Fallen Embers (3 page)

The club had closed before Drew found the chance to speak to Marc alone. He found him leaning against the bar, chatting up the bartender, as usual, and overseeing the cleanup, acting for all the world as though he were still Drew's partner and not just a “special guest”. It was typical of Marc that he'd put his ferals to work—insisting they assist Drew's staff in straightening up the place—rather than sending them home as Drew had hoped he'd do.

If it had been almost anyone else, Drew would have had no trouble countermanding those orders and insisting that Marc send his people home or—even better—insisting that he
leave
them home when he visited next. But Marc was a law unto himself it seemed. Drew was finding it more and more difficult to gainsay anything his friend wanted him to do.

How much of that was brought about by an overactive imagination on his part? How much was the result of friendship and loyalty, or Marc's prodigious powers of persuasion? How much was due to the unthinkable?

Infragilis
. The word whispered through Drew's mind and sent a shiver up his spine. It was impossible that Marc could be what Drew had come to suspect he was. The
Infragilis
were fairytale creatures—nothing more. They existed in legends and myths, not in the prosaic world of San Francisco. Drew knew that was the case.
Everyone
knew that. But lately, more and more often, Drew found himself wondering: what if everyone was wrong?

“So, what's this information you have for me?” Marc asked. “Your note said it was important.”

“It is.” Drew took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Marc. “Or, at least, I think you might find it so.”

Marc fingered the envelope curiously. “What's this?”

“That, my friend, is the address of an art gallery in Big Sur. Along with photos of several paintings exhibited there. I'm told it's the work of a mysterious and rather reclusive new artist they've recently signed. A new local artist, supposedly. Although, my sources suggest she might not be quite as
new
as the gallery owner believes her to be. Or as local.”

“You think it's Elise?”

Drew shrugged. “I cannot say for certain. After all, artists are rather plentiful in that area. But that in itself is a reason to be suspicious. If I were an artist looking to hide, I could certainly think of worse places to hang out. Sometimes it's hard to see the trees for the forest. And, as you know, our kind are not generally fond of coastal areas.”

Marc nodded. “So it's another layer of camouflage, and one less reason to search for her there. It's actually quite smart.”

“It is.”

“But why paint at all? Why would she go to the trouble of hiding so well if she were only going to put a target on her own back?”

“Necessity, I suppose. She'd need money to live on, wouldn't she? She probably didn't have enough to take her very far, and new identities don't come cheap. Without being able to access her accounts or make use of any of the usual vampire-friendly resources for assistance, this might have seemed like the best idea she could come up with. If she could establish herself as an artist under her new identity, she could reasonably hope to build a new life for herself—and eventually move somewhere more congenial. In the meantime, she'd be close enough to the Bay Area that she'd easily be able to keep abreast of any news or rumors, while still being remote enough that it's unlikely you'd stumble across her by chance.”

“Yeah, I see your point. And I guess she couldn't exactly go out and get a day job. Not without references or something.”

“Precisely. The modern world makes many things difficult. But there's more than circumstantial evidence. From what I've been told by someone who was familiar with it, there is a marked similarity in style between Elise's work and that of this new artist. If it turns out those are her paintings the gallery is selling, someone there is likely to know how to get in touch with her.”

“Good point,” Marc agreed. “Very good point. And if the paintings are hers, I'll know it within five minutes of seeing them.”

“I'm sure you will.” And inside of ten minutes, Drew thought, Marc would likely have extracted all the useful information the unfortunate gallery owner possessed. But that was not Drew's problem.

“Thanks, man. I owe you.”

Drew inclined his head. “Always glad to be of service.” He was very glad, in fact. Staying useful meant staying alive. And Drew liked living just fine.

Still nodding thoughtfully, Marc scanned the club for a moment before asking, “So there's something else I want to ask you about. What do you know about a vampire called Christian?”

