Embrace the Darkness (Darkness Series) (6 page)

“We need someone in law enforcement to help us find Tina’s killer.”

Fear turned to exasperation. “That’s what we’re trying to do. Find out who killed Miss Gallagher and Mr. Baxter. We’re also looking for Axle Travers. Do you have any idea where he might be?”

“Maybe.”

He tried meeting her gaze but she looked away. She’d seen how quickly Reid changed his opinion when faced with the force of Vincent Maxwell’s stare. And Gerard Delaroche had the same penetrating gaze—a hypnotic stare she’d encountered only once before.

Don’t go there!

“If you know where Travers is, then you need to speak up. He could be in danger,” she said as calmly as she could. Her voice shook almost as badly as her body.

“He
is
in danger. Haven’t you been paying attention?”

Amber holstered her Glock and forced herself to meet Gerard’s gaze. One on one. He wasn’t a threat. He was just upset over the deaths of his employees, and she refused to have another breakdown some shrink could blame on post-traumatic stress. She’d like to keep her job, thank you very much.

“Go home, Delaroche. Let the police handle this. If you have information you’d like to share, Detective Sheridan and I will talk to you tomorrow.”

“But I need to talk to you now. Alone. Tonight.” He stepped forward.

She slipped her hand back inside her jacket. Her fingers never touched her Glock. Fear—or something else—held her immobile.

“You know what’s going on,” Delaroche said, staring into her eyes. “You’ve encountered us before.”

“Us?” She was off her meds. It wasn’t real then, and it wasn’t real now. Just an acute stress response. Post-traumatic Stress Disorder. She’d been diagnosed in Germany. Now, she was experiencing symptoms again. Or maybe it was just good old fashioned anxiety and depression. Either way, she was so going back on her meds—all of them.

Maybe I need a stronger damn prescription
.

She closed her eyes and concentrated on breathing, trying to remember the doctor’s advice. Imagine the ocean’s tide washing everything clean. Try to de-stress.
Relax
.
Breathe
.

Don’t think about Andrew or the cemetery in Nuremberg.

“It was real, you know. What you saw in Germany.”

A chill penetrated her chest, piercing her heart. Her eyes snapped open. Her fingers fumbled for the Glock. “How do you know about Germany?”

He’d been inside her head. Just like Nicolas. But Nicolas wasn’t real. Gerard was. And he was a danger to her life and her sanity.

He stepped closer—an imminent threat. Heart pounding, Amber pulled the gun from its holster and fired.

Chapter 4

Gerard Delaroche grabbed his chest.
“Putain de merde!
That hurts like hell.”

He rubbed the oozing wound, smearing blood on his dark shirt. He continued to stand, glaring at Amber as if he couldn’t believe she’d actually shot him.

She couldn’t believe it either. It was the first time she’d fired on anyone since Iraq. But Delaroche wasn’t dead. He wasn’t even mortally wounded. And she’d shot him in the chest at point-blank range.

What the hell?

He wiped his hand on his pant leg—as if he’d just changed the oil in his car and had gotten grease on his fingers instead of blood. Then he snatched the gun from her trembling grasp. She didn’t resist. She could only stare, paralyzed with fear.

The blood flowing from his chest slowed—as if the wound were already healing.

It’s Germany all over again.

He tucked her Glock in the waistband of his jeans and said, “Do you want to get yourself thrown off this case? Even if you don’t have to explain a dead body on your lawn, do you want to explain firing your weapon?”

Blood drained from her cold cheeks. She shook her head. What the hell could she say?

I thought you were a va—Oh hell to the hell no! She would not say those words aloud ever again.

Gerard took her arm and gave it a firm squeeze. The warm, metallic scent of blood filled the air.

“Invite me in,” he said, “before I drip all over the sidewalk. Or, before someone sees me standing here bleeding from what should have been a fatal gunshot wound.”

She opened her mouth. No sound emerged. She shook her head, trying to clear it. There had to be a logical explanation. Her brain just couldn’t grasp it.

Delaroche’s scowl faded. His features softened. Then he raised a hand to her face, noticed the blood on his fingertips, and lowered his arm.

“Please,” he added in a softly pleading tone. “We need to talk. The situation is now urgent. I won’t hurt you. I swear it on my very long life. But we have to get inside before someone decides to investigate that gunshot.”

