Blood Revealed (19 page)

Since the press conference and the revelation, Ilaria had become a celebrity. Not only were her skills as a marksman celebrated, the press also adored her status as a vampire. They paid just as much attention as her clothing choices. She had been invited to appear on day shows, news shows and had been interviewed for magazines. Ilaria was doing more to advance and enhance the vampire reputation among humans than any of the others put together.

For that reason, Rick kept his teasing to a minimum. Marcus found it all extraordinarily funny and encouraged her to wear more and more outrageous clothes each time she appeared in public.

She came over to where Rick was sitting at the desk and pushed on the chair to turn him around to face her. She leaned down and kissed him, a deep kiss that might have said something else if she wasn’t already wearing boots and holding her shoulder bag in her hand. Ilaria never just kissed. She always seemed to put her full attention into it. His body stirred and he tamped it down and didn’t try to hold her as she stepped back.

“I’ve got this thing at the radio station,” she said. “Do you think Marcus will be home tonight? Do you think we’ll be able to go back to the cottage for the weekend?”

Rick didn’t answer. Something was trying to get his attention. He had been doing a lot of reading and networking the last few weeks. Since they had come back from Belgium and Marcus had told them about his conversation with the Jordanian intelligence officer.

He had been sniffing after clues all that time. The information was out there, if he could just pick up enough data pieces to put together. There was something that he needed to figure out, something that was hidden from him right now. He just needed enough information.

Something that Ilaria had said had twitched his instincts. He frowned as he looked at her. “Where’s the radio station?”

“Um… Fulham, I think. I’ve got the address in my bag. I don’t even have to change trains, just there and back.”

“
Trains
,” he said softly.

“Are you all right?” she asked. “Did I trip something off in that head of yours?”

“The Underground.”

“That’s the one,” she said lightly.

“Underground.” The answer wasn’t screaming at him yet but things were stirring. Moving.

He didn’t like the sensation it gave him. He refocused and looked up at her. “Would you do me a favor?”

“Anything,” she said instantly. From the emphasis in her tone he knew she meant that she really would do anything for him. He pushed aside the warm feeling that gave him because this was too important. “Don’t use the train today. Pay for a cab. Both ways.”

“That’s over a hundred pounds, Rick!”

“If Marcus was back with the car, I’d insist that he drive you there and bring you back.” He got to his feet and took her shoulders in his hands. “I’ll give you the money for the cab fare. Just promise me you won’t use the Underground. I can’t say why, yet. I still don’t know. There’s something there. So indulge my creaky slow brain and save me from worrying for the rest of the day. Take the cab.”

She searched his face with her gaze. Then she nodded. “I will.” Then she smiled, mischief lighting up her eyes. “You can buy me the new shirtdress in the latest Burberry catalogue, instead of giving me the cab fare.”

Rick rolled his eyes. “Like I know what a shirtdress is.”

She kissed him again, with some warmth, then drew her bag onto her shoulder and headed for the door. “It’s page ninety-seven in the catalogue on the coffee table. Get the white one!”

He watched from the window of the hotel, until he saw her emerge from under the portico and the doorman hand her into the taxi. The deep relief he felt alarmed him even more.

So he retrieved the catalogue from the coffee table and ordered her dress for her, before returning to his thinking board to find the answer. He knew something, something big, he just didn’t know what it was yet. There was a sensation that time was running out.

* * * * *

Sebastian was in a foul mood. Something about Cyneric in London and a late-night phone call. Patrick had learned quickly that Cyneric and Sebastian did not get along. Cyneric was a strange man, although everything he did seemed to ignite Sebastian’s fury.

For that reason, Patrick avoided the rooms at the front of the house that had become the business area. Better to let Sebastian wear himself down on his own, or let Nial deal with him.

The idea of getting away had prompted the thought of getting out of the house altogether. There was still an army of paparazzi at the front of the house, despite not showing his face for weeks. The constant comings and goings fired their speculation and filled their magazines and blogs, as they tried to figure out who was who and why they were there.