Drew hesitated. Already he didn't like the turn their conversation had just taken. “I'd say that would depend on who we're talking about. Describe him to me.”

“Tall, blond, English. He was here earlier tonight—with my sister.”

“Was he?” Ah. Perfect. More intrigue in his club. That was
exactly
what Drew wanted to hear. “I see your sister likes to live as dangerously as you do. Tell me, is this a family trait?”

Marc's eye narrowed. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means that, unless I'm greatly mistaken, your sister is in danger of running afoul of Lady Lancaster. Christian is the lady's spawn. Unless we're talking about someone different entirely, which I'll admit seems unlikely at this point.”

“He's one of Georgia's? You're kidding me.”

“Actually, it's worse than that. He's not just ‘one of hers'. He's been her primary consort for centuries. Even during her marriage to the human earl from whom she inherited her title.”

“Oh, that's just great. So what's he doing here now?”

“A very good question. Unfortunately, I have no idea. From what I understand, the lady likes to keep all her boys close to home. This is the first time
any
of them have been seen in quite some time.”

“And when you say ‘quite some time' you really mean…?”

“Decades? Centuries, perhaps?”

“So, basically, what you're saying is this is not a casual visit?”

Drew nodded once again. “Whatever it is, you can be certain it is
not
casual. But, I'm afraid you're still missing the most important point. Given the lady's unusual interest in
you
, I find it…disturbing that Christian should be singling out your sister for special attention. Not to take anything away from Julie, you know I've always thought her most charming, but I do wonder if she has any idea what she's getting herself into?”

“I wondered that myself,” Marc replied darkly. “I thought she was seeing Armand.”

“I'm sure Armand thought so too.”

“So…about Christian, what would you do if he were dating
your
sister?”

“Dating?” Drew suppressed a shudder. “They could hardly be doing that.”

Marc shrugged. “That's how it sounded to me. I could be wrong, I guess.”

“Let's hope you are.” Drew had witnessed an enraged
Invitus
only once—but that had been quite enough. If Georgia were to get wind of this, it would
not
be a good thing. And, if Conrad had any idea what was going on, right under his nose…

But he must know, mustn't he? Conrad knew
everything
that went on in his nest—thanks in no small part to Damian. Why had they not taken steps to put a stop to this before now? What did they know that Drew didn't?

“Well?” Marc pressed. “What would you do?”

“If
I were you I'd…” Drew's voice trailed off once again as he considered his answer. If
he
were a walking anomaly—a creature so rare that no one alive believed in his existence, someone whose life was at risk simply for being who he was—Drew could think of only two ways to handle it. Either he'd kill anyone who'd learned his secret, or he'd lie low, stay quiet, make every effort to blend in.

Since Marc was in no way doing the latter, was it possible he was planning the former? Either way, it was definitely in Drew's best interests not to tip his hand—friend or no friend. “If I were you, I suppose I'd take my concerns to Conrad and see what he had to say about it.”

“And if you couldn't go to Conrad?”

Drew sighed. “Then I suppose I'd make every possible effort to keep my sister as far away from Christian as I could.”

Georgia took off her cloak and spread it upon the ivy-covered ground beneath a large live oak. She breathed a tired sigh as she settled herself on the soft wool. It was such a versatile article of clothing, much more useful than almost anything else modern fashion had come up with. She was grateful such garments had lately come back into style, or at least that the residents of San Francisco were currently so used to seeing people oddly dressed that they were unlikely to remark upon it.

In the branches overhead, the night chorus of birds and other creatures disturbed by her arrival gradually resumed its performance. Soothed by their music, Georgia allowed her muscles to unwind. It felt good to finally drop her guard. She could rest here, secure in the knowledge that the wildlife would alert her to anyone's presence.

It was for this reason that the Presido had become her favorite place to hide out. Cool, dark, secluded, less trafficked than the city's other parklands, it was the only place where she could find solitude, the only place where she could rest alone, unseen and unremarked upon. It was peaceful here. It made her feel secure, something she had not felt in a very long time.

