Blood Secrets (15 page)

Another rippling shudder passed through the house. The wave hit Alex and made her shiver, leaving in its wake the sensation of cobwebs covering her body. They pulled at her hair and tugged at her clothing as though they would draw her deeper into the house. She passed another archway, pausing to peek inside what had probably served as a parlor once upon a time. Shelving identical to the other room lined the walls.

Somewhere overhead a door opened, closed, and a
man’s voice drifted down to her. “I know you’re here, little one.”

The unseen webs tugged more forcefully when the man spoke, excited by his voice. Alex brushed at them while she crept into the shadows beneath the winding stairs.

“Let’s play a game.” Footsteps echoed on hardwood in the distance. “Hide-and-seek.”

Alex froze.

“Remember how that used to be one of your favorite games?”

She began to tremble. Childhood memories flittered before her, narrated by a stranger.

“Darting among the headstones of that cemetery near your house. Hiding under your parents’ bed.” Another door opened and closed. “The way you shrieked when you were found. So precious.”

How could he know about that? Panic threatened to overwhelm her.

Footsteps neared the stairs and paused at their apex. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

Another ripple cascaded down the stairs and throughout the first floor but avoided her hiding place. The cobwebs that had pulled at her seemed to loosen and fall away.

Movement on the stairs above stilled her breath.

“Tricky, tricky,” her still-unseen pursuer muttered, then raised his voice. “Oh, you’re good, but I’ll find you, chickie.” Feet rapidly descended the stairs. “Chickie chickie, boom
boom.
” He laughed as he stomped on the last two stairs.

The scent of leather and old blood wafted to her, and Alex retreated farther into the shadows. She could see him now—the Dollmaker—standing with his back to her at the foot of the stairs.

She estimated his height at over six feet. He swiveled
his head from side to side, scanning the wide hallway. Short blond hair clung to his skull as though it was damp. When he finally moved, his long legs covered the distance between the stairs and the front of the house with purposeful strides. He paused next to the archway into the dining room, and she caught a glimpse of his profile before he disappeared from view.

She had to move, had to find a way out. Keeping her focus on the archway where he’d disappeared, Alex slipped from the shadows, hugging the wall as best she could while avoiding display cases and doll-filled shelves. She came to a closed door and reached for the porcelain knob.

Her hand passed through it as though made of air. Laughter filled the hall, and she glanced toward the archway.

The Dollmaker leaned against the doorjamb. His blue eyes sparkled and white fangs flashed as he grinned. “Tag, chickie,” he whispered. “You’re it.”

Alex sprinted for the stairs. She could hear him giving chase. Grabbing for the stair’s railing, she stumbled as her hand once again failed to make contact.

Behind her, the Dollmaker whooped in delight.

A shadow darted down the stairs, forcing Alex to duck as it sped by overhead. It slammed into the Dollmaker’s chest and sent him sliding backward along the hardwood floors.

He crashed into a display case, toppling it and spilling the contents. A chorus of screams erupted as porcelain doll faces shattered. Wisps of silvery-white mist drifted up from the remains.

“No!” The Dollmaker reached for the tiny puffs of mists, but they easily slipped through his fingers and evaporated. Rising to his knees, he threw his head back and howled like a wounded animal.

Alex covered her ears as hundreds of voices matched his wail.

The shadow that had slammed into the Dollmaker dropped to the stairs in front of her, taking on the form of a man in a dark suit. He extended his hand to her. “Time to go, Princess.”

She gaped at her father but clapped her hand in his without question.

As they raced up the stairs, the Dollmaker shouted from below. “No! She’s mine!”

Alex and her father reached the second floor and plunged down a hall nearly identical to the foyer. The dolls were fewer in number here, interspersed with artwork, photos, and mirrors. A large multipane window glowed with fading sunlight at the opposite end.

“You have to get to the light and cross the Veil,” her father said as they ran. “Find Varik. He’s waiting for you.”

She dug in her heels in the center of the hall, staring at one of the dolls encased in glass like a priceless piece of art.

“Alexandra, we don’t have time for sightseeing.”

