Darkness Calls (7 page)

Rocco deposited the steaming dish of creamy fettuccine in front of Ryder and a large platter of shrimp scampi before Diana. She inhaled the earthy smell of roasted garlic that Luigi used in his recipe. When she glanced up, she met Ryder's gaze and noted the look of horror on his face. “Something wrong?”

Ryder gaped at her plate of pasta, swimming in olive oil and garlic, with large prawn-size shrimps on top. “Are you a garlic-aholic or something?” he asked.

“It's good for you. Keeps your blood pressure down. Good source of selenium and, not to mention, the absolute best trick for keeping away—”

“Vampires?” he asked, trying to instill some humor in his voice. Had she noticed something that would tip her off to the fact that he was not what he seemed?

“Hell no,” she replied as she began to twirl a long string of pasta onto her fork. “There's no such thing as vampires. Unwanted suitors, however, are a dime a dozen. Keeps those pesky critters away.”

He could imagine that she might have her share of men wanting to get close. After all, she was a beautiful woman, with a confident air that increased her attractiveness. Still…He didn't want to be one of those critters she chased away. “Darlin', if a little garlic keeps them away, they're fools.” He was rewarded with a quick grin that displayed a dimple he hadn't noticed before.

“And you, Ryder? Are you a fool?” she challenged, the fork filled with garlic-tainted pasta just inches from her luscious mouth. A mouth smiling at him sexily and in obvious recognition of his fascination.

Either way he answered, Ryder was damned. He reached for the basket of garlic bread, grabbed a slice and bit into it. His mouth burned, but he battled the pain. As he swallowed, the heat of the garlic continued down his throat. He would suffer for hours from its effects. Grinning at her, he reached for a glass of water and calmly took a sip, despite his very real discomfort, worse than any
agita
she could imagine. It was worth the pain to prove he wouldn't be chased off so easily. “What do you think, darlin'?” he finally choked out.

Diana stared at him, narrowing her eyes. Handsome. Charming. And obviously not afraid to make a play for her. Little by little, her grin broadened, and her eyes opened wide in pleasure as her rebellious side rose in answer to his attention. A soft chuckle escaped her and grew stronger until it became a full, hearty laugh. She shook her head from side to side. “Ryder, darlin',” she teased, mimicking him. “You are one heck of a fool.”

 

It was his time of day. His senses became unusually alert to nocturnal sights and sounds.

In the country, the activity of the night was tame, natural. The hoot of a screech owl or the rustle of the underbrush as some small rodent sought out its meal. The soft whisper of wind passing through the branches of a pine, bringing with it a clean, tangy scent.

Night in the city, especially New York City, was a radically different experience. In a metropolis that was always active, the night sounds were busy. The rumble and rattle of subway cars moving underfoot. The harsh, strident screech of distant police cars or ambulances. Here, the rustle of rodents meant rats in the small alleys and breaks between buildings, rooting through garbage cans and the trash on the streets.

And the smells, he thought, were harsh and pungent. The diesel tang of truck exhaust. The stench of a particularly ripe homeless person.

Somehow, tonight, those citified attacks on his faculties were lessened as he strolled with Diana along the two short blocks back to Federal Plaza. No perfume still, just her womanly scent, leather and metal. This time from the holster with the gun he had watched her tuck against the small of her back. The combination of femininity and lethal power pulled at his insides and made him want things that were best left alone. He was an animal, after all, and could never have a life with her.

As they walked, there were only a few people on the street. The lack of activity created an artificial intimacy. Ryder leaned close to Diana, inclining his head slightly to listen as she spoke, trying to compensate for the difference in their heights. He was also using it as an excuse to take in as much of her as he could, if only for this fleeting moment. He enjoyed the way her short hair shifted in the breeze and the jangle of the two gold bracelets on her wrist.

He concentrated on the melody of her voice as she explained what she hoped to have prepared in time for tomorrow night's stakeout at the club. As she spoke, he sensed the strain creeping into her voice and the increasing tension of her body. At the corner, as they waited for a cab to pull down the side street, she grimaced and rubbed one temple with her fingers.

“Headache?” he asked.

She nodded, and it seemed to him that even the slight movement pained her. Ryder reached over, cupped her head and brought his thumbs to her temples. He began a slow massage while softly asking, “Melissa gave you some medicine. Isn't it working?” Her skin beneath his fingers was soft and inviting. Warm with the heat of life.