Had anyone heard? Would they bother to investigate if they had? Or would they assume it was a car backfiring?

Gerard propelled her across the sidewalk and up the steps to stand at the front door. “If I was going to harm you, I would have done so already.”

He had a point. Whatever he was—and she wasn’t about to think the word, much less say it—he wasn’t an immediate threat. But was he really a—

Idiot. There’s no such thing.

But I’m so upping my meds.

Hands shaking, she reached inside her purse. Gerard plucked the key from her grasp and unlocked the door to pull her inside. “Which way to the kitchen?”

“What?” Her thoughts were a jumbled mess—as if she’d just awakened from a nightmare. But this wasn’t a dream. It was real.

“You’re in shock. You need some water or something.” He looked down at his shirt. The dark fabric camouflaged the bloodstain, but a tiny stream ran down his arm and dripped from his fingertips. He wiped his hand once more on his pants. The blood stopped flowing. Had the wound closed already?

Amber stared at the ruby droplets on her oak floor—tiny specks of blood spatter evidence in her foyer. At least forensics could get DNA if she turned up dead or missing.

Her purse slipped from her shoulder and landed beside her left foot with a soft thump. If he attacked, no one would even hear her scream.

“Amber,” he said softly, gently nudging her forward. “Which way to the kitchen?”

She blinked, trying to focus her fear-numbed mind. A shiver passed over her. She cleared her throat. “Through the foyer and to the right.”

Gerard cupped her elbow and guided her through the dark house as if the rooms were brightly lit. She tried not to think about it, but her mind kept going back to that night in Germany and the St. Rochus Cemetery in Nuremberg. If only she’d had her gun…

If only she had it now…

The grip hung over the waistband of Gerard’s jeans. She tugged it free and held it to her chest, barrel pointed away from him. She would not be a victim in her own home.

Gerard looked at her with brows raised but said nothing. Then he turned to the refrigerator and opened the door.

Light filled the darkened kitchen. He reached for a bottle of water. She brushed his hand aside and grabbed a beer instead.

“I think I’m going to need it,” she said, placing the gun on the counter. She pulled a magnetic bottle opener from the side of the refrigerator and opened the beer.

Turning up the cold brew, she chugged nearly half. Gerard watched, his eyes glowing with interest—or hunger. Her throat knotted. She forced herself to swallow before she strangled.

Lowering the bottle with shaking hands, she suppressed a shiver. Would he attack now? Could she reach her gun in time if he did?

“Can you turn on the light? I don’t like the dark.” It reminded her of Germany and that terrifying night in the cemetery. But this time, she had a gun. She wouldn’t go down without a fight.

He turned from the counter and walked to the wall to switch on the light. When he turned back around, she had the Glock drawn and aimed…this time at his head.

“If I blow your brains out, will you recover as quickly?” Her voice was calm, her aim steady. This wasn’t Germany and she wasn’t unarmed.

“Not unless the bullet lodges in my brain. The brain can’t heal if there’s a bullet inside. Or you could use silver bullets. Your aim doesn’t have to be as precise then.”

The gun shook. Her heart slammed against her ribs, stealing her breath. She wheezed. “What?”

“You could also set me ablaze. We don’t like to burn. It’s very painful, and I might not survive. A sterling silver stake through the heart would do it. Or a wooden stake in a pinch. Just make sure the body explodes into dust before removing the weapon or walking away. We’re hard to kill.”

“We?” As in more than one like him?

Her heart pounded against her ribs. Her hands felt like ice.

It’s not possible. It can’t be.

Yet, she’d seen first-hand proof. In Germany. She’d even reported it to her commander.

He convinced her it was post-traumatic stress. After the incident in Iraq, it made sense. And the meds helped. Oh, how they’d helped. Take enough Trazadone and you slept like the dead. And woke up feeling real damn mellow, no matter how crazy your dreams.

“Yes, we
.
We need someone on the inside.” His eyes narrowed to concentrated slits. She avoided his gaze.

“I saw your picture.” And everyone knew vampires didn’t photograph.

He smiled a patronizing smile that reminded her of First Sergeant Clifton’s, an enlisted superior who treated female soldiers like half-wits.