“Hang on.” She pulled away from her father and stepped closer to the glass enclosure.

Dressed in overalls and a red-and-blue striped shirt, the doll held a miniature bouquet of daisies in its hands. Red hair styled in pigtails framed a familiar smiling face. Dark green eyes rimmed in gold stared back at her.

“That’s me,” she whispered. She looked at the other dolls encased in similar glass boxes. Each wore a different outfit and hairstyle but the face remained the same. “They’re all
me
.”

“Alexandra,” her father said, spinning her around to face him. He glanced toward the sound of the Dollmaker charging up the stairs. “We have to go.
Now!
”

The Dollmaker reached the top of the stairs and stopped, glaring at them, his face twisted in rage. “Back away, old man.”

Her father moved in front of her, shielding her. He backed up slowly, forcing her to match his steps, and shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“She came to me.” The Dollmaker advanced. “She’s mine.”

“Keep dreaming, buddy,” Alex muttered.

Her father shot her a withering glance over his shoulder.

The Dollmaker stretched his arms wide and continued to advance. He voice softened as he focused on her. “I made them all for you—gifts for my soul mate. Don’t you like them?”

“They’re fucking creepy as hell. You’re a sick bastard, and I’m
not
your fucking soul mate.”

“Such ugly language from such a pretty mouth.” He grinned, showing the full extent of his fangs. “I like it.”

Alex and her father had nearly reached the window when the Dollmaker lunged forward.

“Daddy!” she screamed as her father rushed ahead, meeting the attack head-on.

A burst of energy struck the Dollmaker, knocking him back. He growled but didn’t charge again. “Impressive, old man. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“There is much you don’t know about me.” Her father took up a low fighting stance in the center of the hall.

“Perhaps, but I’m not the only one.” He focused on Alex and smiled. “Am I?”

“You’ll not lay a hand on my daughter,” her father growled. Not shifting his attention, he asked over his shoulder, “Princess, do you remember when we used to play rocket ship?”

“Daddy’s little princess,” the Dollmaker sneered, pacing
like a predator trapped in a cage. “Not for long, old man.”

“Yes,” she answered her father’s question, ignoring the other’s taunts.

“Get ready.”

She dropped into a crouch.

“Blast off!”

Alex and her father both sprang into action. He turned and ran for her. She leapt into the air, arms outstretched. The Dollmaker’s roar of fury echoed the childhood sound effect in her mind. Her father caught her in midair as he jumped forward, and they both sailed through the window, into the twilight.

EMILY FOUND HERSELF IN AN ALL-TOO-FAMILIAR POSITION:
pacing the floor while she waited for the phone to ring. How many times had she performed the same ritual when Stephen and Alex were teens? Being a vampire didn’t free her from the worry all mothers carried for their children. If anything, the worry was compounded, especially with the Sabians’ family history.

She waited for a call from Gregor Wahl. He’d been a Hunter during the time before the formation of the FBPI and had known Bernard well. While Gregor had retired from active duty, he remained with the Bureau as an instructor at the Academy located on a portion of the Fort Knox base outside of Louisville. His years of service had provided him with an extensive network of contacts within the Bureau, and Emily hoped it could be used to influence the Tribunal into either sparing Alex’s life or dropping the charges altogether.

Restless, she paced to the bay window overlooking the oak tree–lined street in front of Stephen and Janet’s shared home, and her thoughts turned to the past, to the day she discovered her beloved husband wasn’t the man she thought him to be.

It was early May 1962, and she and Bernard had been married for two hundred and thirteen years. She dropped off Stephen at a friend’s house for a sleepover birthday party and was looking forward to a quiet evening at home with her husband.

When she entered their small home east of downtown Louisville, she found Bernard sitting in his favorite chair, staring out the front window.

“I wasn’t expecting you home, dear,” she said, and gave him a peck on the cheek. The stiffness of his reception took her aback. “Is something wrong?”

“Siobhan’s pregnant,” he replied softly.

Emily tried to place the name. “Siobhan Kelly? She’s one of the other Talents, right?”

He nodded.