Her eyes closed, she said, “Yes, and the staff physician gave me more, too. It doesn't work really well. But this definitely does.” Her last words were nearly a groan, and he imagined her response to his touch in other places.

He tempered his need and continued his tender caress, wincing as he noted the mottle of blue and purple along her cheekbone that, at this distance, makeup didn't quite hide. “I'm sorry, again.”

She opened her eyes and grinned. “Well, this makes up for it a little, although I don't think I can carry you around and pop you out like one of the pills the doctor gave me.”

He chuckled, dropped his hands and smiled. “You're right, but I can guarantee that one of those pills combined with a big cup of coffee will do the trick.”

“Coffee?” she questioned as they finally crossed the street and neared a coffee shop. “You mean I have a real medical excuse for my one addiction?”

“It's a great vasodilator. It should help.” He shoved his hands in his pockets because he was too tempted to reach for her again.

“And you know this because—”

“I used to be a doctor,” he answered, and she stopped short.

“I don't recollect you mentioning that before,” she said, catching the inconsistency from his earlier statements.

Ryder grimaced and wished he hadn't gotten so friendly with her, so at ease. After years of being alone and keeping to himself, he hadn't always had to be on guard and censor everything he said or did. Now he'd blown it and in a big way. “It was another life. One which I try to forget.”

“What happened?” The question had none of the investigator behind it. Clearly, she was interested on a more personal level. The truth, if he were to tell all of it, would be impossible for her to believe. And even by telling her a part of it, it would unravel his earlier story and start that tangle he had tried to avoid.

He now had little choice but to nurture the trust between them that had been building over the course of dinner. “I volunteered to assist in a war zone, patching up the poor boys some idiot decided were cannon fodder,” he replied harshly, and then grimaced at his own vehemence. He had thought himself over such emotions.

Diana paused by the door of the coffee shop and glanced up at him. Her gaze was decidedly inquisitive. Amazingly, friendly, as well. “Ryder, you've almost, but not quite, redeemed yourself in my eyes.”

“Meaning?” he pressed, wanting to prolong this moment of understanding.

“You can't be all that bad if you prescribe coffee for my headaches and if you're smart enough to know it's the idiots running the show who sacrifice us poor foot soldiers,” she replied lightly.

While he liked the mood that had developed between them, familiarity bred the unwanted desire to learn more about her. To develop a real relationship with her. Something he
couldn't
risk, he reminded himself.

“Let's just fill your prescription,” he replied calmly, and opened the door of the coffee shop.

R
yder unlocked the front door of the club and held it open for her. She stepped inside, and it was even darker than it had been the night before. Emergency signs lit the few exits here and there, leaving large sections of black so deep she imagined she wouldn't be able to see her hand in front of her face. Ryder stepped behind her and excused himself, indicating that he would go turn on the master lights.

He walked some distance away, and she heard the scrabble of metal as he unlocked a panel box and then the thunk of a large switch. Bright lights flared to life, illuminating the interior of the club and exposing its many areas for the first time.

She took a few steps farther in and looked around. The walls of the club were done in a dark gray, almost black, but with textures and molding that made it look like the inside of a cave. In the dark, only those standing along the edges would be able to make out the details.

Walking to the wall, she ran her hand along the surface. “Very…neat,” she said for lack of a better word.

“I wanted to create the right ambience. It's all fire safe and up to code, I assure you,” he said.

She nodded and walked away from the wall and into the center of the club. She looked up into the tangle of catwalks, lights and wires and for the first time noticed the glass windows perched high above one end of the club. “Your office, right? We were there the other night?” she asked, unable to recall the windows from her visit.

Ryder confirmed it and held out his hand, beckoning for her to precede him. “The windows let me see what's going on down below. There's also a door to the catwalks.”

“Which is how you got down to the alley the other day?” she asked as she walked ahead of him and waited directly beneath the windows.

“Yes,” he said, moving along the wall to the deepest part of the club. It was dark here, even with the lights, and she had to strain to see what he was doing. The shadows didn't seem to bother Ryder in the least for he pulled out his keys once more and unlocked another door. “This leads up to my office and into the supply areas.”

When he popped the door open, a stream of light came from within. Along the length of the hall were a series of stockrooms, a few offices, a locker room for the employees and an exit. At the end of the hall a door led to a narrow staircase heading up. She remembered the tight stairwell. Its confined space and turns had made her nauseous on the way down to the exit. She vaguely recollected David guiding her out the door and to their car before driving her home.