“We don’t photograph on regular film, but digital prints don’t need developing. They’re just pixels of color.” His tone lacked even a hint of scorn, and the disparity between his attitude and his words was disconcerting. Not to mention the fact that he was bat-shit crazy.

Delaroche wasn’t a vampire, and he wasn’t a threat. She lowered the gun and met his gaze.

“I’m sure dealing with Miss Gallagher’s death has been stressful. But there are people you can talk to—professional people who can help. I can recommend someone if you’d like.” At one time, she’d had her therapist on speed-dial.

He rolled his eyes and huffed. “Stop pretending ignorance. You know what I am.”

“A vampire. Really?” She wanted to scoff, but a chill shivered over her skin. He wasn’t dead. And she’d shot him.

Maybe he was wearing Kevlar. But wouldn’t Kevlar show through that tight-fitting shirt?

Perhaps not. But there had to be a logical explanation.

Ignoring the warning bells clanging inside her skull, she shoved the Glock back in its holster and reached for the beer she’d deposited on the counter. She took another long, hard pull on the bottle, hoping to douse irrational thoughts.

Gerard inhaled sharply. His eyes devoured her.

Despite renewed fear, she managed to set the bottle back on the counter without dropping it.

He’s not a vampire. He’s not a vampire. He’s not a vampire.

“I’d give anything to drink beer again,” he said in a reverent voice.

Amber nearly laughed out loud. Her shoulders sagged. Gerard Delaroche wasn’t a vampire, and he didn’t want to drink her blood. He wanted a beer. Like a
normal
guy.

Hell, he probably was normal. She was the one off her rocker.

“Want one?” She forced herself to meet his intense stare.

He smiled. “Can’t. Vampire. Remember?”

Like that was something a girl could forget. It wasn’t every day a hot guy claimed to be a vampire.

Hell, maybe he
was
a vampire. The man
could
stop bullets with his chest.

He took a hesitant step closer. She stiffened and took another cautious swallow of beer. He stopped three feet away. Good. Sexy
and
crazy was a dangerous combination.

“Vampirism is a virus,” he said, eyeing her beer like a man dying of thirst. “We lack the enzymes needed to digest solid foods and most liquids. Other than blood, the only thing vampires drink is wine. I guess it has something to do with the alcohol. I don’t know.” He smiled as if recalling a fond memory. “We can also eat sugar free popsicles. I found that out a couple of years ago—before Megan—Dr. Harper—created the anti-virus. She fell in love with Vincent and risked her life to help him. But the vaccine works. It’s not the cure we’d hoped for, but it alleviates some of our symptoms so we can live more human lives.”

A cure for vampirism? Really? She was so not buying into this shit. But she’d humor him. For now. “I suppose the vaccine is the reason you can come out before sunset.”

“
Oui
. It’s also how I can now eat very rare stake and pork. But other foods still make me violently ill. So, I’ve been afraid to try beer. The malt and hops…” He shook his head. "The last time I tried it, I thought I’d die. I didn’t of course, but for several hours, I wanted to.”

He didn’t look crazy. He looked damn good—for a man suffering from psychotic delusions.

She assumed a non-threatening posture, relaxing her shoulders and holding her hands loosely at her side. She didn’t want him to snap and go all vampire on her. “Uh huh. And when was that?”

“1799,” he said with a smile. “I died when I was forty-two.”

He sounded serious—and perfectly sane.

Shouldn’t a man suffering from paranoid delusions
look
crazy? Delaroche’s eyes weren’t wild and they weren’t feverishly darting about. His gaze was steady, though he didn’t stare in that intense way that made her paranoid. He didn’t act as irrational as he sounded either. He wasn’t sweating or ringing his hands. He didn’t twitch or jump at shadows. In fact, he seemed perfectly calm.

She raked his hard body with a steady gaze, searching for some visible sign of mental illness. If he was sick, he didn’t look it. His skin was a bit pale but it wasn’t an unhealthy pallor. He had streaks of silver in his brown hair and crow’s feet at the corner of his deep blue eyes, but he looked pretty damn good for a man who claimed to be a middle-aged vampire.

“You could pass for a man in his mid-thirties.” She reached for her beer and took another swallow.