She beamed. “Well, that’s wonderful, isn’t it?” When he didn’t answer, she frowned. “Siobhan’s married, isn’t she?”

“No.”

Then Bernard looked at her and his expression carried such remorse—Emily knew even before asking. “Who’s the father?”

Almost inaudibly, he answered. “I am.”

An electronic version of “Greensleeves” began playing and shattered her reverie, bringing her back to the present.

She picked up her cell phone from the coffee table and answered. “I’m here, Gregor. What were you able to find?”

“Not much and what I did find isn’t good news,” he answered.

“What do you mean?”

“The Tribunal isn’t going to drop the charges. Alex will have to face them next month.”

“Why won’t they—”

“Hang on,” Gregor interrupted. “That’s not the worst of it. I was able to find out that Woody Phelps has taken a personal interest in Alex’s case.”

Emily felt her heart sink as she dropped onto the sofa’s edge. Woody Phelps, Chief Magistrate of the Tribunal, was known for his hard-line stance against
corruption among Enforcers. The Bureau’s retention of the death penalty for Enforcers convicted of the offense was largely due to Phelps’s influence. “Why is he so interested in Alex?”

“I don’t know, but I can tell you Phelps and the other magistrates have been holding regular meetings over the past few weeks. They’ve called in Enforcers from all across the country and questioned them behind closed doors. The scuttlebutt is that it’s some sort of massive internal investigation.”

“Does it have any bearing on Alex’s case?”

“I’m trying to find that out.”

“It’s an awfully big coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

“It does seem odd.”

Emily stood up and began pacing again. “If they won’t drop the charges, what are the chances of at least influencing the Tribunal toward leniency? Alex has had a spotless record until now.”

“Given Phelps’s interest, not good.”

“There has to be a way to save her.”

Silence filled the line for a moment. “You won’t like it.”

“I won’t sit idly by while they take her from me. I’ll be the judge of what I like or don’t like.”

“Siobhan.”

“What about her?”

“She’s still wanted by the Bureau.”

Emily stopped pacing. “Gregor—”

“If you know where to find Siobhan, you may be able to barter her location for leniency.”

“You’re asking me to trade my daughter’s life for another woman’s.”

“Siobhan killed three Hunters.”

“You have no proof of that. Even if I knew where to begin looking for Siobhan, I can’t do what you’re suggesting. There has to be another option.”

He sighed. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you, Gregor.”

He grunted his acknowledgment and the line fell silent.

Emily pushed the button to end the call, Gregor’s suggestion still echoing in her mind, and she wondered, once again, had she made the right decision—both in calling Gregor and when she made a promise on a cold January night more than forty years ago.

The window before him was unbroken even though he’d seen Alexandra and Bernard crash it. They were nowhere to be found once he’d reached the window, but he hadn’t expected to find them.

Ghosts left no visible tracks.

Turning from the rapidly darkening window, Peter breathed deeply, inhaling her lingering scent, and smiled. She had come to him, just as he’d predicted. He hadn’t counted on her father’s appearance, but it also didn’t surprise him. Bernard had always been her greatest protector, even surpassing Varik.

But it no longer mattered.

She had come. She had proven she wanted to be with him.

He paused by the replica doll she’d been admiring. Varik and Bernard would try to prevent her return, try to keep them apart.

They would fail and he knew precisely how to guarantee their failure.

He strode down the hall to the oversized print of Duchamp’s painting. His fingers swept along the side of the frame and found the dual triggers that released the lock. It clicked and he swung open the hidden door leading to the attic. The door closed soundlessly behind him as he jogged up the stairs.

His latest acquisition stared at him from across the
spacious room. He picked up one of the scalpels he used for delicate sculpting work from his table as he passed.

She remained immobilized with his special restraint system but whimpered when he stroked her hair.

“Shh,” he cooed. “Everything’s fine.”

The scalpel flashed in the light and her breathing increased, as did her futile pitiful sniveling. Blood welled from the tiny cut he made along her shoulder. Her skin was soft beneath his tongue as he licked away the crimson beads. Images of her life darted before his eyes and he drank them in, coveting each as though it were a rare jewel.