There was something about the stairwell that bothered her, even though she wasn't normally prone to claustrophobia or anything like that. It was just…too cramped and dark. When she took the first step in it was as if she was stepping into a coffin. She clutched at the railings for stability and breathed just a little too quickly. It was just a stairwell, she chastised herself, and yet her gut said she had just made a foray into something she might not be able to control.

Ryder must have sensed her unease. He grasped her shoulder and asked, “You okay?”

Diana nodded and kept on walking, relieved when the door to his office came into sight. She strode into the dark room, and a moment later lights flashed on as Ryder hit the wall switch. She turned and faced him.

“Sit,” he commanded, and walked her over to the large leather sofa she was familiar with from the other night. “You don't look well.”

In truth, a cold sweat bathed her body and dotted her upper lip. She wiped at the moisture with hands that were shaky. “I'm okay,” she replied, but plopped down onto the sofa.

He walked away and came back a second later with a small bottle of Pepsi and a glass filled with ice. He twisted off the top, poured and held it out to her.

She took it in clumsy fingers and quickly sipped the drink, hoping the cold and sweet would settle her. Ryder waited patiently, sitting on the coffee table in front of her until she had drained nearly half the glass and was feeling a little stronger. “Thanks,” she said.

He nodded, but his concern was still apparent. “Tell me what information you'd like so we can make this an early night and get you home for some rest.”

As much as she might want to deny that she needed it, she wasn't going to be pigheadedly macho and ignore what her body was telling her. She needed rest, especially in light of tomorrow night's stakeout. With that in mind, she rattled off the list of things he could give them, and when she was done, he poured the rest of the soda and instructed her to stay put while he gathered everything.

As he scrounged around in a filing cabinet for papers, she examined the office, something she had not had the opportunity to do during her last visit. The walls were paneled in a deep mahogany that matched the large desk and file cabinets. Reproductions of Impressionist paintings graced the walls, tastefully lit by high ceiling lamps. It was a room that bespoke class and breeding and was far removed from the almost circuslike atmosphere of the club below. The Old World gentility of the space suited him somehow, she thought, watching as he pulled papers out of the cabinet and made copies at a machine tucked discreetly into the far corner of his office.

The elegance of the space matched his practiced veneer and was clearly the room of a man used to the finer things in life. And used to being in charge. Which made her wonder just how much he resented her intrusion into his life.

If he did, he gave no indication of it as he walked back with the materials. “This is the layout of the club's security system. It has the locations of all of the cameras.”

She unfolded the large sheet with the schematics of the system. The name of the security company was at the bottom edge. “Do you keep tapes of what the video cameras record?”

He sat down beside her on the sofa and his presence unnerved her, but she said nothing as he replied, “Only if we had any kind of problem those nights. Like a bouncer mixing it up with someone. A lot of cash missing from one of the tills. Those kinds of things,” he replied.

“And I'm assuming that during the last two weeks—”

“Things have been very routine. We have the tapes for the last few days. After what happened, I decided to keep them. Just in case. You're welcome to them,” he offered without hesitation.

“Thanks. Do you think we can keep each night's videocassettes from now on?”

He nodded. “I'll pick up some more tapes tomorrow and instruct the man who watches them.”

“I'd like to question him about what he might have seen. Will that be possible?” She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, trying to see if his cooperation was real or feigned.

“I'll ask the employees to cooperate, but I can't force them. You'll have to ask each one if they have any objections.”

She should have been annoyed, yet the reality was that he couldn't force anyone to talk. “Is there a list—”

“In the second file down,” he answered quickly.

She opened the folder and noted that the employees' forms had little information. “Sparse,” she said, and shot him a glance.

“I'm not hiring rocket scientists. I try to employ hardworking, decent people. Most of my crew has been with me for a while.”

She nodded, closed the file and rose from the sofa. “We'll be calling them in. By tomorrow I'll have some photos of possible suspects. Do you think you can come down and take a look?” She walked toward the door, the folders with the information tucked under her arm.

“Sure, as long as it's in the afternoon. On the way out, let's stop by the security office and pick up the tapes.” He followed her from his office and down the narrow, phobia-inducing stairway.

At the bottom, she breathed a long sigh of relief and let him take the lead to the room a few doors away that held half a dozen VCRs and black-and-white screens. Ryder popped the tape from each one and put them in a plastic bag emblazoned with the logo from a local deli.