In a very odd way, it reminded her of home. Not the estate where she'd spent most of the last two centuries, but rather the small coastal village in which she'd spent her youth.

She'd been thinking about it a good deal of late. So much so, in fact, that she'd begun to wonder if her preoccupation with the very beginnings of her life, was not a sure sign she was reaching the end of it. This misplaced nostalgia, the sudden longing for a time and a place she'd been content to forget for so many centuries did not bode well.

She breathed deep. The familiar scents of myrtle and pine, fennel and sage washed over her, soothing her battered spirit. There were other fragrances in the mix as well—new world plants, she supposed. Trees and flowers she didn't know, bearing names she'd never learned, and now most likely never would.

Once, like Marvell's coy mistress, she'd imagined she had “world enough and time” to do whatever she wished. Now, that dreadful urgency the poet had described so well consumed her. It was, indeed, as though time were running out.

Who would have guessed that she would end this way? How perfectly ironic that she should succumb to the very disease she'd fought for years to eradicate. It was like Father Damien contracting leprosy, or Robespierre being sent to the guillotine. In truth, it was a wonder she'd lasted as long as she had.

Unlike most of those who'd contracted
Vesco Inedia
, she'd displayed no symptoms at all for the first few centuries—something that had proved a blessing as well as a curse. It wasn't until after she'd begun to increase her family that the changes manifested themselves, doubtless because sharing her essence with so many others had weakened her.

A nest of vampires was a complicated cooperative, one where strength may be shared and weaknesses were oftentimes compounded. Those she'd sired had none of her advantages. Young and weak, they displayed the first symptoms of their illness fairly soon after being turned. She'd been criminally stupid not to have figured things out when the first of them fell sick, but by then it was already too late. And, oh, how her boys had suffered.

Frank and Nigel, Tony, Hal and James. Silently, she recited the litany of their names. Her lost boys, that's how she thought of them now, for that was what they'd become.

A quiet sob broke from her lips as guilt and grief overwhelmed her once again. But the huntress within her never completely relaxed its guard. Even as she gave in to her sorrow, the awareness of danger penetrated her consciousness. The birds had all fallen still. Georgia lifted her head immediately. Startled, wary, she glanced around, searching for the source of the disturbance… There!

A patter of footsteps could be heard on the path below. Surely, no human could run that fast—not in the dark or on such uneven terrain. The risk of injury was so great that not even a trained athlete would attempt it. She listened harder, straining her ears…

Yes. Just as she'd suspected. The heartbeat that accompanied those steps was a little too slow to be human.

Georgia struggled to her feet. She slipped back into the shelter of the trees, counting on the thickly scented air to help conceal her presence. She wasn't quite on her last legs yet. She could still defeat nearly any of the vampires currently living in this city—perhaps even several at once—but that didn't mean she wanted to advertise her presence. The less anyone knew about where and how she spent her time, the better.

Within moments, a figure appeared around the bend. Georgia felt a shock of recognition. Apparently she wasn't the only one with a secret. So this was how Julie spent her nights. How very unexpected.

Up until now, it had seemed as though every time Georgia saw the girl, she was accompanied by at least one of several men, mostly other vampires, but not always. Given how protective Conrad tended to be where his pampered little princess was concerned, Georgia had assumed the girl was never allowed to go anywhere alone. Maybe the girl had grown tired of her gilded cage. Maybe she had simply wanted to be alone. Georgia could certainly sympathize with that. Although, in this particular case, she found it more than passing strange. Why was Julie here, and not out with Christian as she was supposed to be?

If Georgia were still young and healthy and unattached, she certainly wouldn't let the chance to spend the whole of an evening with Christian slip her by. Even when she and Christian had first met, when she'd been much older than Julie
and
not
unattached, she had given in, far more often than she should have, to the urge to spend every waking moment with him.