So Patrick hadn’t tried to leave. There was nothing to leave for.

However, there was one thing he wanted to do, today. He could’ve done it by phone, but this was the perfect excuse to get out.

Just because there were paparazzi at the front, he decided to use a driver. As a matter of course he cleared his plans with Nial, who seemed to understand exactly why Patrick wanted to get out. “Take Kimball or Efraim with you, rather than one of your hired thugs. Kimball looks mean. Your guys look polite.”

“They’re supposed to look polite and nonthreatening. They’re the best money can buy.”

“And Kimball could take on six of them without trying.” Nial frowned. “Indulge me. There’s something about Rick’s call last night that has me uneasy. Take Kimball.”

It was an easy enough request to fulfill. Patrick found Kimball in the kitchen and told him the plan. Kimball folded up the newspaper he was reading and got to his feet immediately. “I know where the keys are to the limousine. I’ll swing around to the front of the house. Ten minutes?”

Twenty minutes later they were winding their way through the Hollywood Hills. The paparazzi had gathered around the car like metal filings to a magnet. Kimball had eased through with the expertise of a pro. He hadn’t stopped, yet the dead slow speed of the limousine meant that the journalists had plenty of time to get out of the way. Once the last of the journalists were behind them, Kimball had picked up speed and settled down to drive properly.

Patrick gave him the printout of the address and the map of the neighborhood in San Bernardino. It was a good ninety minutes’ drive, even using the two-ten, so he settled back into the seat and let his thoughts drift.

Kimball seemed happy to stay silent, which helped. For the first time in days, Patrick was able to just think. He reconsidered the wisdom of what he was doing and tried to consider it stripped of all emotions, like Nial did. Nial was a master at strategizing and picking out the next move based purely on advantages, although he’d had a lot of practice.

By the time they reached the green arch that welcomed people to San Bernardino, Patrick had not found a satisfying decision. The phrase “it’s complicated,” kept occurring to him. Plus, he wasn’t entirely certain what his own motives were.

Then it was too late. He was there.

The limousine pulled up in front of a small bungalow that looked like it was one of the original Craftsman style homes. The siding was of old-fashioned wood, painted an olive green color, while the trim was cream. The front door and window frames were red. There was a red brick chimney thrusting through the roof on the right-hand side, a green lawn, a short path up to the wide front steps and a shady veranda.

The garden didn’t run to roses or anything high maintenance. The lawn was trimmed and the hedges underneath the veranda railings were, too. Cheerful California poppies lined a narrow flowerbed at the very front of the yard, separating the lawn from the public sidewalk.

There were no cars parked at the front. That might mean there was a detached garage around the back. It was a Saturday, so his chances were good that she would be home.

Kimball looked in the rear mirror, then scanned the road in front of him. “There’s no one around to take any interest,” he said. “Looks clear.”

“Thanks. I don’t know how long I’ll be. I don’t even know if anyone’s home.” He open the door.

“I’ll wait to see if you get inside the house. If you do, then I might go wander around the shopping area. You can text me when you want me to come and pick you up.”

“That sounds good, thanks.”

Even though Kimball had given him the all clear, Patrick still found he was looking over his shoulder as he walked up the path. If anyone saw him and recognized him, it was likely they would dismiss what they saw. If they really did believe it was him, given his current reputation it was more likely they would turn and walk in the opposite direction, than rush up to him and ask for an autograph.

There was no doorbell. Instead, there was an old-fashioned brass knocker on the door, which he used.

It took a while for his knock to be answered. Eventually the heavy red door opened. A teenage boy stood there looking at him curiously. He didn’t say anything.

This had to be Jake. He was about the right age. Only, he didn’t look like the smart, driven teenager Blythe had described. There were dark circles under his eyes and his hair, which would’ve been dirty blonde when clean, now looked dark and oily and laid against his skull like it had given up. The boy was already shaving, but clearly he hadn’t bothered for quite a while, for scraggly growth peppered his chin and cheeks. His features were drawn and tiredness radiated from his slumping shoulders and disinterested attitude.