“Thanks. Do you need a ride?” Diana asked, grabbing the bag. She would have to head back to the office and log these in as evidence before heading home for the night.

“I'll just flag a cab, thanks.”

She nodded and exited the security room. Ryder led her through the main club and out the door, shutting down the lights and locking up behind him. On the steps of the building, he paused and stared up at the fanciful neon sign that glowed bright red in the dark of the night.

“I picked the name as a kind of private personal joke. It never occurred to me that The Lair might become the home of a hunter,” he said with a sigh.

“There could be a million and one reasons why he chose your club, Ryder. None of them having to do with the theme.”

“Mmm,” he said halfheartedly. “Tomorrow then, at four. Afterward you'll come here?”

She confirmed that, and he walked her to her car. He waited until she was inside and the door was locked. Then he tapped the window with a knuckle and she opened it to hear what he had to say.

“Watch your back and don't work too hard. You need some rest,” he said, and motioned to her face.

“Thanks. You, too,” she replied, although he didn't bear a mark on him from their altercation the night before. She had struck him hard and had seen the imprint of her blow. He must heal fast, she thought.

With a last nod, she closed the window and pulled out. As she did so, she looked for him in the rearview mirror, but he was gone.

 

Ryder lounged on the terrace of his apartment, enjoying the bright lights of Manhattan in the dark night sky. They said Paris was the City of Light, but Ryder was unconvinced. There was nothing prettier and more entrancing than the transformation of Manhattan at nighttime.

He observed the change every dusk from his perch high atop the city. The lights drifted on in the nearby office buildings and down on the street below. Across the way, Queens snapped on its colors—the large red Pepsi and Silvercup Studio signs along the water and the erratic string of lamps from the bridge and the Roosevelt Island tramway. Running lights from tourist cruise ships and small party boats reflected off the dark waters of the East River. Even with daylight fading, New York was alive and thriving, like Ryder had once been so long ago.

Walking away from the edge of the terrace, he sat down at the marble-topped wrought-iron table that had, at one time, graced the patio of his Louisiana home. He salvaged it and some other things from an estate sale after the death of his wife. Thinking him a casualty of war, the army had advised his wife that he was likely one of the unidentified dead, and she had remarried. She'd had children with her second husband, who took over the running of Ryder's small rice plantation. Upon the death of his wife, her children had rid themselves of the property that had become a hindrance to their lifestyles. They preferred the hubbub of New Orleans to life on a quiet plantation.

For a time, he had considered buying back the home that had once been his and returning to his life as a physician and plantation owner. But living with those ghosts was too difficult a burden to bear. And his companion, the second Danvers to serve him, had moved his family out West, so Ryder had gone with him. And then his companion died like so many others….

Those ghosts had chased him throughout his existence as people and places changed around him. He had shut himself off as best he could, trusting only his companion. It had helped temper the pain that associations with humanity ultimately brought.

Ryder had finally settled in Manhattan, following one of his companions after he was offered a position at a prestigious hospital. The change had been good for him. Until that servant had passed away and then Melissa's father had gone, way before his time should have been up. He and his wife had perished in an automobile accident. And now Ryder had Melissa to worry about, he conceded, for despite all his efforts not to become involved, it was difficult not to care about the young woman who was the great-great-great granddaughter of William, the lifelong friend who had become Ryder's first companion.

Like Ryder, William Danvers had been a battlefield physician in a war that, unfortunately, provided them with too many patients on which to ply their skills.

William had stumbled across Ryder and the remainder of his unit in a small copse just beyond the edge of a battlefield. Ryder and his men had been attacked by a band of marauders who had turned out to be vampires eager to take advantage of the war. Demons who were unfortunately no less brutal than their human counterparts—raiders and soldiers alike who killed without remorse under the righteous banners of both North and South.

Ryder had been the only one left alive of his entire group, and his friend had tended him, helping him battle the fevers and physical injuries inflicted during the attack. At first, neither man suspected what had happened. Then it became apparent that Ryder was no longer a normal man, especially when his thirst for blood nearly drove him to kill.

Ryder had despaired of his condition, of the thirst only one thing seemed to satisfy. If not for his steadfast friend, he might have taken his own life, but Danvers convinced him that there had to be a reason for his transformation. A greater purpose to explain what had happened.