Indian nations. She tried to imagine what Santiago had looked like back in the old days, when he had been a young warrior living wild with the Apache. Though he seemed to have been born to wear the black clothing and black duster that was his customary attire, she had no trouble at all picturing him in a deerskin loincloth and moccasins, an eagle feather tied into his long black hair, a slash of war paint across his cheek, and a quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder. The image was not only far too appealing, but far too arousing, as well.

She shook her head, banishing the image from her mind.

As he had the night before, Santiago drove with single-minded purpose, stopping only when Regan expressed the need to stretch her legs, relieve herself, or get something to eat or drink.

Santiago never tired. She often wondered what he thought about as the miles slipped past. Sometimes he seemed like a class H-l robot, programmed to do nothing more than drive and answer questions.

Discomfited by the silence, she switched on the radio. Moments later, she wished she hadn't. There had been another murder in You Bet Your Life Park. A young man, nineteen years old, had been found dead at the bottom of the park swimming pool.

"I should be there," she remarked, though she didn't know what good her presence would do. She hadn't given the police much in the way of useful information. She wondered if she should call Flynn and tell him about Santiago's theory that a werewolf was responsible for some of the murders, or if that would just complicate things and make matters worse—or if Flynn would think she was out of her mind, since everyone believed werewolves were extinct.

"There is nothing you could have done," Santiago replied.

His words only reinforced her own thoughts. She felt like a fraud for being on the department payroll. As of yet, she hadn't done a thing to earn her pay. "I should have told Flynn about Vasile."

"He would never believe you."

Once again, his words reflected her own thoughts. She was about to tell him so when her cell phone rang.

It was Flynn. "You picked a hell of a time to go on vacation," he said brusquely. "There's been another death."

"Yes, I know. I just heard about it on the news."

"This one hasn't made the news yet," Flynn said, his voice tight.

Something in his tone sent a chill down her spine. "Who's the victim?"

"A woman." He paused and when he spoke again, she heard the strain in his voice. "I'm the one who found her. I thought… dammit, even though I knew you weren't in town, I thought it was you."

Heart pounding, she asked, "Why would you think that?"

"She looks like you," Michael said. "And I don't mean someone who just resembles you. I mean, she looks… looked… exactly like you."

Regan's grip tightened on the phone until her knuckles went white. "That's not possible."

"I didn't think so either, but she's a dead ringer for you. Sorry, bad choice of words. The M.E. thinks it might be a clone of some kind."

"Why…" She swallowed past the lump in her throat. "Why would anyone go to all that trouble?"