“Is your mom at home?”

Jake tilted his head and his eyes narrowed. “Are you…?”

“Yes. Does that matter?”

For the first time since he had answered the door, something other than complete disinterest flickered through Jake’s eyes. “You know my mom?”

“I’ve met her. She works with a friend of mine. That’s why I’m here.”

“Vampire business then?”

“Can I come in? I don’t like standing out here where everyone can see me for long.”

Jake considered, then shrugged. He stepped back out of the way. “If what they say is true about you, then you could just power your way into the room, couldn’t you?”

“I could,” Patrick said truthfully. “That hardly seems fair, though.”

“Who said life is fair?” Jake’s tone was immeasurably bitter and caught Patrick’s attention. He wasn’t given a chance to pursue it, because Jake turned and led him through the small, neat living room. There were stairs running from almost directly in front of the front door straight up to the second floor. The stairs separated the living room from a formal dining room on the other side and Patrick glimpsed an antique wooden dining table and curved chairs through the stair railings.

Sometime in the house’s long history, someone had expanded the door into the kitchen area into an archway that reached across the width of the room.

The kitchen itself was modernized. There was a tiny island and at the back of the room, tucked into a sunny alcove, was a small breakfast table and chairs.

On the table was a laptop. Jake dropped into the chair in front of it and stared at the screen.

Patrick watched him get lost in whatever was on the screen. For a kid Jake’s age, it was probably a video game.

“So, is your mother here?”

Jake didn’t answer. He didn’t even look up.

“Jake,” Patrick said loudly.

The boy jumped, as if he had heard an explosion. He looked at Patrick. His gaze was skittering, like he was trying to see every quarter once.

“When was the last time you got a decent night’s sleep?” Patrick asked.

Jake’s lips worked. Then he shrugged. “Who cares?” He looked back at the screen.

Patrick leaned back against the island and crossed his arms. “More people care than you think.”

No answer. Patrick would have been pissed at the boy’s rudeness, except for the reading he had been doing the last few days. “Jake,” he said again, just as loudly.

Jake looked up.

“Your mother?”

He heard and smelled her before she appeared. She moved down the stairs almost silently. He turned to watch her as she came through the lounge room toward him.

Blythe Murray looked like an ill woman. The same dark circles surrounded her eyes, just not quite as advanced as Jake’s. She carried herself like everything ached and her jaw was stiff and determined.

“What are you doing here?” she asked. “Does anyone know that you’re here?” She looked over her shoulder toward the front window, as if she was expecting the hordes of paparazzi that generally followed him around.

“I left all the media back at the house,” he said. “It’s just me.” He let his arms drop from the defensive posture, to try to put her at her ease. “Dominic told me about the substation.”

She shrugged. Then she moved past him into the area behind the counter and picked an old-fashioned kettle up from the range, took off the lid and filled it from the kitchen tap. With her back to him, she said, “All in a day’s work.”

“That wasn’t an average day’s work,” he replied. “Not even for you.”

She put the kettle on the range and fired up the gas burner. Then she turned to look at him. “What exactly did Dominic tell you?”

“I think you already know. You know, but you haven’t acknowledged it, not even to yourself.”

She flinched. It was a tiny movement, yet Patrick had his perceptions racked up to high and it was as loud as a shout to him. “Dominic says that you’ve refused to go hunting for the last two days.”

“A girl’s entitled to a day off now and then,” she drawled. The husky quality in her voice seemed richer.

Patrick shook his head. “You’re not the sort of woman who voluntarily takes time off.” He could see from the corner of his eye that Jake was immersed in whatever it was he was doing on the screen. Normally, he wouldn’t have discussed this in front of the lad, except that he suspected Jake really needed to hear it, too.

He focused on Blythe again. She was standing there waiting and the same disinterested air hung around her, too.

“It’s Thursday today,” he said. “Why isn’t Jake at school?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your business.”